#and a wonderful man with a brilliant mind!!!!

[tonycries]

Haunting You - G.S.

Synopsis. A bIoody trail of vampire attácks, a political marriage, and four suitors you’re forced to choose from - all haunting you. But none as much as the mysterious stranger that makes everything in you scream that you might just be fated for the very thing your kingdom is trying to escape from.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! princess! reader, king! Gojo, vampire AU, he’s actually ÍNSANE, royalty AU, arranged marriages, creampíes, breéding, fated mátes, FÉRAL down bad Gojo, mentions of bIood and kílling, bíting, óral (fem receiving), spítting, marks (a LOT), fíngering, pórn with plot tbh, overstím, ínnapropriate use of powers, jealous! Gojo, slight inspiration from Persephone and Hades, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 15.8k (HUH???)

A/N. Was listening to Haunted by Beyoncé, and my mind went “ooo vampires.” Hope y’all have a lovely week <3

In all your years being carefully primed to take over the throne, there have only been two rules you were raised under:

You live by the crown, and you will die by the crown. No matter what. 

To stop the vampires - if your father, the king, fails to contain the bloody trail of killings before his own inevitable death, you have to. Or, more according to those tedious meetings with the table of elders, your husband will have to.

And it seems as if they were well and fully intent on enforcing that last rule as of late - with sharply increasing numbers of attacks on your local towns, the public was growing restless - and so was the royal court. 

You weren’t doing any better either - but for a wholly different reason.  

Maybe it was paranoia, but these days, you found yourself constantly catching a flash of crystal blue in the corner of your eye. Or hearing a sweet, sweet whisper in your ear deep at night. Maybe even a soft run of fingers down your spine as you were readied for yet another ball - hands much too large to be any of your ladies-in-waiting.

Like something was watching. 

Waiting. 

“And then I- your highness, are you listening?”

That familiar, grating voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you’re gasping in embarrassment as you turn back to the prattling man in front of you. 

“My apologies, Lord Naoya.” you smile tightly, desperate to finish up yet another conversation about his latest cavalry expeditions. Nodding dismissively, “Just tired, please continue with your ah- wonderful tales.”

But of course, when he starts right back from the very beginning to “cover the key points you missed”, your stomach turns when you realize that you won’t be escaping any time soon. Great. Wonderful. Perfect.

God, future suitors your ass. You’d been taught that there’s no such company as “bad company” when you’re an heir to a kingdom, but this has been the fourth royal ball this month - and the biggest one yet. The fourth night you had to listen to another uptight lord show off his sparse battle medals, or another elder snide about how you’d be useless against the dangers of vampires.

You knew it was likely some coping mechanism with the grim deaths this week, but surely the nobles were tired of all this silly dancing? You sure were. 

Gauzy dress just a bit too tight, sighs just a bit too loud than was permitted for the princess, you let your gaze wander across the brilliant ballroom. Those intricate gowns, the huge reflective wall, those little pastries you really wish you could walk away from this conversation and-

Blue. 

Crystal blue.

“Wait! Did you see-” you startle, and it disappears as fast as it appeared. Your heavy skirts sway as you whirl around to uselessly track that odd burst of color, “Did you see that?”

“I know!” Naoya gasps, making you turn your head in excitement. “The light reflects off my medal so gorgeously! Oh, and this one-”

Dammit. 

All through your life, it was this same color that’d been flitting occasionally through your vision, now haunting you almost every day.

You didn’t know where to look to find that familiar blue again - and you didn’t want to stand here waiting to find out. At the very least, your ears have definitely been assaulted with enough talk about horses and how “absolutely enormous” Lord Naoya’s weaponry at the Zenin Estate was.

Compensating, you muse.

The thought helps you plaster on a grin to your face, humming in a saccharine-sweet tone, “It pains me to cut through, my lord.” It really didn’t. “And I’d love to chat more later, but I think I hear my lady-in-waiting calling for me.”

He sputters, breathing out a few profanities under his breath that you catch. An arm raising as if to keep you in place, “Now, wait a minute-”

You’re angling your body expertly to make your dash. Batting your lashes deceivingly innocently, “Oh? What was that?” you cup your ear. “I hear her again- I really do apologize, but feel free to recount your valiant um- fairy tales in a letter.”

“But your father-”

Not waiting to hear the rest of his response, you barely even bother with a polite curtsy before determinedly weaving your way through the stuffy ballroom. Nodding by the nobles greeting you, waving past the throng of young lords that wanted to reel you into more conversation. Your satiny feet taking you anywhere but here - anywhere but where you could feel the still, heavy gaze of something burning into your back as you escaped. 

You just prayed that it was only a miffed Naoya and nothing else.

It was around this time that the orchestra struck up another upbeat waltz, and with most people pairing off on the dance floor, barely anyone noticed you tip-toeing out of the ballroom. 

“God-” you’re letting out a sigh of relief when you reach the long hallway, rubbing at your throbbing temples. “The next ball they host, m’gonna conveniently disappear, I swear.”

You didn’t care enough for what matchmaking would happen in the future anyway, no matter what the elders may tell you. 

Your ballgown swishes with every urgent step through the quiet, dimly-lit corridors. Maybe a bit too quiet. 

Strange. You knew that not many nobles would be wandering around the palace during a ball but, surely you can’t be the only one here? Where were the guards?

Just then, a soft winter breeze puffs against your left ear - and you inhale sharply. “Wha- hello?” you shudder, gaze darting around. “Anyone there?” But when only silence greets you, you’re struck with the sudden thought that the windows along the hallway were closed. 

Where did the wind come from?

The realization has you taut with goosebumps pricking at your skin, your pace increasing ever-so-slightly. Gulping, you round the corner quickly, making a beeline for the closest haven you could find - the library.

Ducking past the towering stone archway, you hastily slam the door closed. It takes you a few seconds to get used to the darkness inside. With silvery moonlight ribbons filtering in through the curtained windows, you could just barely make out the rows upon rows of books you’d pestered your father into lining. Surrounded by heavyset tables, and your favorite, cushioned armchair. Luxurious, yet completely dwarfed when seating the lone silhouette-

“If this is an attack, then I surely don’t mind.”

“Fuck-” you scream, reflexively grabbing the nearest book spine you could reach to throw in the direction of the shadow. “Show yourself.”

Somehow, it’s as if the book bounces off an invisible forcefield, plopping down unceremoniously onto the velvety carpet right in front of the tall figure. 

“And here I thought princesses usually curtseyed.” that deep, honeyed voice cuts right through your heavy breathing. He makes a move to get up - languid, and torturous, as if he enjoyed your agonizing suspense. “Well, maybe I do prefer being pelted by a- hey, that doesn’t mean pick up another book!”

In a split-second, you were brandishing a weighty encyclopedia this time - holding it firmly behind your head in a ready stance to throw once again. 

“Show yourself.”

The man sighs, stepping into a channel of low light. It illuminated his stature - taller than you’d thought, towering well above most of the generals in the royal court. Muscled, yet lean - powerful, the thought strikes you. Magnetizing. 

Someone from outside the kingdom, you observe, otherwise you’d have remembered that cloudy white hair, strands falling over a strange, black blindfold stretched across the upper half of his face. Leaving you only a set of high cheekbones, and a pert, pretty mouth to admire.

One that curls into such a mischievous smirk of neat pearly whites, and a tiny dimple digging into his cheek. “Now, I’ve never had anyone this eager to see me.” He drops into a courteous bow at the waist, expensive blue fabrics rippling. “From the North kingdom, Satoru, at your service, princess.”

Your hand falters - partially because of the heavy weight, partially because you recognised that gold “G” insignia in the middle of this stranger- Satoru’s uniform. The Gojo family. 

That mysterious, estranged kingdom from the Northern part of the country that hadn’t been seen since you were young. You’d heard stories of them - everyone in this vast country had, it was impossible not to. Of their cruel winters and even crueler king, how blood stained every room in his palace. It was rumored he was a monster, and yet, no one ever saw his face - if they did, they never lived to tell the tale. 

You knew your father had invited the king to every single ball out of diplomatic obligation, but he’d never attended. Never even bothered to respond. 

So who was this?

“No one. Just a lowly attendant accompanying my king, your highness.” you’re jolting when he purrs, a brow quirking at just how he knew what you were thinking. “The question ah- showed on your face, my apologies.”

Finding your voice, “Um, I apologize, too, Satoru-” You note the lack of a last name, “-for the book. I can’t imagine being hit with Yaga’s 1001 Methods to Crochet was a very warm welcome.” And like a little truce, you’re placing down the encyclopedia in your hand. Flashing him your most practiced smile, “I bet you’re hiding out here for the same reasons as me, then.”

That draws out a pretty laugh from him, bubbly and boyish. “Mhm, the ladies just refuse to leave you alone, too?”

“Well, more like the lords there.”

He hums, something that sends a chill down your spine. Words just a little strained, “Not much for bragging about horses?” 

And suddenly, you get the urge to snark back, huffing in a way you know your preparational teacher would faint at. “Absolutely not. I’d rather face a vampire than listen to Naoya and the “absolutely enormous” weaponry he uses to-”

“-compensate!”

“-compensate.” the two of you finish at the same time. “I like this place a lot better, it’s quiet- though…” your voice trails off in wonder. “It’s strange, guests aren’t supposed to be allowed in the library unsupervised.” His jaw clenches when your eyes sweep him, “We are supposed to have a few guards here but I don’t know where-”

All of a sudden, it’s like you’re being splashed with cold water. And your words are dying on your tongue when the room drops a few degrees in temperature. 

Satoru is unnervingly still, yet he catches onto your slight shiver. “This damned wind, am I right?” And he’s gesturing at the windows with his head. The closed windows. Words tumbling quickly from those pink lips now, “Anyways- why don’t you sit down-” He prowls towards you, slow, confident. Large hands rest at your arms, they’re pale, surprisingly cold - guiding you easily to sit on the unoccupied armchair. “-since m’being nice enough to let you hide out here.”

His words drip with tease, and you still couldn’t see his eyes, but you imagined they’d be twinkling. No one ever dared to speak to you this way - it was always either thinly-veiled condescension or fear towards royalty. 

Surprisingly, you didn’t mind. 

You roll your eyes, trying to hold back your smile. “Yeah? Well what do I owe you in return for that, Satoru?”

His lips part, as if not expecting this response. Before letting out another sharp cackle at your expense, “Well, why don’t you-” You can’t tear your eyes away from his magnetic figure when Satoru begins unbuttoning his flowing coat to reveal a snow-white shirt underneath. Wrapping it snug around your shoulders in one, fluid motion, a hand of his tilts your head towards him. “-give me your soul?”

The Gojo emblem burns into your back, and Satoru’s deep, almost raspy tone rings in your ears. It sounded like a joke - but looking into his ethereal features, there was no trace of a grin on what you could see of it. And once again, you’re struck by the pure power radiating off of him. 

You hoped it was a joke.

“S-soul’s not for sale.” you manage to choke out, trying to make it look like you weren’t breathing in his metallic, peppermint scent. Heady. Pulling the soft fabric tighter around your cold body, “Steep price for a hideout, don’t you think?”

“S’a discount for you, flower.” his chilling breath fans your face. Letting out hushed, “Heh, you should see the prices I charge others.”

You’re reeling, face burning, “Flower?”

“Because you’re shaking like one, see?” The pads of his fingers move from under your chin to trace up, up, up the goosebumps on your exposed arms. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

Hypnotic. 

And his steps are soundless as he walks over behind you, the moonlight giving him an angelic halo. Haunting, almost. “And you’re just as gorgeous, like a wild rose. Way too gorgeous for the fuckin’ bastards out there, might I add, princess.”

The nerve!

Heart pounding, you turn around to- call him out for his disrespect? Snap back? Accept the compliment?

You don’t know - and you don’t get to find out, either. Because before your eyes can search for Satoru’s mysterious figure, the door to the library is slamming open with a deafening bang!

“Ah! There you are!” your lady-in-waiting’s relieved voice floods your ears. And she’s barging in with no comment about your sudden stiffness, or that foreign coat around your shoulders. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, your highness. His majesty is just about to make his speech of the night and needs you there.”

Shit, out of all the scandals. 

“I- I can explain.” You’re desperately trying to catch Satoru’s eye to make up an excuse for why you’re alone with a strange man away from the ball, shooting from your seat to look around the library. “We’re just-”

The suddenly empty library. 

“Yes yes, I understand that the balls aren’t exactly your favorite pastime.” The oblivious girl is pushing you towards the door, brown eyes narrowed. “But we’ve got to get going now.”

Despite her wrangling you outside, you manage to sneak a few glances backwards, straining to see if he was hiding in the shadows. Only to be met with a now-rumpled armchair and the still, dark bookshelves. As bare as if Satoru never existed - the only proof of his existence being a sad copy of Yaga’s 1001 Methods to Crochet lying on the ground. 

And yet, you can’t help but feel a pair of eyes on you. 

You feel it all through the short walk back to the ballroom, Nobara’s excited chatter about how finely your all-new coat was made filtering through one ear and out the next. Even when you reach the edge of the dance floor, even when you feel every single other eye in the room on you - you feel it. 

“Um, Nobara.” you whisper, discreetly shuffling the coat off your shoulders. “Please take this to my chambers for me.”

The younger girl is positively bursting at the seams, murmuring conspiratorially to you, “So is this where you were? With who- The “G” what does that-”

“Ah! My daughter!” Saved by your father’s booming voice - though, you wouldn’t consider it too much of a salvation when you’re immediately being whisked away to the high platform your father’s throne was seated on. His arms spread wide to greet you in a hug despite stiff etiquette. 

“You’re late.” he whispers in your ear.

It’s all you can do to manage out a quiet, “S-Sorry.”

Without another word, he’s addressing the congregation in the middle of the dance ballroom again. More ruler than father at this very moment. “My people, we are gathered here today to dance, to sing, to forget about the horrors happening in our beloved nation.” To large murmurs of agreement he continues, “And despite it all, it’s a reality we must all live with. Me, especially, as your king, have a duty to fulfill.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you wonder where this is all going - your father never brought up vampires during a time like this. Never. 

Clearing his throat, “And as we all know, I’m not getting any younger here, unfortunately. Which is why-” He claps his hands once, and three figures - one of which being Naoya, amongst two other nobles you briefly recognized - step forward from the crowd. “Ah- there should be one more- Anyway, after thorough consideration with the table of elders, we have decided to go forward with the betrothal process for my dear daughter here. With the joining of hands will not only be the joining of kingdoms - but the joining of arms, and our people shall prevail as one over the vampires.”

You think you might stop breathing, eyes burning and trained firmly on the ground. This had been a topic of conversation - well, more the elders conversing while you skipped out on every meeting once this discussion was brought up. 

You knew this would happen. You knew. But now? At this very moment? All you can do is stand there and listen while he rattles off. 

“I know four of the- erm, three of the most eligible young suitors of the land will do their utmost to vie for her heart - and her hand. No easy task I tell you.” Your fists clench, head swimming. “And in a week’s time, we will hold the grand ball to announce my successor.”

Shit - a week. A week.

Somewhere in your line of vision you see - you feel that spark of blue. And you’re raising your head to cheers echoing from all around the room, and still no sign of where those eyes are. 

“The next time we meet, will be with the future king and queen!”

Fuck. 

---

That night was spent with a few too many tears, and a consoling Nobara at your side all until daybreak. And if you held onto that comforting, peppermint-scented coat through it all, well, you were only glad that you seemed too pitiful for her to question it. 

Feeling much more composed and only slightly less bitter about the prospect of being married off to a stuck-up noble you didn’t know, you made your way to breakfast the next morning. An affair usually spent with your father, or in the palace gardens - but this time, surrounded by four suitors under the guise of getting to know you. Sizing each other up, maybe. 

“Ah, your highness, good morning!” you sweetly reciprocate the greetings once you’re escorted into the dining room, taking your seat at the very end of the long, mahogany table. 

Sighing you take in the scene - on your left was Lord Naoya from last night, the same sharp grins and shifty eyes as you remembered. Seated beside him was the young duke of the Kashimo clan - hair striking, his battle staff laid out next to him on the table. Intimidating. 

But nothing in comparison to the hulking man on your right, it seemed as if his uniform was on the verge of bursting. Face sullen, letting his pink locks fall into place - Sukuna, you think you remember. 

“Your highness.” Ichiji bows, taking his place supervising the breakfast. “I am afraid our guests from the Northern kingdom will not be able to attend this breakfast today. He sends his deepest apologies. B-but-” His face-paled, looking scarred for life. “-he did have his um- attendant send this note-”

You’re gratefully taking the creamy scrap of paper before the words have even left Ichiji’s mouth, flipping it over to reveal slanted, beautiful calligraphy - Apologies for the sudden departure last night, flower. And I hope you forgive my king for not being here to deter the talk of horses - duty holds both man and beast from freedom. Worry not, we will be seeing your sweet smile again soon. But, for now, give those three bastards a rude gesture from me.

You giggle, tucking away the note. A tiny pang of disappointment hitting you out of nowhere at the lack of that gold “G” emblem anywhere along the table - and more importantly, the white-haired enigma that would follow.

All three men were glowering, yet begrudgingly plowing on with their conversation from before as you settled. Not having the energy to contribute, you listened in. 

“-this would never have happened in my estate.”

“Oh buzz off-” Kashimo interrupts Naoya, before throwing a guilty look your way at his crass words. As if you didn’t say worse. “Apologies, your highness. As I was saying-” he turns back to the man. “Don’t think we haven’t heard of those vampire killings in your court that you tried to cover up, your defense isn’t as impenetrable as you want it to seem, Naoya.”

That causes you to raise your brow - and evidently, Sukuna’s as well. “That so? Little fraud, aren’t ya, Zenin?”

The shorter man sputters indignantly, “You- you little- you call me a fraud and yet you’re the only one who didn’t bother to help investigate last night? Got something to hide, oh king-of-curses?”

“Tch, shut up.” That little nickname ticked something off in Sukuna, and his grip on his delicate fork tightens. Smirk intentionally bared to piss off, “It’s just because when the princess marries me, she won’t have to worry about vampires attacking guards in the middle of a ball.”

Wait, what?

“Yeah right, you and what army because I have an absolutely enormous-”

“What do you mean?” Your smooth voice cuts through their bickering, and all three men freeze, gazes snapping to you as if they’d already forgotten you were there. “I didn’t hear about any killings last night.”

If you thought they were tense before then you weren’t prepared for right now - shoulders raising in surrender, for all their blabbering, not a word was uttered after your accusatory question. After a few beats of silence, you scoff in frustration, turning towards your escort, squirming and avoiding your pointed stare at the very corner of the room. 

“Ichiji.” The man looked like he could positively give anything to blend into the meticulously hand-painted flowers on the wall. “Ichiji, tell me what happened.” 

“P-princess!” he yelps, adjusting his glasses. “I- I’m afraid the king said- please I can’t-”

“Ichiji…”

“P-please don’t banish me-”

You’re on your feet now, cornering the poor man. Mentally, you make a note to give him a raise. Eyes narrowing, “I won’t banish you, but as the future queen I have a right to know, don’t I?”

“...”

“...please?”

And the remaining men had been watching with morbid fascination as you worked your magic. They were already aware that the frail attendant was the weakest link out of them all, but what they certainly did not expect was exactly how weak. 

It only took a single bat of your lashes before his pale cheeks colored an almost-concerning pink. Eyes scrunching shut in embarrassment, as the words spilled from his lips. Neverending and slurring with haste as he speaks in one breath, “Th-three of the guards stationed near the outer corridor and library wing were found killed by a vampire last night before you retired for the night, your highness. Their b-bodies were disposed of, and this in combination with all the recent killings was why the king hurried the announcement for your engagement. B-but, his majesty decreed that this never be relayed to you in order to keep you in high spirits after the betrothal eep-!”

“Is- is that so?” you breathe, eyes wide. Taking one last look at the four speechless men, before walking out of the tall doorway. “I seem to have lost my appetite, I will be heading for my chambers now. I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay, my lords.”

Shit shit shit - how did you not notice? 

Maybe you walked right past the killer last night and didn’t even realize - who knows what could’ve been hiding in the shadows. How did you not realize? How did you not see?

Just then, a thought strikes you - did Satoru see?

---

It’s one of the whirlwind of questions ringing around in your mind even by the time you hear a steady knock on your door. Jolting you upright from where you splayed out on your plush, silken bed, rows upon rows of books on vampires haphazardly surrounding you.

Peering out of your large window, you notice the hues of pink and red painting the sky, a big red sun just dipping below the horizon - shit, when did you even fall asleep? 

“Come in.” you answer, voice scratchy. Rubbing away the sleep in your eyes, you could barely make out the hazy outline of Ichiji standing in your doorway. 

“Ah- your highness, I apologize for waking you up.” he bows. “But master Kashimo will be headed out for a late-night hunt at this very moment, and requested your presence shall you wish it. He noticed that you seemed upset at breakfast, and wanted to make it up to you.”

You take a moment to mull over the question - it certainly was rude for you to just ignore your guests all day. And considering you might just be marrying one of them, it wouldn’t kill anyone to actually get to know them.

“Alright.” you reply, voice even. And your answer seems to surprise the other man, “Tell Tsukumo to get my gear ready, I will be down as soon as I change.”

“Y-yes, princess! I will call for Nobara to help you get dressed.”

As the door shut once more behind him, you threw off your heavy blanket- and your coat? Satoru’s coat, which had evidently been draped around your upper half. Heart stuttering, you didn’t remember putting that on before…

Hm, you had to thank Nobara for that later.

---

Hunting with Kashimo was, unexpectedly, dull. 

“So…” you drag your words, trying to fill the tense silence. “What is it that we’re actually hunting for-”

“Shhh-” you hear for about the third time this past hour. A brow of yours quirking at the way it seemed like the two of you had been wandering the woods belonging to your kingdom’s estate for hours, and you still didn’t know what it was you were supposed to be looking for. 

Alright, perhaps hunting wasn’t the best opportunity to get to know your potential future husband. 

“My lord…” you call out warily, already aware of the duke’s affinity for hunting. “Maybe we should rest for a bit, after all, the stars are out already and the moon is so bright.”

He barely even turns to look back at you, “No time. The woods belonging to your kingdom have some of the rarest species of cursed animals in this country. I must make the most of this week in that case, your highness.”

You brighten at the closest shred of conversation in so long. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard! I also hear they-”

“Shh!”

So close. 

Letting out a resigned sigh, your eyes glaze over as you watch Kashimo trace his thick fingers over animal tracks on the dirt. Suddenly, gesturing for you to follow him as he sped off in another direction. 

It doesn’t take too long for him to stray out of sight. Meanwhile, your legs lag behind in protest - and pettiness, you realize. Grumbling to yourself about how you’d rather have watched paint dry as you’re sure the elders often did. Well, you look at the now-barren pathway, at least now you didn’t have to worry about someone shushing you all the ti-

“AHH!”

And then, all of a sudden - it felt like you were the hunted. 

It’s like every bit of blood drains from your body at the blood-curdling scream. Grip tightening on your bow, you’re jolting at the direction it came from - where did Kashimo disappear off to again? 

Yet, for how much you knew your kingdom like the back of your hand, it’s so dark. The moon barely peeking through gloomy gray wisps of clouds that you don’t know where exactly you’re running to - just that something was tugging. Reeling you in. No destination in sight until you’re crashing face-first into- a wall?

“Hey, flower, where are ya running off to this late?”

Your hairs raise, something visceral in your body jolting. 

Satoru - blindfold and all.  

“Wh- Satoru thank God you’re here.” you gasp, looking nervously over his broad shoulders. “I heard a scream, and I’m worried about Kashimo because he went somewhere over there and-” You’re pointing aimlessly in his direction, before clasping a hand around Satoru’s defined bicep. Tugging, “You have to help me, that idiot even insisted on no guards because of disturbing the wildlife and I’m so worried and-”

Before you can react, big strong arms are enveloping you. And you’re suddenly hit with the smell of peppermint and Satoru - something so sickly sweet tinging the air, it makes you droop limply into his firm hold. Your skin burns when he breathes in, deep. 

“Shhh shhh, I know I know, princess.” he hums, pulling you deeper against his chest. Until you could feel every dip and curve of his pectorals. “You must’ve been scared, right?” At your hesitant nod, “You did good. You did perfect- in fact. Especially putting up with that pretentious bastard.”

The shocked laugh that drags from your throat has Satoru sighing contentedly, an almost-pained grunt leaving him as he pulls away ever-so-slightly. You felt much the same. 

“S’alright, I’m pretty sure it was some animal.” he soothes. He clasps your hands with his, running a damp thumb over your knuckles. “I saw him trudging about disturbing more wildlife over there.”

You breath catches in your chest at just how close Satoru was now, his breath mingling with yours. Pretty plump lips so close - too close. Yet you’re leaning in closer, like you’re drawn by a thread. “Are you sure? Maybe we should-” You gasp, eyes widening when you look down at where your hands were intertwined - red. Or, what you assumed to be red, a saturated, patchy stain on your hands where Satoru’s met yours. He stiffens when he follows your gaze, trying to pull away, but you only hold your grip harder. “Satoru, are you bleeding? Or is this-”

“Not mine.” his voice is hard - and for a second you have to wonder whether this is really the same Satoru. And you swear there’s a little tremor in his words as he explains, “You see, I went out on a little hunt myself, flower.”

Even if Satoru didn’t have his blindfold on, you’re sure his face would’ve been unreadable. That almost-familiar grin of his is strained. Too strained. Yet, his movements are unwavering as he tries to wipe away the blood. “Must’ve forgotten to wipe down, I apologize for sullying your hands, princess.”

“Let me-” you mutter, taking a hold of the coat around your shoulders to wipe away the blood. Uncaring for what you were dirtying at the moment. “I swear you need to take better care of yourself, Satoru. Seriously.” 

And you didn’t see them - but somehow you could just feel the amusement dancing in Satoru’s eyes. Raising your confused gaze up to meet his, “What?”

He only flashes you a knowing grin, “S’jus’, you’re wearing my coat, your highness.”

Your movements pause, mouth gaping open while you try to pathetically spout out an excuse. “I- I didn’t mean to get this coat dirty, oh my god. I didn’t think-”

“S’alright.” he inches in even closer. A smirk grazing those sinful lips of his, “I actually prefer it like that, you look like mine.” Taking a deep breath, “You smell like mine.” 

And before you can ask about his cryptic message, he’s placing a hand at the back of your waist. A very improper hand that would definitely make the elders gasp in scandal. “We should head back to the palace, it’s getting late. I will escort you, m’sure that born hunter of yours is already halfway back too.”

“Carry me.” you blurt out, your body aching to feel more of him. And before you can retract your words - probably sputter a few apologies, you’re being cradled by a smug Satoru. One hand under your knees, the other supporting you like you’re weightless. 

“Heh, a princess carry for a princess.”

“Oh, shut up.” you grumble with embarrassment when he walks forward slowly, your legs swaying in midair. “Want my soul for this as well?”

And you can feel Satoru’s muscles ripple, you can feel the way his breath hitches in his chest ever-so-slightly. Rumbling as he drawls, “More than you’d know.”

“S’that a discount, too? You still didn’t tell me what you charge others.” you quip, remembering the conversation from the night before. 

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough, your highness.”

You’re quirking a brow, something hot churning at the pit of your stomach at that ragged tone to his words. “I’m onto you, y’know.” You stare up at his clenched jaw, highlighted in the dim moonlight. His long, pale neck, the crevices of his blindfold. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like if you could peek under. “Onto you and your absurdly high prices, Satoru.”

He breathes out a shuddering, overly-dramatic shudder. “Mhm, flower, I should be worried.” Before looking up at the sky - and you wondered just how well he could see through his blindfold. “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”

That night, you dreamt of long-winded star-gazing and blue, blue eyes. 

---

“What do you mean Lord Kashimo has left for his kingdom?” you hiss, feeling a faint stab of offense. Seriously, were you that awful at hunting? “He didn’t make any indication of it last night.”

And if your careless words made Nobara beam with slight embarrassment, you didn’t take note of it - too caught up in what you’d just heard. Enough so that it takes her next words to bring you out of your stupor, “Exactly what I said, your highness. The lordship and his court have all vacated their wing, leaving behind only a letter of forgiveness for ending the festivities early.”

“Still.” you murmur petulantly. Setting aside another one of your books on Vampire: Mates, Murder, and More. “It’s strange, I thought he was here for the hunting sprees, if not for me.” Your tiara weighs heavy on your head as you turn to your young lady-in-waiting. “I would like for Ichiji to catch up to Kashimo’s traveling party, make sure they’re safe, and send them my well wishes.”

Ha! Take that elders - you’d show them you’re fully capable of holding diplomatic relations as a ruler. 

“As you wish, princess. Additionally, this-” She’s holding out a small pouch of blue fabric that you’d never seen before. “-was found by your bedside when cleaning and I wished to give it back safely.” Before her polite smile drops into a much more devious smirk, “A gift from one of the suitors, perhaps~?”

You gesture for her to hand it over, the silk casing soft under your touch. Detailed. One-of-a-kind, from what your tedious lessons in the history of fabrics had taught you. You didn’t recognize the patterns sewn onto it as something typical for your kingdom - or any other you’d learned about, really.

“M’not sure.” you whisper. Opening the little purse to reveal a flash of gold - a necklace. Thin and intricate, holding a sapphire pendant in the shape of an eye. 

Blue.

A blue you knew too well - the same one that peeked out from every dark corner, that you saw before you slept at night. The one that’s been by your side for years.

Constant. Now coming to haunt you. 

Chills run down your spine, and your fingers tremble at how life-like it looked. Burning into your very soul. 

“Would you like for me to help you put it on?” Nobara asks, mistaking your shock for difficulty. And yet, you don’t correct her - body moving before your mind to simply nod. 

There was only one clasp on the chain - leaving you to worry about the fit. But when it was hooked around your neck, you found that it fit you so perfectly. Like it was tailored to you - and only you. Why was it so perfect?

Why did it capture the exact color you’d been chasing after your whole life - since before you’d even formed memories? Since you were nothing but a surly, teary-eyed little girl that was crying about the dark, babbling about that “blue flash” that no one else ever seemed to see.

“If that will be all, your highness. I will take my leave.” With a nod and a low bow, you’re left all by yourself in your sprawling chambers. Wondering, somewhat in amusement, whether you’d be let off this marriage pact if all the other suitors suddenly left as well. Hell, maybe you could marry whoever got you this necklace since they apparently know you so well. 

And you swear - maybe it was the fatigue from trekking last night, maybe it was the stress from the past month - but you swear the wind picks up in its chilly bite. Howling just low enough that it sounds like a deep, taunting cackle. 

The necklace doesn’t leave its palace around your neck for the next few days. You still didn’t know who’d gifted it to you - right inside your chambers for god’s sake - and if either of the two suitors remaining knew, they didn’t make any indication of it either. 

Three, technically, but it seemed that the more the days passed, the less you saw of the mysterious king of the Northern kingdom. 

While Sukuna and Naoya had taken it upon themselves to woo you by joining you in your daily activities, he hadn’t even shown his face to you yet. You were sure your father would’ve had him humiliated and thrown out of the palace already if he wasn’t afraid for his life. 

But you didn’t mind, because you saw enough of Satoru to make up for King Gojo and Kashimo. The man seemed well and fully intent to stick by your side, talking yourselves well into the night. 

It was on a night like this - sprawled out along the plush armchairs in the very library you’d met, only a few days after Kashimo’s departure - you asked, “Satoru, what color are your eyes?”

That makes him pause in the middle of his extremely animated story about how he’d caught Earl Yaga in the middle of an artistic dance routine. The baritone of his voice cracking so uncharacteristically as he responds with, “Wh-why do you ask, princess?”

“Because.” you roll your eyes. “In four days m’gonna be marrying, and it might just be your king. Yet, I don’t even know his attendant’s eye color - what type of good queen would I be then?”

You knew it was a flimsy excuse, truthfully you just wanted to see Satoru. All of Satoru.

“Not many have wanted to look into my eyes” 

You tilt your head, “How come?”

“Well, I can assure you that they aren’t half as alluring as yours.” Satoru pushes back your tiara ever-so-slightly to reveal your face to him better, fingers dancing down to fiddle with your pendant. “You’re a strange one, aren’t ya, flower?” he chuckles, face inching closer to yours - and for a moment, you think he might do something else. “Tell me, how are the wedding preparations going?”

Ah, right - the wedding preparations. Your wedding preparations, to someone else. 

Did you want him to do something else?

“W-well-” you pull back from his hypnotic presence. Heart lurching, necklace burning cold into your skin. “Sukuna keeps trying to teach me his very particular diet, I swear I’ve spent much more time with Uraume learning it than with him- they’re a sweetheart though, I can’t complain.” Eyes trying to avoid the intensity of his gaze, “Oh- and Naoya still talks about his weaponry, however, I think his Zenin elders had a word with him because he asked to meet me in the gardens tomorrow evening to actually get to know me for once.”

You brave to take a look at Satoru at the end of his spiel - only to be met with a face you never thought you’d see. His mouth a tight gash, jaw ticking, and you could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.

Terrifying. Magnetic. 

Powerful. 

The library was always cold - but you fail to suppress a shiver at the sudden grip in the air. “S-Satoru?”

And suddenly, at the mere sound of your voice, everything clicks back to normalcy. You’re staring that familiar grin painted onto his face again, musing slyly, “How much d’you wanna bet he’ll ask about your weaponry instead?”

“Oh, shut up.”

It’s only much, much later at night when you’re forced to retire early - Satoru slipping past the library earlier than usual with groans of his “attendant duties” that you realize - he didn’t answer your question. 

---

“P-princess, will you be alright going alone? I don’t think-”

“It’ll be alright, Ichiji, I’m just meeting Lord Naoya.” you wave off the stammering man. Tugging your velvety coat snugly around your body, “Honestly, you act like I haven’t been out in the gardens alone before.”

And it was true, since returning from his little meeting with the Kashimo court, your jumpy attendant seemed even more so - and you didn’t even know that was even impossible. Always peeking cautiously behind corners of the winding hallways, always hovering close by you even when his duty didn’t require it. 

He’d told you - in that quiet, shaky voice of his - that Kashimo was well, and headed straight for his kingdom to fulfill emergency duties. To which you’d accepted - you understood the gravity of responsibility, after all. 

“But- but, your highness!” he gasps, pulling you out of your little reverie. “I don’t think- with the way he-”

A spine-chilling breeze rustles the nearby tree, sending shivers down your spine. Howling in your ears. You squint your eyes against the cold, “Sorry, what was that, Ichiji?”

But the man in front doesn’t speak - fuck, you didn’t even know if he was breathing. Face a sickly pallor, mouth gaping open and shut like he wanted to say something - he needed to say something. Yet, he wasn’t even looking at you, wide eyes locked on something over your shoulder. 

“Are you-” Your body holds you back, feeling two burning eyes on you - and you have to force yourself to look over your shoulder. Only to see- nothing? “-are you alright?”

Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, you’re turning back to face your attendant - only to see him sprinting back down the entrance as fast as his knobbly legs could carry him. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then!” you call, hoping it echoed far enough to be heard.

Strange. 

It’s all you can think about for the next half an hour you’re seated on that dainty, painted bench in the middle of the palace gardens, waiting for your potential future husband. And for the next hour. And the next. 

It’s by the time the sun has fully set, when twinkling stars are dotting the night sky that you settle with the conclusion that yes, it seems that Naoya has already made his decision about the marriage. And no it doesn’t end with a wedding. 

“Dammit.” you spit, running a hand through the hair you had Nobara fuss about with. “S’not like I wanted to marry you anyway, bastard.”

And you didn’t - you really didn’t. Whenever you dared to imagine walking down that decorated aisle, Naoya was the last person you saw.

But seated alone and abandoned, trying to cover yourself from the biting chill of the night, you never felt more like an unworthy heir. Fuck, if no one wanted to marry you how would you even dare to think of taking over the throne?

Maybe you should just-

“We have got to stop meeting like this, flower. S’like you’re haunting me.”

“Satoru!” you gasp, throwing yourself into his embrace. You’re reaching up to loop two arms around his neck, “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. That asshole had the audacity to stand me up.” Pulling back so your face ghosts his, “I got all dolled up just for him to leave me like this. As if I wanted to be with him, I was just trying to be a good- a good h-host and-” 

Suddenly, you’re struck with the realization of how close you two actually are. You could count every crease on his blindfold, pinpoint exactly where every dimple at the corner of his grin was. 

Your hands slide their way down to his sculpted chest, pushing slightly. “-I apologize, this was forward of me.”

But his arms only tighten around your waist - when did they even get there? Large and steady, pulling you back to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, your racing pulse. “Stay.” he groans, and he sounds slightly out-of-breath, heavy exhales tickling your ear.

“We can’t be caught like this, Satoru.” you breathe, but that familiar little tug has you shuffling closer. Breathing in that familiar metallic sweet scent you’ve grown to love, “I- I’m getting-” Bile creeps up at the back of your throat, and you laugh bitterly. “I think I’m getting married in three days, y’know? To Lord Sukuna, I assume, since two of my suitors ah- ran away and the other refuses to even see my face.”

His thick fingers dig deeper into the extravagant corset at your waist, “I know. Fuck- don’t I know.”

It’s a steady beat of silence, so still. So tense you could hear every stuttering heartbeat of yours, and strangely enough, you had the nagging feeling that he could, too. 

“You could just marry me.” Satoru’s abrupt confession breaks the silence, and you find yourself sinking deeper into his soft coat. Wrapping yourself up in his heady presence. “Be my queen. You wouldn’t have to worry about duties or elders or- or vampires.”

And the night was still. So still. 

Despite the way your heart races, eyes blinking up in disbelief, you find it in yourself to deadpan, “F-funny. Do I have to give you my soul for that as well?” Oh, some stupid little part of you think you might just have.

And you’d expected Satoru to crack a laugh, to give you a teasing smile while he carried on that little inside joke between the two of you. You’d expected him to no sooner shove you off and talk about it being late. Hell, a part of you even expected this to be some elaborate set-up from the elders to get you caught in such a compromising position with the no-longer stranger from the Northern kingdom. 

But, no. It’s anything but that - everything but that. 

Because the taller man only rasps, nose-to-nose now, “No.” Sounding like his sanity was slipping away from him with every breath, fingers making their dance down to twirl your sapphire pendant between them. “I’d give you mine.”

You can feel his breath fanning your cheeks, head dipping slowly - so torturously slowly. As if he was giving you ample opportunity to run away if you wanted to. But you don’t think you could move for the life of you. 

Instead, you’re dipping closer, gliding the tip of your thumb over his defined cheekbone. Mere millimeters away - just one push. Another hand of yours steadies at the back of his neck, feeling those snowing locks under your fingers. 

One. 

Your thumb dips just under the seam of his blindfold - unwillingly. 

“Your highness.” Satoru’s voice is cold, his fingers lacing with your own even colder. Something eerie. And even with the delicate touch you could feel the power thrumming through Satoru’s body. “This is for you.”

You can only stand there in shocked silence as the moment shatters, and he produces a wild rose as if out of thin air. “Consider it from King Gojo.” Touch searing against yours when he hands it to you, you feel drunk off of him “Perhaps the night is late now.”

Right. The king. 

When you’re walking back in the directions of the palace’s warm lights, you don’t think you’ve ever felt safer. Strangely enough. 

“Satoru.”

“Yes?”

“I’m onto you.”

“You’re onto me.” he’s tucking the bloom over your ear. Before stepping back into the inky pool of shadows beside the entrance you came from. “Sweet dreams, flower.”

That night, when you tuck yourself into bed, you swear you hear a faint whisper of those same three words lulling you to sleep. Over and over. 

Sweet.

Dreams.

Flower. 

---

Floral preservation was one of the lessons you’d been forced to attend growing up in the palace, but even you didn’t know how that wild rose Satoru gifted you hadn’t wilted yet. 

It remained as fresh and prim as the night it was picked, bluish pink petals never fading. You didn’t keep it safely in a bowl of water amongst the other plants and flowers in your bedroom. Somehow, never out of place, always tucked safely behind your ear in the days that followed. Perhaps it was improper to keep it on you even when you were being fitted into an engagement gown to be promised off to another man. But Satoru didn’t complain, and you didn’t either. 

With Kashimo departing for his kingdom early, and Naoya apparently following in his footsteps due to “irrevocable differences”, it was now almost confirmed that the future king was to be Lord Sukuna. Not like King Gojo had made any effort to reach out - and Satoru hadn’t mentioned it either. 

Satoru. 

Things were…the same after that night, and you didn’t know what to make of it.

It must be done, you sigh, wincing at the pinch of the flowing white dress being suited onto you by the bustling tailor. At least it could be worse, even if you’d rather…

“Honestly, young people these days.” Yaga speaks up from where he was fussing with the silken hem of your gown for tomorrow. “I heard of that Naoya brat leaving out of nowhere, princess. My condolences.” 

“Ah-” you startle, not expecting to be addressed. “It’s not your fault, we likely didn’t mesh all that well. I just wish he left a note- Honestly, I’m lucky to even have a suitor left after these six days.”

Another grimace leaves you when you feel another tweak of pins pricking at your skin. The other man hums lowly, “Don’t say that, anyone would be lucky to have you. Anyway-” He gets up from his position kneeling, towering over you to admire his own work. “How do you like it, your highness?”

You let out a gasp when you face the floor-length mirror, “Oh my god, it’s perfect.” The dress was regal, decadent. With flowing tresses resembling a petals, and gilded gold and blue weaved into the fabric. 

Blue. 

“I fashioned it after that necklace and flower of yours.” You unwittingly reach for that familiar pendant, “I ah- forgive the assumption, but I assumed you would be wearing them both at the betrothal ceremony tomorrow, princess?”

Taking another long look in the mirror, you nod, “Yeah. I will.”

---

“I knew it.” he laughs shrilly. “I fuckin’ knew there was something wrong with you. As soon as I saw you butterin’ the princess up in the library, I knew you were a fuckin’ freak.”

The other man only responds with ominous silence, letting labored breathing cut through the bone-chilling air. Clearly unsatisfied, “What? Not gonna talk now? Aren’t ya just in it for the crown like me? Have the bitch, just give me the crown.” Goading now, “I bet you’re not even an attendant are ya- I know what you are-”

His words are cut off with another choked-up gasp, followed shortly by a strained growl. “I know- what you are-”

Red stains the marble floor - a problem for later. 

“I know, King Gojo.” And it’s the last thing he sees. “And you’ll reap what you sow, she’ll never love you.”

Blue. 

“You’ve haunted me too long, flower.”

“Satoru–!” you scream, throwing your soft bed sheets off your body. 

It was burning - you were burning, gasping for the cold lungfuls of air that filled your empty bedroom. Mind bleary, distantly, you register that it’s around daybreak - tiny fingers of golden sunlight just barely dipping through your window - your open window. 

Hastily, you’re tumbling out of bed to slam it shut. Heart still pounding when you take in the mess of flower petals from those congratulatory bouquets you’d gotten. Ruined. Only the stems left in the vases after that sudden, chilling wind. 

“What-” Your eyes dart around to look over your dresser, where you always kept Satoru’s wild rose. And a shiver creeps down your spine when you realize it lay snug tucked behind your ear, safe and sound. Exactly where you didn’t keep it. “-happened?”

You couldn’t settle back into bed after that - couldn’t even think about it. So you find yourself reaching for your wardrobe of dresses, running your fingers along the intricate gown made for your engagement ball tonight. Your engagement to Sukuna. 

If this was the nightmare, and tonight was to be the dream - why did your stomach turn so?

---

It was difficult convincing Nobara to let you keep the wild rose on after getting ready. 

“But that’s so last season.” she bemoans. “No offense, your highness, but even old lady Ogami wouldn’t be caught dead wearing flowers in her hair these days.”

You’re giving her your best puppy dog eyes, “Please, Nobara?”

“No.”

“I’ll let you raid my exclusive wardrobe the next time you want to play dress-up?”

“...”

Which was how you found yourself shoved into a dress that was way too gorgeously palatial, barely even having the time to admire the lush gold and blue decorations around the sparkling ballroom before you were being ushered next to your father on his throne. 

You fiddle with your ringed fingers, feeling more and more like a lamb sent to slaughter - a very opulent slaughter - with each step. 

“I am so proud of you for this week, and you look absolutely divine, my love.” your father whispers into your ear once you’re up on the crushed velvet platform. “I hear from Ichiji that you know, I apologize we couldn’t go through with this marriage under better circumstances.”

You shake your head, giving him a calm smile - you’d already forgiven him, sometimes there was duty far greater than any man. 

“My people, as promised, we are gathered once more to celebrate the joining of two hands - and two kingdoms.” The king projects his voice out to the eager crowd, “Together, these two young loves will face their duty. They will face the dangers. They will face our future.”

The thought had you clenching your fist into the soft fabric of your gown, looking down at your feet in a bow. 

“As I did with my father before me - God rest his soul - the future king and queen will oversee their responsibilities to protect our people from those treacherous vampires. The elders-” he stops short, eyes widening at the empty seats on the balcony - where the table of elders always sat. Abandoned. Chilling. “...have decreed, in accordance with our princess, to introduce my daughter to you all as our future queen-”

Your father gestures a hand your way, and you step forwards to cheers, still not daring to look up. And all you could see were two, gold-toed boots stepping into your field of vision.

“-and our future king!”

“Look up, flower, this is the best part.”

Gasping, you raise your head - Satoru.

“Y-you?” 

He smiles that pearly smile at you, one that makes your knees weaken, “Me.” Before leaning down conspiratorially,  “Better get moving now, the king just declared that the big bad Northern king and the precious princess will have their first dance as a couple.”

It felt like you were moving through a dream as you slip your hand into his, flinching at the feeling of his cold lips meeting the back of your hand.

The crowd of whispering nobles part to make a path for the two of you, and Satoru is so gentle when he leads you into the middle of the dance floor. Weightless on his feet, swiftly placing a burning hand on your waist - just below where the elders would consider proper. 

The other intertwining with yours, you barely even register the slow, romantic tune playing from the orchestra. 

“I bet you have questions.” he whispers, breath fanning your cheeks. 

You take in his tall figure, the rows of medals, gleaming only half as bright as the smile that makes its way onto your face. Hissing, “That doesn’t cover the half of it, King Gojo.”

“I-I apologize. I can’t apologize enough but-”

“Though, I did have a nagging feeling about the fifth time you talked yourself up.” you smirk.

Satoru throws his head back in a loud cackle, echoing through the hushed crowds - no doubt gossiping about this being the Northern king, that fearful beast that ruled over the Gojo family. “I know.” His hand comes up momentarily to brush over your sapphire necklace, “And I’ll spend our entire lives making it up to you, flower.”

Goosebumps dance down your arm, your spine, right down to where Satoru held a firm grip on your hip. You two waltz around the edge of the dance floor, perfectly in time. Through the crowd of grumbling lords, the orchestra, past the table of foods.

“And exactly how long would the rest of our lives be, Satoru?”

Slowing right in front of that huge, reflective wall. 

You couldn’t see his eyes, but his biting gaze was all you could feel. 

Lingering on the blue pendant nestled at your chest, the everlasting wild rose tucked behind your ear, the mirror to your right - where the twin image of you shone. Powerful, gorgeous, everything that a monster like him could never have because he wasn’t standing there right next to you. His kind never could. 

In the back of your mind, you registered collective gasps sounding all around you - the rest of the ball attendees that’d also taken note of the lack of Satoru’s reflection. But your eyes stay locked on him. 

A thumb hooks under his blindfold, and he grimaces. “You really were onto me, huh, flower?”

Tugging. 

Your fingers tighten around his, unable to let the most fearsome of creatures escape from your grasp. “You must’ve been onto me, too, Satoru.”

Pulling. 

All you see is a flash of a regal nose bridge, and the flutter of thick white lashes - before every single chandelier in the ballroom snuffs out at once. Cloaking the room in unnatural darkness, it sends every single knight and noble into a frenzy. 

And then, he opens his eyes. 

“IT’S HIM-”

“A body! A BODY FOUND IN THE ROYAL GUEST SUITE–

“VAMPIRE! STAY BACK-“

Oh, it’s blue. 

That crystal blue. 

And then it’s black.

---

SLAM!

“If you must kill me.” Satoru’s voice sounds from somewhere above you. You blink away the darkness, feeling your bleary gaze try and adjust to that unfamiliar high ceiling, the outlines of hauntingly beautiful paintings on it. His ragged breaths cut through your thoughts once more, hastily folding your hand to grip your pendant. “If you must kill me, then I prefer you do it with your own hands, princess.”

You can’t tell whose hand is trembling more - yours or his. Distantly, you realize you’re being pushed up against a luxuriously padded wall, one you’d never seen before in your life. 

Where were you?

“The Gojo palace- Please-” he reads your mind, voice breaking at the end of his plea. Gasping - and you can discern two elongated teeth at his canines. Fangs, you realize with a shiver. “You may leave if you want to, you may kill me for what I’ve done. My life is in your hands.”

“Satoru.” you soothe in a hushed voice, despite the way your head was reeling. The Gojo palace? “I won’t kill you.”

“But-”

“Satoru, what does this necklace mean?” You beg, and at this point, you’re not surprised that the necklace is from him - because it was an exact replica of the two burning eyes staring back at you. The only source of light right now, glowing a blue you’d finally found after a lifetime. “Why did you-” you gulp, heart lurching. “Why did you hand me your…life?”

Soft lips play right over your rapid pulse, murmuring into your skin, “S’my soul.” A long, pale index of his plays with the pendant. “The only part of my soul that’s living, gilded into a necklace to be kept in the safest place I know. You.”

“But-” you cry out, trying to get another look at his eyes - but your fiancé only kisses deeper at your neck. Nibbling at the thundering beat just below. “But why did you give it to me?”

“Who else would I give it to, if not for my mate?”

Mates - there were a thousand and one books and official documents detailing everything from a vampire’s killing pattern to the aphrodisiac toxins found in their blood. But the research on a vampire’s mate was far and few between.

Perhaps owing to the lack of willing mates that can come out without persecution, or perhaps due to the vampires’ intense rumored mating rituals. But it didn’t go without its own gossip, you were no stranger to the ladies of the court tittering about how morbidly “romantic” it was that mates were akin to soulmates - how it was an invisible string connecting two people to share a life, a soul. 

A vampire’s one and only mate.

Satoru was pinning you harder to the wall now, his pink tongue darting out to lick over your pulse. The fingers holding onto the necklace were now tilting your chin up at him, “Speak to me, flower.”

“I’m your mate?” you whimper, your lips ghosting over his. Already knowing the answer, but fuck you needed to hear it from him. “What does that mean exactly?”

He lets out a pained grunt, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “It means you’re the other half of my soul. My only one, I was born for you.” Pressing a chaste peck on there - and you swear you could feel the nip of two sharp canines against your skin. “The one I’ll fight heaven and hell for, until the very last beat of my cold, dead heart.” Your fingers curl at his shoulders when his mouth moves to the shell of your ear. “The one I’ll kill for, take out every measly scum that thinks they can get with my mate.”

He huffs out a burst of cold laughter when your breath hitches, probably reading over the thoughts running through your mind - Satoru killed them. The guards, Kashimo, Naoya- fuck, maybe even Sukuna. He killed them. He killed them. He killed them. He killed them. 

You shiver, “A-and all the wind? The whispers? I thought it was just you these past week b-but- All my life, that was you?”

You know. You knew. 

Another kiss - this time to the corner of your eye, and Satoru licks a long, content stripe up the big fat tears unwillingly welling up behind your eyes. He groans at the salty taste of you, taking in a long, drawn-out breath. “Yes.”

All it takes is that single word for your entire body to collapse, thankfully onto an awaiting Satoru. He holds your entire body weight with one hand around your waist, the other coming up to swipe his thumb under those tears rolling down your cheeks now. 

He kisses your cheek, “All your life.” The corner of your lips, “And all of mine.” 

Run away run away run away run away-

But you can’t - you don’t want to.

Your lips wobble when he nuzzles down your face, leaving a trail of hot kisses with his cold, cold mouth. “As soon as I learned to use my powers - was just a brat you see - I just had to see my mate. To smell her scent.” He’s inhaling deeply again, hands groping over your engagement gown. “Lo and behold, there was you. A cute lil’ princess around my age, tuckered out and fast asleep.” Lingering at your jaw, the hand tight around your waist pulls you painfully closer. Satoru’s knee wedging itself between your trembling thighs, “Imagine my surprise when she took one look at me and cried. Scared me enough to teleport outta there as soon as you opened that smart mouth, flower.”

And the thought of Satoru - tiny and determined - teleporting halfway across the land only to be yelled at by you has you huffing out a shock of laughter.

“So when I heard through the grapevine about your potential engagement, fuck- I couldn’t have ran out of this palace faster. Was so excited I fuckin’ forgot to teleport, too. Even if you were afraid of the ‘cruel Northern king.’” 

Fuck - that’s right. He must’ve heard your thoughts that time you met him in the library. 

Satoru’s tone drops to a low simper, so close now that you could feel every slight curve of his grin. Every twitch of his fingers sweeping up and down your exposed skin, feeling the delicious thrum of your veins. He could bite you right now - easily.  “And luckily, as I grew up, so did my ability to blend in with the darkness.” Eyes boring into yours, something so vulnerable in them now. “But you found me, you always did.”

“Satoru.” you angle your head upwards. “Kiss me.”

And how could he ever deny you?

You wince at the slight pinch of Satoru’s teeth - his fangs - as he crashes his lips into yours in a greedy kiss. Sliding his tongue over to taste those candied lips he’s been dreaming of for years. 

“Fuck-” he breathes out through his nose, jaw sagging open further to kiss you deeper. “Fuck, princess.”

Strong arms pin you harder against the wall, and you’re blindly reaching out to reciprocate even a fraction of Satoru’s neediness. Just dragging your hips up and down his muscled thighs. Sinful. 

Shit, it was so endearing to him seeing you struggle to touch him this way. And with a flick of a wrist, the candle chandeliers hung high above your heads are lighting up at once. “S’that better, flower?”

It takes every bit of will in you to manage to pull away, yet the thought of seeing Satoru - of really seeing Satoru is what spurs you to break the kiss. Delicate strings of saturated spit snapping in the non-existent air between you two, you take a long look at your new husband.

Fuck, he was so pretty.

You always knew he was. 

But even with his face tilted downwards, within the soft light tinting those snowy strands a sunset yellow - you could make out the pretty pink flush all the way from his glossy, ravaged lips, up, up, up to his delicate cheeks - he looked like the last thing from a monster. 

“No you’re pretty.” he hums, and you’re still not used to him reading your mind. Head nodding downwards, “Just look, grinding on my thigh like such a slut.”

What met you was a dark pool of slick saturating his trousers,  just peeking out over the hem of your dress. It makes you give another lingering, experimental grind.

“Satoru—” you’re letting out a honeyed drag of his name, reveling in the way it makes him swallow heavily. “You can hear my thoughts, right?” Look at me. 

Slowly - but surely - familiar blue meets yours. Half-lidded, pupils blown, and if you didn’t know any better you’d have said there were tiny sparks of lightning at the corners of his long white lashes.

You’ve been haunting me my whole life, Toru.

And it was an accident - it really was, your freshly kissed brain too hazy to slur out Satoru’s full name. But the impromptu little nickname has him dragging forwards like he was magnetized. 

A low growl escaping when he’s kissing you again. And again. And again and again and-

“Say it-” Two hands are tugging at those tedious ribbons tying your decadent gown together. Pulling. “Say it again f’me.” Ripping. 

The more his lips are assaulting yours, the more the dress slips further and further down your shoulders. Tattered. The soft satin leaving goosebumps down your spine as it reveals your neckline - all that skin for him to ruin. To mark. 

“Oh-” you’re squealing when one of Satoru’s fangs prick a bit too hard at your lip. Feeling a hot flow of crimson bleed out, the feeling has you so weak. So drunk. “Quite eager, aren’t ya?”

“You have no idea.” he groans again. Soft tongue moving from swirling around your own to lazily pool your blood on it. And you can’t imagine what about the metallic taste would be so euphoric, but he’s letting out his loudest drag of your name yet. Eyes rolling to the back of his head like he’s just tasted a personal slice of heaven. “Fuck- fuck you have no idea.”

You moan into the kiss when he bites down again on your already-bruised lower lip, “I’ve always wanted to do this-” Slow, slow hands kneading up your waist, at a dizzying tempo matching his mouth down your jaw, your neck. Hips bucking, you feel the outline of something so hard between his legs. “-to kiss you. To-” Tethering on the sensitive area of your pulse, “-bite.”

In a split-second, you’re sinking down into plush silk sheets, swallowing you whole in a king-sized bed you didn’t even realize was in the room before. 

“S-Satoru, did you teleport us again?” you gasp, eyes adjusting to the intricate paintings on the ceiling that you hadn’t gotten to admire before. Of white-haired youths and roses, of cold, dark palaces and- and you. 

You - when you were younger, sleeping peacefully while a little boy watches intrigued from the corner. You - passed out in the library after a long night of reading, two pale hands wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. You - your brows furrowed, head cocked while you pushed past nobles to search for that flash of his blue. You, you, you.

You. 

“I can hear the gears in that pretty head turning.” Satoru grins, still kissing you in a languid graze of lips. “And as much as I love it when you hah- admire my lonely paintings, I’d rather you pay attention to-” A low groan curdles at the back of his throat when he’s grinding his massive clothed erection against the syrupy spot at your core. “-me.”

There’s a dark little huff of laughter and with one last bite at the side of your neck, Satoru’s unapologetically tearing right through the middle of your gown. 

And you know it’s made with the finest fabrics the country has to offer, you know that no normal man should be able to even rip a tiny shred through your dress - but Satoru is no ordinary man.

Your spike of disappointment is quickly overshadowed by cold breath hovering over your exposed tits. “Oh, so perfect f’me.” he’s groaning, deep and primal. Biting down on your hardened nipple, “Ya think those uptight elders your court has- ah, had would appreciate me desecrating their precious princess before marriage?”

Through gasps, you peek down at his wicked tongue, swirling around the sensitive spots of your areola. “Who- who gives a shit.”

“So feisty.” The peaks of your tits are left coated in him as Satoru pulls away. “So addictive.” Pinching your soft flesh between his teeth - just hard enough that you worry he’s out to draw blood again. “So- so-” 

Words are failing Satoru’s sharp mouth as he kisses his way down your body. The valley of your chest, your stomach, your hips.

Down, down, down-

“Fuck, Satoru-” you’re hissing when he easily pulls the pathetic remains of your dress off and onto the floor. The rest of your inner skirts easily following afterwards. “Are you gonna…”

“M’afraid not.” he licks sloppy circles at the skin of your thighs. Tasting, nipping, leaving little marks with his fangs for later. Sloppily soothing his tongue over the tiny droplets of blood beading from the bites, he murmurs stubbornly, “Not until you address me correctly.”

Hesitantly, you reach out a limp hand to thread through his dampening white tresses. Tugging softly to lock those devouring blue eyes with yours, “Please, Toru?”

You get absolutely no warning when he kisses right through that flimsy excuse of your drenched panties to slide his tongue up and down your sopping wet slit. Up and down up and down up and-

“Sh-shit, Toru-” you moan when he’s just dipping the very tip barely past your puffy folds. The fabric of your underwear still sticking to you, “Stop being such a tease, goddammit ngh-”

“Why?” Of course, he toys with your patience even now, addicted to those needy whines falling from your lips. “I jus’ wanna play with my princess’s pretty pussy. What am I getting out of it?” 

You smirk, not even having to move your pretty mouth to know you had him in the palm of your hand already. I’d be your mate for life. 

It’s all you can do to watch with satisfaction as the great Gojo Satoru gasps - gasps. Slick-glossed lips falling into a soft oh! Hazy eyes widening almost-comically, and at full heady attention while he takes a few seconds to mull over your words. 

RIP!

In an instant, your soaked underwear is ripped clean off to bare your dripping cunt for him, wrapped tightly around Satoru’s fingers and disappearing down below to where your imagination couldn’t handle. 

“Oh, such a pretty pussy.” he coos, thumbing apart your puffy folds to admire your lewdly winking cunt. Glistening and so so needy, you jolt when he bullies two long fingers past your sloppy entrance. With your greedy hole swallowing every slender inch of Satoru’s fingers easily, “So needy too. This all f’me?”

As if to prove his point, his pink lips wrap around your throbbing clit, grinding his tongue over the ravaged tip. The harsh texture of his tastebuds rolling over every inch of you he could reach.

“Y-yes-” you squeal, hips bucking down mindlessly to try and match his relentless tempo. “S’only for you.”

“Tha’s what I love to hear-” Satoru’s cheeks hollow when he sucks on your sensitive little nub - hard. “Sweeter than I even imagined, shit-”

Every pump of his merciless fingers in and out of your cunt drags along your gummy walls. Deftly curling to prey at those hidden sweet spots of yours he just knew would wrench out such throaty moans from you - and fuck, Satoru thinks- no, he knows that the sound is is favorite song. 

“You’re makin’ me- hah making me fall in love all over again.” he gruffs out into your cunt. The pads of his fingers pressing into the cushiony ends of your pussy. “Because look how messy you are- how loud.”

You didn’t know if he had mind-control powers on top of mind-reading, because it’s as if you’re on auto-pilot when your lolling head is whirling down to look at the absolute sin made of you below. Satoru - running his mouth a mile a minute to send white-hot vibrations along your clit. His milky fingers buried knuckle-deep to stretch out your poor cunt. Your sweet sweet juices drooling all over them in such an obscene sheen down his palm, his wrist. 

He whines, “Makin’ me wanna-” You jolt when he’s biting down so dangerously around your clit. “Wanna-”

Satoru doesn’t end up finishing his sentence - and he doesn’t have to. 

Because he’s pausing his make-out with your clit to spit once. Twice. A thick thumb swiping at the intentional splatter of saliva marking your skin, before surging forwards even deeper - you didn’t even think that was possible. But Satoru has the tip of his nose rubbing methodical circles against your clit, jaw grinding at the base of your pussy, tongue flattening out your pussy lips.

Messy. Harsh. 

“Oh- oh my god, Toru-” you’re keening at the feeling of his wet muscle trying to squeeze in past the fingers still continuing their assault on your entrance. “It- it won’t fit–”

“Shhh shhh, s’okay, princess.” he hushes, letting another round glob of spit wet your clingy pussy. “You can take it. You will - otherwise how are you gonna take your husband, hm?”

That little comment has connotations that make your plushy walls clamp down vice-like around his fingers - his tongue. And you’re angling your head just right, blinking away the lustful haze in your eyes to spy down at the rapid, jerky movements of his other hand. Devouring gaze dropping down to-

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

It was difficult to even look at the sight below - your panties, soaked and completely see-through with slick and precum, wrapped prettily around what you could make out to be Satoru’s aching cock. Standing proud, twitching wildly with every drag of his fist up and down his glistening length. 

“Fuck-” he groans, taking the opportunity to devilishly slip his tongue past your feeble entrance. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- y’like this, huh?” Drawled out little praises now muffled as he fucks you on his tongue the way he wished he could with his cock. In and out in and out in and out. Pulling back to eye your gaping hole, “I can feel y’getting wetter for me is it because-” Before surging back forwards, as if he’s addicted. “Because-” Again.“Fuck don’t clench around me that way. Was hard enough trying not to fuck you stupid right there in the middle of the ballroom.” 

You whine, tears flowing down freely at the sheer pleasure at this point. “Y-you-” you gasp, your five fingers splaying out over Satoru’s head. Pushing even harsher, “You hngh- talk too much- m’so close-”

Partially because you really needed those pretty lips back at your heated core, partially because every word tumbling from his mouth had you throbbing embarrassingly, your slick spreading a glossy sheen on the sheets underneath you. 

“Oh yeah? Heh, anything for you, flower.” Satoru grins such a sly, sultry grin and you feel it against one set of your swollen lips. “Absolutely anything.”

In and out in and out. He has his brows furrowed now, concentrated on having every flick and divot of movement pushing you closer and closer towards the edge. Faster. Sloppier. You have half the mind to wonder whether it didn’t hurt - whether Satoru’s tongue wasn’t cramping up from how fast he was going, whether his fingers weren’t tired already.

Out of the corner of your spotty vision, you can see those stuttering squeezes of Satoru’s hand speed up. Trying desperately to match each bullying push of his tongue and his fingers into your overstuffed pussy. 

The thought makes you whine, “Oh my god- Toru, m’gonna cum.” And shit, at this point it’s too much. You couldn’t think - you couldn’t even breathe. “M’so close please.” Barely able to even register anything but Satoru Satoru Satoru-

It’s why you don’t even realize at first when you’re finally cumming - Satoru does, though. He feels it in the way your heavenly walls are closing down on his fingers, clenching around him so tight that it was almost difficult to fuck you through your orgasm. Waves of electric pleasure crashing into you and you think you’re drowning.

“Tha’s it.” he rasps. “Cum f’me like that, tha’s it- thaaat’s it, such a good lil’ wife- a perfect mate.” 

The fingers stuffed deep inside your pussy are being pulled out in a flash - not letting you waste a moment of your heady high before he’s toying ravenously with your swollen clit. Pinching, and rolling between two soft fingers. 

“O-oh fuck, m’-cumming? M’cumming m’cumming-” you moan deliriously, mind just now catching up. Your hips drag your sloppy pussy all over Satoru’s pretty face. Just drenching his noble features with your gushing mess. “Feels too ah- good, Toru.”

And he takes it like it’s everything he needs - everything he’s ever wanted. 

Jaw falling slack to let your juices slide down his throat, tongue lolling out flick your spasming cunt through your high. Unstopping. Unwavering. 

Even when your vision stops tingeing with black at the edges, even when you think you’re sane enough to form a coherent thought. Even when your climax is bating enough that every flick of Satoru’s tongue only sends almost painful thrums of pleasure down your spine.

“W-wait m’done-” you sob, tasting the salty stream of tears splashing down your face now. “S’too sensitive- ngh-”

When he doesn’t show any signs of stopping anytime soon, you try again - this time thinking the embarrassing thought out loud. I…I really want you inside me now, Toru. Please?

And he pauses - jolting, as if some dark, primal part of him had just been called back to life. Tongue still hot on your cunt, fist still greedy around his rock-hard shaft. 

“F-fuck you’re gonna be the death of me, flower.”

And before, you couldn’t get enough of those striking blue eyes, but now you couldn’t escape them.

With inhuman speed, he’s shuffling up the soaked sheets. “An absolute fuckin-” Slick-glossed lips meet yours, smearing along the combination of juices till the lower half of your face was as dripping wet as Satoru’s. “-minx, y’know that?”

“Wh-what can I say?” you tilt your head with a smirk, lips a bit too loose than you’d like - but it didn’t matter anyway, he was in your thoughts. Your mind. “I’m your mate, after all.”

He falls back onto his knees at that sinful little sentence of yours, throwing his head back in a guttural groan. “Fuck- you’re mine alright. See what you hah- do to me? See how this is all your fault?” 

If Satoru expected an answer, then he doesn’t receive it. Because every snippy little retort on the tip of your tongue melts when you get a long, hard look at the angry shaft in his hand. So red and angry. Thick enough that you felt your cunt quiver already.

Delicate with prominent veins that glistened and throbbed down his long, long length with each slew of his vigorous fist. And his tip- fuck, blushed your favorite shade of weepy pink, slobbering a sheen of precum all down his wrist, his tufts of cloudy white. 

And you realize with a jolt that he still had your panties wrapped around him - looking so tiny around Satoru’s massive cock. 

Wordlessly, your hand replaces his.

“W-woah- fuck-” His toned waist flexes with the effort to fuck up into the soft cushion of your palm. “How the- ngh how the fuck does your fuckin’ hand feel this good?”

“You’re so big- fuck, don’t know how I’d- Wait you never imagined this?” you bat your eyes up with faux innocence. A thumb gliding over that deep divot on the very tip of his fat head. “Because I sure have, Toru.” 

Satoru’s heavy balls smack against your arm when he shuffles down his pants even further, now fully letting you go ahead with your agonizing torture. “Shit-” he yelps, eyes screwing shut at the image. “Don’t- don’t say that, holy shit.”

You toy with your scrap of panties, massaging every ridge and curve with it. Just dragging your hand up and down. “Would you rather I think it instead?”

Within milliseconds, two sharp fangs are poised right above your rapid pulse, a hand around your throat. “No- no no no no-” Satoru gasps, sounding like he was at the end of his rope. And it takes him a few blinks to realize his position, immediately moving his lips up to nip at your jaw. “Fuckin’ no.” Hard enough that another red pearl of blood drips out, instantly being sucked up greedily by your fiancé. “Gonna make me lose it before I-I ngh-”

With a pained growl, he suddenly has you sitting so prettily on his muscular lap. Your legs splayed out like such a slut, needy cunt slobbering all over where you were sat right on his demanding erection. 

By the time you’re realizing your helpless position, it’s too late - and Satoru’s already shrugging off the rest of his pants. Buttons hitting the floor when he just tears his flowing dress shirt off. 

“Sh-show off.” you breathe, hands mapping out every dip and curve of the plane of defined muscles displayed before you. So mouthwatering. 

“Can tell that you- ngh think m’mouthwatering, flower.” he grins. One hand kneading and groping the flesh of your ass to steady your drooling cunt to kiss at his thick tip. The other keeping one of your palms stuck to his washboard abs, up, up, up to press at his sculpted left pec. “N’ I know m’heart’s not beating, but I’m much the same. Very- much the- same.”

And Satoru’s spent years waiting, yearning - so he doesn’t waste even a second more when stuffing his cock inside your snug cunt. 

“O-oh. Satoru- Satoru please oh-”

The stretch - fuck, the stretch. The stretch is so much that it feels like you’re being split apart. Just the bare tip of his fat cock being bullied in short, determined half-thrusts. 

And it takes only one, lucky collision into the bullseye of your g-spot and you’re already falling apart. 

“Wait- wait wait wait m’gonna-” you gasp, your nails running down his broad, milky back in jagged red lines when you’re cumming once more. Toes curling, hips convulsing wildly on top of a smug Satoru. “Oh my god, ngh- what’ve you done to me, Toru?”

“Now, let me ngh- let me tell you a little secret, hah- princess.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gifting a sweet kiss on your swollen lips. “The best thing about mates?” Sharp fangs catch onto your delicate skin, “They feel sex on a whole other level.”

And then he’s bringing down both hands to spread apart the globes of your ass. Your puffy folds are stretched to their limits when he thrusts up once. Muscled thighs flexing underneath yours. Harsh. 

Ignoring your pleading keens and the slight resistance at the intrusion of his intimidating size, “Hold on, princess- hold- fuuuuck.” Lips latch onto yours, drinking up every heady whine when your poor cunt is being fed every inch by fucking inch. “You’re taking me so well.”

And that you were - your pussy lips bulging and struggling to accommodate Satoru’s monstrous size, but still taking him in so greedily. 

“There we go.” he grunts out, punctuated with heavy rams of hips. Up, up, up until you could feel Satoru’s sobbing tip graze against your cervix - your lungs. “Theeere we fuckin’-” Pushing and pushing until there was no more, until your neglected clit was scratching against his snowy pubic hair. Ass coming to rest at his twitching balls. “-go.”

“You’re in so deep-” you’re blabbering, cockdrunk already. The last few dredges of your high still not wearing off, it takes you a few seconds of Satoru still trying to squeeze his cock even deeper to manage to raise a hand about midway up your stomach. Feeling for that vertical bulge that was him, “-can feel you right here.”

“Oh yeah?”

And like he was testing your theory, Satoru fucks up into your gummy hole in another bullying slam. Watching in wonder at the way that little divot in your stomach crashes around the same spongy cervix he was. 

“Fuck- you’re right.” he hisses. Addicted now. Immediately rocking into you with reeling, long rolls of his hips. “You’re so- fuckin’ right.”

You can’t find the energy in yourself to even yelp in surprise when Satoru immediately changes your positions so that you’re now laying fucked-out on the mattress. His domineering hips pinning you down to use you like some little cocksleeve. 

“God-” he pants into your open mouth, tongue swirling with your weighty one. “God- fuck fuck fuck if heaven is real then this is it.” Each little profanity is decorated with a smoldering crash of his tip into your sweet spot. “You’re the heaven I don’t ngh- deserve, flower.”

That neat bitemark on your thigh is being jostled with the amount of ragged movement, and you wince with pain when it starts flowing again. 

“Oh- oh.” 

Satoru’s like a predator that has cornered his prey, and is spending hours tediously unraveling every single bit of you. 

Sliding two smooth palms underneath your legs, they’re urgently thrown over his large shoulders to fold you down, down, down into the meanest mating press you think you could handle - handle without fucking breaking, that is. 

“So good t’me.” he breathes, long tongue easily licking up that sweet nectar of your blood. “Y’know your cute lil’ brain s’too scrambled to even read right now.”

“H-how can I think when you’re ah! Like- like this, Toru?”

The sudden change in angle makes you scream. It makes you clamor for the headboard, the sheets, your husband when that obscenely perfect upwards curve of his dick is massaging every nook and cranny of your cunt. 

“Yeah? Feels good? Now now- don’t run- away” he’s dragging you down those drenched sheets by the legs like some ragdoll, stuffing you more and more with his painful cock. Fucking you so relentless, like he was trying to worship every little hidden sweet spot inside your dripping cunt. “Say it- no no no, not in your head. Say it.”

And you do - a little over fifteen times when his thick hilt pecks your pussy lips over and over with each thrust when Satoru bottoms out, hitting all the way into the back of your cunt - your cervix, your g-spot - like he couldn’t decide which one to bruise more. 

“S’too good-” you’re gasping. Your overstimulated pussy being molded like clay to the girthy shaft kissing down your cunt. Stretching out your elastic walls until you could almost feel them take shape to his swollen cock. Feel every sensitive spot inside you being overstimulated at once with every burning massage against them. “You’re fuckin’ me way too- too good- ngh- can’t even think.”

But that wasn’t enough for him.

Dipping a thumb down to circle around your clit, white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine when he lets out a deep rumble, “Think I fell in love with you when I- fuck, right then and there when I first- hah saw you all those years back.” speeding up with the sloppy staccato of his rude cock. Satoru’s words slurring now, messed up and half-prepared like the accelerating half-thrusts being bestowed upon your ravaged cunt. Like he couldn’t bear to pull out completely. “The first time you saw me, you were so afraid. Look at you- fuck, jus’ look at you now, princess.”

Each word is like a brand onto your sticky skin, accompanied by harsh smacks of Satoru’s balls against your ass, his sharp hip bones digging into your thighs. Him.

“Toru–” is all you can manage to whine out, a limp hand pulling his face closer to yours. You’re jumping with each swipe at your poor clit. “Toru m’here.”

“And- and yet-” he’s still blabbering, still pussydrunk while he fucks you so menacingly. Fingers sopping wet with their assault on your sensitive nub, “And yet I just- fuck-” He cuts himself off to give your messy hole another thick stream of spit. Coating his long, raw shaft - rubbed red with the way your gripping walls were massaging him so right - making it easier to slide in and out. “And yet, I just had to see you, to see the gorgeous mate I don’t deserve. I couldn’t live without you.”

A single overstimulated tear glistens a track down Satoru’s pretty face - one you kiss away as quickly as it appeared. Nudging open those teary, blue gaze to bore down on you. 

Oh, he looked an absolute wreck - white hair mussed up, stray strands sticking to his forehead. Glossy lips parted, drool pooling at the corner, broken grunts leaving him with each smash of his tip back into your cunt. So blissed out. 

Jolting at your eyes on him, Satoru feels his balls tighten so painfully. Abs burning when his pace stutters with need. 

“You’re haunting me, just as much as I was haunting you, Toru.”

The candles go out. Instantly. 

And shit you’re feeling it first when when hé’s cumming and cumming so hard that it almost hurts. Flashes of white startling behind his closed, glassy eyes. “Shit- shit shit shit shit-” Hairs on your body raising as Satoru’s fingers draw circles on your clit so aggressively. Dragging out your high. Forcing it. “Take it- take it all, my flower. Let me paint this pretty pussy all white.” Violent, almost.

So, really, it makes sense that your third orgasm of the night was the same. 

Just shivering, sinful tingles running from your overstimulated mind right down to where Satoru was stuffing thick white ropes of potent seed deeper and deeper down your tight channel. 

Overspilling with each calculated ram, his cum is oozing out of the corners of your puffy lips with each furious clench of his balls. Too much. 

And it’s all you can do to sit there and take it, feeling the sloppy dredges of cum make a mess slobbering down your thighs and his. Starting up blearily at the blurry paintings on the ceilings. The paintings of you - of a still Satoru that looked down at you with only half as much intensity and pure swirling emotion as he was right now.

Something that couldn’t be painted - but would make such a pretty picture, when his fangs bite into that racing junction at your neck.

You scream a soundless scream of his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head as something warm fills your entire body. 

Leaving your words unheard, your ravaged hole loose to let out slobbering squelches of Satoru’s cum. Blood racing and flowing right into Satoru’s greedy mouth. 

“Princess-” he gulps. Tongue licking up every crimson bead his crazed eyes could spot, body aching when he dares pull away from that heavenly taste. More. “Princess princess princess- you- hngh you’re mine. All mine now.”

And he’s letting out more thick globs of cum straight into your waiting cunt. Body bowing even harder to let it seep into your elastic walls, your womb. So much more than you can take and he just keeps giving. 

It seems like forever when Satoru finally pulls away - and within the glowing blue of his eyes, you can see the red staining his lips, dripping down those fangs, his chin. Staining the silk sheets below - staining you with so much more. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching up to catch his lips in a bloodied kiss. Your own elongated canines catching amateurishly on his lips. 

Satoru hisses - but he likes it. And you can tell. 

You can read every single hypnotizing thought whirling behind those crystal blue eyes - how he wants to ravish you again, how he wants to worship you. To make you his all over, to have you make him yours. The thought makes you smile as you whisper, “I’m onto you, Toru.”

“You’re onto me, flower.” Catching your lips in a sweet, sweet red kiss. “Forever.”

A/N. This was SOOO fun to write omg y’all have no idea. If you made it this far then you get a sloppy smooch from me mwahhhh.

Plagiarism of work not authorized.

[yueebby]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. period piece, forbidden love

contents. ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior (5k words of gojo pining), lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. inspired by the apothecary diaries and this post. loosely based off of ancient japan (this is basically its own world). this is the prologue to the series where everything can generally be read as a standalone ! (fic under the cut)

series masterlist

emperor!gojo who broke a hundred year tradition to take you as his only lover. despite your role as a concubine, everyone in the imperial palace knew he was going to make you his empress.

emperor!gojo who had not meant to fall in love with you, but you have managed to somehow charm him. a man that single handedly brought his own clan to power– weak in your hands. hushed whispers around the imperial palace call you a witch, but they never reach your ears. not as long as he is alive.

emperor!gojo shamelessly showering you with love. he pays no mind that it is highly frowned upon, he will have his hands on you every time you are in the same room.

emperor!gojo who is livid when there is an attempt on your life. his usual ocean eyes turned to blue flames like a wild animal. servants and clan elders alike scurry under his gaze. the assailant is taken care of by his own hands. 

emperor!gojo who is forced to satiate the clan elders into submission by taking in another concubine from an influential clan. he insists to you that it is no more than a political formality. who are you to meddle into imperial affairs?

emperor!gojo who can’t help himself and ends up falling for another girl who his clan elders demand he must wed. she is much younger than you, beautiful and is well bred; a perfect match for the emperor. 

emperor!gojo whose frequent visits to you come to an end, forcing you to move from his chambers and back to the consorts’ pavilion.

There was a time when you had everything. A place to call home in the Inner Court, a beautiful palace with anything you could have ever dreamed of. Servants, admirers, riches; you had it all. But what was most dear to you was your lover– a man so divine, many thought he was directly blessed by the hand of God. It was too good to be true. A woman of lowly birth like you, paid as homage for the sins of her clan against the new reigning family of Japan, becoming a concubine of the Heavenly Emperor. 

You remembered it all too well.

His brilliant mind that once strategized the downfall of the previous imperial family, calculating its next move in a game of Go against you. You can still remember the shock on his face upon his first defeat. The way he would keep you from leaving to fulfill your other duties until he was satisfied, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to keep up with you. No matter how hard he tried, you remained victorious. It drove him mad.

You remembered the stolen kisses while you made your rounds in the Inner Palace with your ladies in waiting. It took you quite a while to learn to tune out their giggles every time the Emperor dips you down to taste your lips in broad daylight. The grin that he wore after was enough to leave your legs weak.

Above all, you'll always remember how safe you felt in his strong, reassuring embrace. You’ve seen him train, and it was no wonder the Gojo clan rose to power so quickly as a result of one man. The way he wields the katana is unlike any man on the face of the earth. Those arms were your sanctuary. You can still vividly recall the attempt on your life, orchestrated by a traditionalist incensed by the Gojo clan's swift ascent to power. The emperor, outraged by the assassination plot, personally saw to the man's execution. 

However, the damage was done and it caused great strain in the Imperial Palace.

To appease the old geezers that were forced out of power, Emperor Gojo had taken in another concubine from one of the Big Three families of Japan— a beautiful Zenin girl. Her flowing, silky hair and saccharine voice enchanted everyone in the Inner Palace, captivating the Emperor, most of all. She was younger than you, with perkier breasts and soft skin that was enough to capture the attention of any man. 

You don’t blame her for taking the Emperor’s attention away. Though you would be a liar if you said it did not hurt you. Deep down, you cannot deny the agony that sears your soul, realizing that the only semblance of love you've ever tasted remains unrequited. With a heavy heart, you resign yourself to the bitter truth of your existence, knowing all too well the cruel confines of your place in this world.

You were merely a pawn, and the Emperor did not want you anymore.

That was made clear months later when you received a scroll from the Emperor’s advisor, a man you were once well acquainted with, Geto Suguru. 

“What is this?” You asked him quietly, your heart silently begging the Heavens it was not what you had suspected it to be. The black haired man in front of you does not respond, and you feel something pierce into your heart. Despite being a part of the Emperor’s court, it was rare that you received letters directly.

Your suspicions were confirmed when your shaky hands finally opened the scroll to read the familiar kanji written by your beloved.

“The Emperor decrees the termination of your role as concubine." Geto spares you the trouble of deciphering the characters neatly written in ink. “In his mercy, you are to be moved as a servant in the Outer Court. You are to serve the Imperial Physician.”

What you remember most was the silence. The Emperor’s silence after the stressful months you had to endure alone. The silence shared between you and Geto when you were forced out of the Imperial Court. All that was left was the sound of your heart breaking and the wood creaking underneath Geto’s feet as he walked away. Satoru never bothered to see you off.

Seasons change and by the next spring, you’re busying your hands with collecting herbs for the Imperial Physician, a man by the name of Yaga Masamichi. He is a kind man, pitying you enough to fill your days with laborious tasks to prevent your mind from wandering to thoughts of the unfortunate turn your life has taken. He is even generous enough to supply you with a new wardrobe of clothing full of light fabrics, a luxury you thought you would lose in the Outer Palace. Though the initial humiliation has worn off with the passing of time, you are still constantly reminded of your fall from grace.

Looks by the mix of condolences and disgust are shared when you roam the walls of the Outer Palace. You hear whispers of how the Emperor is infatuated with his newer, shinier toy. It is enough for you to swallow the bile that makes its way up your throat. 

“It is no wonder the Emperor tossed away a wildflower like her in exchange for a cherry blossom. He needed someone to rival his own greatness.” A particular comment stopped you in your tracks. Your grip tightens on the woven basket in your hand filled with medicinal herbs you had collected earlier that morning. 

“Have some pity on her.” Another eunuch whispers. Your breath falters, but you continue your walk with your head held up. You’ve heard the rumors. The beautiful Zenin Himiko has charmed the Emperor enough that there are rumors of a royal marriage to come. It doesn’t help that the Emperor has remained monogamous to her since he had banished you from his court.

A comforting hand links itself with your arm, “Ignore them. I saw Yaga shooing away a crowd of suitors that were lined up for your hand.” Ieiri Shoko scoffs, secretly sending you a wink. She has been studying medicine under Yaga for nearly a decade, eagerly accepting you as a companion upon your arrival. You feel your cheeks heat up at her flattery. You know she’s just trying to make you feel better.

Although your beauty never faded, it seems as though you are no longer sought after in the marriage market. Not that it matters, considering the new life that you’re living. You’re now a personal servant to the Imperial Physician, leaving no time to worry about suitors and such. Your days are filled with good work— tending to Yaga’s cherished garden that he has sowed for decades rather than frivolous games and attending the Emperor. It may not be glorious compared to your former life, but it was the best a woman of your status could receive. 

When you and Shoko return to Yaga’s estate, you’re surprised to see the somber look that has settled on his aging features. Shoko makes an offhand comment that he will age faster if he keeps scowling. She receives a scolding.

“Is something the matter?” You gently place down your basket full of herbs. 

Yaga sighs, calloused hands rolling up a scroll with the Imperial Seal. “It appears the Emperor’s consort has fallen ill and His Majesty commands my presence in the Imperial Palace.” 

The Royal Consort. The woman that dethroned you: Zenin Himiko.

“I understand.” You nod, maintaining your composure while two sets of eyes scrutinize you with keen observation. It was only natural the emperor wanted the best doctor in the country for his object of affection. “Shall I close up the shop while you journey into the Inner Palace?” 

Yaga shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary. I will have Shoko act as my stand-in.” He remarks with a quick glance in her direction “You, on the other hand, will accompany me.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“You cannot be serious.”

“Typically, one of my apprentices would accompany me on such journeys. However, now that I have acquired a personal attendant,” He gestures towards you with a flick of his hand, “It shall no longer be necessary.” As he speaks, he runs his hand absentmindedly through his well trimmed beard, gaging your reaction.

"I—" Your words falter and fade away. "Yes, sir," you respond, inclining your head in deference, a stark reminder of your place. While you may have concealed it, you were seething with humiliation. Returning to the Imperial Palace after a year of exile to serve the woman who took your spot was mortifying beyond measure.

“Very well. Pack enough for one week’s time. I doubt the Emperor would have called me if this was a light ailment.” He says gruffly. “We leave at dawn.” His gaze shifted to the horizon outside.

1 YEAR AGO

“Your Grace,” You purr at the feeling of his large hands scratching your head. 

The smile that rests on his face is almost ravenous. “Yes, my love?”

“I think—“ A soft sigh escapes your lips when he presses on your weak points. “I should g-go.”

His ministrations stop almost immediately. 

“Go?” His eyes peer down at you in his lap. It is now that you realize the weight of his piercing gaze. “Have I commanded you to leave yet?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have nowhere else to be.” He huffs, unintentionally puffing his cheeks out. You stifle the giggle that nearly escapes from your lips. He vaguely resembles a pufferfish– or so you think. Though you’ve never seen the round creature with your very own eyes, you’ve heard that the delicacy was something only members of the aristocratic class would feast on. 

Your mouth waters at the thought.

“What are you thinking about that could possibly be so important? Keep your eyes on me,” A strong hand squishes your cheeks together and firmly guides your face back upon him. 

You should be embarrassed; ashamed at the intimate position His Majesty has trapped you in. The way your head is tucked away in his lap as he peers down at you, nothing to shield you away from him. It was incredibly scandalous, considering that you were an unmarried woman! But it seemed like the Emperor had taken no mind towards it. You would even dare to say that he was enjoying it, with the way his lips quirk upward at the sight of you squirming. 

“Your Grace,” You repeat, determined to free yourself from his hold. His eyebrows furrow.

“Satoru,” He reminds you. You purse your lips. The position you hold in his court is simply not high enough to grant you the privilege of calling him by his given name.

“Your Grace,” You try again, the title rolling off of your tongue naturally. A man like him did not deserve any title less than.

“You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart. Indulge a man, won’t you?” He pouts down at you. As stubborn as ever, you don’t relent.

“I would be overstepping my boundaries as your consort to call you as such. That privilege is reserved for your future bride.” You take advantage of his guard let down to sit up and escape his hold. If he could have caught you, he made no effort.

“I am a simple man.” He follows you to your vanity. A giggle escapes your mouth. He is anything but. “I want my love to call me by my name.” 

You turn around to cup his cheek. He eagerly leans into your touch, sighing happily at the contact.

“I wonder how Lord Kento and Geto would react to you like this.” You tease, a smile unknowingly painting itself on your lips. 

Satoru’s face falls, features morphing into an appalled expression. You watch him close the distance between you through the mirror.

“Kento?” His voice had a dangerous lilt in it. You blink, unsure what spurred on the sudden tension in the room. “Since when were you so comfortable around him? He cannot satisfy you like I can.” He reminds you of the man’s castrated state as an eunuch. You wince.

“I have not gotten comfortable,” You’re careful to pick your words. Gojo’s possessiveness was something that was not easily tamed. “He simply provides good conversation while you are away.The palace is far too big and lonely while you’re away dealing with clan matters.” 

The only response you get is a quiet grumble. “You’re lucky that you’re pretty.” His large hand creeps its way into your hair again, undoing the hairstyle your ladies in waiting had spent a copious amount of time on earlier that morning. Gojo carefully plucks the extravagant silver hairpin from your hair, the dangling pearls clicking softly at the sudden movement.  His hands slowly make their way down to the kimono that you are wearing, hands ready to undo the obi.

Your hands softly hover his, “I fear that our roles have been reversed. Should it not be me who gets you unready, Your Grace?”

He chuckles and through the mirror you can see a smirk make his way to his lips, “I’d let you undress me any day. Just say the word, beloved.” 

You roll your eyes, but allow him to continue. It was moments like these with the Emperor that led you on to believe that there was a semblance of love between the two of you. 

How wrong you were.

PRESENT DAY

The sun has yet to meet the horizon when you arrive at the Inner Palace. The horse-drawn carriage that you and Yaga had taken is the only sound at the scene, clopping down the stone road and back to the Inner Court. You miss the serenity of the beautiful palace you once resided in, knowing that it will be bustling with life in just a few short hours.

In front of the large doors of the primary ceremonial hall where the Emperor spends most of his time, stands Lord Nanami, a counsellor to the Emperor himself. Time has only made his face sterner, but his neatly styled hair and blue and yellow dyed court attire remained the same. He waits patiently while you and Yaga make your way up the flight up stairs that lead up to the hall.

“I am glad to see you in good health, Yaga.” Nanami bows. 

The man next to you promptly waves his politeness off, thanking him for his hospitality. You stand silently while the two men engage in conversation regally.

Lord Nanami sighs, “His Majesty has been plagued by stress lately. To say I am relieved by your presence would be an understatement.” His statement is a subtle reminder that you must harden your heart upon entering the palace walls. The meticulously built walls were no longer a sanctuary for you, rather, a painful testament that you were no longer wanted. 

Yaga lets out a hearty laugh and it reveals a rare sight, Lord Nanami’s lips curving upwards by a slight. “I highly doubt the boy would be glad to see me. The appearance of the Imperial Physician is portentous.” He scratches his beard. You tilt your head in confusion at how he referred to the Emperor.

“I suppose, yet I am intrigued to find out how he will react upon seeing his object of affection flourishing anew despite the sting of frost.” Nanami audibly wonders. Even a fool could understand his eloquent comparison. The Emperor would be thrilled to see his consort in full bloom once again. You pray that the Heavens would grant you some mercy from witnessing such a scene.

“Youth,” Yaga shakes his head, chuckling to himself before regaining composure. “I mustn't keep the Emperor waiting. [Name], please gather the herbal ingredients to treat the young Consort as you seem fit. I shall confer with His Majesty and meet you in her chambers to declare a proper diagnosis.”

You bow, “Yes sir.”

While Yaga prepares to enter the doors where The Heavenly Emperor resides, your eyes couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the large bronze doors. 

“You seem well,” Nanami addresses you for the first time in over a year. Your eyes trail from the Emperor’s door to the blonde man in front of you. “Allow me to guide you to our herbal stock.” Nanami offers you his arm as you start to make your way down the stairs. 

You take it, lightly holding his arm.  “Thank you, Lord Nanami. Time away from the Inner Palace has been like a breath of fresh air,” You respond, ensuring your voice carries no malice. You hear the large palace doors from behind you open, the metal creaking loudly in the quiet dawn. 

“I must ask you to call me Kento,” He leads you down the stone steps. “We are old friends, it is strange to hear anything but.” 

You focus on your steps down the stairs, only responding once your feet meet the solid ground, “I fear that our social statuses have changed since then. It would be the cause of a scandal should anyone hear I am calling the Imperial Counselor by his given name. Your admirers would have my head on a stick.”

“Your imagination is amusing as always, [Name].” He gives you a closed eyes smile. You huff.

“I am only speaking the truth!” You insist. He chuckles.

“It is quite refreshing to see both you and Yaga again. I’m not sure how long it has been since I have been at the imperial physician.” 

You gape at his confession. “You mustn't skip your annual visits to the physician, Kento. It is in the best interest of your health!” You lightly scold him, lifting your hand to flick his forehead. It was a force of habit. “Perhaps if I have time after treating the Consort, I shall do a check up on you.”

Nanami clears his throat at your comment, the twinkle in his eyes dissipating as if your direct touch had burned him. 

“I would rather not lose my head.” He mumbles, eyes scanning the courtyard around the two of you. You knit your eyebrows, confused.

Nanami leaves you to fulfill his duties once you arrive at the Royal Kitchens to retrieve all the necessary items to treat Consort Himiko. You are glad that he did not accompany you into the kitchens to prepare Consort Himiko’s herbal soup. 

The memory of it still irks you.

“You’re late,” One of Consort Himiko’s ladies in waiting snaps just as you enter the kitchen. You look up to see a young girl, dressed in a light purple kimono. It must be Himiko’s signature, you note. It was strange to see someone outside of the Imperial family donning the color, but you suppose it was only a grand display of Himiko’s influence.

“You’re a lot more plain than I anticipated,” The other lady in waiting quirks an eyebrow, eyeing your appearance. You furrow your eyebrows, shocked by their rudeness.Their undying loyalty to their Lady was enough to fuel an unspoken hatred for you. Though you’re not sure that the two coincide, you don’t blame them.

The two are mixing a concoction that you don’t recognize to be used to treat the sick. The taller one adds some aromatics and herbs in and you see the other one unwrap a cloth to reveal a rare delicacy from the West. Cocoa, you believed they called it. 

Then it hits you– the two are not making a medicinal soup for their Lady, rather they are making an aphrodisiac! The image that conjures in your head makes you blanch. Back in the Outer Palace, Shoko had shown you the effects of the stimulant (you shiver at the memory of her shoving a treat laced with it into your mouth). It was certainly a night to remember.

“How pathetic,” You mutter underneath your breath, quickly rushing to obtain the ingredients you needed without making conversation with the two girls.

Fortunately, they pay you no further attention for the time you’re in the kitchen.

“Please excuse me,” You bow upon entering the Emperor’s chambers. Despite the Consort’s Pavilion being similar in size to a small town, you remember spending most of your time in the Emperor’s chambers rather than your own. It was probably the same case with Consort Himiko. You slowly place the tray carrying broth and medicinal herbs to treat the Consort down on the circular wooden table in the middle of the room.

Out of curiosity, your eyes can’t help but soak in the Emperor’s room. Not much has changed since you’ve left. His Majesty’s preference for minimalist decorations have stayed the same, along with his natural musk that fills your nose. You feel your face heat up at your own thoughts. How could you think of such a thing when you are about to meet his new lover?

Your gaze moves to his bed, where Consort Himiko resides– only to find nothing.

“Huh?” 

You observe his bed, silk sheets neatly made, seemingly untouched. The sounds of your sock clad feet patter on the wooden floor as you make your way to feel the bedsheets for any signs of warmth, but you are met with nothing.

“Don’t you know that entering the Emperor’s chambers can be punishable by death?” A deep voice from behind you causes you to jump in your spot. 

Your guard is immediately raised, head whipping to the sound. In hindsight, you should have never agreed to accompany Yaga on his trip. It was a foolish idea all along, you think as all of the air in your lungs dissipates upon seeing your former lover. 

Standing at the entrance of his own sleeping quarters is Gojo Satoru, his frame big enough to tower over the doorway. His arms are crossed over each other, electric blue eyes focused on nothing else but you. You press your thighs together tightly to avoid squirming anymore than you are.  He has loosened his dark blue kimono to expose some of his hardened chest, a sight any woman in the nation would die to catch a glimpse.  Even underneath all of the fabric, anyone can see his divinely sculpted physique.

“Your Grace,” You waste no time to dip your body deeply, praying that he will allow you to keep your head by sunset. “I apologize for the intrusion, I was under the pretense that Consort Himiko resided in your quarters–” Your voice loses itself in your throat when you see his shadow quickly encroaching.

“Himiko stays in her Pavilion,” He towers over you, eyes gazing down on you. “But one might suspect that you already knew that.”

Your eyes frantically meet his feet, desperate to salvage what was left of your dignity, “I assure you that I speak of the truth, Your Majesty.”

When he doesn’t respond, you slowly lift your head.

The flustered look on your face must have been amusing to him, as he makes his way closer to you, bending down to interrogate you further.

“Is that so?” He hums, enjoying every second of cornering you into his chambers. The back of your legs have met his bed, trapping you. You inhale sharply, trying to keep your breaths even, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing the effect he had on you.

He continues, “You’re awfully skittish for someone who was happily skipping around my territory in the arms of another man just earlier.” His predatory gaze seems to darken. 

“Kento?” When his name leaves your lips, the man in front of you grits his teeth. You turn your head to the side, deliberately avoiding him. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, but I don’t see how Kento and I’s relationship is any of your concern,” He does not take your actions well, his gaze searing into you.

“It certainly is when the woman in question is you,” Gojo’s voice loses its feral lilt, distress flashing across his face. There’s a newfound desperation in it that chips away at your resolve. His hand raises to your face so slowly, as if he did not want to startle you.

“This is wrong. I– I saw a couple of servants earlier making aphrodisiacs, perhaps you could have unknowingly consumed them.” You tell him, frantic eyes meeting him. It is not unusual for couples to use aphrodisiacs, you know that after under Yaga. The Emperor must have mistaken the laced dessert for his usual. 

He shakes his head, running a hand through his white hair.

“You are mistaken. This is solely your effect on me.” He promises. You could barely believe his words, stuck between feeling offended or shocked.

“How could you stand to be so cruel?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. There are no tears in your eyes this time.  “I am not a courtesan you can buy for the night,” You snap, pointing a harsh finger to his chest. 

“What do you mean?” He sounds breathless.

“Whatever do I mean?” You scoff, a dry laugh escaping your mouth. “For a year, all I have gotten is pity from the world, because you decided I was no longer entertaining. You could have at least banished me away yourself. Instead, you sent Suguru who couldn’t even look me in the eye! Don’t you know how humiliating that is?” With every word that left your lips, more venom seemed to drip. Anger was prickling you all over, taking control of the rational part of you.

Gojo seemed to be taken aback by your outburst. It was far too late to take anything back now. If you lose your head by nightfall, so be it.

You dig a deeper grave for yourself when you take advantage of his moment of weakness to flee. He’s quick to react, attempting to grip your wrist.

“Wait, [Name], beloved–” He uses that all too familiar term of endearment, but it doesn't deter you.

You accidentally bump into the circular wooden table placed in the middle of the room. What an awful place to keep it, watching in horror as the Consort’s medicine shatters on the floor. To add salt to the wound, a vase you recognize to be specially gifted to the Emperor from a foreign nation tips off too before you can catch it. The sound of porcelain shattering fills the room.

“[Name]! Are you alright?” You hear Gojo ask from behind you, but you run over the broken shards before he can catch you.

Had you bothered to pay closer attention, you would have noticed articles of your clothing and a couple of your missing belongings littered all over the room– creating a faux impression that you never really left the palace.

Days passed by after the incident, and luckily, your head was still attached to your body despite offending and nearly endangering the Emperor. Yaga’s disappointment when you had told him what happened was made evident when he sent you home early after hearing the events that transpired, insisting that he can handle the Consort on his own. Normally you would have argued, but you knew better than to inflict Yaga’s wrath.

“Now you’ve really done it,” Shoko whistles lowly, walking in from the front of Yaga’s shop. 

You hide your face in your hands, “I made an absolute fool of myself, didn’t I?”

“A fool? No. A conspirator against the Emperor? Perhaps.” She dangles a scroll with a familiar seal on it. The Gojo Clan’s familiar emblem reflects off of the sunlight spilling into the room. Your heart drops.

“Oh, they’ll have my head.” You moan, hands instinctively lifting to shield your neck.

“Though I’m quite impressed that Yaga only sent you back here. He used to have worse punishments.” She shudders before impatiently unraveling the scroll. You watch her eyes gradually widen as they read the contents of the letter. The scroll falls from her hand.

You rush to it, desperate to read your fate.

To [Last Name] [First Name],

Greetings and prosperity unto you.

By the mandate of the heavens and the authority vested in Us, We hereby extend Our solemn words to you, [Last Name] [First Name], servant of the realm, in acknowledgement of your debt to the Empire.

In response to your unmeritorious deeds, The Emperor bestows upon you His imperial pardon from capital punishment. In consideration of your obligations and the harmony of the realm, it is hereby decreed that you shall serve as an indentured servant to the Imperial Household for a period commensurate with your debt. During this time, you shall labor faithfully and diligently under the supervision of Our Heavenly Emperor, performing duties essential to the welfare of the Empire.

By fulfilling your obligations with diligence and humility, you may yet earn favor and esteem in Our sight.

The Imperial Court

A loud gasp escapes your mouth.

You feel your legs weaken, your emotions running wild. Shoko’s eyes meet yours, mirroring your frantic gaze. In that moment, you are met with the same suffocating sense of hopelessness.

extra!

gojo was kicking his feet happily as he watched suguru draft out his letter to you. suguru thought it rather cruel, while the white haired male was too busy purring happily as he fantasized about having you back into his grasp.

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[reidmarieprentiss]

Love in the Club

Summary: Derek tries to cheer Spencer up by finding him someone to keep him company.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: light smut (18+), it's mostly just flirting, alcohol consumption, being in a club, Derek Morgan's charm

Word count: 9.7k

a/n: trying to make love in this club fr spencer come find me

main masterlist

The club was alive with energy, pulsing with vibrant lights and the thumping bass that seemed to sync with the beat of every heart in the room. Derek Morgan leaned casually against a table, his sharp eyes scanning the dance floor, but his attention kept drifting back to his friend, Spencer Reid. Spencer stood beside him, a drink in hand, fidgeting slightly with the glass as he observed the crowd with a thoughtful expression. Spencer wasn’t awkward in the same way he used to be; he could hold a conversation with women just fine, but often, he couldn’t quite say the right things that led to another date. Derek knew that was weighing on his friend tonight.

After another failed dating attempt, Derek had dragged Spencer out to this club, determined to find him a rebound. It wasn’t just that Spencer rarely dated; Derek was beginning to suspect that his friend’s tension had something to do with not getting laid. Spencer never really talked about that aspect of his life, but Derek couldn’t help but wonder if that was part of the problem. The man was brilliant, sure, but even geniuses needed to unwind.

They had been at the club for nearly two hours, moving from table to bar and back, chatting idly about the cases they’d worked on and the people they’d met, but Derek was starting to feel a little hopeless. Spencer hadn’t shown any interest in anyone, not even a glance that suggested he might be considering approaching someone. If Derek pushed too hard, Spencer would just retreat, and the last thing he wanted was to make his friend feel pitied.

But then, as if the universe decided to throw Derek a bone, the door to the club swung open, and you walked in with your friends. Derek noticed you immediately, the way you carried yourself with an easy confidence, your laughter carrying over the music as you talked with your friends. You were stunning, and Derek didn’t miss the way heads turned as you passed. He watched as you made your way to the bar, completely unaware of the eyes on you, Spencer’s included.

A grin tugged at the corners of Derek’s lips. Oh yeah, you’ll do just fine, he thought, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. Spencer was still nursing his drink, lost in his own thoughts, when Derek gave him a nudge.

“Hey, Reid,” Derek said, his tone casual but with a hint of mischief. “Let’s go get a refill.”

Spencer glanced at his nearly empty glass, then at Derek, nodding in agreement. He didn’t think anything of it—just assumed Derek wanted a change of scenery, maybe to catch a better view of the dance floor. Little did he know that Derek had a plan in motion. The two of them moved to the bar, finding a spot right next to you and your group, though Spencer didn’t notice you at first.

As Derek ordered their drinks, he couldn’t help but sneak a glance your way, his mind already working on how to introduce you to Spencer. The timing was just right, the music dipped, and your laughter bubbled up again, catching Spencer’s attention. Derek saw the moment Spencer’s gaze shifted, landing on you. There was a flicker of interest in his eyes that Derek had been waiting for all night.

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitched in a satisfied smile as he leaned over to Spencer, speaking just loud enough for you to hear. “Go say hi,” Derek encouraged, his voice low and encouraging. “You never know what might happen.”

Spencer, caught off guard, looked at Derek, then followed his line of sight directly to you. His eyes widened slightly, a faint blush creeping up his neck, but Derek could tell he was intrigued. Spencer’s lips parted as if to speak, but Derek was already one step ahead, raising his glass in a silent toast before nodding toward you.

Spencer hesitated for only a moment, then straightened his shoulders, a determined glint in his eyes. Maybe tonight would be different after all.

—

As you're laughing with your friends, letting the music and vibrant energy of the club lift your spirits, your eyes scan the room, taking in the sights and sounds. It’s a typical night out—until you notice them.

Standing at the bar, two men catch your eye, and you can’t help but be intrigued. The first one, with a dark shirt that accentuates his muscular frame, locks eyes with you. His confident, almost smug smile sends a jolt of excitement through you. He nods in your direction, a gesture that feels both inviting and a little challenging. You feel your curiosity piqued, wondering what his story might be.

Then, your gaze shifts to the man beside him. He's quite the contrast—tall and lanky, with a mess of curls that look both effortless and charming. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and there's something almost endearingly shy about the way he glances around, seemingly unaware of how handsome he is. 

Without overthinking it, you flash them a smile, feeling a flutter of anticipation as you consider walking over. Tonight just got a whole lot more interesting.

—

Spencer noticed you smiling in their direction and concluded that you must be interested in Derek. After all, why wouldn’t you be? Derek is charming, bold, and magnetic in a way that Spencer has always admired. As these thoughts swirl around in Spencer’s head, he barely notices that Derek’s focus isn’t on the assumption Spencer has made. Derek is watching you closely, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. 

When Derek catches your eye, he gives you a confident nod and curls his finger, motioning for you to come closer. The gesture is smooth, almost effortless, and your curiosity piques even more. You glance back at your friends, who are already giggling and nudging you, urging you to go for it. With a final encouraging smile from your friends, you take a deep breath and stride towards the two men, the soft fabric of your black dress swaying with each step.

As you stopped a few feet away from the two men, you could see Derek's eyes light up, clearly relishing the situation. There was an air of confidence in his stance, a kind of smug satisfaction as if he knew exactly how things were going to play out. You took in both men with a quick, playful glance before letting your gaze rest on the one who had called you over.

"You called?" you said with a flirtatious tilt to your voice, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

"Yeah, mama, I did," Derek responded smoothly, his laughter rolling off his tongue. "Your hand looks a little empty. Do you need a drink to fill it?"

You gasped in mock surprise, widening your eyes. "You're so right! I do need a drink."

"Well, lucky for you, my friend here’s wallet is a bit too heavy," Derek chuckled, giving Spencer a friendly clap on the shoulder. The action jolted Spencer out of the daze he had been stuck in, lost in his own thoughts.

"What?" Spencer stammered, clearly taken off guard by the sudden attention.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his reaction. Turning your gaze to Spencer, you offered him a polite smile, saying, "I think your friend is trying to set you up, but don’t worry, you don’t have to buy me a drink. I’m a big girl."

With that, you started to turn away, not wanting to become a pawn in whatever game these two might be playing. But just as you took your first step, Spencer's voice, tinged with sudden urgency, called out.

"Wait!"

You paused, turning back to him with a curious raise of your eyebrow. "Yes?"

Spencer took a breath, gathering his nerves before saying, "I would like to buy you a drink, if you’ll let me."

"Not because your friend said so?" you asked, narrowing your eyes playfully.

"No," Spencer replied with a soft, genuine smile that made your heart flutter just a little. "His peer pressure stopped working on me years ago."

Derek scoffed at that, shaking his head with a smirk. "It’s not peer pressure, it’s called being a wingman."

You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips as you turned to Derek with a teasing tone. "Can I give you a friendly word of advice from a young stranger?"

"Uh oh," Derek said, raising an eyebrow but nodding with a grin. "Sure, sweetheart."

"If someone is interested in us, they should talk to us themselves, not have their friends do it for them," you said smugly, crossing your arms with a playful tilt to your head.

Derek huffed in a teasing manner, clearly amused by your boldness. "I get a lecture for trying to help a friend?"

"This is nowhere near a lecture, sweetheart," you retorted, throwing his pet name back at him with a wink.

Spencer, now more at ease, tried to suppress a laugh, clearly entertained by the exchange. He watched the scene unfold, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Derek raised his hands in surrender, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Feisty… she's all yours, Reid."

"Actually, he’s all mine," you corrected with a mischievous glint in your eye. "Go wingman for yourself."

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. "I like you."

"I'm warming up to you," you teased back, the banter flowing easily now. Your eyes flicked to your group of friends before landing on one of them. You pointed subtly. "You see that girl right there? Her name’s Jade."

Derek followed your gesture, his gaze landing on the friend you indicated. "Yeah?"

"She’s going to love you. Go get her, tiger," you said with a wink.

Derek's grin grew wider as he fist-bumped you, clearly impressed and slightly amazed by your confidence. "You’re something else, you know that?"

You laughed lightly, the sound warm and genuine. "I’ve been told."

As Derek made his way over to your friend, you turned your full attention back to Spencer. The atmosphere between you felt a bit more intimate now, the tension having shifted into something lighter, something promising. Spencer gave you a shy but genuine smile, one that hinted at the quiet confidence beneath his surface.

"So," you said, your voice softer now as you leaned in just slightly, "how about that drink?"

Spencer’s eyes lit up, and for the first time that night, he felt completely at ease. "I’d love to."

—

After getting your drinks, you glanced around the club, searching for a quieter spot away from the thumping bass and flashing lights of the dance floor. You spotted a cozy booth nestled in a corner, offering just enough privacy for conversation without being too far removed from the lively energy of the room. You led Spencer over, and he followed, still processing the fact that you were genuinely interested in spending time with him.

As you slid into the booth, Spencer expected you to take the seat across from him, but to his pleasant surprise, you scooted in right next to him. The proximity sent a thrill through him, but he quickly reminded himself to stay cool. You were close enough that he could smell the faint hint of your perfume—something sweet and subtle that matched the playful spark in your eyes.

You turned to him with a grin, breaking the silence. "Alright, handsome. First things first, what is your name, age, and social security number?"

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the sudden, playful interrogation. Then, before he could stop himself, he let out a genuine laugh, the sound ringing with surprise and amusement. "Spencer Reid, 27, and not a chance."

"Fair, fair," you giggled, pleased to have made him laugh so easily. "Well, Spencer Reid, I’m Y/N Johnson, 23, and I love sarcasm."

Spencer chuckled again, there was something about you—your easy confidence, the way you didn’t take things too seriously—that was incredibly refreshing. He found himself smiling more than he had in a while, feeling more relaxed than he usually did in these situations.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N," Spencer said, his voice warm and sincere. "I have to say, that’s one of the most efficient icebreakers I’ve encountered."

You shrugged with a playful grin. "Why waste time, right? Besides, you can learn a lot about someone based on their reaction to sarcasm."

"Oh, really?" Spencer’s tone was light, teasing. "And what did you learn about me?"

"Hmm…" You pretended to think for a moment, tapping your chin dramatically. "I learned that you’ve got a great laugh, and that you’re not easily intimidated. Both good signs."

Spencer felt a warmth spread through his chest at your words. "Well, I’ve learned that you’re quick on your feet and that you know how to keep a conversation interesting."

You gave him a small, appreciative nod, enjoying the back-and-forth banter. "I try my best."

Spencer smiled, but you could see the slight hesitation in his eyes as if he wasn’t quite sure where to take the conversation next. It was as if he was cautious about saying the wrong thing, unsure of the next step. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the edge of his glass, betraying the nervous energy he was trying to keep under wraps.

Sensing his uncertainty, you decided to take the reins, easing the pressure off him. With a playful lilt in your voice, you asked, "So, do you often have your friend hit on women for you?"

Spencer’s eyes widened in alarm, and he quickly shook his head, his curls bouncing with the motion. "No, no," he blurted out, clearly flustered. "Actually, that has never happened before. Derek—uh—he’s just… well, he’s always been a bit more confident than I am in these situations."

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his earnest response, finding his honesty endearing. There was something incredibly refreshing about how straightforward he was, even in his nervousness. The way he fidgeted slightly with the edge of his sleeve, his eyes occasionally darting up to meet yours before quickly looking away, only added to the charm of the moment.

“Well, I happen to think you’re doing just fine,” you said with a reassuring smile, hoping to ease some of the tension you sensed in him.

Spencer blushed, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink as he looked down at the table, clearly touched by your words. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost as if he was unsure whether he deserved the compliment.

You leaned in slightly, wanting to make sure he heard the sincerity in your next words. “And for future reference, even if you’re awkward, it’s always more appealing to hear right from the man himself.” You gave him a playful wink, trying to lighten the mood.

But Spencer seemed to catch on to the phrase “future reference” in a way you hadn’t intended. The way his eyes flickered with a hint of worry, the way his fingers tightened around his cup—he was clearly picking up on something more. It was as if he thought you were already planning on not seeing him again, and the idea unsettled him. 

“Noted,” he replied, his tone a touch more subdued than before, though he tried to mask it with a polite smile. But the way he said it, you could tell he didn’t like the sound of those words, like he feared this might be your first and last date.

You felt a pang of guilt, realizing how he might have misunderstood your comment. The last thing you wanted was for Spencer to think you were already planning an exit strategy. You leaned forward slightly, your voice softening as you tried to lighten the moment.

“I mean, how odd would it be if you sent that man to talk to me again?” you joked, raising an eyebrow playfully.

Spencer's lips curled into a genuine smile, a light chuckle escaping him as he snorted in amusement. “I don’t think that will be a problem,” he said, his eyes twinkling with humor. “It looks like he’s gotten quite cozy with your friend.”

Curious, you followed his gaze across the room to where Derek and Jade were on the dance floor. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, a smirk tugging at your lips as you watched the two of them swaying together, their bodies close and their movements almost synchronized. Jade was laughing at something Derek had whispered in her ear, clearly enjoying herself, while Derek’s hand rested comfortably on her waist, pulling her closer with each step.

“Well, would you look at that,” you murmured, a knowing smile spreading across your face as you turned back to Spencer. “Looks like they’re having a good time.”

“Apparently so,” Spencer agreed, the tension between the two of you easing as the conversation shifted. He seemed more relaxed now, his earlier nervousness fading into the background. The sight of his friend, normally so confident and assured, now completely absorbed in Jade’s company, seemed to have brought a sense of camaraderie to the moment.

You smiled warmly at Spencer, feeling the connection between you both grow stronger with each passing second. “I guess that means you’re stuck with me for the rest of the night.”

Spencer’s eyes met yours, his expression softening. “I think I’m okay with that.”

—

You and Spencer chatted for a bit longer, the conversation flowing easily between you as the evening wore on. You each had one more drink, the atmosphere growing even more relaxed as the warmth of the alcohol settled in. Across the room, Derek and Jade were still tearing it up on the dance floor, their energy seemingly endless as they moved to the beat, drawing attention from nearly everyone around them.

Spencer couldn’t help but smile as he watched them, a small, amused laugh escaping him when Derek dipped Jade dramatically, earning a playful squeal from her. You found yourself smiling too, feeling the infectious energy from their joy.

After a moment, you turned your attention back to Spencer, a curious thought crossing your mind. You leaned in closer, your eyes sparkling with playful curiosity. “Tell me, Spencer,” you began, your voice soft yet teasing.

He looked at you, mirroring your movement by leaning in as well. “Mhm?” he hummed in response, his gaze fixed on yours, clearly intrigued by whatever question you had in mind.

“Do you dance?” you asked, your tone carrying a hint of mischief.

Spencer’s eyebrows raised slightly, a small, almost sheepish smile playing on his lips as he considered your question. “What do you think?” he replied, his voice light but carrying a note of curiosity.

You tilted your head, pretending to scrutinize him for a moment before answering. “I think you’re secretly really good, but you don’t want anyone to know,” you said with a grin, your voice full of playful certainty.

Spencer blinked in surprise, a chuckle escaping him as he shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, you’re good,” he admitted, clearly impressed by your deduction. Then, with a teasing smile, he asked, “Are you sure you’re not a profiler?”

You blinked back at him, genuinely confused by the term. “A what?” you asked, furrowing your brow as you tried to make sense of it.

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly as he realized you didn’t catch the reference, having told you he worked for the FBI but not what he did. His nervousness kicked in, and before he could stop himself, he launched into a rambling explanation.

“Oh, uh, profiling, it’s what we do. We study criminal behavior, analyze patterns, and use psychological principles to create profiles of offenders, you know, to help catch them. It’s all about reading people, understanding their motivations, predicting their next moves based on subtle cues and details, even things they might not be consciously aware of. It’s kind of like… well, I guess it’s sort of like Sherlock Holmes in a way, but more rooted in psychology than deduction. Not that deduction isn’t involved, because it is, but it’s more about interpreting behaviors in a broader context, like understanding why someone would commit a crime rather than just how they did it. So, when I said ‘profiler,’ I meant that you’re good at reading people, like how we do when we’re on a case, but—”

He paused, realizing he had been speaking faster and faster, his words tumbling out in an anxious rush. He blinked a few times, his expression shifting to one of mild embarrassment as he realized he had been rambling.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “I tend to do that sometimes.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his explanation, finding his enthusiasm and the way he got lost in his own thoughts utterly endearing. As he tried to regain his composure, you leaned in slightly, your voice playful and teasing. “Do what? Share your super sexy brain with the world? If anything, you should be apologizing for not doing it sooner.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, his breath catching slightly as your words registered. He was clearly taken aback, not at all expecting you to say something like that. His cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, which was a rare occurrence for him. 

“Uh… I… I—” he stammered, trying to form a coherent response. His mind raced, searching for the right thing to say, but the unexpected compliment had him completely flustered. He wasn’t used to people describing his intelligence in such a, well, flattering way, and it was clear he didn’t know how to handle it.

You chuckled softly, enjoying his reaction. There was something incredibly endearing about seeing someone so brilliant and composed be thrown off balance by a simple compliment. “What?” you asked with a grin, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not used to people complimenting your brain?”

Spencer finally managed to regain some of his composure, though the blush still lingered on his cheeks. “Not quite like that,” he admitted, his voice a little shaky but filled with a shy kind of gratitude. “Most people don’t really… put it that way.”

“Well, I did,” you replied, your tone sincere but still light, though the playful glint in your eyes remained. “And I meant it. You’ve got a sexy mind, Spencer.”

Spencer’s blush deepened, and he stammered out a soft, “Th–thank you,” clearly still trying to process the unexpected praise. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the edge of his sleeve, betraying just how flustered he was.

You leaned in a little closer, your smile warm and kind as you decided to push him just a bit further. “I don’t want to fully break you,” you said, your voice dropping to a more teasing whisper, “but you do know that all”—you made a small gesture that encompassed his entire being—“of you is sexy. Yeah?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed completely speechless. It was as if your words had short-circuited his brain. He blinked rapidly, trying to grasp onto something, anything, that would allow him to form a coherent response. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, as if he was unsure what to say or how to respond to such a straightforward compliment.

“I… um…” he managed to get out, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart was racing, and he felt like the room had suddenly grown warmer. The way you looked at him, with such sincerity and a touch of playful confidence, left him feeling both incredibly flattered and slightly overwhelmed.

Seeing his reaction, you couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound gentle and affectionate. “You don’t have to say anything,” you assured him, giving his arm a light, reassuring squeeze. “Just… you know, let it sink in.”

Spencer nodded, still at a loss for words, but his expression softened, and a shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He felt a strange mix of emotions—embarrassment, gratitude, disbelief—but above all, he felt seen in a way he hadn’t experienced before. And that, more than anything, left him feeling something he wasn’t entirely accustomed to: confident.

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice steadying just a bit. “I’ll, um… I’ll try to remember that.”

“Good,” you replied with a wink, letting the moment settle between you both. The atmosphere between you shifted slightly, the air charged with playfulness and something a bit more electric. “So, sexy, care to dance? Prove me right?”

Spencer blinked, taken aback by the invitation. He managed a small smile, his nervousness evident as he replied, “I will absolutely prove you wrong, but if you want to dance, I will.”

You grinned at his response, appreciating his willingness to step outside his comfort zone, even if he was convinced he’d mess it up. “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s go, big boy,” you said with a playful nudge.

Spencer felt his heart race again, the term "big boy" throwing him for a loop. He had never been referred to as "big" in his life. Skinny, sure. Flagpole, string bean, pipe cleaner—all the nicknames he had endured growing up flashed through his mind. But "big"? That was new, and it made him feel something unfamiliar but oddly comforting.

As the two of you made your way to the dance floor, you caught Jade’s eye and sent her a wink, a silent message that you had things under control. She responded with a knowing grin, clearly approving of the way the evening was unfolding. Meanwhile, Derek gave Spencer a subtle nod and a smirk, a silent acknowledgment that his plan to nudge Spencer out of his shell was working. Spencer was slowly coming to realize that you were doing just that—breaking him out of his shell, piece by piece, and he wasn’t sure if he was more terrified or exhilarated by it.

Once you reached the floor, you turned to face Spencer, craning your neck to look up at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. He was so tall, and the way you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes made him feel a little self-conscious, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you looked like you were enjoying every second of it.

“You haven’t done this before, have you?” you asked, your tone gentle, not at all condescending. You just wanted to confirm what you already suspected.

Spencer shook his head, his lips curving into a shy smile. “No, never really had the opportunity,” he admitted, his voice a little quieter, almost as if he was embarrassed to confess it.

You nodded in understanding, your eyes softening as you reached out to bridge the gap between you both. “Can I touch you?” you asked, your voice calm and reassuring.

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise, his mind racing at the sudden question. “What?” he blurted out, his eyes practically bulging out of his head as he processed what you’d just said.

You bit back a laugh, realizing how your words might have come across. “Can I move your hands?” you rephrased, your tone gentle and patient.

Relief washed over Spencer, and he quickly nodded, eager to follow your lead. You carefully guided his hands to your hips, the warmth of your body seeping through the fabric of your dress as you placed them just where you wanted them. Then, with a soft smile, you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers brushing through the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, wanting to make sure he was comfortable.

Spencer swallowed hard, his pulse quickening at the proximity between you both. “Yeah,” he managed to say, though his voice wavered slightly. “But, uh, this isn’t… this isn’t really dancing.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his comment, your eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, I’m sorry, dance expert,” you teased, your tone light and playful. “Would you like me to turn around and put my ass on you? I figured you were more of a gentleman.”

Spencer’s face turned a deep shade of red, the color creeping all the way up to his ears as he realized what you were implying. The idea of you dancing like that—well, it was almost too much for him to handle. “N-no, that’s… I mean, I’m… I’m okay with this,” he stammered, his voice barely audible as he tried to keep his composure.

You smiled at his flustered response, clearly enjoying how easy it was to get under his skin. “Good,” you said softly, moving your hips slightly in time with the music, coaxing him to follow your lead. “Because I like this too.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding in his chest. This was new territory for him, but with you guiding him, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he could manage to survive the night without dying of embarrassment.

With the music providing a clear rhythm, something easy to follow, you began moving your hips under Spencer’s hands, encouraging him to feel the beat along with you. He was standing still, his posture tense as he tried to figure out what to do. His eyes darted around nervously, his uncertainty palpable. You could see the wheels turning in his mind, overthinking every little movement. It was both endearing and a little heartbreaking.

You smiled warmly, finding his awkwardness incredibly charming, and gently placed your hands on his waist, guiding his hips to sway in time with yours. “Just let loose,” you coaxed, your voice soft and reassuring as you tried to ease his anxiety. “Trust me, no one cares what you’re doing.”

Spencer’s gaze shifted briefly to where Derek was, his face scrunching slightly in concern. “Derek will,” he mumbled, his voice tinged with the worry of being judged by his friend.

You chuckled softly, understanding where he was coming from. Derek was known for his confidence, especially on the dance floor, and it made sense that Spencer would feel self-conscious in comparison. “Do you care what he thinks?” you asked, your tone gentle, wanting to reassure him.

“A little, yeah,” Spencer admitted, his honesty coming through in a way that made you want to protect him from those insecurities.

You thought for a moment, then an idea sparked, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “Okay… what do you say we give him a show then?”

Spencer blinked, his eyes widening slightly as he processed your suggestion. “Ok–okay,” he stammered, not entirely sure what you had in mind but trusting you nonetheless.

With that, you slid your hands back up around his neck, pulling his head closer to yours so that your foreheads were almost touching. Spencer’s breath hitched as he felt the intimacy of the moment, his senses overwhelmed by your proximity. Before he could fully grasp what was happening, you straddled one of his thighs, your movements fluid and confident as you began to grind your hips, dancing to the beat with a natural grace that Spencer could hardly believe.

To anyone watching, it was clear you were putting on a show, the kind that would definitely catch Derek’s attention. But for Spencer? His mind was reeling. The sensation of your body moving against his, the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers played with the curls at the base of his neck—it was all too much and yet not enough at the same time. He could barely think, his brain struggling to keep up with the flood of sensations.

His hands tightened slightly on your hips, his body instinctively following your lead as he began to move with you. The nervous tension in him started to melt away, replaced by awe and disbelief. The music, the lights, the feel of you so close—it was a heady combination, and Spencer found himself getting lost in it, the world around him fading as he focused solely on you.

And then, in a moment of pure instinct, Spencer leaned in just a bit closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “I think… I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

You smiled, feeling a thrill at the progress he was making, and whispered back, “I knew you would, sexy.” Spencer’s heart skipped a beat at the compliment, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a surge of confidence. 

All of a sudden, you heard a loud whoop behind you, followed by a familiar man’s voice calling out, “Yeah, Reid!” The unmistakable cheer belonged to Derek, his excitement evident as he celebrated Spencer’s unexpected moment in the spotlight.

Spencer chuckled softly in your ear, the warm sound sending a delicious shiver down your spine and making your pulse throb all over your body. The sensation was intoxicating, a blend of thrill and anticipation. “It’s working,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your skin in a way that made your heart race even faster.

“Mhm,” you breathed out, your voice catching slightly as the pleasure of your own movements began to consume you. The rhythm of the music, the feel of his body against yours—it was all too good. “Maybe… maybe we can step it up?” The words came out almost as a whisper, your breath hitching as you felt the heat between you both intensify.

Spencer’s lips were so close to your ear that you could feel his curiosity in the way his breath hitched. “How?” he asked, genuinely intrigued, his voice full of anticipation.

Without hesitating, you let your hand slide up into Spencer’s hair, your fingers tangling gently in his soft curls. You tugged him back slightly, creating just enough space between you so that you could look into his eyes. The sight of his flushed face and wide, curious eyes made your pulse quicken. Then, with a boldness fueled by the moment, you leaned in and planted a wet, lingering kiss on his plump lips.

Spencer froze for the briefest of moments, his mind catching up with what was happening. But it took only seconds before he responded, his body instinctively leaning into yours. One of his hands slid from your hip to cup your face, the touch gentle yet firm as he held you close, not wanting the kiss to end. His lips moved against yours with surprising tenderness, a mix of hesitancy and eagerness that made your heart flutter.

The world around you seemed to disappear as you melted into the kiss, the music, the lights, even Derek’s cheers fading into the background. It was just the two of you, connected in a way that was both thrilling and unexpected. Spencer, normally so reserved and cautious, was now fully engaged, his lips sliding against yours with increasing confidence.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, you could see the wonder in Spencer’s eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His hand still cradled your face, his thumb brushing your cheek gently as he tried to steady his breathing.

“That… that was…” Spencer started, his voice hushed, almost reverent.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, your lips curling into a satisfied smile. “It was.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, both caught in the lingering warmth of the kiss. Then, slowly, Spencer’s lips turned up into a shy, but undeniably pleased, smile. “I think we definitely gave them a show,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

“Can I say something… bold, Spencer?” you asked, your voice low and a little hesitant. You bit your lip, feeling your heart race as you waited for his response, wondering if you were about to cross a line or take things to a new level.

Spencer looked at you, his gaze curious and open, though there was a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “Okay,” he replied, his voice soft but steady, clearly bracing himself for whatever you were about to say.

You took a deep breath, leaning in just a little closer so that your lips were near his ear. “What I want to do now,” you began, your voice a sultry whisper, “really isn’t for public eyes.”

The words hung in the air between you, charged with anticipation. Spencer’s breath caught, his eyes widening slightly as he processed what you’d just said. The implications of your statement sent a thrill through him, and for a moment, he was rendered speechless, his mind racing to catch up.

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to formulate a response. “Oh,” he managed to say, his voice a little shaky but full of intrigued curiosity. His mind reeled with the possibilities, and he found himself struggling to maintain his composure. The thought of what you might want to do, something private, something just for the two of you, was both exhilarating and terrifying.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your expression playful yet sincere. “So,” you said, letting your hands slide down his chest slowly, “how about we get out of here?”

Spencer nodded, the decision coming more easily than he expected. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a little more confident this time. “Let’s go.”

—

“Y/N…” Spencer groaned, his voice strained as you pushed him against the door of his apartment, the sudden impact sending a shiver down his spine. His hands instinctively gripped your waist, trying to ground himself as the intensity of the moment took over.

You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, finding his responsiveness incredibly alluring. “You’re so vocal,” you teased, your breath hot against his neck as you pressed your body closer to his, relishing the way he seemed to melt under your touch.

Spencer’s cheeks flushed, embarrassment and desire flooding through him. “Is—is that okay?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly as he struggled to maintain control. He wasn’t used to letting go like this, to allowing himself to be so openly expressive, and part of him worried he might be too much, too intense.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your gaze filled with both reassurance and desire. “Okay?” you repeated, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “It’s so hot, Spencer.”

His breath hitched at your words, the approval and encouragement sending a rush of heat through his body. Before he could respond, you leaned in and bit down on his collarbone, the sharp sensation making him whine high in his throat, a sound that was as surprising to him as it was to you.

The noise was raw, unfiltered, and it sent a jolt of electricity through you. You felt him tense under your bite, his hands tightening on your waist as he gasped, the sound vibrating through his chest. It was clear that every nerve in his body was on high alert, and the way he reacted to your touch only fueled your own desire.

You soothed the bite with your tongue, your lips brushing against his skin as you whispered, “You have no idea how much that turns me on.”

Spencer’s breath shuddered, his mind spinning as he tried to process the pleasure and the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. He had never felt anything like this before—this combination of need, connection, and pure, unadulterated desire. And the fact that it was with you made it all the more intoxicating.

He let out another soft groan, his hands moving down to your ass as he pulled you closer, his lips searching for yours. When he found them, the kiss was deep, hungry, and filled with a newfound confidence. 

“Mmm, yeah, take what you want,” you mumbled against his lips, the words muffled by the intensity of the kiss. You could feel the desperation in Spencer’s touch, the way his hands gripped you tighter as if afraid you might slip away. His breath hitched, and he let out a pitiful moan that made your pulse race even faster.

“Oh god,” he moaned, the sound almost broken, as if he was struggling to keep himself together under the weight of his desire.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, searching for that flicker of certainty. “Do you know what you want, baby?” you asked softly, your voice a soothing contrast to the heat between you. “Have you done this before?”

Spencer nodded, his face flushed with arousal and nerves. “A few times,” he admitted, his voice trembling with the effort to stay composed.

But the moment you started to pull back, he panicked, his eyes widening in fear that he might have said something wrong. He shook his head rapidly, his grip on you tightening as if trying to keep you close. “No, please—” he started, his voice laced with anxiety.

“Calm down, Spencer,” you said gently, running your hands soothingly over his arms, trying to reassure him. “I’m not going anywhere.” Your words and the gentle touch seemed to help, and you could see some of the tension leave his shoulders.

He took a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment as if trying to gather his thoughts. When he opened them again, there was a raw honesty in his gaze that made your heart skip a beat. “I really want you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with so much need that it made your knees weak.

“How do you want me?” you asked, your lips brushing against his neck as you resumed your kisses, eager to hear him say it, to know what he needed.

“On top of me,” he breathed out, the words escaping like a prayer, as if it was all he could manage to articulate in that moment.

Your breath hitched at his admission, the boldness of it sending a thrill through you. “Fuck,” you whispered, the urgency in your voice matching the fire in your veins. “Bed, now.”

Without another word, Spencer grabbed your hand, leading you toward the bedroom. His normally methodical mind was lost in the haze of desire, and all he could think about was getting you into that bed, where he could have you the way he wanted. The way you both wanted.

Clothes were gone within the blink of an eye, a flurry of movement and heated touches that left you both bare and exposed to each other. Spencer barely had time to take in the sight of you, to truly appreciate the way your skin glowed in the dim light of the room, before the need between you both took over. Before he knew it, he was beneath you, and all thoughts of slowing down evaporated as the intensity of the moment consumed him.

“Oh!” Spencer groaned, the sound deep and raw as he felt the overwhelming sensation of you sinking down on him. The way you moved around him, the rhythm of your bodies perfectly in sync, made his head spin, and he couldn’t stop the desperate noises escaping his lips as he thrust up into you, his need for you undeniable.

“You poor thing, haven’t been touched in so long, huh?” you taunted affectionately, your voice a blend of tenderness and teasing as you watched Spencer’s reaction. His vulnerability was laid bare before you, and it only made the moment between you even more intense.

“Nuh uh,” Spencer managed to shake his head, his mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold on, to keep from losing control too soon. The pleasure was overwhelming, and every fiber of his being was focused on you, on this moment, on the sensation of finally being with someone who cared.

“Hey,” you whispered softly, your hand gently cupping his face, your thumb brushing across his cheek. “Look at me.”

Spencer forced his eyes open, blinking a few times before they locked onto yours. The instant his gaze met yours, he felt a swell of emotion in his chest, a deep, overwhelming sense of connection and affection that nearly took his breath away. But then, as his eyes traveled down your body, taking in the sight of you above him, that swell of emotion shifted—traveling lower, pooling in his stomach, the intensity of it making him realize just how close he was to the edge.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, his voice strained with both apology and desperation as he fought against the inevitable.

“Sorry? For what?” you asked, genuinely puzzled, your brows furrowing in concern as you tried to understand his sudden worry.

But before he could respond, before he could explain, Spencer couldn’t hold back any longer. The build-up had been too much, the combination of physical and emotional intensity pushing him past his limit. His entire body tensed beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening as he came, a choked gasp escaping his lips as the release hit him harder than he ever could have anticipated.

For a moment, he was lost in the sensation, his mind going blank as the pleasure washed over him in waves. And then, as the intensity began to ebb, Spencer’s eyes fluttered open again, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. 

“Oh my god… this is so humiliating,” Spencer mumbled, his voice muffled as he turned his head into the pillow, trying to hide the deep blush that spread across his cheeks. The embarrassment of finishing too soon, combined with the overwhelming emotions of the moment, made him feel exposed in a way he hadn’t expected.

But before he could fully retreat into his own self-consciousness, you began moving again, your hips rolling with a deliberate, confident rhythm. The sudden jolt of sensation made him gasp, his body arching slightly as the oversensitivity hit him like a shockwave. “Ahhhh,” he whined, the sound high and desperate as he gripped the sheets beneath him, barely able to process what was happening. “What are you doing?” 

“Finishing,” you replied with a smirk, your voice laced with both determination and playful confidence. You didn’t plan on stopping until you reached your peak, and you were more than happy to take Spencer along for the ride. The way he reacted to your touch, the combination of pleasure and overstimulation evident in his every breath, only spurred you on.

Spencer’s mind was a whirlwind of sensation and emotion. The intensity of your movements, the way you were so unapologetically taking control, left him dizzy and overwhelmed in the best possible way. It was almost too much, yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask you to stop. In fact, with every passing second, he found himself sinking deeper into the experience, surrendering completely to the pleasure you were giving him.

As he watched you above him, your expression one of focused desire, something clicked inside him. The way you took charge, the way you seemed to know exactly what you wanted and how to get it—it was exhilarating. In that moment, despite the oversensitivity, despite the embarrassment he felt earlier, Spencer realized something that sent a jolt of warmth through his chest: he might be in love.

The thought was sudden, almost startling, but it was undeniable. The connection between you both, the way you made him feel—safe, desired, understood—it was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. And as you moved closer to your own climax, Spencer found himself lost in you, his heart swelling with emotions he didn’t fully understand but knew were real.

When you finally reached your climax, the sound of your pleasure mixed with his soft, breathless moans, Spencer couldn’t help but watch you, completely captivated. The sight of you in that moment, powerful and radiant, made his heart race all over again, and he knew that whatever this was between you two, he wanted more of it. He wanted more of you.

—

Spencer fell asleep that night, more content than he could remember being in a long time, with you nestled comfortably in his arms. The warmth of your body pressed against his, the soft rhythm of your breathing, lulled him into the most peaceful sleep he’d had in years. It felt perfect, like a moment he wanted to stretch into forever.

But when Spencer woke up, the first thing he noticed was how the space beside him was empty, the warmth of your presence long gone. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the dim light filtering through the curtains. As his gaze drifted around the room, he found you sitting at the edge of the bed, your shoulders hunched inward, your body trembling ever so slightly. Spencer's heart clenched in his chest, worry immediately overtaking him. Were you crying?

“Hey, hey,” Spencer murmured, his voice soft and laced with concern as he reached out to rub a comforting hand across your back. “Are you okay?”

You turned to face him, and to Spencer’s surprise, instead of tear-streaked cheeks, he was met with a smile—a somewhat bewildered, almost amused smile. “Uh, yeah,” you replied, your voice a bit shaky but clearly not from sadness.

Spencer’s brow furrowed, confusion settling in. “What’s going on?” he asked gently, his hand still resting on your back, offering warmth and support.

You held up a small framed photo, one Spencer hadn’t noticed you holding before. The frame was simple, with a picture of the team gathered in David Rossi’s kitchen, all smiles and laughter, taken during one of those famous cooking lessons that always ended with full stomachs and happy memories. Spencer’s confusion only deepened as he noticed the way you were staring at the photo.

“Why do you have a picture with my dad?” you asked, your tone light, but the question itself was heavy, full of implications that Spencer couldn’t quite grasp yet.

Spencer blinked, absolutely baffled by your words. “Your…dad?” he repeated slowly, as if trying to make sure he heard you correctly.

You nodded, your eyes flickering between Spencer and the photo. “Yeah, David Rossi. How do you know him?”

For a moment, Spencer was at a complete loss for words. He took the frame from your hands, staring down at the familiar image of the team—his family—and suddenly, the reality of your words hit him like a ton of bricks. David Rossi…your father? 

Spencer swallowed, his mind racing as he tried to reconcile this new information with everything he knew about you and Rossi. “David Rossi is your father?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, still trying to wrap his head around the idea.

You nodded again, your smile a little wider now, though still tinged with the same disbelief that Spencer was feeling. “Yeah, he is,” you confirmed softly, almost as if you were still trying to process it yourself. “How do you know him?”

Spencer’s thoughts raced as he tried to find the right words to explain, his mind buzzing with a thousand questions of his own. But for now, he knew there was only one thing he could say. “He’s…he’s my friend. My colleague. We work together at the BAU.”

Your eyes widened at that, clearly not expecting that answer. “The BAU?” you echoed, your voice tinged with surprise. “As in, the Behavioral Analysis Unit?”

Spencer nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yeah…that’s where I work. With Rossi.”

You both sat there in silence for a moment, the weight of the revelation hanging heavy in the air. Spencer could see the gears turning in your mind, just as they were in his. There were so many things to unpack, so many questions left unanswered, but right now, all he could focus on was the fact that somehow, against all odds, your paths had crossed in a way neither of you could have ever predicted.

“Oh!” you suddenly exclaimed, hopping in place as if the realization had struck you like a bolt of lightning.

Spencer, startled by your outburst, nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? What is it?” he asked, his eyes wide with alarm.

“That’s why your job sounded so familiar last night!” you continued, excitement bubbling in your voice. “You didn’t say you worked for the BAU, though. And, well, I was more focused on your lips, honestly. That’s so funny!”

Spencer felt his cheeks heat up at your words, his mind replaying the events of last night. But just as quickly, the color drained from his face as another, more terrifying thought took hold. “Oh god,” he muttered, a cold dread settling in his stomach.

“Now what?” you asked, your brows furrowing in concern at the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“I slept with Rossi’s daughter,” Spencer whispered, his voice laced with horror as if he were confessing a crime.

“Oh…” you replied, the weight of his words sinking in. “Yeah, yeah, you did.”

“He’s going to kill me,” Spencer said, his voice rising with panic. He could already imagine Rossi’s stern gaze, the questioning, the inevitable lecture, and then…death. There was no way he was getting out of this alive.

“More than likely, yes,” you agreed with a playful grin, clearly enjoying the moment a bit more than Spencer was.

“How do we stop that from happening?” Spencer asked, his mind racing for a solution, any solution, that didn’t involve Rossi burying him six feet under.

You tilted your head thoughtfully before offering a lighthearted suggestion. “Uh, you could take me on a date?” you proposed, a twinkle in your eye. “Then I can tell him all about the charming man I met at the…library!”

Spencer blinked at you, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. “The library?” he echoed, half in disbelief, half in awe of your quick thinking.

“Yes, the library,” you repeated with a playful nod. “Where all respectable, intelligent people meet. I’m sure he’ll approve.”

Spencer couldn’t help but crack a smile, despite the lingering fear gnawing at him. “You think that’ll work?”

You shrugged, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “It’s worth a shot. Besides, it’s better than the alternative, right?”

Spencer let out a nervous laugh, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right. A date sounds…much better.”

“Great!” you said, your smile widening as you leaned in a little closer. “So, Spencer Reid, how about that date?”

Spencer’s heart fluttered at the way you looked at him, the tension from moments before slowly easing. “I’d love to take you on a date,” he replied, his voice softening as he met your gaze.

“Good,” you said with a satisfied grin. “Because I’d love to go on one.”

As the two of you exchanged smiles, the reality of the situation seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the prospect of something new, something exciting. And while the thought of facing Rossi still loomed in the back of Spencer’s mind, for now, he was content to focus on you—the charming, intelligent woman who had just turned his world upside down in the most unexpected way.

—

“Y/N, darling, what are you doing here?” Rossi’s voice carried a note of surprise as he spotted you walking into the bar where the team was gathered for one of their usual outings. His brow arched in curiosity, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You approached the group with a calm but determined expression, though your heart was pounding in your chest. You glanced at Spencer for a moment, offering him a small, reassuring smile before turning back to your father. “Well, Dad… I actually wanted to tell you something,” you began, taking a steadying breath. “I thought it might be a good time to let you know that Spencer and I have started seeing each other.”

“What?” The collective exclamation from the team echoed through the bar, their voices a mix of surprise and intrigue. All eyes were suddenly on you and Spencer, the weight of their attention palpable.

Rossi, however, didn’t seem nearly as shocked as the others. In fact, a knowing smile slowly spread across his face, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he had already pieced together the puzzle before you even spoke. “I see,” he said with a calm, measured tone, the smile never leaving his face. “How did you two meet?”

Before either of you could think of a more elaborate lie, you and Spencer both blurted out at the same time, “At the library.”

The synchronized response was so sudden and so in sync that it left no room for doubt—except perhaps about how rehearsed it sounded. Derek, who had been quietly observing from the side (and who knew the truth), couldn’t hold back his reaction. A loud snort escaped him, followed by a burst of laughter as he leaned back in his seat, clearly amused by the entire situation.

“Yeah, sure you did,” Derek managed between laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Spencer’s face flushed with embarrassment, but he held his ground, offering a weak nod. “It’s true!” he insisted, though the faint crack in his voice didn’t help his case.

You quickly jumped in, trying to salvage the situation. “Yeah, it’s true! We both… um… love reading, so it just made sense that we’d meet there.”

Rossi’s smile widened, and he nodded slowly, clearly not buying a word of it but also not pressing further—for now. “Well, I’m glad to hear you two have found something in common,” he said smoothly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To young love and… libraries.”

The rest of the team, while still processing the news, followed suit, lifting their glasses in a chorus of chuckles and murmured congratulations. Spencer let out a breath he was holding, relieved that, at least for now, Rossi wasn’t planning his demise.

As you clinked glasses with Spencer, you couldn’t help but lean in and whisper with a playful smirk, “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

Spencer smiled back, though his eyes still held a hint of nervousness. “I just hope he never asks which library.”

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand under the table. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, Doctor Reid.”

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[lavandulawrites]

Hello! I found your writings about yan!Dottore & I am a brand new fan!! You are such an awesome writer 😁

Since requests are open, I was wondering if you could write some headcanons/drabbles about how the Genshin men (including Dottore my fave) would react if their darling, who was pregnant with their child, tried to run away? Saying "I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!"

Yandere Genshin Men With a Pregnant Runaway Darling

Yandere Ayato, Dottore, Lyney, Neuvillette, Wriothesley x female reader (separate)

Thank you!<3 I only wrote for five of them, but I’m thinking of writing for more of them in some other parts:)

Masterlist

Warnings: imprisonment, manipulation

Word count: 2819

Ayato

You ran and ran as fast as your feet could carry you. You needed to get to safety. Both for yourself and for your unborn child. Your bare feet were drumming over the wooden floors.

The Kamisato estate was like maze. The long hallways seemed never ending.

When you finally reached the door that led out to one of the gardens, you were filled with relief. You slid the door open and was welcomed by the heavenly sea breeze. Your joy, was however short lived.

Standing in the garden admiring the purple sunset was Ayato. He turned around and smiled gently. He motioned for you to join him and before you knew it, your feet had brought you by his side.

“The sky is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” his eyes turned upward towards the endless sky.

You followed his gaze. The sky was in fact extremely beautiful. The purple colour the same shade as Ayato’s eyes.

The man besides you was cunning and as cruel as a snake, but he was undoubtedly the most beautiful man you had ever laid your eyes on. His dark lashes fluttered as his gaze shifted to you. He remained silent for a while, just taking in the sight of you. He often did just that and it made you nervous, since you could never be completely sure as to what exactly ran through his brilliant mind.

“I’m glad you fell for my little trap. If you hadn’t, I would have to enjoy this sunset all alone. Sunsets are best enjoyed by the side of someone you love, wouldn’t you agree?” his melodic voice coiled around your mind. Enveloping you in a sense of serenity.

You quickly snapped out of it. “I want to leave” your voice low, but your words clear as day.

Ayato hummed at your words “Why is that?”

“Because I’m more like a prisoner than your wife” you snapped.

“A prisoner? What gave you that idea?” he raised a brow.

“Don’t play stupid Ayato” you sneered. “You’re not letting me leave no matter what. Doesn’t that sound awfully a lot like a prison to you?”

“I’m protecting you and at the same time I’m keeping what’s mine far away from prying eyes. I’m doing you a favour” his smirk completely gone and replaced by a cold glare.

“I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” you screamed, not caring about who could hear you.

“Don’t think I’ll ever let you leave me. When you said yes to my proposal, you sealed your faith. It’s not my fault you were unable to think about what the future involved” he smirked at your scared expression. “Don’t cry, I mean you no harm. That much should be obvious.”

Dottore

The dining room was decorated in an attempt at making it cozy. The grand chandelier that hung over the dining table casted a warm light over the table, almost making it homely. The plate in front of you was barely touched. You were hungry, but you didn’t have the time to finish your meal.

You glanced up at the butler who was standing by the door. His eyes was glued to a spot on the far wall and his posture was rigid.

Your cleaned your mouth with the napkin before your rose from your seat. “I’m finished with my meal. Please tell Dottore when he returns to come to my chambers” you told the maid as she silently cleaned up the dishes.

She bowed “Yes madam.”

Your heels clicked against the polished wooden floors. You had to quickly change into different shows and more practical clothing.

You quickly opened the bedroom door and hurried to your huge closet that was the size of a small room. You changed into some thick trousers and warm boots with white fox fur.

You quickly pulled in your coat and a scarf. You opened the large windows and you peered down. You pulled on your hood and your mittens before you ventured down the ladder you had found in an abandoned closet in a part of the house that was rarely ever used.

The ladder creaked underneath your weight and you prayed that it would mange to hold you. Both of you.

You landed into the soft snow and you quickly ran down towards the gates.

The tall wrought iron gates were impossible to climb, especially if one was pregnant, but you had luckily borrowed the key from one of the butlers.

You twisted the key and the gates opens with a load groan. You could smell your freedom.

You locked the gate behind you before you walked down the hill that the house stood tall and proud on top.

The snow glittered in the moonlight and green-purple aurora danced over your head. The sight was so beautiful you almost wept.

As you wandered down the hill you got completely lost in the beauty of the winter landscape. You knew it was foolish, but you hadn’t been outside in so long.

The sound of hoofs snapped you out of your daydreaming. As you raised your gaze you were met with the sight of your husband’s beloved steel grey stallion. The stallion snorted hot air towards you. It looked like a beast at it stood tall in the moonlight.

On top of the proud animal was Dottore. His gaze sharp and would cause anyone who was on the receiving end of it to tremble. You were no different.

“What are you doing out here in the cold?” his voice colder than the cold winter wind that ruffled your hair.

At your silence he only sighed. “You are truly a lost cause. Are you seriously going to cause your unborn child harm in order to escape? You are even more foolish than what I thought” he scoffed as he made the horse circle you.

You spun around in order to keep an eye on his movements. “What makes you think I want to stay with you? Your arrogance disgusts me!” you sneered. “I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” your voice echoed through the treetops that surrounded the hill.

“Watch your tongue” he spat.

Your escape attempt had been a complete failure.

Dottore had reprimanded you for hours when you had been brought back inside.

You fiddled with your hands in your lap, not wanting to meet his eyes.

“If I ever catch you trying to escape ever again, there’s going to be dire consequences. You’re not going to accidentally harm my child. Our child. Do I make myself clear?” his tone stern.

Your eyes fixated on his neatly polished shoes. You nodded and muttered a low “yes”.

He gripped your jaw and forced your head up. “If you disobey me I will have to chain you to the bed and I really want to avoid that. So be a good girl.”

Lyney

The purple cat-like eyes of the magician was narrowed in anger and hurt. He had just caught you as you had sneaked out of the house with bag packed with your clothes and necessities.

The living room was empty except from the two of you. His younger brother and sister were out on business.

The record player in the corner by the fireplace was playing the soft tune of a ballet he had taken you to when you first started dating.

Lyney was sitting in front of you on a red arm chair. He was resting his head on his arms. His gaze faced down as he thought on what to say to you.

The only thing that separated the two of you was the coffee table. Normally you would have taken you your time to clean it, but not today. Multiple cards were littered across it accompanied with some face flowers. The mess was surprisingly beautiful.

“I don’t understand how you could do something like that to me” his voice low. “I had it all sorted out. I have talked to Father and she has nothing against your pregnancy and our relationship. In fact she supports it. She knows how important family is after all.”

“But you had to try and ruin it. I really don’t understand” his violet eyes met yours. They were filled with more emotions than what you could possibly make out.

“Lynette and Freminet even said they can take care of the baby if the two of us have plans or need some time for ourselves. Yes, Freminet is still a teenager, but he’s still fit to look after a child. He often take care of the younger children in The House. And Lynette has always had a soft spot for baby’s” his voice was getting louder.

“You don’t get it do you, Lyney?”

“Get what exactly?” his eyes scanned your features for something.

“You’re a cruel man. You have locked my away just because you think it’s for the best. You haven’t even bothered to even ask me what I want!” your voice was getting louder and louder by each word that left your lips. “I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” you stood up form the couch. Your finger pointed at him. “You disgust me.”

His mouth fell open in disbelief. Crystal tears welled up in his eyes and he furiously tried to blink them away. “What?” his voice was weak by hurt. “I’m trying to protect you! Why don’t you understand?” tears were now falling from his eyes as he had fallen to his knees in front of you.

It was a pity full sight, but he couldn’t care less. “Family is what matter the most to me! And you! You are a part of my family now and so is our unborn child!”

You tried to step back, but his hand was tightly gripping your thigh.

A broken laughter escaped from his lips and a rose to his feet slowly. His eyes crazed as they met yours. “You’re clearly unfit for making your own decisions, but worry not. I will help you. And together we’re going to raise the sweetest little child one could ever dream of.”

His unhinged voice and manner sent chives down your spine and you could feel the imaginary cage that wrapped itself around you. You were trapped between the claws of the beast-like cat, with no escape.

Neuvillette

The entire nation of Fontaine were searching for you. You would be lying if you said you were surprised. The judge could be awfully convincing when he wanted to.

Since your escape it had been raining non stop. Heavy rain poured down from the sky undisturbed. The rocks on the forgotten path you had chosen were slippery, and you had to be careful.

In the distance, from the town you had a pasted hours prior, you could hear the loud voices of the search party they had organised. Hounds barked as they made their way up the mountain. You quickly picked up your pace.

After an hour or so walking through the rain you finally found a small abandoned cottage. You were filled with relief when you noticed that the door was unlocked.

It smelled of mould and you felt bad for your unborn, but you had no other choice. The windows were dirty, but intact. You slumped down on the old couch. Your body was aching and you were so tired.

You did not know how much time had passed when you awoke to the sound of a fist pounding the creaky old front door. You rose to your feet with such fast motion that you knocked your elbow against the wooden armrest of the couch. You hissed in pain and clutched it as you made your way to the hallway.

You hid behind the door to the bathroom as you peered out the window by the door. You couldn’t see anyone.

The pounding continued and you were afraid whoever it was would break down the door if this continued.

“Who is it?” you meekly asked.

The pounding came to an halt and a gruff voice answered you. “I am from the neighbouring village. We are looking for the Iudex’s wife.”

You were about to answer when the door broke down. A tall and sturdy man with a bear that reached below his collarbones entered. “I apologise miss, but I need to search the cotta-” his voice trailed off when his eyes fell upon you. His eyes widened to a state you were afraid they would roll out. He backed away slightly and shouted over his shoulder “I found her!”

You were about to silence him but it was too late.

The man who found you brought you out to the little courtyard. Your eyes widened in fear when a pair of pale lavender eyes stared back at you.

“Wha-what are you doing here?” your voice was shaky with fear. You tried to back away from the tall dragon, but the search party blocked your path of escape.

“How could I not personally participate in the search of my own wife?” Neuvillette’s voice soft. He turned to the villagers “Please give us some space.”

The villagers nodded and quickly left.

As you stood all alone with your capture on the overgrown courtyard you couldn’t help, but think about all the choices you had made that had lead you to this.

“Why did you leave our home?” his deep voice had normally brought you comfort, but now it only brought you fear.

“Why? Any sane person would escape a madman such as yourself. You have taken everything from me and you still ask for more” you spoke with sudden braveness.

“I am not taking anything from you. You’re clearly not completely aware at the moment. But worry not, I’ll take care of everything. Just like I always have” his lips twisted up into a gentle smile.

“Oh really? I don’t believe you. I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you! Why don’t you understand?!” you were suddenly in front of him. Your finger jammed against his broad chest.

“Your words hold little meaning, my love. It’s my child too, do not forget. I have every right to be apart of its life just as you do. And besides in a matter of time you will have forgotten your… conflicted feelings” his big hand gently wrapped itself around your much smaller one. “I will make you happy. Just you wait” he gently kissed the top of your head. His kiss similar to the gavel he used to seal the fate of the poor souls in the Opera Epiclese.

Wriothesley

The Fortress of Meropide never got any more welcoming, no matter how much time you had been there.

You had tried to climb the stairs up to the surface, but Wriothesley had been quick to drag you back down again.

He had been eerily silent as he led you to his private quarters.

“This is your fourth escape attempt this two weeks. Are you not getting tired?” he sighed. He was leaning against the kitchen table, his arms folded over his muscular chest.

“I understand the Fortress is not the best place to raise a kid, but I have bought a house close to the entrance on the surface. I have made the arrangements so that we can rotate where we both stay. I will of course always stay with you in the house. I know it’s not optimal, but it’s the best I can do.”

“It’s not enough” you muttered.

“We will have to make it work.”

“Why? I didn’t ask to be sent here. I don’t care about you and the Iudex agreement. I didn’t agree to any of this” you raised your voice.

“There’s many thing in life that I haven’t asked for. You will manage” Wriothesley’s voice was laced with uncharacteristic anger.

“I will not! I refuse to raise my child with a monster like you!” your loud voice echoed inside the kitchen.

At your words something in Wriothesley snapped. “A monster you say?” he barked out a laughter. “I have been nothing but kind to you. But if you think that makes me a monster, I wonder what you’ll think of me now” his eyes colder than his vision.

Wriothesley dragged you inside your bedroom. “You’re not going to leave this room before I say you can. I will use the spare bedroom” he pointed to the bathroom. “If you’re thirsty between meals, you know where to find water.” With that he slammed the door closed. The sound of his key twisting sent a pang through your chest.

Escape had never seemed so far out of reach as it was now. You found yourself longing for the outside and the smell of the wildflowers that littered the green meadows of Fontaine. Maybe the house Wriothesley had promised you on the surface didn’t sound so bad after all.

[reiderwriter]

🧺 Any More 🧺

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Requested: spencer realizing that he’ll never love someone as much as he loves you. (whether that be because of a case or what have you), his mind is absolutely blown with how much he worships you and how much you love and care for him and he shows you that with the softest most sickeningly sweet sex you and him has ever done. <3

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI! Discussions of case details, case burnout, very close friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), vanilla sex (p in v penetration). Discussions of mental health, and two idiots in love.

A/N: I'm hitting the prompt Vanilla for this one, so please don't be scared off by the KinkBingo tags! I had a lot of fun writing this one (and adding Pride and Prejudice quotes into the smut scene because HELLO). Let me know what you think in the replies~♡

Masterlist || Bingo Board

You hadn't seen Spencer in 100 days. Which in the grand scheme of things wasn't that long, trapped in the purgatory of a ‘what if’ the way you had been for the last eight years. 

You'd lived without him for longer than 100 days before. He'd been in prison, you'd been on assignments, you'd lived an entire life before meeting him, but now somehow 100 days was too much time, and you were exhausted. You understood why Spencer had to take some time away from you, from the team in an official capacity after everything he'd been through. You supported him even. 

But when even your free time didn't overlap anymore, you wondered if your relationship would ever be the same again. 

Spencer was a friend, your best friend, probably. You'd arrived on the BAU team, he'd rattled off some statistics, stammering the way through them, and you'd immediately warmed to the man. He was brilliant, funny, and fiercely loyal, and you tried your best to protect him even when the job seemed designed to break people like him into thousands of little pieces. 

You'd tried to convince him to leave before, after Maeve had died. You didn't want to see him heart broken again, but no one else had seemed to agree. 

“Reid needs purpose,” they'd said. “Reid needs something to do.” 

What Reid needed was to not end up dead before he had a chance to be happy, and happiness didn't come often in your field of work. 

You'd been almost vindicated a year later when he'd been shot again, almost fatally. Vindicated, maybe but distraught and inconsolable. Morgan had to carry you screaming and clawing out of his hospital room multiple times. It sounded stupid enough to yourself that it was only then you realized your feelings for the man. 

You wanted to be Spencer Reid's happiness, which was why you were so lost without him. 

He was coming back on Monday, and at least you had the weekend to sort your feelings out about everything.not just about him, but about the job you'd found didn't fit you well enough anymore, about the team you loved like family, about the relationship you knew would likely never come to fruition. 

You dumped your bags at your door when you'd arrived in your house that night, pushed yourself into your bedroom and let yourself collapse on your bed, balling up into as cozy a position as you could. You didn't even bother taking your jacket off, you just let your brain haze over and sleep rush in. 

Three quiet raps at your door lifted you up and out of bed again, not an hour later. 

You grabbed your phone, grabbed the second go-bag you kept at your house, put your shoes back on, and opened the door, expecting Emily and a new case. 

“Where are we going?” You said, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, not even looking up at your guest. 

“Hopefully, nowhere? I brought takeout.” 

Your eyes widened then, taking in all 185cm of Doctor Spencer Reid, tweed jacket and plastic bag full of chow mein included. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, like a sigh of relief, letting the bag drop to the floor next to the first one and letting yourself into his arms. 

He held you carefully there for a second before leading you back into the apartment, wrapping an arm around you and ruffling your hair. It was brotherly, and it made you sick to your stomach. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Emily said you were back from a case,” he started, unpacking the takeaway from the containers. “And it feels wrong to eat this without you.” 

You rolled your eyes and followed him into the kitchen, pulling two forks out of the drawer nearer you and stabbing them in the top of your two cups. 

“Hey, I can use chopsticks now,” he said, defending himself against an inside joke. Spencer was always useless with his hands. 

“I don't care if you can use them, I care that they don't accidentally end up stabbing me,” you said, taking yourself back to your bedroom, Spencer following. 

“You'd hardly die from being stabbed by a wooden chopstick, maybe a papercut or a splinter but-” 

“But you're just bad enough that I don't want to risk it.” 

You kicked off your shoes again and climbed onto your bed. Spencer followed. 

“Remind me again why we aren't sitting on your couch?” 

“Uncomfortable.” 

“Or at your breakfast bar?” 

“Glorified filing cabinet right now. Eat.” 

He shook his head but complied, leaning back against your pillows as you both began carefully eating. Silently, you pulled your laptop onto your bed, opened it up, and pressed play on a movie, one you'd seen more than once, and you'd forced Spencer to watch before as well. 

In a comfortable, friendly silence, you finished your food. You stretched out in a yawn once and then curled into his side, letting his mumbling voice, repeating the movie lines as they were spoken, lull you softly into sleep. 

Spencer knew he had to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to wake you. The movie had finished hours ago, he'd closed the laptop and turned off the bug lights, but he couldn't leave. 

Unlike you, he hadn't counted the days that you'd been apart. He hadn't needed to. He knew you'd be waiting there for him when he returned, knew you'd give him a smile and a pat on the back, and immediately start bouncing ideas off of him. It was what he loved about you. 

As he laid next to you in your bed, a place he'd absolutely been before, his heart thumped. Just once, but hard. 

Even in sleep, you looked exhausted. Your shirt was crumpled, hair a mess, you were still wearing makeup, and he knew he'd probably get an earful for letting you sleep like that in the morning. You were a mess, and he still wanted you. 

The thought came to him suddenly, another painful thump of his chest echoing in his mind. He rubbed absent mindedly at his chest as if experiencing heartburn. In the dim light of the room, he let his head drop to the pillow and wrapped two shaky arms around you and pulled you in closer. 

The two of you were a picture - both in suits, both with badges still somewhere on your person, both dearly clinging to the person they feared losing the most. 

When you woke the next morning, it was actually the afternoon. 

“Spencer,” you groaned, melting under the heat of his embrace. Somehow, during the night, he'd rolled on top of you, pressing you into the bed with a delightful pressure, head nuzzled into your neck, arms tucked around your waist. 

“Spencer, we should get up,” you said again, forcing your eyelids apart as your mascara tried to glue them together. 

“Mmmmhh,” he groaned, moving to pick himself up off you for a minute but lowering himself again. If asked, he'd blame your hand in his hair, stroking the rogue curls gently, as if he were a prized pet and you their carer. 

“Spencer, its 2pm.” 

“On a Saturday.” You laughed at how pouty his voice sounded, but he complied and rolled off of you slightly, arms still wrapped around you. 

“Come on. Get up. I've got some clothes that might fit you, let's get you out of the tweed.” 

He huffed but nodded and lifted himself halfway to upright, eyes still closed lazily as he let in the light millimetre by millimetre. 

“God, my face feels horrible,” you said, itching at your nose. “How did we even sleep so long like this? My belt is still on, Spencer, my belt.” 

“If you were still wearing a weapon, then I'd be worried,” he smiled. 

You shot him a sarcastic look and finally detangled yourself, only to clasp his hands and pull him forward as well, letting him trail you to your closet. 

“Here, change in the bathroom,” he nodded and walked away, following directions with eyes still closed, as if it were really his apartment and not your own. 

100 days without him, and it was as if it had only been 100 hours. Your entire body chemistry changed when he was around, the stick holding your spine rigidly in place, dissolving into calm, into a smile and a free giggle. It felt right again, and you almost forgot you'd ever felt wrong. 

After briefly changing, you swapped place with Spencer, who'd exited the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and wet hair. 

“Dry it for me?” He asked, sitting on your couch, and you nodded your ascent. A shower and a quick change later, and you were doing just that. 

As much as he tried to keep his head upright, it kept lolling onto your thigh, yawns stretching out of him as he nuzzled closer to you. 

“Spencer, you're like a big kid, keep your head up.” 

“I'm not a kid,” he laughed, hooking his arms behind your knees and nuzzling closer into your soft sweats. “I'm just tired.” 

“You're right. A child would probably be better behaved.” 

“Our child would be,” he sighed, but you'd already turned the hairdryer back on, drowning out everything. Everything but that thump again. A child, he was thinking about children, and more importantly, he was thinking about your children. With him. 

He'd always imagined himself with a family, knowing it would ultimately stay in his imagination. But for a second, his visions changed. It wasn't just a child or two. It was you. Thump. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

He only released the image when you finally pushed his head off of you and stood, turning away from him to get a glass of water from your kitchen. 

“So, any plans today? Books to read, papers to mark, undergrads to run away screaming from?” You let the ice water cool your hot cheeks, but kept your back to him. You were hot, embarrassed, and you were looking at him in a sickeningly sweet way that could only be described as love struck or struck dumb. 

“No, no, I finished all my obligations at the college yesterday,” he said, following behind you and picking up your cup when you set it down, taking a sip himself. 

“I was… I was actually hoping we could spend some time together? Unless you had plans, which is totally fine-” 

“No, Spencer, yeah, I have no plans, that's…. Well I have to do laundry, which is a bit boring but, no. No plans.” 

“Laundry?” 

“Two week case in Florida, I don't know how you didn't smell me yesterday, Spencer. I'd be running for the hills.” 

He laughed and stepped away again, grabbing the two go bags by the door and coming back into your space. 

“How about we get this done now so we can spend the day in a Who-Trek marathon?” 

“Make that a Who-Greys Anatomy Marathon, and you have yourself a deal.” 

He pouted again, and you snorted at the sight, taking another sip of water to calm yourself before you could react safely to that face. 

“Come on, you know you've been dying to know what happens next at the Grey Sloane Memorial Hospital.” 

“I thought it was called the Seattle Grace Mercy?” 

“Oh we better get to that laundry now. You have a lot to catch up on.” 

Grabbing a bag in one hand and his free hand in your other, you made your way down to your building's laundry room. But despite the man by your side and the relaxing day threatening to stretch ahead of you, a gloom caught you in the corridors. 

You'd worked for two weeks, practically solid. You'd killed a man two days ago, or at least someone on your team had multiple shots having been fired. Another day on your job, another unsub felled, and everyone else was content with this just being a part of the job description. 

It felt like each step towards the laundry room, each thing you did that was normal, that was regular, threw back in your face the pain you endured to save lives. 

The bag in your hand weighed you down, pulling you lower and lower by the second. 

You reached the laundry room, and you found the weight almost unbearable, stopping just before you could step in. You didn't have to think about what came next though, because suddenly the bag was out of your hands and Spencer was sorting your laundry for you. 

“It's a Saturday, so your neighbour's won't complain if we separate the darks and lights into two machines, will they?” He asked, not looking up at you as he worked pouring out the fabric softener and the detergent. “Y/N?” 

You hadn't noticed the lightness in your body until the tears hit your cheeks, the weight gone with his support. 

“Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?” He said, hands cupping your face, because of course he was immediately at your side. 

“I-I can't do it, Spencer…” your voice shook, pitching upwards, your vision blurring with tears. 

“Can't do what, Y/N? Talk to me please, let me help?” 

“I can't do laundry!” You said, finally bursting into a full fit of tears and burying your head in his waiting chest. 

“L-Laundry?” He said, trying not to laugh, but the smile slipping out anyway now you were holding him. 

You only sobbed again, nodding into his shirt, aware you were probably leaving snot all over it but not being able to care. It was your shirt anyway. You would just have to add it back to your laundry pile. 

The thought set you off on another wave of sobs, and Spencer set about comforting you again. Keeping an arm wrapped around you, he put his quarters into the machines and set them off before quickly ushering you back up the stairs into your apartment. 

“Y/N? Y/N, please talk to me,” he begged, smoothing your hair out of your eyes as you tried to gather yourself.

“I don't…. I can't….” You took a breath again, aware of the way your breathing hitched in your chest as you did. 

“I don't think I can do this anymore,” you said, and his eyes widened quickly. 

“This? Y/N, if you mean this as in us, then I can't-” 

“This job,” you clarified, hands digging into the soft flesh of his arms further as he held you, finally sitting back on your couch. 

“The job. Okay, the job. That's okay. We all feel like this at some point.” 

You sniffed again and refused to meet his eyes. 

“But this isn't like the other times this - It's like my whole b-body is protesting, and I can't sleep, and if I don't, then I might get sloppy and an unsub could-” 

“Y/N, focus on my voice. You're spiralling. Listen to my voice, let's take some breaths, and think about this for a second.” 

He guided you through some breathing, a hand on your back tapping out beats even as his voice grew quiet. 

When you finally relaxed, you were sat on top of him, his hand rubbing circles into your back. 

“I think it started when you left,” you whispered. “When you went to Mexico, and then, you know,” you've voice thickened, and you couldn't get the words out. 

“And then these last 100 days they've just been…difficult.” 

“100…difficult,” he echoed, almost breathless as he listened to you. 

“It's like I can't do it without you. I never had to try to do it without you, and now I get what people say when they say this job is shitty, because it is when your best friend isn't there.” 

You gave him a weak smile and wiped away your tears, trying to climb from his lap. But his firm arms held you still, and you didn't really want out anyways. 

“When I get home, everything is different, and I can't make myself do anything. If you weren't here, I wouldn't have done that laundry. I'd let it sit and avoid it for weeks. Do you understand?” 

“Y/N, lots of people feel depressed sometimes-” 

“It's not - Spencer, I don't think this is something I can medicate my way out of. I don't know what to do because I can't do my job without you, and I can't be happy doing my job, and if I leave my job I'll be without you and then-” 

Your voice cracked again. 

“And then I still won't be happy.” The words were barely a whisper, but they were a plea, too. You weren't sure what for. 

“You can't be happy without me?” He asked, but it was more a statement than anything else. Spencer felt horrible in that moment as his chest rattled, gleeful that he was your happiness. 

“I love you,” he said, outloud finally after eight years. 

“I love you, too, Spencer, but-” 

“No, Y/N. Listen to me. I. Love. You.” The thumping of his heart set the tempo for the choir that was his senses to begin singing, as he finally leaned forward and kissed you.

“I love you, and I don't care if you're working at the BAU or if you're avoiding laundry at home. I, god, you're amazing and wonderful, and you're a human being, and you've our yourself under so much pressure for the last decade to keep me alive, to keep all of us alive really and….” 

He took another breath, leaning into kiss you one more time. 

“And you deserve a break.” 

“W-When we take breaks, people die.” 

“Did anyone die when I was teaching for the last three months? When JJ went on maternity leave?” 

You shook your head, but your brain was still a mess. 

“You all had reasons, I-” 

“You have reasons, too. Y/N…. Y/N, let me be your reason.” 

For a moment or two, Spencer truly thought you were going to say no. He thought you would get up and walk away, or better yet, ask him to leave and never come back. 

So when you pressed your lips to his, he was sure that this was a dream. 

But to you, it was salvation. Spencer Reid's love was the lifeline you'd been thrown, and it was buoyant enough to make you start floating. 

His hands kneaded the flesh at your hips as he pulled you closer still to him, his tongue slipping into your mouth to explore every part of you there. 

“Y/N… love…you,” he mumbled with each spare breath he caught, and you only detangled your lips to hear him say it again as he pressed similarly heated kisses against every inch of your exposed skin. 

When Spencer's mind lost its ability to create original speech, he leant back on a lifetime of information, of learning love through books and people and marathons with you. 

“I know that all I know right now is that I love you. And I know that I always will,” he whispered, lifting you and carrying you back to the bed you'd only crawled from an hour hence. 

A hand slid under your shirt, and slowly pushed it over your head, letting it slowly drop to the floor as he held you tenderly. 

“To me, you are perfect.”

His mouth found one nipple, and he gently kissed, then suckled at it, hands softly caressing your stomach, feeling along every ridge of you as you writhed under him. 

“Of all the FBI Units, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” 

“Spencer,” you said, voice still thick with tears, but these ones more tender, more joyful. 

His hand eased your sweats over your ass and off, his hips settling between your legs as if he found the place he was made to lie forever. 

“The truth of it is, I’ve loved you from the first second I met you.” 

His mouth trailed lower until his tongue hit your clit, brushing against it languidly, as if it was his deepest desire to taste you and nothing else ever again.

His tongue flattened and flicked and pushed inside of you as you replayed his words again and again and again. You found yourself repeating them with him. 

“I love you,” you echoed as he pushed a finger inside of you. 

“I.. love you,” you gasped as he added another. 

“I love you,” you screamed as your back arched up off the bed, finding your pleasure in his tongue, just ad you'd found love in his words. 

“You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love….” He freed his cock from his pants, and took it in hand.

“I love…” With another kiss, he pressed the tip of it against you, asking for permission silently as you nodded your head. 

“I love you.” He pushed in slowly, but it wouldn't matter how he did it because now you knew how he felt, and you didn't want to return to a time of not knowing. 

Hooking your legs around him, Spencer dropped his forehead to yours and looked you directly in the eyes as he began moving. In and out, he thrust, mouth open in a moan of pleasure, likely mirroring your own.

The poetry, the movie lines, they were gone now, and Spencer was left with nothing but you, and love, and love for you. 

“Spencer,” you moaned out, and he felt his chest swell. Pride. His name on your tongue, his body pressed to yours, claiming you as his ad you claimed him as yours. 

He came with a shudder and you were not far behind, his undoing sending a shiver up your spine as his fingers grazed your clit again. 

You sat panting for a minute, still attached, still forehead to forehead. 

You weren't sure if it was him who giggled first or if it was you, but you were glad it was one of you. 

You spent the rest of the night, the rest of the weekend, wrapped in his warmth, dressed in his love, taking each day a step at a time as you basked in his adoration.

[chansaw]

i read donald sutherland’s letter to gary ross pleading for the role of president snow and was so struck by his eloquence, wit, and humor. i’m posting it in full below. what a loss </3

Dear Gary Ross:

Power. That's what this is about? Yes? Power and the forces that are manipulated by the powerful men and bureaucracies trying to maintain control and possession of that power?

Power perpetrates war and oppression to maintain itself until it finally topples over with the bureaucratic weight of itself and sinks into the pages of history (except in Texas), leaving lessons that need to be learned unlearned.

Power corrupts, and, in many cases, absolute power makes you really horny. Clinton, Chirac, Mao, Mitterrand.

Not so, I think, with Coriolanus Snow. His obsession, his passion, is his rose garden. There's a rose named Sterling Silver that's lilac in colour with the most extraordinarily powerful fragrance — incredibly beautiful — I loved it in the seventies when it first appeared. They've made a lot of offshoots of it since then.

I didn't want to write to you until I'd read the trilogy and now I have so: roses are of great importance. And Coriolanus's eyes. And his smile. Those three elements are vibrant and vital in Snow. Everything else is, by and large, perfectly still and ruthlessly contained. What delight she [Katniss] gives him. He knows her so perfectly. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him. He sees and understands everything. He was, quite probably, a brilliant man who's succumbed to the siren song of power.

How will you dramatize the interior narrative running in Katniss's head that describes and consistently updates her relationship with the President who is ubiquitous in her mind? With omniscient calm he knows her perfectly. She knows he does and she knows that he will go to any necessary end to maintain his power because she knows that he believes that she's a real threat to his fragile hold on his control of that power. She's more dangerous than Joan of Arc.

Her interior dialogue/monologue defines Snow. It's that old theatrical turnip: you can't 'play' a king, you need everybody else on stage saying to each other, and therefore to the audience, stuff like "There goes the King, isn't he a piece of work, how evil, how lovely, how benevolent, how cruel, how brilliant he is!" The idea of him, the definition of him, the audience's perception of him, is primarily instilled by the observations of others and once that idea is set, the audience's view of the character is pretty much unyielding. And in Snow's case, that definition, of course, comes from Katniss.

Evil looks like our understanding of the history of the men we're looking at. It's not what we see: it's what we've been led to believe. Simple as that. Look at the face of Ted Bundy before you knew what he did and after you knew.

Snow doesn't look evil to the people in Panem's Capitol. Bundy didn't look evil to those girls. My wife and I were driving through Colorado when he escaped from jail there. The car radio's warning was constant. 'Don't pick up any young men. The escapee looks like the nicest young man imaginable'. Snow's evil shows up in the form of the complacently confident threat that's ever-present in his eyes. His resolute stillness. Have you seen a film I did years ago? 'The Eye of the Needle'. That fellow had some of what I'm looking for.

The woman who lived up the street from us in Brentwood came over to ask my wife a question when my wife was dropping the kids off at school. This woman and her husband had seen that movie the night before and what she wanted to know was how my wife could live with anyone who could play such an evil man. It made for an amusing dinner or two but part of my wife's still wondering.

I'd love to speak with you whenever you have a chance so I can be on the same page with you.

They all end up the same way. Welcome to Florida, have a nice day!

sourced from this article

[applepiewinchesters]

Doomed (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

Summary: The arrival of two new mutants at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters brings some excitement to an otherwise normal day, particularly for you, Scott Summers’ sister. When you meet Logan and his cocky attitude, you soon realize you may be crushing on the new guy.

Word Count: 2,988

Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters was never one to turn away a lost mutant, even if they weren’t what was considered a “youngster”.

There were excited whispers all over the school about the two mutants who had been brought to the mansion late last night. One of them, Rogue, was already becoming acclimated, attending classes. You’d had the pleasure of meeting her when she joined your English class.

The other, a man, was still unconscious in Jean’s lab, having taken a nasty beating shortly before being rescued. You had tried to sneak down there during the students’ lunch break but your brother, Scott, had stopped you.

“We don’t know if this guy is dangerous,” Scott had sighed, dragging you away from the lower level entrance.

You pulled your arm from his grasp, “Scott, I’m a grown woman, and we’re the same age, I can take care of myself.”

Scott rolled his eyes which were hidden behind his sunglasses, “I don’t care I don’t want you getting hurt!”.

“Oh but Jean can be by herself?,” you argued,” She’d let me be down there with her!”.

“I’m not Jean, so get over it,” Scott said but turning and heading down the long hallway.

You’d flipped him off while his back was turned before stalking back to your classroom and waiting for the break to be over. All the while your mind on the mysterious man downstairs. You hadn’t even got to catch a glimpse of him when he and Rogue had arrived. He was whisked away for aid and you were tasked with making Rogue comfortable.

Charles felt you would be able to make the younger girl feel safe, she’d seemed a bit shaken up but it was nothing a hot drink couldn’t fix. You answered any questions she had while sitting at the kitchen table. Charles ended up being right in the end, he always was.

It was a bit later in the afternoon when you saw Scott run past your classroom door. You were grading a couple essays and your eyebrows knit together as you quickly stood, heading to the doorway.

You poked your head out the doorway, calling to your brother at the end of the hall, “What happened!?.”

“The other mutant, he woke up and attacked Jean, he’s somewhere in the mansion! Stay there!” Scott called back.

Nodding you walked back into the room, wondering if you should just stay there or risk running into the man.

It seemed fate decided for you when a man with dark hair dressed in black pants and what you recognized as gray zip up hoodie from the school slipped inside your classroom. You couldn’t help but notice the chest hair peeking out from the top of the jacket. He was barefoot and his hazel eyes darted around the room, quickly landing on you.

You couldn’t help but back up slightly at the intensity of his gaze, he looked confused and totally pissed at the same time.

Deciding to press your luck a little further you lifted your hands in mock surrender, “Slow your roll bucko, there’s kids here, don’t get crazy,” you reasoned.

“Where am I?” the man asked, ignoring your attempt at being somewhat humorous, probably partly deserved.

“Westchester, New York,” came a calm voice from behind the man, making him turn.

Charles was there, looking expectantly at the intruder. “More specially, a school, my school, I see you’ve met one of my brilliant teachers,” Charles explained.

You cracked a smile at the compliment, putting your hands down, “Flattery will get you nowhere, you know that.”

“I can always try,” Charles commented.

“What the fuck is going on?” the man asked, his voice was rough, almost a growl as he interrupted your conversation.

“Logan, please, calm down, come with me,” Charles spoke. Without another word he turned in his wheelchair, leaving the room and heading in the direction of his office.

The man, Logan, as Charles had called him, turned to you, almost for what seemed like clarification.

You only shrugged, motioning for him to leave the room as well. When he eventually did you followed, excited to finally be in on the big secret that’s been sleeping all day.

Arriving in Charles’ office you plopped down into one of the chairs in front of the large desk after shutting the wooden doors behind the three of you.

“Would you like some food?” Charles asked Logan, who stood close to the door, eyeing the room warily.

“Why am I here?” Logan asked, answering with a question of his own.

“You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention,” Charles explained.

“I don’t need medical attention,” Logan replied.

“Of course not,” you found yourself saying, looking up at Logan.

He glared slightly at you before smirking, “What’s your name sweetheart?” he asked, his chest puffed out a little, hands behind his back, he was cocky to say the least.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” you teased, but stood from your seat regardless. “I’m Y/N, Y/N Summers.”

You held out your hand to shake and he took it, his hand was large and warm, his grip a little tight. “Logan,” he told you, “but you’re welcome to call me anything you like.”

“How about dickhead?”.

Introductions were interrupted by Scott throwing open the office doors, almost immediately taking a protective stance by your side.

“Logan this is Scott Summers, also called Cyclops,” Charles spoke, you watched as your brother gave Logan a rather firm handshake.

“Any relation?” Logan asked you, motioning to Scott.

“Twins, unfortunately,” you answered, throwing an arm around your brother to let him know were, of course, just kidding.

Logan looked almost shocked, “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

“And why is that?” Scott challenged, attempting to take a step forward but you gripped the back of his jacket.

“Well she’s…,” Logan trailed off, glancing over to you and giving you a quick wink, “and you’re, well, the sunglasses don’t do you much justice bub let’s just say that,” Logan smirked.

“Watch your f-,” Scott started but was thankfully interrupted by Ororo striding in.

You caught yourself smiling at Logan’s remark, and felt your face heat up slightly when you noticed Logan was staring at you.

Charles ignored the previous interaction, moving on with introductions,“This is Ororo Munroe, also called Storm, Ororo this is Logan.”

The two shook hands without any issue, Scott stayed planted by your side, always the overprotective sibling you never wanted.

“Where’s the girl?” Logan asked once he and Ororo shook hands.

“She’s here, she’s fine,” you spoke up, flashing Logan a reassuring smile, his gaze lingered on you a second more than it should have.

“We brought you here to keep you safe from Magneto,” Charles explained.

“What’s a magneto?” Logan asked.

“A very powerful mutant, who believes a war is brewing,” Charles answered, “I’ve been following his activities for quite some time. The man who attacked you is an associate of his called Sabertooth.”

“Sabertooth?” Logan asked, practically rolling his eyes, “She’s Storm. He’s Cyclops. What do they call you? Wheels?”.

His question was directed at Charles and you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, quickly clamping a hand over your mouth.

Charles let it slide as Logan made his way towards the door, “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said.

Scott moved to block Logan’s way.

“You wanna get out of my way?” Logan asked, stepping closer to Scott who didn’t budge.

“Logan, it’s been almost fifteen years, hasn’t it?” Charles interrupted, making Logan turn away from your brother. “Living from day to day, moving from place to place, with no memory of who or what you are.”

“Shut up!” Logan growled, fingers curling into fists.

“Give me a chance,” Charles tried again, “I may be able to help you find some answers.”

Without another word Charles wheeled out of the room.

“Where’s he going?” Logan asked, looking to you.

You only smiled and motioned for him to follow, and after a moment he did, reluctantly.

That left you, Ororo, and Scott alone in the office. Scott stepped towards you and away from the door.

“What was that?” he seethed.

“What was what?” you replied, “I can’t be nice to a man who’s obviously had a pretty shit roll of the dice recently?”.

“Not that one,” Scott argued.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest, “Oh like we were perfect when we first got here, remember when you shot that huge hole in the roof?”.

“He’s not a kid, Y/N! He attacked Jean when he woke up, I already said I don’t want anything happening to you!” Scott told you.

Ororo was quick to leave the room during your little argument, she hated yours and Scott’s sibling spats, and today was not a day she wanted to be in the middle of one.

“Charles trusts him so I do too,” you replied.

Scott groaned, throwing his hands up, “Fine, whatever.”

You sighed, placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder, “I know you care, okay? And I love that you do but I’ll be fine, got it?”.

Scott only nodded, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you from the office. The two of you met Jean in the hallway, who looked fine despite her surprise attack.

“Met our new mutant?” she asked you, taking Scott’s hand.

You smiled and nodded, “He’s…funny.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Scott mumbled. Jean placed a kiss on his cheek, making him perk up a bit.

“Your sister can take care of herself Scott,” Jean teased, pulling him away from you.

You heard Scott begin to argue as Jean directed him down the hall, she threw a quick wink over her shoulder at you before they disappeared around the corner. Jean always had your back and you loved her for it.

Heading the opposite way of your brother and Jean, you made your way towards the gardens where most of the kids were playing.

There was a basketball court, lots of places to run as well as sit and just enjoy the day. It really was beautiful. You’d arrived there some while ago and even since you’ve been at the school it’s expanded. Charles wasted no expense making sure everyone felt at home.

When you made it outside you saw Charles and Logan talking, when the older man noticed you he waved you over. You obliged, crossing the grass, making sure to be wary of a few kids playing tag.

“Need me?” you asked when you reached the two men.

“Would you please show Logan to his room?” Charles asked you.

You nodded, “Of course! Come on.”

Logan followed you without a fight, maybe his talk with Charles helped. Once inside you climbed the stairs to the second floor which held student’s and teacher’s dorms.

Walking past a few doors you stopped in front of the one you knew to be empty, grabbing the door knob and pushing it open.

“This is where you’ll be staying, there is a bathroom so you won’t need to go looking for one,” you spoke, entering the room, Logan following behind you.

“Umm, food is served downstairs but you’re always welcome to eat up here, if there’s any food you like specifically we can buy it,” you found yourself rambling a bit, “I’m sensing you’re a steak on the raw side kind of guy.”

This made Logan chuckle, “What makes you say that?”.

You shrugged, “Your…vibe? And those dog tags around your neck say Wolverine.”

Logan looked down, seeming to notice the dog tags then, he quickly put them inside the jacket.

“So do you have some kind of…dog mutation?” you asked, almost cringing at your words.

This didn’t seem to faze him though, he only laughed again, he seemed less tense than before, even stepping a bit closer to you.

“No, I’m not a dog, I…,” Logan trailed off, and you jumped a bit when three sharp, long blades extended from his left fist.

“I get it now,” you said when you found your voice again, watching the claws retreat back into Logan’s knuckles. “Jean is probably going to make you come back down to the lab, figure out exactly why you have…well, that.”

Logan nodded, “So, do you have a silly code name too or is it just Y/N?”. He quirked up an eyebrow at you, making you smile a bit.

“Roulette,” you answered.

“Oh?” Logan asked, seeming to be intrigued.

“I can switch people’s mutations at will, I could make Scott have your claws and you have his laser eyes, but it’s temporary, so far the longest I’ve been able to make it last is a few hours and that’s been with years of training,” you explained, “It’s tricky, but, ya know, I’m stuck with it.”

“That’s…that’s really amazing,” Logan told you truthfully, making you blush.

“It’s nothing really, sometimes it does more harm than good,” you said, brushing off the compliment.

“Don’t we all?” Logan asked you, making you meet his gaze again.

He was closer to you now, your chests almost touching. You were interrupted by a quick knock on the door frame.

Scott.

“Jean wants him downstairs again,” Scott said, leaning against the door, no doubt glaring at Logan behind his glasses. “I’ll take you.”

Logan rolled his eyes, “Whatever you say bub.”

You glared at your brother before turning back to Logan, “I’ll see you later, and I’m two doors down, if you ever need anything.”

Giving Logan another smile you turned, leaving the room, bumping your shoulder against Scott’s, mumbling a “Be nice,” to him before heading to your own room.

Logan turned to Scott then, cocking his head, “You gonna tell me to stay away from your sister?”.

Scott stood up straight, folding his hands behind his back, “I shouldn’t have to.”

“I think she can make her own decisions,” Logan argued, stalking towards the other man. “Seems like a smart girl.”

“She is,” Scott replied, turning away from Logan to begin their decent down to the lower levels, “that’s why I trust that she’ll see you for what you really are soon enough.”

“Oh and what’s that?” Logan asked, beginning to follow Scott down the hall.

“Another asshole that will break her heart in a week,” Scott said, turning around to face Logan.

“Then you must not be that smart,” Logan smirked, “maybe take some pointers from your sister.”

A loud crack out in the hall made you stick your head out of your bedroom, and you saw Scott and Logan. Scott was cradling his fist, a string of curses leaving his mouth. Logan turned to look at you, shrugging and sending you a wink.

You rolled your eyes. Men.

“Come on you two,” you sighed, heading towards them. “Jean can wrap up your hand while he gets scanned.”

“Scanned?” Logan asked as you steered your still cursing twin towards the stairs.

“It’s an MRI really, nothing to worry about,” you reassured. Logan seemed a bit hesitant but nodded and followed.

Scott kept quiet the whole way after his cursing ended, his pride more hurt than his hand. When you reached the lab you pushed your brother towards his girlfriend.

“White Knight over here needs a bandage,” you joked, and Logan snorted a bit.

Jean sighed and nodded, “Take off your shirt and lay over there,” she directed Logan towards the large machine in the corner while Scott sat on another table.

You grabbed a first aid kit and handed it to Jean while Logan unzipped his jacket, tossing it onto a work station along with his dog tags.

He was, to put it lightly, ripped. You could already tell even with the jacket on, but seeing him with it off was enough to make you stare.

When he eventually caught you, you looked away, letting him climb up on the table while you directed your attention back to Scott and Jean.

Jean was wrapping his hand in gauze, “A sprain,” she mouthed to you over Scott’s shoulder and you nodding, smiling.

Turning back to Logan you walked to the edge of the table, he looked up at you and smirked.

“See something you like?” he asked, making you laugh and shake your head.

“I think that’s enough with the flirting for today lover boy,” you said, patting his arm. “I’ve gotta go help with dinner.”

Logan seemed a bit disappointed but nodded as you turned away from him.

“See you both later,” you told Jean and Scott as you made your way towards the door.

Jean nodded and Scott kept his head down, confirming his ego was more bruised than anything.

When you were out of sight of the three of them you took a minute to lean against the cold metal walls of the lower level, taking a deep breath.

Logan was going to be the death of you, you could already see that, but whether in a good or bad way you couldn’t quite tell yet.

After a second you pushed off the wall and headed back upstairs, joining Ororo and a few older students in the kitchen to help prepare dinner.

You stood beside Ororo, cutting vegetables, your mind wandering to Logan, him lying on that table…

Ororo nudged you just in time to keep you from slicing your finger open.

“Sorry,” you said, face heating up.

“Distracted?” she asked, giving you a knowing look.

“No!” you answered too quickly.

Ororo patted your shoulder as she moved to the other side of you to grab a knife, “Whatever you say kid.”

The rest of the night was spent trying to convince everyone, including yourself, that you were not crushing on the new guy.

But when you were headed to bed that night and Logan stopped you in the hall outside his room to thank you for the help and wish you goodnight, you knew you were doomed.

[ashthemadwriter-archived]

TW: Irrational jealousy

"Here. You left this at my apartment"

Stealing your gaze from the book, you look at your boyfriend who's holding a wine red lacy bra in his hands, stretching it toward you. Unlike his usual attitude, GOJO doesn't look much lively at the moment. In fact, he looks somewhat... meticulous, like he's operating a very dangerous experience and is about to witness the outcome of his efforts.

Having your eyebrows knotted together, you wordlessly take the bra in your hands, the base of your fingers gently but painfully rubbing against the soft fabric. Gojo tries his best not to let his smirk break out when you give him a quizzical look and squeeze the lingerie in your hands.

"This isn't mine"

There it is. Victory. The awaitened result of his brilliant plan to give you a taste of your medicine.

Gojo cups his mouth while expanding his fingers to give you a better look of his fake gasp through the gap between them, humming abruptly. He carefully takes a second look at the bra, then begins to mutter in a not so low voice.

"Ah— well, this is awkward" He looks at your bewildered expression from the corner of his eye and continues. "I didn't want you to find out. Not this way"

The logic behind this clever act was easy to understand. You chose to spend your day offs with your stupid, lame old friend from college instead of your incredible, handsome, mind blowingly gorgeous boyfriend, and this is your punishment. Your reasoning was too dumb and made up. Huh, how could you even look him in the eye and say you're doing this because he's just gotten back from Austria and needs you to show him around town and introduce him to your colleagues? You should've just shoved a dagger in his aching heart and told him that you dont love him anymore. So yes, you deserve this; and as they all say, revenge is a dish best served cold.

"But you see, I'm not the only one to blame in this. You are too. You were the one who left me in the dark hanging to go on a romantic getaway with that good for nothing punk"

"Satoru—"

"Let me finish. I know that it was just for three days and you did nothing but work together, but I'm a man y/n! A proud, strong grown man who has his own needs"

"Satoru—"

"I'm not an animal y/n, but how do you expect me to close my eyes and pretend like nothing's wrong? Because it is, and since I'm also an honest man, I couldn't bare with the feeling of getting abandoned by my own woman. You and I were supposed to rule the world, but you never wanted what we were—"

"Satoru!!"

Gojo grits his teeth and looks at you with slight irritation, wondering what's so important that has to interrupt his dramatic show; but his liveliness and acting power vanishes in a glance when his eyes land on the part of the bra you're pointing at while holding it up.

"There's a price tag on this"

Oh.

The small, round label is linked to the inside of the bra, which is probably why Gojo had forgotten to remove it. Yes, it was totally that; not because he was too focused on his dialogues that he forgot to even check the bra out.

Gojo stares at your jumped up eyebrows and annoyed expression, flashing you one of his most charming smiles; Only this time he can't make it as shameless as it usually is.

"Eh, I guess this shows how much I actually love you and care about you"

"You bought this two sizes bigger than mine you asshole"

"My bad, I kinda got carried away"

[nikkisheep]

To Be Alone With You

Anthony Bridgerton x female!Sharma!reader

Warnings: Smut, TENSION, cursing, oral (f), reader is Kate's full sister, kissing, touching when not supposed to, Anthony and his voice (warning himself), virgin reader (innocent ofc), sex on a dock (lol), kinda public sex, slight angst

I am so sorry that it got so long but it is so worth it. This is also my first Bridgerton fic so hope its good. :)

Summary: It was time that Anthony Bridgerton to finally meet the final Sharma sister who may stand in his way of marrying Miss Edwina Sharma but not like he expected her to.

Anthony Bridgerton was a man who was used to having any woman melt and cling to his every word. Women practically threw themselves at his feet the moment he walked in the room. His presence was a strong one, making everyone eager to please the viscount.

When Viscount Bridgerton met Edwina Sharma, the newly named "Diamond of the Season", he was happy that he could find at least one woman with half a brain. Miss Edwina was the suitable bride and soon Viscountess. It was almost too easy, so he thought. That was until he met the elder sister of Miss Edwina. Kate Sharma, a woman of one and twenty who was unwed herself, was a challenge that Anthony could not refuse. He fell into a pursuit to win over the eldest Sharma sister, doing everything by the book. Well, with a few exceptions.

The Viscount did not want a love match. He could never fall in love with the woman who will bear his children. He just couldn't. And Miss Edwina Sharma was exactly the woman who he could not possibly love but, she would make a wonderful bride for him to breed and come to have a heir to fill the Viscount role when Anthony died.

A last, his mother, Viscountess Violet Bridgerton, had invited the Sharma family to visit the lovely Aubrey Halls. It would be Mrs. Mary Sharma, the lovely girls' mother, Miss Edwina Sharma and then Miss Kate Sharma. Anthony was ready to deal with Kate when she arrived.

---

Dinner was being served when the thunder started. Benedict seemed like he had lost his mind, no doubt had drank Colin's tea that he brought from his travels.

"Have you noticed, Col?" Benedict asked, "The twinkles of the candles, it is as....as if we sit among the stars."

Eloise snorted and looked to her older brother, "What is wrong with you?''

"I was just telling Benedict how brilliant the stars were in Greece," answered Colin.

Benedict went to take a sip of his wine but knocked it over, causing Violet and the other ladies to gasp at the table. The brother smiled and rubbed his hands over his cheeks in an innocent way.

"Lord Bridgerton, Miss Sharma here," A butler said.

"Whatever do you mean, Miss Sharma is here? How many are there?"

In just a few seconds a woman walks in, wearing the similar purple dress that the Sharma sisters were wearing. She looked identical to Kate, except her eyes were lighter. Her hair was more brown than black and she held her head high. Her presence was enough to even sober up Benedict for a moment.

"Is it just me or is there two Kates?" Benedict said, mind foggy.

"I am so sorry for my late arrival. Lady Bridgerton, the house is lovely." The woman said.

Violet blushed and thanked the woman. The older woman always enjoyed getting compliments about her home that she shared with Edmund.

"You said you couldn't make it," Edwina states as she moves to hug the woman. Everyone was confused as a goose until Kate stood up.

"This is my sister," Kate said, moving to stand by her.

You introduce yourself and smile at everyone, that is until you see Anthony. He had this look about him and you couldn't quite tell.

"I assume this is the viscount you were telling me about, Kate?" You said.

"Yes, this is Lord Bridgerton. He is the viscount and is to marry Edwina."

You looked at him and he just smirked. He had found a new toy to play with. And god did he want to play.

You looked at him.

"My lord, forgive me for my tartiness," You say, voice rich.

"All is forgiven, my lady." He had a hard look.

"Please, I am hardly a noble lady to earn that title,'' You tease.

Anthony was taken by surprise, no one had ever teased about their noblity or anything. Being a proper lady is very serious and not taken lightly. There was another Sharma sister, but at least this one seemed nice. For now.

---

You were quite the most annoying and challenging lady Anthony had the misery to meet. You talked too much, you jested a bit, your teasing with Benedict made his blood boil. Your words melting off your tongue and practically bringing Anthony's younger brother to his knees.

Benedict's face had blushed right before you move to rest your hand on his shoulder.

"My dear, Benedict, how are you?" You asked kindly, flashing that beautiful smile that made everyone melt.

"I am quite well, Miss Sharma." He looked down right flustered with your presence beside him.

Lady Bridgerton held a small ball at Aubrey Hall and Benedict had just finished dancing with you. The two of you had swept through the floor, everyone in envy that Mr. Bridgerton's attention was solely on you.

"Brother, I hate to steal our guest from you but I am in need of a dance," Anthony stepped in to say.

"I suppose that I have one dance in me," You laughed.

"I hadn't asked yet," Anthony said.

"Well, in that case, Benedict you wouldn't mind having yet another dance with me?" You smirked when Anthony rolled his eyes and groaned.

Once you got on the dance floor, Anthony could not keep his eyes off you, even as he danced with Edwina and Kate.

"My brother seems to be taking a liking to you," Benedict smiled.

"Please, he wants to marry my sister. After all, who even said I wanted him. Maybe I want you," You whisper the last part in his ear. He shudders against you and smiles.

"Is that true now, Miss Sharma?"

"Perhaps."

----

Pall Mall was the ruthless game that the Bridgerton's ever played. The Mallet of Death sat in your hands as Benedict had handed it to you with a wink and a sly smile. You blushed at the brother's antics.

He moved to be closer to you and whispered something in your ear which made you snort aloud and Kate looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Who has my bloody mallet?" Anthony's voice boomed in the air.

"My lord, I do not know," Kate smirked.

"Where is it?"

You coughed to clear your throat, suddenly bringing the Viscount's attention to you. That might have been a bad idea. It surely was.

"You...You have my mallet, I believe."

"I do?" You inquired.

"Yes, Miss Sharma, you do."

"Well, I suppose that I could just give it to you," You start to hand it to him, his siblings surprised at how easy you were giving it up, and Anthony was smiling, "But first you will have to catch me." You took off running down the field and Anthony just watched in surprise.

"Did she?"

"I believe she did," Daphne laughed. She watched as her older brother looked as if he wanted to blow up.

"Dear brother, I think you should go get her if that mallet is very important to you." Colin laughed as Anthony ran down the field, looking for you as the Mallet of Death rested in your possession.

He ran looking for you and he heard your sweet giggle coming from in the garden. He looked to see that everyone had given up on waiting for them and started the match without the two of you. He walked around the garden to find you crouching behind a hedge and was covering your mouth as you looked around the side of the bush, hoping to not be seen.

His boots moved to quietly as he stalked closer to your frame. He then grabbed your waist and picked you up, causing you to gasp into his hand.

"Lord Bridgerton, put me down this instant."

He placed you down on the ground and stands close to your body. His warmth and scent poured over you in waves. He smelt like sweat, dirt, body wash, slight scent of vanilla, and sandalwood?

"Lord Bridger-"

"Anthony, my name is Anthony." He said, panting at the closeness that he had created.

"My lord-"

"Anthony."

"My lord, it is improper to call you by your given name," You say, trying to catch your breath and not breathe his scent in.

"And us being in my mother's garden alone is very improper, I dare say, Miss Sharma."

Your smell floods his senses when he takes a deep breath and move closer to you, chests touching. The smell of dirt, sweat, lilies and Jasmine? God, it drove him crazy. Just being around you drove him crazy.

"You followed me here.''

"You ran here."

"You chased me."

"You took my mallet."

"I-" You stutter, "Benedict gave it to me."

He looks at you with something dark in his eyes, something that burned with fiery. His hand came to touch your waist and you nearly melt. He looks at your chest, noticing that you were wearing the Bridgerton color. You normally wore purple but you were wearing the baby blue that stood for his family.

"You are wearing my family color," He says, blood rushing some where it did not need to be.

"Oh, I had not known that I wasn't allowed to wear blue."

"It stands for my family and you...are...wearing...my...color."

His body presses closer to you, invading your space. He moves to corner you against the tall hedge, the only thing keeping your situation from any on lookers.

His mouth moves to rest beside your ear, hot breath fanning over the exposed skin there, goosebumps rising on your skin.

"You want something, I can sense it."

You shudder.

"And what would that be, my lord?"

"You want me," He said lowly.

"You are to marry Edwina," You correct him.

"That doesn't change that you desire me," He chuckles at your attempt.

"I beg your pardon. You are a rake and I have no desire for such a person like you. You are to marry my sister, not me. If you wish to be with my sister than act like it, if not then leave her alone. I will not be some play thing for you to play with when you want to."

"Oh but you are my play toy. You are whatever I want you to be. Do you know why?" He asked.

"Why?"

"Because all I have to do is whisper real close to your ear, like this," He moved even closer, "And tell you that I desire you in ways that would make any mama blush and cry out for improper topics to a lady."

You take in a ragged breath.

"Desire me?"

"Yes, why do you think I came out here to get you?"

"To get your mallet?"

"No, so I can have you."

" You are courting my sister to marry. I am done with this topic and I am leaving this garden. Good day, Lord Bridgerton."

---

Anthony was reeling. He couldn't stop thinking about you. He can't sleep at night because of you. It wasn't your fault. No, it was your fault. You were the one who kept reminding him of his soon to be proposal to your sister and putting him in his place. Heavens above, he couldn't help but be aroused when you put him where he was meant to be. And that perfume that you have, Jasmine and Lillies, god it did things to him.

---

The day had been hot, very hot and you knew that you shouldn't but you were burning for a swim in the lake. You couldn't help it. After being in the garden with the Viscount, it felt you aflame.

Sneaking out of your chambers, you made your way outside to the lake that rested toward the trees.

Looking around, you made sure that no one was up and you were making sure that you were not followed. You made your way to a tree and took off your coat. Yo began your task of unbuttoning your gown.

Anthony watched you remove each piece of fabric from your body as he made his way down to the lake himself. He had not known that you were going to be here. He had not expected it. He always goes for a midnight swim when he couldn't sleep. Why he couldn't sleep? You.

Slipping onto the dock, you take a dive, cold water enveloping your body. It felt heavenly against your heated skin. Anthony was never to be allowed to know that he was the reason behind the midnight swim in the lake. You swam to the middle and was sighing while looking up to the moon. The entire lake was lit by the moon, banishing all shadows from being cast onto your face. You looked angelic.

Anthony slipped in the water after stripping completely bare and went underwater. He wanted to see you move about when you were by yourself. He had wanted to see you nude, part of his mind begging him to see what you looked like, but you were still a lady and he was a gentleman.

You heard a splash and you turned around very quickly, spotting none other than Anthony Bridgerton. You knew you were caught and he would laugh at you but he just swam closer. You could only see his shoulders and water was dripping down them to be collected back to the lake.

"My lord-"

"I do believe that we are now way past formalities," He chuckled.

He was silently begging to hear his name fall from your lips. He knew this was wrong. You were his betrothed sister. You were a lady. You were innocent. If he took that from you, you would be ruined. But...but you looked so desirable. You looked just ready to be ravished by his mouth. To be tasted in places that you had never thought of to be touched. To be submitted to such incredible pleasure that Anthony knew that he could bring you. To be his.

He swam closer to you, grabbing your hand which he used to pull you until you were placing your hands on his shoulders to hold onto. You gasped at how warm he still was, even in the chilled water of the night. Anthony looked at you, smiling when he realizes that you move even closer, your legs brushing every time you move to keep yourselves afloat.

"I want you," He admits.

He kisses your lips, groaning when you kiss back only for a second before he feels himself being pushed away from you.

"You are engaged to my sister," You say.

"Not yet."

"But-"

"But, I want you. I don't want Edwina. I don't want Kate. I want you," He says, "I desire you."

Anthony kissed your lips once more, swallowing any sound coming from your mouth. His tongue brushed yours and you moaned. You had never done that but with Anthony, you felt so good you couldn't keep it inside.

Anthony had you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling something quite odd in between his legs but you didn't question it when he took your breast into his awaiting mouth. He sucked your nipple and ran his tongue around it as he teased you mercilessly. Your hair was down so it was hanging in the water as you threw your head back in bliss as he moved to bite at your collarbones and neck.

Anthony moved the two of you all the way to the dock, picking you up out of the water and seating you directly onto the hard wood. He then watches as you move back, suddenly aware of how exposed you are to him. He puts his hands on the dock and pushes himself out of the water, droplets trickling down his slightly hairy chest down to his now every noticeable something. You didn't know what on earth it could even be.

"What is that?" You said shyly, pointing to his hips.

"That would be my cock." He just chuckled.

"It looks hard," You said, "does it hurt?"

He groaned at your innocence. God, you were going to be the death of him. You looked so nervous to even ask and then when you did, you blushed deeply. You were so cute.

"It hurts some times when I desire someone really bad," He explained.

"Like Edwina? Did it ever hurt for Edwina or Kate?" You asked softly.

"No, never with them. I want you," He said, holding your face, "God, you consume every thought that I make. You make it so, so hard to be a gentleman. There is no way that I can escape you, no matter how hard I try because you are always in my mind."

He kissed you once more and you let him. You were going to forget about Edwina, who the man currently moving in between your legs and kissing every inch of your body, was supposed to get married to. You were going to forget the rules of being a proper lady. You were going to forget formalities and just revel in the pleasure that is being caused by the mouth of your sister's soon to be betrothed.

"Anthony!" You cried when he made contact with the little bud between your folds and he licked it. Your body was shot with electricity that sent your back to be arching.

He hummed against your core and went back to sucking on your clit. No one or nothing could have prepared you for the Viscount's tongue to slip inside of you. He had done so when you were pulling on his hair as you grasped for anything but you could not find anything to ground you. Anthony swept you away in pure pleasure as he ate you like a starved man. He drank anything your body was willing to give and he took it with a groan. His eyes rolled back as he tasted you.

"Oh, my lord-"

"It's Anthony. Just Anthony," He said before staring at your weeping cunt.

Your hands pulled at the man's hair and his other hand, that wasn't holding down your hips, moved up to grab a hold of your free hand that was gripping your breast. Your back arched when he made one last circle with his tongue on your clit and you burst with carnal desire. You shook against Anthony's mouth as he drank you in.

He thought you were so beautiful laying out for him, under the stars on his dock, wet hair after a late night swim and most of all, the way the moon shone down on you. You looked ever so innocent but oh so dirty.

"Are you okay?" He asked when he noticed you not moving but still shaking.

"I'm more than okay."

He laughed and began kissing up your body. His tongue poked out every once and a while as he traveled up to your mouth. The taste of yourself was erotic. You had never known something could exist. Anthony moved on top of you and positioned himself so that his cock would rest between your sensitive folds. He had to contain himself so that he wouldn't cum right on the spot.

You gave him a nod before he claimed your lips as he pushed himself inside your waiting body. You moaned out loud before you started panting against Anthony's mouth as the two of you tried to adjust to the sudden feeling. His arms shook as his head fell onto your chest as your hand ran through his hair, pulling slightly.

"Are you ready for me to move because if you aren't that's okay but I really need to move?" Water trickled down his body as he held himself above you, looking down at you.

"Please, Anthony." He smiled at his name and started to slowly pull out, letting you feel every ridge and vein his dick possessed and you were enjoying it. Anthony thrusted back in and your head fell back against the wooden dock. As Anthony thrusted his cock in and out of you, the only things that could be heard was your labored breathing and the sounds of your bodies moving against each other as the two of you reached new heights together and the sound of crickets chirping in the grass.

"Oh, god you feel so good," Anthony groaned.

"So fucking good," You panted, hips rising to match his. You were chasing something but you didn't know what. You didn't even know what was happening when your muscles started to tighten and some kind of euphoria started to crash down on you.

Anthony's breathing got caught in his throat as he watched your face contort in pleasure as he pumped himself constantly in you, trying to reach his end. He looked at your blissful face and decided that you would give him another.

"Just one more, darling, and then I can fill you up real nice." His hand went in between your legs as he watched himself move inside and out of you. His thumb began circling your clit, his cock hitting the right spots every time, his face tightening in desirable lust as he held himself above you, moving faster, trying to make you cum for a third time before he got his.

"Oh, Anthony!" You moan before he places a kiss on your lips to silence you. You cum one last time and Anthony unloads himself completely in you once bottoming out inside you. You laid there with him as he felt the aftershocks of his orgasm and you shuddered at the sudden cold.

Anthony kisses you lazily as he feels you giggle against his lips when he sighs into you. He pulls out and then shudders at the cold.

"I think we should go get some nice warm milk and sit by the fire to warm up," He proposes.

"Won't we get caught?"

"Darling, we just had sex on the dock in front of my house and you are worried about getting caught with some milk by the fire?" He laughed.

"Well, I can't be seen with you alone."

"Fine, but let's get dressed and go inside so we can sleep."

"In the same room?" You ask in a quiet voice.

"Not yet. We might get caught."

"Maybe getting caught wouldn't be so bad then," You giggle when you see his bare ass.

"Oh you are a little minx," Anthony groans.

"Maybe," You gasp when he picks you up after you get dressed and then carries you inside.

He takes you to your room and puts you down so you can stand. He doesn't want to let go but he knows he needs to leave soon.

''Good night, Miss Sharma." He said with a kiss.

"Good night, Lord Bridgerton," You sigh against his lips.

The kiss is passionate but is cut short when the clock decided to strike three and make a loud noise. You both laugh and he sees you close the door and he then walks to his chambers.

He finally can go to sleep with a smile on his face. A smile that didn't disappear the following day until he realized that he had to propose to your sister, Edwina Sharma.

[daceydeath]

I Want to Watch

Pairing: Wooyoung x Reader x San Word Count: 2.5K Genre: Pure Smut 🔞 Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Explicit Activities

AN: This idea came from writing a short one shot called 4:15 pm so it mentions the events of that but is not strictly related.

Wooyoung has had a brilliant idea but he is yet to actually mention it to anyone other than San.

 Wooyoung had teased you relentlessly about it for almost three weeks before you had lost your cool and snapped at him that he should just ask San to join you then if it was that important to him to watch his best friend fuck you. Funnily enough that seemed to work and he dropped the subject all together for another full month until he began to invite you round for dates when the others were home or when they were likely to be coming home. Teasing you about how he could just leave the door unlocked and call Hongjoong in to let him watch or that he bet you would look so hot with Jongho's cock in your mouth while he fucked you, each time getting you more receptive to his idea of his friends watching you, it started to actually turn you on. He knew you had a tiny bit of an exhibition kink, you never minded if they overheard you, but he never actually let the members see you or even hear you before the time San had discovered you and you had responded to him purposely toying with San more than he had anticipated.

"Woo what movie did you want to watch?" you called from the couch flipping through the streaming service to find something neither of you had watched. You could hear him muttering from the kitchen but you couldn't make out anything he said.

"Woo? Are you even listening to me?" You raised your eyebrows at him and watched him pace another length of the kitchen, phone in his hand "What's wrong?". He stopped to look at you, opening and closing his mouth a few times before huffing and walking over to sit beside you and pull you closer to him, his lips on your temple kissing you lightly.

"I may have done something that you may get mad about but I'm not sure yet, but in my defense it is a brilliant thing" he admitted letting you see how nervous he actually was.

"What have you done?" you asked, dryly knowing it could be anything from buying you a stupidly oversized plushie, a designer bag or ordering pizza. His ability to answer was cut off by a knock on the apartment door making you quickly assume it was probably closer to take out than anything more incorrigible. He let go of you to go answer and came back with a slightly flushed looking San which just confused you.

"Hey Sannie" you smiled furrowing your eyebrows "How are you?"

"I'm good" San nodded looking between you and Wooyoung "Am I early? You said come by at 9 Woo".

"So the thing is..." Wooyoung started his cheeks turning dark pink as he struggled to get the words out making you even more confused "You remember how you.... No um. Give me a second" he turned back to San pushing him into the entrance alcove and out of your line of sight. Although you could hear hushed but slightly frantic whispered bickering between the two of them.

"Man if you haven't asked her we can just make it another time, I'm not going to make her feel like she's being pushed" San muttered sounding worried.

"She will hear you moron" Wooyoung hissed "Also if you're here or not I'm not forcing her you dickhead".

"I didn't say you were I just don't want her feeling pressured that would be shitty" San sighed annoyed.

"Or you could both just talk like normal people since I can hear you both and am so confused right now" You interrupted loudly making them both sheepishly peer around to corner to look at you. "What is going on? Is this some kind of intervention that you two are trying to pull?".

"No, absolutely not" San shook his head innocently even though you were pretty sure he was far from innocent in this whole debacle.

"Then what is going on you're really starting to piss me off" you frowned looking between them and wondering when someone would explain the cryptic shit they were bickering about.

"Shit, baby it's nothing bad I promise" Wooyoung panicked coming back over to the couch with San hot on his heels "You remember when we were at that video shoot and you and I snuck off and..."

"and everyone was looking for you while you were too horny to keep your hands off me and just had to fuck me in an empty office? Yeah I remember I was there" you smirked watching both of their ears turn red and San look up at the ceiling to avoid your gaze.

"Yeah, do you remember that San found us and what I said?" he continued looking a little braver as you pieced together what he was saying.

"You want to have a threesome" you guessed, stopping him from dragging it out further, a wave of heat rushing straight to your core.

"Well I actually wanted to start off with him but eventually invite the others in too" he smirked watching your eyes widen "not all at once though".

"You want me to have sex with all of your members? all 7 of them?" you swallowed hard your embarrassment now showing as you felt your own cheeks burning at the reaction you were having to the idea of it.

"Yeah maybe? I wanted them to watch me fuck you then I wanted to watch them fuck you" he continued getting bolder with each word his grin getting larger as he saw how well you were responding to the idea.

"So you want to watch me with San?" you repeated, pressing your thighs together slightly to relieve the throb that was beginning to spread from your core. Biting your lip you tore your eyes from your boyfriends to look as his best friend who was trying to remain looking as neutral as possible. "Is that what you want, San?".

"Absolutely" San uttered without thinking, only to slap his hand over his mouth cutely after realizing what he had done, making you smile shyly at him.

"You going to keep being shy or are you going to kiss her?" Wooyoung teased his friend, his eyes already turning darker as he looked at  you as if you were a meal and he was starving to death.

"She hasn't agreed yet, Woo calm down" San smacked him on the shoulder before moving to sit beside you on the couch "Is this what you want princess?" he asked huskily, his voice getting so much lower than you had ever heard it, it was making your brain short circuit. You licked your lips looking at him for a moment trying to clear the fog that was already in your brain before nodding.

"I need words princess" he smirked, lifting your chin to stare into your eyes looking at you as intensely as Wooyoung had been making you feel a little shy at how wet he was making you without him even touching you.

"Please Sannie" you whispered breathily before San crashed his lips into yours. Kissing San was completely different to kissing Woo. You were so used to Wooyoung's deep, messy and needy kisses that San's sensual lingering ones made you gasp his plush lips were gentle against yours almost tentative as he let you initiate any increase in intensity only taking back control when you let a quiet moan pass into his mouth driving him to pull you into his lap to straddle his hard thighs.

"Didn't expect you to be so desperate to fuck San baby" Woo rasped his voice tight as he watched to make out with his best friend. You whined pressing yourself against the bulge that was growing in San's sweatpants enjoying the pressure against your pussy. “Look how needy you are, like I never take care of you huh?”.

San let his hands map your curves, eventually coming to rest on your arse squeezing it firmly as he encouraged you to grind on him a little bit. You were already feeling more aroused than you had any right to be, making out with your boyfriend's best friend should not get you as impossibly wet as you were but you couldn’t stop the needy gasps and moans leaving your mouth. San planted his feet harder against the floor gripping you tighter as he lifted you, walking you to Wooyoung’s bedroom where he carefully placed you on the bed on your back pressing soft kisses to your jaw and neck before peeling down your sweats to get better access to you.

“Shit” San groaned, his eyes locked on the wetness that had seeped into your underwear staining the white lace and making it virtually see through. Not being able to help yourself you felt yourself preen under the intensity of his stare biting your lip to get him to move back to you. His large hands ghosted up the skin of your thighs passing your hips and continuing up your sides so he could help you out of your shirt before connecting his lips back to yours

“Fuck baby” Woo groaned, smirking at the scene from the door “a few kisses and you turn into a complete whore”.

You opened your mouth to say something but your retort died in your throat and was replaced by a moan and San locked his lips around one of your nippled scraping the lace against your sensitive bud with his teeth, one of your hands flying out to steady yourself and the other grabbing hold of his hair.

“Sannie” you gasped feeling him smile against your breast, he continued covering your body with lingering kisses working his way down to your core, making you sigh and groan while he explored. “Shit Sannie”.

Stopping his mapping of your body he stood to quickly strip himself of his clothes leaving him in boxers that left little to the imagination, his thick cock straining against the fabric making your mouth water.

“Don’t torture the poor slut man” Woo ordered his voice thick with arousal as he sat at the bottom of the bed his eyes locked on you.

“Yes Sir” San grinned, pulling off his boxers and manhandling you back into his lap, tearing the lace that was left covering you from your hips with one harsh tug.

“Fuck off San I liked that set” Woo grumbled halfheartedly while San stoked his fingers between your folds making you mewl and arch into him searching for more, you couldn’t see your boyfriends face but from the mischievous grin that crossed San’s face and the sound of annoyance that left Wooyoung’s lips San was not meant to be toying with you this much. Sliding two fingers inside you making you whine, San couldn’t help the moan that rumbled through his chest into yours, his finger sliding in so easily that you should have been embarrassed.

“Such a wet little pussy” he whispered kissing your lips again while you fucked yourself on his fingers with an air of desperation, his low chuckled making you want more as he pulled his fingers back out of you with and obscene squelch before shoving them in his mouth.

“Hey!” Woo protested but you couldn’t concentrate on his words you just needed something, anything “We talk about this”

“Sannie, please, need your cock” you murmured weakly, your body burning for him in a way you had never felt.

“Course princess” he smirked, grabbing his length to line himself up with your entrance before letting you sink down on him.

“Such a desperate little whore begging for another man’s cock, you need that much cock that just mine isn’t enough?” Wooyoung grunted making you whimper as you felt your walls stretching around San’s dick until your hips met his. Rolling your hips experimentally you felt like you were being split in half by how much thicker he was than what you were used to, your head fell forward against his shoulder as you let yourself adjust.

“Give the pathetic slut what she wants, San” Woo continued, his voice more strained the longer he watched. Resting his hands on your hips almost gently San helped you begin to grind against him his breathing getting heavier as your confidence grew until you began bouncing on him your tits brushing against his chest with each movement.

“Fuck don’t want to be rough with you” San choked out as he tried to not snap his hips up to meet your pace.

“Please Sannie, I need it, please fuck me, please” you begged your eyes glassy as you met his eyes.

“Begging like a needy whore huh? Is San’s cock that good?” Wooyoung mocked harshly.

“I got you princess” San muttered gently before grabbing your hips bruisingly and snapping his hips up into you sharply making you cry out your head falling back and your mouth open letting him use you like you needed so intensely. San’s lips moved you your neck kissing and nibbling your sensitive skin as he pounded you into a pleasurable oblivion

“Aww is my little baby drunk on cock?” Wooyoung asked sweetly moving to claim your lips after not touching you for so long, lolling your head to the side you could see he hadn’t been able to control himself his cock out of his pants as his tugged at it in time with San’s thrusts and he fucked you. “Let him fuck you full yeah baby? You gonna let another man fill you with his cum? Let him breed you in front of me?”. The moan that fell from your lips was pornographic as another wave of arousal began soaking San’s length and practically dripping onto his balls.

“Fuck Woo she loved that” San grunted feeling your walls begin to flutter around him as your orgasm drew nearer.

“You going to let San claim you baby? Gonna let him knock you up like a little needy whore” Wooyoung knew you were close from the little gasps that you let out between your moans, each one getting shorter until you would explode.

“Ah…ngh…Sannie” you cried as you came so hard you could barely keep yourself upright, San moving one hand to hold you against him as he continued to fuck you through your orgasim and into the start of your next one.

“Fuck princess” he grunted roughly his cock stiffening inside you before painting your walls with thick ropes of his seed. His hips slowed until you were both still you resting against his bare chest both panting for air.

That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen” Wooyoung swallowed hard while San moved you so you could at least see your boyfriend who had managed to finish all on his own “Never cum untouched before”. You could feel San breathlessly chuckle as you realized that you were still connected, his dick softening inside your walls.

“That was....fuck” San mumbled, still not attempting to move you off of him.

“We are doing this again” Woo grinned, moving so he could watch San’s seed drip from your stretched entrance before eventually helping to move you onto the bed so they could clean you up.

AN: Thank you for reading my lovelies. I adore you so much and your likes, reblogs and comments warm my half dead little heart xx

Taglist (open): @christopher-bangnaldoskzz @armystay89 @damnyouficc @roamingpolar @tara-skyhold @bakedlilgoonie , @krishastumblernow , @mrsseals16 , @fawnpeaks @leeknowinggg @uno7 @tanzen-ist-gold

[pucksandpower]

Mesaytara

Charles Leclerc x Sheikha of Abu Dhabi!Reader

Summary: in which an Emirati princess sets off to make her mark on Formula 1 … and maybe falls in love along the way

You press your face against the glass of the private suite, watching with wide eyes as the mechanics scurry about below, tending to the sleek race cars lined up on the grid. The engines growl and rumble, seeming to shake the very foundations of the brand new Yas Marina Circuit.

“Baba, can we go down and watch them up close?” You ask your father, turning your big eyes up at him imploringly.

As the youngest child and only daughter of the ruler of Abu Dhabi, you know you hold a certain power over him. He dotes on you endlessly, his precious princess over a decade younger than your brothers.

Your father, Sheikh Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, smiles fondly at your eagerness. “Of course, habibti. Anything for you.”

Despite being the most powerful man in the United Arab Emirates, your father takes your small hand lovingly as you practically drag him from the plush suite. Your entourage of guards and attendants follows at a respectful distance as you make your way down to the pit lane, the roar of the engines growing louder with every step.

Gasps and whispers follow as star-struck crew members realize just who has arrived mere feet from their work stations. They snap into nervous bows and stumble over themselves to clear a path for the Sheikh and his daughter.

But you pay them no mind, your attention utterly transfixed by the brilliant colors and aerodynamic curves of the Formula 1 cars. You’ve never seen anything so sleek and powerful up close. A faint scent of racing fuel and hot rubber hangs in the air, sharp and intoxicating.

“They’re so beautiful,” you murmur reverentially, watching as a pair of Red Bull mechanics roll out the tires for Mark Webber’s car.

Your father chuckles indulgently at your awestruck expression. “That they are, habibti. Works of engineering brilliance.”

A shot rings out from the starting lights, signaling the final minutes before the race begins. The air thrums with rising tension as the crews make their last frantic preparations. The loud thrum of the engines spinning up reverberates in your chest like a beating heart.

Leading you back to the shelter of the suite just before the cars roar out on the formation lap, your father settles into the plush sofa and pats the seat beside him. You immediately scramble up next to him, craning your neck to keep the track in view through the wide glass windows.

And then, they’re off — a streak of blinding color and screeching tires as the crimson Ferraris charge into the first turn. You rise up on your knees, hands pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the surface as you watch them disappear into the distance, chasing one another in a frenzy of motion.

For the next hour and a half, you are utterly enthralled, riveted to every twist and turn of the spectacle unfolding before you. You cheer and gasp with the roiling crowd, celebrating each breathtaking pass and lamenting every spin or collision.

When the checkered flag finally waves, signifying the end of the inaugural Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, you turn to your father with eyes still wide with wonder and admiration.

“Baba,” you breathe, newfound determination shining in your gaze. “I want to do that someday. I want to be a race car driver too.”

The rest of the assembled Emiratis in the suite freeze, shooting covert glances at one another uneasily. For a daughter, even a beloved princess, to harbor such ambitions is nearly unheard of in your culture. The thought of a young woman taking up such a masculine, dangerous sport is immediately dismissible.

But your father only smiles down at you warmly, cupping one calloused hand around your small cheek. “If it is Allah’s will for you, my daughter, then who am I to stand in your way?”

Around the suite, brows raise in shock and disapproval at the ease with which the Sheikh entertains your fanciful dream. You are too young to recognize the raised eyebrows and muttered whispers for what they are.

All you know is the pure joy that blossoms in your heart at your father’s blessing. You throw your arms around his broad chest, squeezing him tightly.

“Did you see them, Baba?” You gush excitedly in his ear. “How they danced through those turns? How bravely they raced and fought for every position? I’ve never seen anything like it!”

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, cradling you against him in a fierce embrace. “I saw indeed, habibti. And perhaps no one else in our family has the same firelight in their spirit to take on such a challenge as you.”

You pull back with a radiant smile, total adoration shining up at him. At eight years old, you are still young enough to see your father as an all-powerful, all-knowing figure put on earth solely to make your dreams a reality.

The thought that he may ever deny you anything, even something as far-fetched as becoming a professional race car driver, is simply unthinkable. This is a man who rules a nation, who commands wealth and resources beyond your comprehension — and he has just promised to make your heart’s desire come true.

Still, your brow furrows slightly as the first traces of dubiousness creep into your shining eyes. “But Baba … I’m a girl. Will they even let me race?”

The Sheikh laughs again, deep and booming, causing the other attendants in the room to jump slightly at the unexpected outburst from their normally stoic monarch.

“And who is to say what any they will allow?” He counters, wagging one finger at you firmly. “If this is what you wish to do, we will move mountains to make it so. Even the most powerful dunes bow to the will of the lords who rule them.”

You giggle at his metaphor, picturing the undulating desert sands moving like ocean waves at his command. Your laugh fades as your expression turns pensive once more.

“But … I’ve never even sat in one of those cars, Baba,” you confess, chewing your lower lip anxiously. “What if I’m not brave enough? Or quick enough? What if I’m … not good enough?”

The very notion that anything or anyone could ever deny his daughter is clearly laughable to the Sheikh. He leans in close until he is staring into your eyes intently.

“Not good enough?” He asks, cradling your face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart, habibti. You were born of bravery and fire. There is no challenge in this life you cannot master if you desire it so.”

His words chase away any lingering doubt like the rising sun burning away the morning mist. You nod vigorously, fresh determination shining in your eyes.

“Then I’ll do it, Baba. I’ll work and train and become the quickest, bravest driver who ever lived! You’ll see!”

Your father’s warm chuckle is one of pure paternal pride and adoration. He presses a weathered kiss to your forehead, crinkling his nose at you playfully.

“If it is written, my daughter … then I have no doubt you shall, Inshallah.”

***

The mid-morning sun blazes over the sweeping dunes as the convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers rolls up to the private family compound in Al Ain. After spending the night at one of the royal residences deep in the desert, you are returning to the main palace to celebrate your 15th birthday with the rest of the family.

As the lead SUV crunches to a stop on the grandiose circular driveway, you can’t help but notice an enormous object taking up a significant portion of the motor court. It is covered with an impeccably smooth red tarp, the color so rich it seems to glow against the bright sand like a magnificent mirage.

“What’s that?” You whisper to your brother Hassan, eyes wide with girlish curiosity as you peer through the tinted windows.

Hassan merely shrugs, already looking bored by whatever grand spectacle your father no doubt has planned this time. As the eldest son and heir apparent, he has long grown accustomed to the lavish trappings and surprises that come with being part of the Emirati ruling family.

You, on the other hand, still thrill at every indulgent display of your father’s affection — and his obvious efforts to make this birthday one you’ll never forget.

The minute your door is opened by a waiting attendant, you are scrambling to get out and get a closer look at the mysterious shape lurking beneath the tarp. Your towering bodyguards swiftly fall into step behind you, eyes sharp for any potential threat as they follow your darting form across the gleaming tile courtyard.

“Baba!” You call out excitedly, slowing your pace only when you draw up to the tarp-covered shape. “What is it? What’s under here?”

As the Sheikh emerges from the inner courtyard doors, chuckling heartily at your youthful enthusiasm, you notice the crowd of grinning spectators gathered behind him. A pride of aunts, uncles, and cousins spill out from within, all waiting with barely contained glee to bear witness to your reaction.

“Patience, habibti,” he chides you playfully, though his own eyes are twinkling with poorly masked mirth. Your father lives for these moments — any opportunity to shower his only daughter with grand gestures and lavish surprises. “The unveiling comes first.”

You practically vibrate with anticipation as your father accepts a simple push remote from one of his attendants. He casts you one more indulgent smile, then thumbs the button dramatically. There is an agonizing beat of total silence before the heavy tarp begins its slow mechanical slide to the ground.

When its contents are finally revealed, your jaw drops open in a shocked ‘O.’ There, squatting low and sleek before you like a panther ready to pounce, is the unmistakable profile of a Formula 1 car. But not just any car ...

“No ...” you breathe, pressing one hand to your mouth as you recognize every curve and angle, every slashing line of the striking Ferrari red livery. “It … it can’t be...”

“The F2002,” your father announces grandly, gazing at the vehicle with obvious pride. “The very same one that Michael Schumacher drove to his fifth World Championship that year. I had heard the team was auctioning it off to make way for their museum refurbishment … so I put in a special request.”

You stumble forward, hands outstretched to reverently trace the contours of the car as if to assure yourself it is real. Your fingertips glide over the sinuous sidepod, feeling the raised ridges of the sponsor’s decals and the rough nubs of leather on the steering wheel. You can scarcely believe you’re running your hands over the very car that dominated the 2002 season.

“Baba ...” you barely have the breath to vocalize your stunned gratitude. Any other girl may have been delighted by clothes or jewelry for a 15th birthday. But this … this is beyond your wildest dreams.

Your father steps up beside you, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders as you continue gaping at the car in awe. He leans in close, his words meant for your ears alone.

“Do you remember what I told you that first day at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, habibti?” His voice is solemn but warm with parental affection. “That if this was your true desire — to race, to pour your spirit into this challenge — that I would move mountains to allow it?”

You nod numbly, still half-convinced you are dreaming even as the heavy scent of racing fuel and hot metal seems to fill your senses. Your eyes trace hungrily over every aerodynamic seam and vent carved into the car’s bodywork.

“So much has changed in the years since that day,” your father continues, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “The world shifts in ways we can never foresee, carrying us all along in its currents whether we resist or not.”

You tear your gaze away from the car to glance up at him questioningly. His expression has turned peculiarly intense, the solemnity in his face aging him beyond his years.

“But there is one force more powerful than any empire or nation, habibti. More resolute than any passing storms that batter our traditions.” He leans in close, searching your eyes as if to impart something profoundly meaningful. “And that is the immortal strength of a father’s love for his child.”

The simplicity of the statement, the effortless way it encapsulates every indulgence and surprise of your young life, steals what little breath remains in your lungs. You simply gape at him, scarcely daring to blink as he cups your face in his calloused palms.

“So no, my daughter,” he murmurs, holding your gaze firmly with his own. “I will not deny you this. Your desires and dreams are my own. If you wish to race, if you burn to chase this path … you will do so with my eternal pride and blessing at your back.”

You feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his vow. At fifteen you are still young enough for his words to anoint you with purpose and conviction. Your destiny feels as immovable as the highest dunes in that moment, your path clearly illuminated by his will alone.

As if to echo his promise, your father nods over your shoulder towards the gathered crowd. You glance back to find your extended family arrayed in a loose semicircle, hushed and watchful as if awaiting some pronouncement. Among their numbers, you recognize several prominent local racers and federation officials who have clearly been summoned here as witnesses.

“Which is why ...” your father continues, raising his voice to carry across the courtyard. “I have already taken the liberty of entering you in next year’s inaugural Formula 4 UAE Championship.”

A ripple of gasps and muttering races through the crowd at his words. You can see disapproving glances exchanged between the elders and officials, expressions ranging from skeptical to outright incredulous.

But your eyes only widen further, mouth falling open in shock as the implications of what your father has decreed wash over you. He said the words so casually, as if securing your entry to the first-ever national Formula 4 series was as simple as booking a dinner reservation.

“The … the F4?” You manage to croak out, still utterly blindsided by the revelation. “You mean … I’ll be racing in single seaters?”

A fresh murmur of disbelief rises from the crowd at your stunned reaction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several uncles shaking their heads in disbelief, while your aunts look politely appalled. Even your stone-faced bodyguards shift uncomfortably at your father’s flagrant disregard for propriety.

But the Sheikh only frowns at them all, appearing affronted that they would dare doubt his word. When he speaks again, his tone brooks no argument — this is a decree from the ruler of the nation himself, not a mere family disagreement.

“For too long, many have clung to outdated traditions that would see my daughter’s ambitions rendered invisible,” he declares, seeming to grow in stature as he takes in their skeptical faces one by one. “We have chosen to view her gender as an obstacle to overcome, rather than a divine gift to be nurtured!”

You watch, stunned and a little afraid, as your father’s impassioned words seem to pull the disapproving gazes towards him like a lit torch drawing moths to the flame. You have never seen your normally reserved father so heated, so emboldened to make this public defense of your dreams.

“Which is why I say enough!” He sweeps one hand through the air, brushing aside generations of ingrained patriarchal norms like a tuft of desert sand. “My daughter burns with the spirit of a million wildfire hawks! And if you would deny her the right to chase her own destiny, you deny the winds that stir this very land itself!”

A hush falls over the assembled crowd, none daring to rebut the Sheikh’s sudden impassioned rhetoric. You can only gape at your father, utterly transfixed, drinking in his protective roar.

“From this day forward,” he declares, turning his fiery gaze back down to you. “My daughter will race for more than just herself. She will drive for every daughter in this family — in this nation — who has ever had her dreams dimmed simply for being born female. She carries the weight of a thousand ancestors’ ambitions on her back!”

His words seem to electrify the very air surrounding you. You can feel their power, their reckless conviction washing over you like a sandstorm flaying away all the self-doubt and uncertainty in its path.

When he gathers you into his embrace, you cling to him with everything you have. Tears stream openly down your cheeks, heedless of the audience bearing witness to this seismic shift in the ancient social order.

“You will race, habibti,” your father rumbles fiercely into your hair, squeezing you so tightly. “Not just because I wish it, but because it is your destiny written in the stars themselves. The path may be difficult, the challenges ahead more than you can fathom … but you will never walk it alone.”

You nod wordlessly against his chest, blinking back tears of overwhelming gratitude and purpose. In this moment, he does not merely feel like your indulgent father — he is the very sun burning away the last vestiges of doubt, ensuring your course is forever set towards glory.

When you finally pull back, your eyes shine with fresh determination and unflinching resolve. You turn to face the silent, gaping crowd with your chin raised defiantly, every bit the born warrior princes making her stand.

“I will race,” you declare, pitching your voice to carry to the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “And I will win.”

A shocked beat of silence hangs over the assembly. And then, incredibly, it is your dear brother Hassan who steps forward first, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Of course you will, you spoiled brat,” he proclaims with a snort of laughter. “Knowing our father, you’ll probably end up with one of Lewis Hamilton’s cars next.”

The tension shatters in a wave of startled chuckles from the onlookers. You shoot your brother a watery smile, silently thanking him for being the first to signal his acceptance of the path your father has set out for you.

As the rest of the gathered officials and elders slowly begin to nod and murmur in acknowledgment, you feel a profound sense of peace and conviction settle over your heart. You need no longer dream and wish and hope — everything has been set into glorious, undeniable motion.

When you turn back to the gleaming Ferrari sitting before you, it no longer seems like an impossible fantasy, but a key to a future burning brighter than the desert sun itself. You move towards it without hesitation, climbing up into the body-hugging carbon seat until you are cocooned within its sleek lines.

Wrapping your fingers around the sculpted steering wheel, you can practically feel its power and purpose thrumming through you like an electric current of pure adrenaline. This is where you belong — raw ambition harnessed within a technological marvel. You are a falcon poised for flight, wings outstretched to conquer the horizon, gender be damned.

You glance up through the curved windscreen to find your father watching you with naked pride shining in his eyes. He catches your gaze and offers a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. His little princess, once an innocent dreamer … now preparing to become a pioneer for a new era.

You nod back, inhaling the rich scent of clinging burnt rubber and drinking in the intoxicating promise of everything to come.

You are chasing more than just some fanciful passion. You will prove to the world that no ambition is too lofty, no dream too bold, for you to conquer.

***

The sleek Aston Martin DBX glides silently through the entrance tunnel and into the team’s gleaming new headquarters in Silverstone. As the muscular crossover comes to a stop in the bright, airy courtyard, a familiar thrill of anticipation sparks to life in your chest.

This gleaming complex of glass, steel and green technology has become more than just the workplace of your racing heroes over the past year. With the news of Aston Martin’s sudden sponsorship woes, it has taken on a tantalizing new significance — the potential launching pad for your own Formula 1 dream.

You shoot your father an excited glance as the driver opens your door, but the Sheikh remains impassive behind his amber-tinted aviators. Now in his late 60s, Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan has grown only more inscrutable and steely with age and power.

To the casual observer, he would appear utterly unruffled, preparing to stride into a meeting that could alter the course of the Formula 1 landscape. You, however, have spent a lifetime studying the nuanced ridge of his jawline, the reserved set of those broad shoulders, and can sense the focused intensity burning behind his courteous facade.

This is far more than just a meeting for the ruler of Abu Dhabi and chairman of International Holding Company, one of the largest conglomerates in not only the Emirates but the world. This is the potential culmination of a promise made to his only daughter nearly 15 years ago — a vow to move heaven and earth to ensure her dreams were realized.

You follow half a step behind your father and his retinue of advisors as they cross the courtyard, resisting the urge to gawk openly at the team motorhomes and formidable industrial build of the main factory. Despite spending your early years mired in the European junior formulae, this exalted world of Formula 1 still manages to set your heart pounding with equal parts reverence and ambition.

A sleek black sedan is idling in the VIP parking section, dispatched to collect the final party in your impending negotiation. As you slow your approach, the driver emerges and moves to hold open the rear door with an obsequious bow.

“Son of a bitch kept us waiting,” comes the droll observation from the tall, lanky figure emerging from the sedan’s depths.

Lawrence Stroll, Canadian billionaire, business magnate, and majority owner of the Aston Martin Formula 1 team, appraises your group through those same inscrutable tinted lenses favored by all men of profound power and means. At his side is the rather more bookish form of team principal Mike Krack, eyes already politely averted as he waits for the Sheikh’s lead.

You can’t resist a tiny, adrenaline-tinged thrill at the sight of them both. These are the men who hold the keys to the kingdom you’ve spent your life battering against — the exalted realm of Formula 1. You’ve spent countless nights watching their team’s racing green cars arc and pivot through Yas Marina’s turns, dreaming of the day you might join their ranks.

Now that tantalizing possibility hovers before you, dangled by the generous purse-strings of your family’s staggeringly deep pockets. For in the wake of Aramco’s high-profile defection as Aston Martin’s title sponsor, a Goliath-sized vacuum has opened — one which your father’s IHC conglomerate is uniquely positioned to fill.

For a price, of course.

“Ahmed,” Lawrence greets your father with a curt nod, making no effort to mask his impatience or indifference to decorum. “I’ll cut right to it — what’s your ask here? 25% share in the team? 35? Just name your number so we can get this whole-”

“Actually, Lawrence,” your father interrupts him, sliding off his sunglasses to reveal that piercing gaze that has cowed entire global cabinets into obedience. “I have no interest in an ownership stake. Not in this particular venture.”

The Canadian billionaire pulls up short, clearly thrown by the unexpected rebuff of his assumption. He glances towards his team principal, who can only offer a minute shrug, before turning back to your father with one arched brow.

“Well then … enlighten me,” he prompts with just a hint of renewed interest flickering in those beady eyes. “If not an ownership play, then what’s your angle here?”

Your heart leaps into your throat as your father responds, his words carefully measured but leaving no shred of ambiguity in their intent.

“My desires are rather more … specific. More personal.” Your father casts a meaningful glance in your direction. “As I’m sure you’ve both realized by now, I have a rather more vested interest in the world of Formula 1 beyond mere business or expense portfolios.”

He turns back to Lawrence and Mike, expression inscrutable once more.

“I want a seat for my daughter. On your team.”

The stunned silence that follows is perhaps the loudest absence of sound you’ve ever experienced. Even the distant whirr of machinery from the factory seems to grind to a halt as the two men process your father’s audacious declaration.

You watch them closely, studying their reactions with rapt fascination. With a single conversational grenade, your father has lobbed your ambitions squarely into their laps in a way that cannot be ignored or dismissed as idle fanciful musings. This is a directive from one of the wealthiest sovereign individuals on earth, stressed through the undeniable weight of his tone and body language.

For a few charged seconds, all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse in your ears.

Then, surprisingly, it is Mike Krack who finds his voice first. The diminutive Luxembourger clears his throat, exchanging a poorly masked look of disbelief with the still dumbstruck Lawrence Stroll.

“With … all due respect, Your Highness,” he begins carefully, as if testing the tensile strength of rice paper with each word. “While I cannot challenge your ambitions for your daughter, a Formula 1 seat is simply not something that can be … appointed through sponsorship alone.”

He pauses again, seeming to hesitate under the level stare of your father. You realize his reaction stems not from any doubts about your abilities - the team principal doesn’t even know you from any other young hopeful dreaming of the F1 grid. His concern is far more fundamental, stemming from the very nature of your gender in this male-dominated world.

“There hasn’t been a female driver on the grid since the 90s and even that was short lived. For good reason — the physical and mental demands are … immense. No offense intended, but perhaps a personal sponsorship targeted towards the F1 Academy or something similar would be-”

“That won’t be necessary,” your father cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “My daughter’s credentials should speak for themselves, if you care to review them. She’s competed in — and won — both the Formula 3 and Formula 2 championships over the past four years. I assure you, she is more than prepared to handle the same mental and physical rigors as her male counterparts.”

Silence falls again as Krack and a visibly skeptical Lawrence clearly reassess their earlier assumptions. You feel their analytical gazes washing over you, weighing and measuring as if they can somehow gauge your skills and fortitude based on outward appearances alone.

When Lawrence speaks again, there is a newfound edge of pragmatism in his tone.

“Sure, that’s all well and good on the junior level,” he allows with a slight nod. “Won’t be the first time a hotshot comes up thinking they’re Senna reincarnated only to completely bottle it on the big stage. Happens all the damn time.”

He holds up one hand as your father’s brow furrows dangerously. “But say we do entertain this … suggestion of yours. That still leaves the rather prominent problem of having an open seat to slot her into. In case you haven’t heard, we already signed our team for next year. Only got two cars, last I checked.”

A thin, vindicated smile curves your father’s lips. For all his bluster, the Canadian team owner has just delivered the perfect entry point to reveal his true bargaining chip.

“About that,” the Sheikh murmurs, casting a sidelong glance towards Krack. “I have it on good authority that Aston Martin will, in fact, have a rather convenient vacancy opening up on their driver roster very soon.”

Mike Krack’s expression shutters instantly at the tung-in-cheek reference, no doubt recognizing the inside information that could only have come from one of his own drivers or personnel leaking like a sieve. His eyes slide momentarily toward Lawrence in wordless apology.

Your father doesn’t miss a beat, pressing his advantage with the casual confidence of a man who has spent a lifetime wielding power and influence as deftly as others use voice tonality.

“Fernando Alonso’s impending retirement may well be the worst kept secret in the paddock, no?” He arches one eloquent brow at the increasingly chagrined team principal. “A Delta Topco investor of mine happened to mention the championship-winning Spaniard has been snapping up quite an impressive Swiss real estate portfolio as of late ...”

The comment hangs engulfed in awkward silence as even Lawrence seems slightly taken aback by your father’s easy name-dropping of proprietary team intel. You realize with a start that this is a glimpse into the upper realms of global power and business dealing you’ve only ever witnessed from the outside — the effortless ability to command knowledge and find out even the most classified information with just a few strategically-placed calls or leanings of influence.

It’s Krack who finally capitulates first, clearing his throat again as he darts a helpless glance towards the team owner. “Clearly … this exit has been, ah, on the team’s radar for some time. We’ve been exploring our options, but-”

“But you haven’t had to make it official yet, yes yes of course,” your father interjects, waving off the rest of his explanation with an airy flick of his wrist. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand.”

He pins them both with a pointed look, any trace of ambiguity evaporating from the scorching intensity of his gaze.

“Gentlemen, I will get straight to the point — Aston Martin requires a new title sponsor to remain financially solvent and competitive on the Formula 1 grid. International Holding Company has the resources and reach to provide that sponsorship, effectively in perpetuity if need be.”

His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, though there is no warmth in the expression whatsoever. This is a businessman reveling in checkmate before the final stroke is even delivered.

“All I require in exchange is one of the seats that will be so … conveniently vacated.”

A heavy silence falls over the courtyard once more. You watch Lawrence and Mike exchange another loaded glance, wrestling with the realization that your father seems to hold all the leverage in this particular negotiation. The cool confidence radiating from the Sheikh suggests he is more than comfortable walking away from this deal if they prove … unreasonable.

Finally, Lawrence seems to decide upon the path of least resistance. The corners of the Canadian billionaire’s mouth tug downwards in displeasure, but he offers a curt nod of acceptance.

“You’re twisting one hell of a knife, I’ll give you that, Ahmed,” he mutters, clearly taking no joy in the literal quid pro quo being forced upon Aston Martin’s future solvency. “Okay, fine. We agree to your … terms, shall we say. One seat on the grid for the 2025 season in exchange for IHC’s sponsorship.”

Both men turn their assessing gazes towards you once again. There is no missing the skepticism and doubt burning behind their studied neutrality. They have clearly accepted your presence on the team as nothing more than a necessary evil to be endured in exchange for the monetary incentive.

There will be no welcoming embraces or admiring back-slaps from these two men hardened by decades in the cutthroat world of business and motorsport politics. You are a costly contractual obligation to them at this point, one they have no emotional investment in whatsoever.

There is only one way to change that. Only one path to earn their acknowledgement and respect.

You lock eyes with Stroll and then Krack in turn. When you finally find your voice, it comes out low and thrumming with absolute conviction.

“I will earn my place on that grid. And any doubts you may have now will be extinguished when I take that Aston across the finish line first.”

It’s a bold statement, perhaps even arrogant from an unproven rookie. But it has been woven into the very fabric of who you are over a decade and a half of sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering paternal support. You are a daughter forged from renewed sands by the sheer force of your father’s will into a warrior princess.

Doubt is no longer a luxury you can entertain, now that your dream looms so close at hand.

Your father casts you a faint, proud smile — the only outward sign he will permit of his profound approval and respect for the woman you have become. His eyes glitter with razor-sharp ambition.

“My daughter speaks true,” he declares, turning back to Lawrence and Krack with a challenging arch of his brow. “But of course … I expect you’ll both prefer to judge her for yourselves on the track.”

Lawrence’s perfunctory nod is perhaps a touch more intrigued now, a glimmer of renewed interest flickering behind those impassive eyes. For the first time, he seems to be assessing you as an actual person and athlete rather than some implausible imposition. A sliver of doubt appears to prick at the stony edge of his demeanor.

Mike Krack simply inclines his head in acquiescence, the perfect picture of professional decorum regardless of his personal misgivings. Smart money would place him as one of the individuals funneling inside information about Alonso’s moves to your father’s sources. He is clearly not about to push his luck any further by voicing unnecessary dissent or challenge.

“Very well then,” your father concludes with an air of finality, turning towards Lawrence with an expectant look. “Shall we go ahead and make this official?”

The billionaire businessmen meet in the center of the small gathering, squaring off like two prize fighters preparing for the bell. You watch with bated breath, heart thundering in your chest, as they size one another up for the final moments of the negotiation.

Then, in one smooth motion, they clasp hands and exchange a firm shake — sealing your life’s ambition into ironclad reality. A barely perceptible nod of understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment that despite all the complexities and nuances, there is now a deal on the table that benefits them all.

Your father has successfully leveraged every ounce of his wealth, power, and influence to deliver on his decade’s old promise to you. The seat, the sponsorship … everything has been set into motion.

The only thing left is for you to drive.

***

“Are they seriously going to make us do this?”

Lance Stroll’s voice carries a distinct whine as he hunches lower on the leather couch, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small crew setting up lights and cameras around the Aston Martin hospitality unit. His lanky frame is dressed down in team-issued sweats, tousled hair lopped into that carefully cultivated ‘I woke up like this’ aesthetic he seems to spend hours perfecting.

You shoot your new teammate a sidelong glance, arching one sculpted brow at his apparent distress. Despite being the owner’s son and growing up immersed in the utmost privilege, Lance still seems to find novel ways to broadcast his discomfort with the fame and exposure that comes with being an F1 driver.

“What, you’ve never had to film some cringey sponsor vid or team propaganda before?” You tease him lightly, unable to resist needling him a bit. There’s a certain giddy thrill at realizing you now share an equal standing with Lance on this global stage — though you still frequently have to remind yourself of that fact.

Lance shifts again, slouching further into the plush cushions with a frown. You watch his finely-boned features scrunch up petulantly, and can’t quite resist rolling your eyes.

“I mean, yeah, of course I have,” he mumbles, suddenly finding great interest in inspecting his nails. “But those were always pre-scripted or completely faked, y’know? This just seems so ...”

“Menial? Frivolous?” You arch a taunting brow at him. “For the son of a billionaire businessman and an actual princess?”

He blinks, thrown briefly off-guard as you remind him of your own lofty status with a wry grin. It’s still a novel concept for him to process, you can tell — the idea of an Arab woman of royal lineage daring to enter the same playing field, to consider herself an equal.

Good. It will make savoring his skepticism all the more satisfying when you blow past him on the circuit.

“Just don’t get too used to all this, alright?” He rallies, regaining some of his trademark swagger as he jerks his chin towards the ever-growing gaggle of team personnel crowding the lounge area. “We’re still teammates and all, but on the track … well, may the best nepo baby win.”

You laugh at his attempt at posturing, gentling nudging his foot with your own in an uncharacteristically playful gesture. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll go easy on you,” you tease. “Baba always did say to respect one’s elders, after all.”

Lance’s indignant sputter of outrage at your jibe is mercifully cut off by the arrival of one of the producers, a slim woman in stylish athleisure attire adorned with Aston Martin’s iconic green cues. She claps her hands together with a bubbly smile.

“Hiya, names Chelsea, nice to meet you both!” She chirps in a distinctly American accent, utterly unbothered by the two pairs of eyes swiveling to size her up with varying levels of dulled enthusiasm.

“We’re going to keep things pretty simple for this one — just a quick, low-stakes game to help get you guys on camera and build some pre-season hype on the socials, yeah?” Chelsea continues brightly, gesturing for her crew to finish setting up the lighting and cameras.

“Ooo, a game?” You perk up instantly, intrigued. As a lifelong academic overachiever, any type of challenge or opportunity to demonstrate your brain muscle still manages to activate the synapses of childish glee. “I do love a bit of friendly competition ...”

“Not if it’s going to be anything too taxing, I hope,” Lance drawls with an exaggerated yawn. He mimes checking an invisible watch on his bare wrist. “Do we at least get snack breaks? This jet lag is a killer and I need to keep my strength up ...”

You can’t resist rolling your eyes again as Chelsea laughs politely, clearly recognizing his pampered shtick for what it is. She pauses to check her notes on a tablet before continuing.

“Well, good news for you then — your mental fortitude won’t be too strained today. We’re going to keep things pretty light. We’ll just have some common, everyday items for you two to identify and guess the purchase prices. Easy peasy! More variety show games than trigonometry.”

Chelsea grins, unaware of the subtle way the blood seems to drain from your teammate’s face. You blink once, digesting her words, before a bemused smile finds its way across your own lips.

“Wait … they’re actually going to ask us to identify grocery prices and things?” You shake your head in disbelief. “No, this has to just be a wind-up, right? Even in this economy, there’s no way the team can be serious about-”

“Unfortunately, we are painfully earnest on this one, kids,” Another voice pipes up, accompanied by the familiar cadence of an East London accent.

Jack, a senior member of the Aston team’s creative division, slouches against the doorway to the lounge with his customary smirk already in place. Clearly this was his brainchild — a casual hazing ritual for the team’s most privilege-addled members.

“See, the blokes upstairs figure since you two grew up way closer to hedge fund managers than grocery checkout queues … could be a bit of a laugh, yeah?” He jerks his chin towards you both with a conspiratorial wink. “Just a bit of fun for the fans, have a go at seein’ how the young rich kids guess costs of plebeian things like bananas and bread loaves. Been a hit with the other teams, gets good traction on social, all innocent fun and whatnot.”

“Told you it would be taxing ...” Lance grumbles under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off the first twinges of a migraine.

You, however, find yourself rather intrigued by Jack’s premise. It does seem a fairly innocuous way to let the fans peek behind the curtain at the lives of their favorite drivers, to which you and Lance represent the extreme ends of wealth disparity.

More than that, however, some tiny kernel of competitive ego has taken root in your chest, issuing a silent challenge. What better way to prove you are more well-rounded and less out-of-touch than the reputation that clearly precedes you both?

Let Lance play into the indolent, affluent caricature that paints all of F1’s rising stars in broad strokes. You, however, were raised under a rather different philosophy ...

“You know what, I think this sounds rather amusing,” you announce with a demure shrug of your shoulders, catching Lance’s incredulous stare head-on. “Should be … illuminating.”

From his spot by the door, Jack lets out a dry cackle of amusement. Chelsea, bless her, maintains her gracious professionalism despite sensing the rising undercurrents of upper-crust posturing between the two of you.

“Brilliant, that’s the spirit!” She cuts in brightly, clapping her hands together again. “Everyone just follow my lead, we’ll start off nice and easy ...”

Within a few minutes, the cameras are rolling, framing the two of you seated opposite one another on the couch. A small table sits between you, ready to display the variety of day-to-day items you’ll be asked to examine and appraise.

At Chelsea’s behest, a production assistant brings out a single, slightly bruised banana and places it on the table with an audible thunk. You instantly feel Lance’s gaze swivel in your direction, doubtlessly already anticipating whatever absurd denomination you’re about to slap on the unremarkable piece of fruit.

“Alright, then we’re live starting in 3 … 2 ...” Chelsea narrates before cueing the two of you with a brilliant smile and a wink. “Welcome back everyone, today we’ve got Lance and our newest driver Y/N here to play a little guessing game for us!”

She gestures grandly towards the table, injecting her effervescent delivery with just the right mix of playful condescension.

“First item up — something anyone can find at their local shops or markets. A nice, appealing banana. Question is … what would our two racers be willing to pay for such a humble thing? Off the lot, so to speak. Y/N, love? What do you reckon this banana would cost?”

You swallow back the first, instinctive answer that comes to mind — that it likely doesn’t cost anything, seeing as fresh produce is always plucked from your family’s private orchards and greenhouses at a moment’s notice. Instead, you force yourself to consider the question from the perspective of a supposed commoner, out doing their weekly shopping.

“Well ...” You begin slowly, chin cradled in one hand as you lean forward to examine the fruit. “I suppose bananas don’t seem terribly expensive, do they? Just a bit of potassium and carbs, good for starting the day strong and beating any energy troughs during exercise ...”

Chelsea nods encouragingly, hanging on your every word in that canned, just-over-dramatized manner of most TV personalities. Across from you, Lance is already pinching his nose again, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing himself for the inevitable bomb you’re about to drop.

With a decisive nod, you fix your eyes directly on the camera and proclaim, “Ten euros for a single banana seems perfectly reasonable in this economic climate, no?”

The silence that falls over the lounge is damn near deafening. You watch Chelsea’s overly-rehearsed presenter mask slip for just a moment, features contorting into naked shock. Even Jack the producer lapses into a rare moment of speechlessness, mouth hanging open in slack-jawed disbelief.

At your side, Lance finally breaks, collapsing forward as his frame is wracked with deep, abdominal convulsions of laughter.

“Sweet merciful …" He finally manages to gasp out between ragged gasps. Long, spindly fingers clutch at his stomach as tears of mirth stream down his reddened cheeks. “Ten … fucking … euros! For a banana?”

Any residual thoughts you may have had about defying expectations and proving your economic awareness swiftly crumble to dust amidst the howls of laughter. You gape at your teammate, feeling your cheeks flaming with a mix of confusion and growing embarrassment as the reality of your inflated estimate crashes over you.

“Well … it’s … it’s not THAT outrageous, is it?” You sputter in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “I’d just assumed, with the import tariffs and global agricultural strife we’ve seen as of late-”

“Stop, stop! Just … stop ...” Lance wheezes, waving his hands in surrender before you can dig the hole any deeper. “I can’t … I actually can’t breathe right now.”

“For the record, love,” Jack pipes up from his doorway perch. “Stores don’t even charge ten euros for a bunch of bananas, let alone one lousy nanner.”

The production assistant responsible for presenting the fruit chimes in with a faint “20 pence, last I checked,” sending Lance into another spiral of unbridled cackles.

Just like that, any delusion of cultured cosmopolitan grace you may have carried has been utterly incinerated. You are as transparently affluent as the rest of them assumed, your upbringing and lifestyle so sequestered from normalcy that even the simple prices of supermarket produce have become alien concepts.

And the realization that you are still young, still so new to this entire experience, hits you with sobering impact. For so long, you had believed your decade and a half of single-minded pursuit had prepared you for seamlessly joining the elite ranks of your new career.

But one ill-fated guess at a banana’s cost was all it took to remind you that, in many ways, the learning curve you face goes far beyond simply whipping a turbo-hybrid around a few iconic circuits.

As Chelsea scrambles to regain control of the taping and cycle in a new item, Lance leans over with the last dregs of laughter still shuddering his lean frame.

“You’re totally gonna get us roasted online for this, you know?” He murmurs, lips quirked in that devilish smirk you’re already becoming accustomed to. “Maybe we should schedule a field trip to, y’know … go grocery shopping or something? Little crash course before the damage gets too widespread?”

Despite his smarmy delivery, you recognize the extended olive branch for what it is — an acknowledgment that you’re both very much still kids stumbling into a world of intense scrutiny and maturity. A reminder that you’re on the same team, for better or worse.

So you shoot him a wry grin in return, squaring your shoulders as Chelsea presents the next mundane item with a theatrical flourish.

“Oh, I have a feeling the roasting you speak of has only just begun, Lancelot,” you proclaim with an arch of one challenging brow. “But if prices shock me so thoroughly … what’s your excuse going to be?”

His widening smirk is all the response you require. Teammates or not, this is still a competition on and off the track.

An education, regardless of how humbling, is about to be had.

***

The media center in Melbourne’s Albert Park is a churning sea of humanity when you arrive. Journalists from every corner of the globe jostle for position, clutching voice recorders and branded lanyards as they await the start of the season’s first official press conference.

Despite the pandemonium, an anticipatory hush falls over the assembled scribes when you are led to the makeshift stage alongside Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, George Russell, and Oscar Piastri. The five of you settle into the leather chairs arrayed in a semicircle, blinking furiously under the brilliant TV lights as you ready yourselves for the onslaught of questions.

Your heart pounds in your ears, palms suddenly slick with nervous perspiration as you fight to maintain an aura of calm composure. Though you’ve been groomed practically since birth to carry yourself with regal poise, this is an entirely new arena you find yourself in. One where pedigreed lineage and family legacy afford no protection or leg up.

This is the world where you will either rise or fall based purely on your own deeds behind the wheel and words under fire. No longer will a dismissive wave of your father’s hand send underlings scattering — here, you will have to forge your own path, earn every scrap of credibility and respect.

The thought is at once thrilling and utterly terrifying.

You do your best to focus as the opening preambles and formalities commence, nodding politely when your name is announced along with your Aston Martin team affiliation. A small, fiercely proud smile tugs at your lips as the FIA moderator rattles off your accomplishments in the junior formulae.

Multiple feeder series championships across Europe and Asia, becoming the first Arab woman to compete in the FIA single-seater ladder. A true pioneer transcending societal norms and expectations.

This is your chance to let that very accomplishment shine on its own merits. An opportunity to prove you belong here through your own grit and talent, free from the protective umbrella provided by your family name and wealth.

The first question, mercifully, comes from a fellow Emirati news outlet. The young man politely identifies himself and his publication before addressing you.

“Your Highness, as the first woman from our part of the world to ascend to this level of motorsport, what does this achievement mean for you? How important is it to serve as an inspiration for other young Arab women and girls with big dreams?”

You exhale slowly, offering the man a grateful smile at the respectful phrasing. This is the type of insightful perspective you’d been hoping to discuss — the gravity of overcoming generations of patriarchal norms, the significance of inspiring an entire culture to see women as strong and capable.

“Well, it is an immense honor and privilege to hopefully be paving the way for other young women, both in my region and all around the globe,” you begin, falling easily into the poised cadence you’ve honed since childhood.

“This was a dream I was fortunate enough to have the support system to chase from a very young age, despite the conventions of my culture. I know there are countless other girls out there with the same fire, the same ambitions, who have been discouraged or dismissed simply for being born female. If my example can shine a light on a new way forward, can help uplift even one other person to take up the mantle and fight for their passions … then every obstacle I faced along the way will have been worth it.”

A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room and you incline your head graciously, relieved to have navigated one of these public inquisitions so smoothly on the first go. Perhaps this won’t prove as daunting as you feared, after all.

The next few questions are mercifully innocuous as well — standard inquiries about dealing with the pressures of F1, relationships with teammates and engineers, your personal driving style and technical strengths. Child’s play for someone with your extensively cultivated presence before the media cameras.

You are settling into a contented, borderline cocky rhythm when the tone of the press conference takes an abrupt turn.

“Your Highness,” a gravelly voice suddenly rings out, immediately catching your attention as one of the gruffer correspondents gestures for the mic with poorly disguised impatience. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably as every head swivels in his direction. “Given your … background, and the societal norms you’ve admittedly had to overcome, does it give you any pause that women’s bodies may simply not be able to handle the extraordinary G-forces and physicality required to pilot one of these beasts around a track for hours at a time?”

The silence that falls across the media room is positively deafening. You can sense the other drivers beside you tensing, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming wreckage they can see barreling down the line.

For your part, you simply blink once, twice — allowing the weight of the man’s insinuation to fully descend like an iron shroud and smother you from every side. Any joviality or adrenaline from the earlier back-and-forth evaporates in a searing wave of incredulous rage.

Before you can so much as draw breath to respond, however, the reporter has already pressed on with the ruthless zeal of a jackal going for the kill.

“Furthermore, with all the perceived advantages provided to you by your … esteemed heritage ...” He sneers the words with no small hint of derision. “How can we be certain you aren’t simply some vanity pet project for your father to amuse himself with? That this isn’t merely an attempt by Emirati royalty to assert itself in yet another arena in a flamboyant display of ego and excess?”

Dead silence. Not even the sound of a pen scratching or camera shutter cutting across the vacuum of noise as the entire room seems to be holding its collective breath.

You can feel your heart pounding once more, though this time it thunders in furious sync with the scorching rapids of your own rising temper. How dare this absolute jackass reduce your life’s work and sacrifice to some sexist, patronizing narrative about Daddy writing checks?

“How dare you ...” you begin in a low, menacing tone — only to be smoothly interrupted by the one voice you’d never expect.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Charles Leclerc speaks up from your right, smooth and controlled until now. “How can any of us be so fortunate?”

Every head pivots to regard the Ferrari driver, astounded by his interjection on your behalf. Up until now, Leclerc has maintained his signature cool, borderline impassive demeanor during interviews and pressers.

But now the Monegasque racer leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he fixes the hapless reporter with a look of genuine, cutting disdain.

“Here we have the first woman to race in F1 in decades, shattering years of patriarchal norms to achieve her lifelong ambition on the single most demanding stage of our sport,” he continues in a deliberate, measured tone. “And your very first instinct is to make tired, sexist implications about the frailty of her gender and body? And then to have the audacity to insult her even further by suggesting she couldn’t possibly be here on her own merits?”

Leclerc pauses, allowing his stinging rebuke to hang in the air. You glance around to see the matching expressions of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment painted on the features of your fellow drivers.

“For someone meant to be among the world’s most informed observers of our sport, your remarks are about as offensively misguided and stunted as I could possibly imagine,” Charles finishes with an unmistakable air of finality, folding his arms across his chest. He looks utterly disgusted, but there is an undercurrent of protective ice in his voice that raises the tiny hairs on your arms.

Before the flailing reporter can attempt to concoct some garbled justification for his outrageously inappropriate line of questioning, another voice pipes up — this one bearing the bright, airy lilt of an American accent.

“So, Y/N,” the younger woman interjects, clearly hoping to spare you all any further ugliness, “To pivot away from all that noise for a second … what was your initial reaction when it was announced you had secured the Aston seat? Did you do, like a big celebration or anything?”

You blink a few times, as if rebooting from Leclerc’s unexpected defense. When your mind finally reconnects, you offer the American reporter a grateful smile and a pointed glance towards Charles before speaking.

“You know, we didn’t go too over-the-top or anything,” you reply, welcoming the chance to shift to a fresh topic and get this presser back on track. “I’ll save that for the podium come race day.”

A smattering of relieved laughter ripples through the room, the tension level lowering incrementally as the debacle proceeds. You catch Charles’ subtle nod of acknowledgment across the table, his jaw marginally less taut now that the conversation has regained its footing.

From there, the presser proceeds relatively smoothly — more questions about favorite circuits and tactical approaches for the season, obligatory banter about inter-team rivalries and the usual window dressing. All through it, you feel a profound sense of gratitude for Leclerc’s willingness to essentially co-sign on your abilities and condemn the subversive misogyny lurking in that reporter’s pointed questions.

By the time the closing remarks and thank yous commence, you’ve already made up your mind to seek Charles out on your own to voice your appreciation and admiration.

You are among the first to rise and exit the media bullpen, practically speed-walking around the side of the building in hopes of catching Leclerc before he can retreat into Ferrari’s impenetrable bubble of flunkies and handlers.

“Charles! Hey, Charles — wait up a sec!”

The lean figure pauses and turns as you trot up, tilting his head inquisitively as you draw up short just in front of him.

“Sorry, hope you don’t mind me ambushing you like this,” you begin, barely suppressing the warm flush already creeping into your cheeks under his focused attention. “I just wanted to say … thank you for that. In there, I mean. What you said — how you handled that asshole’s ignorance before I could even begin responding.”

Charles’ expression flits momentarily through surprise before settling into its customary affable warmth. “Oh, that? Don’t mention it, Y/N. God knows we’ve all had to deal with our fair share of insufferable pricks on the media circuit at one point or another.”

He shrugs, as if his public solidarity with a fellow competitor were the most trivial, obvious hill to plant himself on. You feel a sudden swell of respect and admiration for the Ferrari star rise within you.

“Besides,” he continues with a casual, “How could I not defend the up-and-coming driver who gets to experience insane misogyny and ridiculous societal restraints while also knowing what it’s like to eat gold flake sundaes daily?” He shoots you a playful wink, dimples creasing his cheeks. “The duality of a princess is a heavy burden indeed ...”

You let out a peal of laughter, genuinely caught off-guard by the cheeky charm behind the dig at your privileged lineage. Far from offense, you find his irreverent humor utterly refreshing in the face of excessive nobility.

“It is a tragic affliction, I must admit,” you retort, placing one hand over your heart in mock solemnity. “But one I shall bear with dignity and poise. For my people.”

Your laughter fades into a more pensive expression, honeyed eyes finding his in an unspoken exchange of sincere emotions.

“But truly, Charles, thank you. I meant what I said in there — about wanting to inspire other women to fight for their dreams. To have someone like you leap to defend those ambitions right out of the gate … it means more than you can possibly know.”

He regards you with a speculative sort of new interest for a stretched moment before nodding slowly.

“I meant what I said too, Y/N,” he replies, utterly sincere. “If having to dress down a few assholes in public is what it takes to further that inspiration … well, that’s a pretty easy charge for me to take up.”

A fresh surge of resolve and determination irons out your features into that same unmovable resolve you inherited from your father. In that instant, you see the man Charles will hopefully become — a true legend and respected custodian of the sport, unwavering in his principles.

“Regardless, I’d love to find some way to properly thank you once we get back to Monaco,” you venture, wondering how far you can stretch this newfound rapport with the Ferrari star. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something next week? My treat, obviously.”

A faint flicker of surprise ghosts across Charles’ expression before that patented dimpled half-smile returns.

“Monaco? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m actually not sure if-”

He trails off, shaking his head in a rueful sort of resignation.

“Ah, merde — what I mean is that I just got word this morning that my flight back has been canceled due to some raised travel advisory or other. Classic airline nonsense.”

Your brows wing upwards as your sharp mind cycles immediately to the obvious solution.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you just come back on my plane?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can properly consider the context of your own casual statement. Leclerc blinks — Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he processes your incredibly nonchalant reference to having your own personal aircraft.

“... your plane?” He echoes, a new glint entering his stare as he studies you with fresh gravity.

You wave one hand in a dismissive little flourish, your practiced regal upbringing suddenly very apparent in the effortless hauteur radiating from you.

“Well of course, Charles — you didn’t think I flew commercial, did you?” Your nose wrinkles in feigned distaste as you grin up at him. “No, no — my family maintains a full fleet. I’m scheduled to return to Monaco via the 747 after the weekend wraps.”

Now it is the Ferrari star’s turn to look utterly gobsmacked, any veneer of media-trained poise utterly dissolving at your casual reference to owning a jumbo jet as if it were something as trivial as a sedan or motorcycle. His eyes bore into you with sudden intensity, as if seeing you in an entirely new light.

You can practically see the mental math exploding across his expression — the private security details, the designer casualwear on your lithe frame, the stunning and no doubt priceless jewelry glittering at your throat and wrists. All the tell-tale signs of absurd, eighth-continent-money levels of wealth.

And here you are, acting as if maintaining your own plane is just another given amenity ...

“Wait ...” he begins slowly, still processing the full scope of what you’ve so dismissively unveiled. “You’re telling me you have an actual, like … a 747 just sitting around that you use to fly wherever the hell you want?”

You blink owlishly up at him, momentarily bewildered by the sheer shock on his face. Surely the finer nuances of just how rich your family is couldn’t have escaped him completely up to now, could it?

So you simply shrug, offering him a playful smirk in a bid to diffuse any perceived arrogance or condescension on your part.

“More or less, yes,” you confirm breezily, pointedly ignoring his incredulity. “So what say you, Monsieur Leclerc? Shall we share a ride back to the riviera? I promise the in-flight movies are decent, at least.”

For a long moment, Charles can only stare at you, astounded at the bottomless depths of absurdity that is your birthright and lineage. Just when you think he may have simply short-circuited into a vegetative state, however, his mouth abruptly curves upwards into a devilish grin of epiphany.

“You know what?” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelieving amusement. “In that case, you’re on. A nice flight back to Monaco sounds … perfect for a little post-race pick-me-up.”

You can’t help but smirk triumphantly as Charles extends one hand, which you accept in a firm shake.

Some rigid societal expectations among the royalty and aristocracy may be slow to evolve, but others? They’ve prepared you for the political game that is Formula 1.

***

The late afternoon sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Monaco apartment, casting warm geometric patterns across the plush marble tile. You lie draped over one of the oversized couches, aimlessly scrolling on your phone in a rare moment of quiet downtime.

Or rather, you’re hanging completely upside down on the couch, bare feet kicked up over the back cushions as you flick through a few inane social media feeds. The blood is just starting to rush towards your head in an oddly calming wash when the soft snick of the entryway lock disengaging catches your attention.

“Mon amour?” Charles’ familiar, lightly-accented voice rings out from the foyer. “You home?”

“In here!” You call back, not bothering to right yourself as your boyfriend’s lean silhouette appears in the archway, shrugging out of his leather jacket.

He spots your inverted form sprawled across the sitting area and shakes his head with a bemused chuckle, all tousled chestnut curls and devilish dimples.

“Must you always hang about like an overgrown cat?” He chides playfully, moving to settle onto the adjacent sofa. Even after nearly five months of dating, Charles still seems perpetually amused by your tendency to shirk regal posture and poise whenever afforded the opportunity. “Is gravity simply too much effort for royalty these days … "

“Your mockery wounds my very soul, kind sir,” you drone in a monotone false-lament, never breaking eye contact with the Ferrari star as your arms dangle limply towards the floor. “Should I have the servants fetch you a fainting couch to make up for my uncouth posture?”

Charles snorts, watching you with undisguised affection as he stretches out on the other sofa. “And they say chivalry is dead ...”

One callused hand comes up to gently brush an errant lock of hair away from your face, fingers trailing across your cheek in a simple caress. After so many months of sneaking heated looks across press conference panels and fielding ruthless speculation over your rumored involvement, moments like this still spark a bewildered sort of giddy thrill within you.

Here is Il Predestinato himself, someone blessed with every imaginable advantage — talent, wealth, fame, charisma. Yet it is you, the comparative newcomer raised worlds away, who seems to hold his singular focus even in the quiet stillness.

“Is this some new fitness fad the rest of us ignorant plebeians should be made aware of?” Charles inquires after a pregnant pause, arching one brow at your upended state.

He knows you too well by now, you muse — knows how prone you are to defying expectation or traditional high society conventions whenever the mood strikes. So rather than offer any excuse or justification, you simply shrug airily.

“Just experimenting with different … perspectives for the time being,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him and reveling in the simple, teasing intimacy of the moment. “The world tends to look rather different when you turn everything on its head.”

“Isn’t that the truth ...” Charles hums, shifting ever-so-slightly closer before changing tacts. “Well, on that note … I’ve found myself with a rather unique perspective to share this evening.”

Your interest is instantly piqued, head lolling to one side as you regard the Ferrari star with renewed focus. One hand leaves its resting place on your abdomen, fingers wiggling inquisitively.

“Oh? Do tell, Monsieur Leclerc ...”

Charles chuckles again, low and genuine, before his emerald gaze turns pointedly opaque. Even now, after sharing countless impromptu evenings watching mind melting reality television and indulgent private vacations, he still retains the ability to utterly captivate your attention.

“Well, this particular news is rather more ...” He pauses for dramatic effect, pursing those perpetually kiss-plumped lips as if savoring the impending reveal. "... interesting.”

You exhale a petulant little huff, fighting the urge to stick your foot in his face or throw one of the decorative cushions at him.

“Charles, if this is meant to build suspense over you finally buying that fancy vacuum you won’t shut up about, I swear by the — mmph!”

Your playful griping is cut off as Charles suddenly lunges across the short distance separating your couches, capturing your lips in a fierce, silencing kiss. You squirm slightly at the abrupt shift in dynamics, the world seeming to spin and right itself as muscular forearms slide beneath you to gather you up into his lap.

By the time he finally pulls back, leaving you both breathless and slightly disheveled, you find yourself settled firmly in Charles’ sturdy embrace. Two sets of lidded eyes glaze over one another, reveling in the familiar intoxicating rush of chemistry.

“Easy there, mon ange,” he murmurs once you’ve both caught your respective breaths, one palm smoothing up and down your spine in an idle caress. “I promise this is a rather more agreeable surprise than debating vacuums.”

You watch, bemused, as his free hand dips into the inner pocket of his hoodie, withdrawing a familiar red envelope sealed with the unmistakable prancing horse emblem of Ferrari. Your heart rate instantly kicks up another notch at the mere sight of it, that infernal curiosity burning hotter than ever.

“The team initially planned to hand this off through proper channels,” Charles continues, expression inscrutable as he toys with the envelope, thumb tracing its embossed crest. “But given the … personal opportunity it presented, I thought it only appropriate to circumvent protocol this once.”

With that, he extends the envelope towards you, a silent offer for you to take up whatever life-altering missive lies within. You swallow hard against the sudden lump of anticipation welling in your throat, looking from the envelope, to Charles, and back again.

“What … what is this?” You croak, hating how fragile and uncertain your voice sounds.

Charles’ smile is soft as warm brandy, suffused with unguarded affection and pride. A pride not for himself, but for the very caliber of opportunity before you.

“For you,” he murmurs simply. “For your boundless determination to achieve in the face of adversity. This is the ultimate reward for outrunning not just your competitors, but the very expectations of an entire sport.”

The breath leaves your body in a dizzying rush as sudden realization crystallizes in your mind. How many nights have the two of you stayed up into the wee hours, idly discussing dream teams and potential openings across the grid? Debating which partnerships could provide the optimal platform for success?

This envelope bears no stamp or mailing address. But its rich, unmistakable crimson design and gleaming logo render such mundane addressing unnecessary. There is only one organization with the status to deliver their most sensitive communications in such an iconic manner.

With trembling hands, you accept the envelope, taking care not to smudge or crinkle its embossed insignia as you turn it over. Slowly, reverentially, you peel open the wax seal and slide out the sheaf of papers tucked within, eyes hungrily scanning the blocky sans-serif text:

SUBJECT: Ferrari Driver Offer, 2026 Season

Your breath catches in your throat, the words seeming to blur in a shimmering haze as hot tears instantly prick the corners of your eyes.

This isn’t merely a summons from Scuderia Ferrari. This isn’t a polite inquiry or negotiation tactic meant to bolster future value or status.

This is a formal contract, stamped with all the hallmarks of managerial approval ...

An invitation to join the most legendary name in all of motorsport as one of its drivers.

You shake your head in stunned disbelief, hardly daring to blink as your scrutinize every word, every assurance and term of agreement laid out in stark black ink.

It’s there, immaculate and absolute — a seat beside Charles for the 2026 season, to be finalized pending your confirmation and the exit of one former world champion.

Lewis Hamilton’s retirement.

The news had broken last month over the Ferrari driver’s surprise announcement that he would be exiting Formula 1 at the conclusion of the 2025 calendar year. Just one championship shy of his stated goal of eclipsing Michael Schumacher’s record for most drivers’ titles, the British superstar shocked the sporting world by revealing he was finally ready to step away from the cockpit and move on to other endeavors.

Speculation had run rampant, of course, over who within the sport’s glittering ranks of young up-and-comers had the talent and mettle to fill such an impossible void. You’d jokingly thrown about a host of names whenever the discussion arose with Charles, more content to fantasize and daydream rather than entertain any serious expectations.

Yet here it lies in your hands, in unblemished print. Proof that you’ve smashed through yet another carbon fiber-coated glass ceiling specifically by shattering every limitation placed upon your ambitions.

You glance up to find Charles gauging your reaction with a tender intensity akin to a besotted schoolboy, as if readying himself to sweep you off your feet all over again should you swoon from the news. Suddenly his every gesture from the moment he walked through your front door this evening makes perfect sense — the dramatics, the playful banter, and maddening evasiveness.

This was his way of showing you he’d listened, absorbed every idle comment or perceived slight you’d ever murmured over the proving grounds of your respective talents. That he saw and cherished every spark of hunger in your honeyed gaze, evident in your determination to continue defying odds not only as a woman — but as a pioneer hoping to be immortalized within motorsport.

The tears spill over at last, streaking unchecked down your cheeks as a tremulous laugh bubbles up unbidden from your chest. You lift one hand to shakily wipe at the dampness, willing yourself not to become an incoherent, hiccuping mess on the precipice of such a monumental achievement.

“I … I don’t even...” You begin, shaking your head slowly. For once, the woman raised to carry herself with poise and dignity in any station finds herself utterly bereft of words.

Charles merely watches and waits, soft sleeve brushing away the fresh tears tracking across your cheeks before cradling your jaw in one warm palm. Those mesmerizing eyes bore into yours with aching sincerity, seeing straight through you down to the deliriously euphoric riot of emotions swirling in your chest.

“Ferrari recognizes your spirit, your passion for this life, because it is the same fire that has forever stoked the heart of the Scuderia,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing an idle arc over the plump swell of your lower lip.

“They chose you not because you are a symbol — a pretty flag for them to rally under and wave as some achievement in name only. They see you as the next tireless warrior to pour their full belief into achieving victory.” A soft, affectionate breath of laughter escapes him, warm and adoring. “Which I know for a fact is the only ambition you’ve ever given a single damn about.”

You release a watery giggle at that, nodding in fervent agreement as you reach up to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring yourself in the tender solidity of his touch. Weeks and months of dogged speculation over prospects and vacancies, endlessly weighing the potential upshots and pitfalls of every career trajectory before you ...

… and here it waits, bold and singular as the sun itself — your chance to immortalize yourself among the hallowed ranks of Formula 1 royalty.

“You were made for this, mon cœur,” Charles continues, fingers trailing down the side of your neck in a gentle graze. “Your spirit, your sheer determination to shatter every obstacle placed in your way — Ferrari sees that fire blazing in you. It’s why they want you.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against your own as his lips curve into a devastatingly handsome smile, dimples peeking through.

“And not because of any family name or billions or royal pedigree you carry … but precisely because of how hard you’ve fought to strip all that away on the track. To make your own name and legacy that matters.”

The words strike you like the sweetest, most poignant arrow straight through your heart. And isn’t that what you’ve craved since the earliest dawning flickers of your obsession with this beautiful, brutal sport — recognition and triumph earned purely on your own merits?

You are no longer a Sheikha first, racing driver second. You are Y/N Y/L/N, Scuderia Ferrari driver in the making.

Before you can even find the words to respond — and what words could ever suffice at a moment like this — you are surging forward to capture Charles’ plush mouth with your own. The contract flutters forgotten to the floor as you pour every ounce of exhilarated gratitude and ardor into the fevered kiss, hands mapping the broad sloping planes of his shoulders and back with trembling urgency.

Charles responds in kind, all velvet heat and insistent possession as his arms sweep you impossibly closer, fingers tangling in the loose curtain of your hair. You allow yourself to succumb fully to the dizzying euphoria of his passion and the all-encompassing ambition now flowering in your breast unfurled, crashing over you in intoxicating waves.

This is no mere contract, no insignificant changing of pitlane scenery. This is the definitive moment where you have eclipsed every last shadow of self-doubt and exceeded even the lofty expectations bequeathed to you since girlhood.

You will become a legend.

Only when the need for air finally parts you does the fervent heat of the moment ebb enough for rational thought to pierce the moonlit haze of emotion. Your lips are swollen and tingling, senses heightened to every whisper and shift of muscle under Charles’ shirt as his chest expands in deep, measured breaths.

When you finally find the strength to lift your gaze and meet his hooded stare, he is the one rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity and elation blazing in your expression. Something he sees reflected back at him now from the woman nestled so securely in his arms.

“Oh, mon amour ...” Charles rasps at last, a sinfully indulgent smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes his head as if beholding some ascending deity, utterly transfixed.

“This is only the beginning ...”

***

The camera flashes turn the plush Ferrari hospitality suite into a makeshift photo studio. You try not to blink as the bright lights sparkle off the deep red lipstick you’re wearing.

“Okay, bellissima, one more,” the photographer calls out. You tilt your head slightly and smile wide. Charles squeezes your hand. The shutter clicks.

“Perfetto! I think we got it,” the photographer says, lowering his camera with a grin. “Grazie mille, you two.”

“Thank you,” you reply in your lightly accented English. Charles plants a kiss on your cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of his lips in lightly tinted lip balm on your skin. The makeup artist rushes over to touch it up before the next part of the shoot.

This is your first joint promotional event as Ferrari’s new driver pairing for 2026. Well, sort of new — Charles is a proven superstar entering his seventh season with the team. You, on the other hand, are the fresh face and the source of international intrigue.

“Next up, we’re filming a little Q&A section,” the producer explains, adjusting his headset. “Just a fun, casual way for the fans to get to know you both better before the season starts.”

You and Charles take your seats, situating yourselves comfortably on the curved scarlet sofa. An array of cameras surrounds you on robotic arms, remotely controlled to capture every angle.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the producer calls out from behind the lights. An energetic young woman with a microphone appears on camera, greeting you both enthusiastically.

“Bonjour Charles, Salaam Y/N! So great to have Ferrari’s exciting new line-up with us today. Let’s get to know you guys a little better — there are notecards with rapid-fire questions right here and you just banter away, okay?”

Charles leans forward, grabbing a stack of notecards from the table beside him. “Here’s an easy one to start — who is the most famous person in your contacts?”

“Mine is Seb, of course! Sebastian Vettel. Used to be my teammate, now he’s basically a world-famous hermit.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh come on, you can do better than that.”

“Your turn then, Your Highness,” Charles counters with a teasing lilt. “Who’s the biggest celebrity in that royal contacts list of yours?”

You tap a manicured fingernail against your plump lips, pretending to ponder the question. In truth, you know exactly who it is, and Charles is going to be stunned. A sly grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Does my father count?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Y/N. Pick someone a bit more … interesting.”

“Oh? You want interesting?” You tease, unable to resist dragging this out. “How about … Taylor Swift?”

Whatever Charles was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes go comically wide, jaw dropping slightly. “You … Taylor Swift? As in, the international popstar?”

“The one and only,” you confirm with a serene nod.

“How in the world do you have Taylor Swift’s phone number?” He sputters.

You shrug, admiring the gemstone-encrusted rings glittering on your fingers. “It was my 18th birthday party. Baba knew how much I loved her music, so he got her to perform.”

“He got … your father got Taylor Swift … to perform at your birthday?” Charles is still gaping at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Well yes, what else would you expect?” You laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “It wasn’t that big a deal, habibi.”

Charles opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. You lean over the side of the couch, draping one hand over the armrest as you gaze up at him with false innocence.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

“I …” he finally manages. “Y/N, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Is that so?” You bat your eyelashes coyly. “Good thing you’re stuck with me then.”

Charles shakes his head in disbelief, but his expression melts into a fond one, dimples showing as he grins down at you.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour.”

You sit up slightly at the pet name, spoken so tenderly. That warm, bubbly feeling fills your chest like always when Charles looks at you like that — like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, trying to ignore the blush you can feel heating your cheeks. “Ask another question before I get too distracted by that irresistible smile of yours.”

Charles chuckles darkly. “Oh, trust me. I’m very distracting.”

You giggle at his faux arrogance. “Very distracting indeed. Now come on, ask me something good.”

He glances down at the cards again. “Let’s see … what’s the most extravagant gift you’ve ever received?”

You don’t even have to think about that one. “My baby.”

There’s a pause, then- “Did you just refer to me as a gift?”

“Not you,” you laugh. “My gorgeous F2002.”

Recognition dawns on Charles’ face as he remembers your long tangents about the iconic race car. “Ah, of course. Your prized possession.”

“It was a present for my 15th birthday,” you explain, unable to keep the pride from your voice. “From Baba. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”

“I’ll bet,” Charles murmurs. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.”

“That she is,” you agree softly. Your eyes linger on Charles, watching the way the harsh factory lights play against the sculpted lines of his face, catching in his dark eyes. Beautiful, just like your car.

You tear your eyes away before you get too carried away, clearing your throat. “Next question?”

Charles blinks, seeming to shake himself from his own reverie before consulting the cards again. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the next one.

“Well this is … certainly a question.” He looks up at you with mild bewilderment. “What’s the most embarrassing thing your family has ever done?”

You grimace slightly at that. Your parents certainly haven’t been immune to embarrassing their only daughter over the years. After a moment’s hesitation, you launch into the story.

“Okay, so when I was sixteen, I had this dreadful crush on one of Baba’s racehorse jockeys …”

Charles listens attentively, dimples showing again as you regale the tale of your young lovesick self hopelessly pining after the older, objectively very attractive jockey. How your parents, in their infinite wisdom and total lack of subtlety, had gotten it into their heads that the best way to cheer you up over your unrequited crush was to invite said jockey over for a family dinner at the palace ...

“... and of course, in front of this painstakingly handsome man, my parents could not resist mercilessly teasing and embarrassing me the entire night!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, but you’re laughing too at the ridiculousness of the memory. “I thought I would simply perish from mortification right there at the table.”

“No, no, no,” Charles shakes his head, grinning widely. “Please, tell me more about how devilishly handsome this jockey was.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you snort, reaching out to shove his shoulder lightly. But you oblige him anyway. “Okay, fine, you want details? He was … oh, I don’t know, maybe 6 feet tall, tanned and muscular from all that riding, perfectly tousled dark hair-”

“Tousled dark hair, hmm?” Charles arches an eyebrow at you, smile turning sly. “Should I be jealous?”

“Oh hush, that was years ago,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Though I suppose if we want to talk about petty jealousies and crushes …”

When he seems confused, you smirk up at him mischievously.

“Word on the street is a certain Monegasque driver had quite the thing for Valentino Rossi back in the day.”

It’s Charles’ turn to snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows how obsessed you were with Fernando Alonso for years.”

“I was a child!” You protest with dignity, trying not to laugh. “It was an innocent celebrity crush and nothing more.”

“Uh huh, sure,” he teases. “Which is why you still have that massive lifesize poster of him in your bedroom at the palace-”

“How do you know about that?” You halt him, utterly mortified all over again. Your face flames scarlet as Charles dissolves into helpless laughter beside you.

“I’m only joking, ma belle,” he finally gasps out. “I’ve never seen this supposed poster.” Charles reaches out, looping an arm around your waist to pull you snug against his side. You go easily, butting your forehead lightly against his shoulder with a huff.

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he murmurs warmly. His fingers trace idle patterns against your hip, making you shiver. “Something about me must be tolerable.”

You tilt your head back to meet his intense gaze, your lips curving despite yourself.

“I suppose you’ll do,” you murmur. Then you lean up on your tiptoes to press your mouth against his.

Charles melts into the soft, lingering kiss, the arm around your waist tightening to bring you even closer against him. This close, you can feel the lean muscle and warmth of his body, your own tingling with awareness. One of his hands slips into your hair, cradling the back of your head and angling your lips for better access.

A quiet noise of pleasure escapes your throat as the kiss deepens, growing more heated. You part your lips eagerly to grant his questing tongue entrance, tasting the hint of coffee and addictive scent that always makes your head spin dizzily. His other hand smoothes down your side, over the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip, burning through the thin fabric of your team polo-

“Ahem … aaaand cut! Fantastic you two, that’s a wrap on this portion,” the director says, his amused tone breaking the trance. “Why don’t we take a short break before setting up for next segment?”

Cheeks flushed, you and Charles reluctantly pull apart, remembering there’s a whole bustle of crew surrounding you at the moment. Tucking a glossy lock of hair behind your ear, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.

“Raincheck on that kiss, habibi? I have a few more surprises in store for you later.” You graze his earlobe with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches. “If you think we already know everything about each other … you haven’t seen anything yet.”

With a saucy wink, you extract yourself from his embrace and saunter off to refresh your makeup, leaving your dazed boyfriend gaping after your retreating form.

***

Two Years Later

You wake with a start to the sound of your alarm blaring at 4:38 am. Groaning, you reach over to silence it, blinking blearily in the dark. It’s the start of another day of fasting for Ramadan — the first your now husband will be participating in to support you.

A soft snore comes from beside you and you can’t help but smile fondly. There he is, heartthrob of Formula 1 fans everywhere, drool trailing down his chin onto the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. How attractive.

“Charles,” you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Time to wake up for suhoor.”

He merely grunts and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his head. You sigh in exasperation. For an elite professional athlete, he can be stubborn as a mule when it comes to early mornings.

Giving up for now, you slip out of bed and pad across the plush carpet of your sprawling bedroom quarters in the palace. You flick on the ornate brass lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow that glints off the gold accents everywhere.

A jaw-cracking yawn escapes you as you make your way over to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water on your face will help wake you. Your bare feet slap against the intricate tile mosaics as you go.

“What time is it?” A sleepy voice calls out behind you.

“Early,” you call back. “We have forty minutes before the fast begins.”

You emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, slightly more alert, to find Charles blinking confusedly around the room, mussed hair sticking up every which way. He looks utterly lost without his morning coffee.

“Come along, habibi,” you say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of bed with a grunt. “Let’s go see what the kitchen staff has prepared.”

Charles just nods obediently, Ferrari red pajama pants hanging low on his hips in a way that makes your cheeks flush. Even barely conscious, he’s unfairly good-looking.

The two of you make your way down the torch-lit hallways of the palace toward the private dining room reserved for the royal family members. You can’t resist threading your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze.

“I’m proud of you for doing this,” you murmur. “It means everything to me.”

Charles halts, tugging you into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and familiar. You let your eyes drift shut as he brushes his lips across your forehead.

“Of course,” he rumbles in that delicious accent of his. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

A throat clears behind you and you jump apart, heat flooding your cheeks. Whirling around, you spot your father regarding you sternly, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Good mor-er, night? Apologies, Charles,” he says gruffly. “I’m still getting used to this schedule.”

Charles gives a awkward little bow. “No need to apologize, Your Highness.”

You roll your eyes fondly at the two most important men in your life. For cultures on opposite sides of the world, sometimes they’re more alike than either would admit.

“Have you two eaten yet?” Your father continues. “The cooks have prepared a feast as usual.”

Shaking your head, you tug Charles’s hand to follow as you make your way into the lavish dining room. It’s deserted at this hour save for the kitchen staff milling about, setting out enormous platters of food.

Arabian coffee in delicate gemmed cups. Chickpea stew and crisp flatbreads fresh from the tandoor oven. Heaping mounds of creamy balaleet vermicelli sweetened with rosewater and cardamom. Succulent medjool dates and purees of every fruit imaginable to kick off the fast as healthfully as possible. It all smells utterly divine and makes your mouth water.

You glance sidelong at Charles to see him staring around with an utterly gobsmacked look. His adorably bewildered expression makes you stifle a giggle — you always forget this is the first time he’s experiencing the elaborate palace rituals.

“Dig in,” your father says gruffly, already loading up his plate.

And dig in you do, shoveling food into your mouths as quickly as your etiquette training will allow. All too soon, the muezzin’s call to prayer rings out over the grounds, signaling the official start of the day’s fasting.

You sit back with a contented sigh, hands resting atop your pleasantly full belly. Beside you, Charles looks pleasantly stuffed as well in that gorgeous way where his shirt rides up just a hint. The old you might’ve flushed scarlet and averted your eyes like a proper modest lady. This emboldened you lets your gaze linger ...

“Enjoying the sights?” Your father’s wry voice cuts through your daze.

You startle, snapping your attention back to see his eyes twinkling with amusement. Of course the man misses nothing when it comes to his only daughter. The tips of your ears burn.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he continues, rising to his feet. “I have matters of state to attend to as usual despite the hour. Do try to behave, you two.”

You open your mouth to protest the teasing, indignant, but he silences you with a look and a raised brow. With great restraint, you merely nod instead. Soon as the door swings shut behind him, you blow out an exasperated breath, rolling your eyes heavenward.

“I love him dearly,” you start. “But sometimes-”

Whatever sarcastic rejoinder you were going to make dies on your lips when you catch sight of Charles again. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, looking utterly at ease amid the heart of Arabian luxury. A tiny, fond smile plays about his lips.

“What?” You ask self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he says at once, shaking his head. “I just … you look beautiful here. Content. Like you were born to it.”

It’s your turn to blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment. Of course you were raised amid affluence and trained in regal bearing from birth. And yet ...

“Flatterer,” you say at last, trying to brush off the warm curl of pleasure blooming in your chest.

Charles sits up straight, expression turning earnest in that intense way of his that never fails to rob you of breath.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’re so at home here. The way your face lights up at all the little traditions, how you banter with your father like you rule the place …” His eyes roam over you adoringly. “You’re magnificent.”

Your cheeks heat furiously, but you can’t look away, caught in his smoldering gaze. How is it possible for this man to make you feel so flustered and treasured after all this time? He reaches across to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper at last. “For doing this with me. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Of course,” Charles echoes his earlier sentiment simply.

There’s a brief, electrically charged moment where you’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else exists. And then … a low rumbling growl shatters the stillness. You blink as Charles flushes bright red.

“I, ah, seem to be hungry again already with the early schedule,” he admits sheepishly.

You throw back your head with a peal of laughter, loud and unbridled and utterly unconcerned with propriety for once. Leave it to your man to break the tension in the most delightfully awkward way. “Easy there, habibi. You’ll need to save room for iftar later tonight.”

Realizing you’ve caught him looking undignified, Charles has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “You’re right, mon ange. Got a bit carried away with my last chance to eat for awhile.” He licks his lips slowly, watching you with heated eyes. “I’ll be counting the seconds until I can taste you agai-”

“Charles, not during fasting hours!” You cut him off with a scandalized giggle, heat flooding your cheeks at his shameless innuendo. Even after all this time, he can still fluster you with a single heated look.

He just throws back his head with a full-throated laugh, utterly unrepentant.

You shake your head at his antics, trying in vain to suppress your grin. “Incorrigible,” you mutter fondly.

Leaning back in your chair, you settle in to watch him contently. Heat simmers low in your belly, anticipating the moment you can finally break your fast tonight and enjoy some … dessert.

The little eight-year-old girl attending her first race could never have imagined that this would be her life one day. Alhamdulillah for the blessings that Allah saw to bestow upon you. With your husband by your side and the ink drying on a long-term contract with Ferrari, you have everything you could have asked for.

[overcatic]

random astro observations pt. 2 (vedic)

1. sidereal aquarius is the most “hidden” and mysterious out of the zodiac. the heart of aquarius, shatabhisha, is the pinnacle of that energy.

2. jupiter in shravana can create a linguistic master, especially for people born in rahu or jupiter mahadasha. most likely to speak more than 3 languages.

3. any planet falling in uttara phalguni can make you attractive to women for the significations of that planet. mars: body, sex appeal, physical stamina, strength, masculinity. venus: your voice, eyes, charm, style, artistic talents, etc.

4. luminaries in chitra can make a person shine so beautifully in any group, setting, etc. unforgettable allure. people may find it hard to forget the chitra native’s influence and impact.

5. bharanis love chitras. bharani’s symbol is the womb (creativity), and chitra’s deity is the designer of wombs (muse and inspiration to the creative). chitra tends to generate a lot of creative energy, beauty and sensuality which inspire bharani to create, love, and wonder. however, this relationship could be draining to the chitra native in the long run.

6. venus conj. moon can make someone deeply sensitive and delicate. very fond of children. high fertility in women (if not afflicted). this conjunction has an energy similar to that of rohini.

7. ashwinis love wearing their hair down. a free, wild mane is their signature look.

8. in man’s chart, unafflicted ketu in the 1st house blesses him with a strong body and tall stature. jupiter makes him the biggest and tallest in his family, especially if it’s in sagittarius or aspected by ketu.

9. venus conj. rahu is the beauty expert — beauty guru. beautiful, big eyes. attractive voice. brilliant mind. may be detached from their sexuality. cerebal understanding of sex.

10. venus conj. ketu, especially in navamsa, is a sign that the soul will master unconditional love in this lifetime. deeply sensual and seductive. strong, spiritual connection with the lover or spouse.

11. taurus is the square (stability), leo is the triangle (power), scorpio is the rectangle (security), aquarius is the circle/sphere (unity). just a thought i had.

“ namaste & have a great day <3

[mondaymelon]

— "𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂...𝗰𝗿𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴?" ♥

:feat~ xiao, kazuha, scaramouche x gn!reader: 

⤷ slight angst + comfort n fluff (oops i made kazuha’s part abnormally long) ⤷ They make you cry.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open!) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis

At first, XIAO doesn’t understand that his words have cut you. 

He was always one with a blunt, yet sharp tongue, never afraid to speak his mind or to criticize your actions on the slightest whim. After all, why should he be hesitant? His power is common knowledge - as an illuminated adepti, there’s few who can rival his dexterity.

But he never expected his words to hurt you. Xiao has never fully understood human emotion. He’s always isolated himself from the foreign concept, determined to separate him and such… frivolities. Emotions are for mortals, and he is not one of man. In his manner of thinking, he’s just helping you improve yourself, so why are you…

“Archons, Xiao. It’s always about my mistakes. My mistakes, over and over and…” Then your wavering voice cuts off as you swallow, hard. What did he do wrong? Why were you acting this way?

That’s when the aloof yaksha notices the crystal teardrops spilling from your eyes, running down your cheeks and staining the skin it trails. The slight hitch in your shallowed breath and the way you stray from his touch, trembling, anxiously wiping at your tears.

“...Love?” He isn’t accustomed to seeing you like this, avoidant of his gaze and so… vulnerable. “Wait, please-”

“Archons, love. Please, look at me.” Xiao takes your wrist in his gloved hand, his grasp cautious yet firm. His voice is pleading, quiet, strained with desperation.

“No, I… I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His voice shakes as he tries to meet your eye.

“Love, you are perfect. I never meant to say otherwise.” Please, believe me.

“I’m sorry. So please…” He detests the way he’s acting, heart racing so shamefully, yet still embraces you tightly, skin cold to the touch.

“Stay by my side.” ♥

KAZUHA’s eloquent wording is one that never ceases to amaze, so it’s only a twinge of misfortune that causes a misunderstanding to form.

As a poet, the way he speaks is quite ornate, a manner in which people may not comprehend. However, that’s never exactly been a problem when it comes to the communication of the two of you. You understand Kazuha, and that translates to his speech as well, so in a way, it’s only natural.

Yet…

“The show was incredible, wasn’t it?” You take Kazuha’s hand, and follow his gentle tug on yours as he leads you out of the crowd, smiling back at you. The white haired male, being the traveler he was, decided to take you for a night out in Liyue Harbor, where the two of you first ate a fine dinner, and just finished viewing a performance from the Liyue Theatre. Your heart still raced from the night’s breathtaking sights and wonders.

“Indeed it was.” He closes his eyes, a sign that he’s content, and you can’t help but widen your grin. “The main casting role, the lady with the flowing dress, was exceptionally talented. Just from the way she glided about the stage… you can tell she’s experienced, and blessed with bountiful potential.”

You nod along, albeit a little awkwardly. There’s nothing out of the ordinary for the two of you to discuss such topics, but for some reason, the way he’s speaking about her just makes your insides want to crawl.

He’s still droning on, eyes sparkling. “...Then, at the final scene, when she began to sing… say, Love, why don’t you try theater? It might suit you well. Maybe one day you’d be on a stage, just like her.”

What the male meant was: try theater out, you’d do well.

But what you heard, instead, was: you should do theater too. then you could be as brilliant as her.

You hated the way it felt like he was comparing the two of you, weighing which one held more worth.

“I know! We’ll be staying here for a while, so why don’t I sign you up for…” His voice trails off as he lets go of your hand, aware of the tears that are starting to form in your wells. “Love, what… what’s wrong?”

“Kazuha… please, stop.”

“...What?” He seems genuinely clueless, but clasps but your hands in his, a worried gaze written all over his face. “No, I…”

“Please stop comparing me to her. I already know I don’t deserve you… it’s just…” Fuck, now you really couldn’t stop the way the droplets started rolling down your cheeks, stray tears falling from your eyes and splattering onto the wooden planks below. All of your discomfort seemed to infuse themselves into the shameful adrenaline that was coursing through your veins, because you had worried if you weren’t good enough for Kazuha. Someone as lackluster as yourself, going out with a handsome young swordsman, intelligent, kind… he was loved by many, and you…

“...Love, please!” 

When did he get so close? He’s leaned in, concerned, crimson-eyed gaze trained onto your every movement. “What are you even thinking about, to be breathing so heavily… no, c’mon love, look at me.” And when you do, eyes meeting his, his mouth morphs into a somewhat smile. “There must’ve been a misunderstanding.”

“Because you are most certainly superior to any other person in Teyvat.”

“And of all people, you…”

“I am the one not worthy of your love, so don’t ever say that again.”  ♥

SCARAMOUCHE doesn’t care at all, why should he?

He said some stuff that you took too close to heart, so what? If he hurt you, why should he fret over it? You’re strong enough to take it. All he said was one or two harsh words that merely came to mind, so there’s no need for you to be all wounded over it, either.

“Yeah, you’re pathetic.” Scaramouche scoffs at you, one hand on his waist while the free one makes sarcastic motions in the air. “You can’t even get one thing right, can you?”

The “thing” in question, in fact, was making Scaramouche dinner. You added a pinch too much salt, and now the male seemed to act like you’d committed a grave offense upon humanity… but then again, he was always dramatic, so this time shouldn’t be any different, right?

“I… I tried my best…” Your voice trails off as you cringe under his undermining glare.

“Clearly, your ‘best’ wasn’t enough.” His jeering tone is enough to make your heart shatter as you glance up at him, eyes wide. You don’t realize you’ve begun crying until you feel the sensation of tears spilling down your cheeks, falling from your eyes with silent melancholy as you seem to choke on your own words.

“Why are you… why are you crying?” You’re scared to look up at him, whatever expression he’s making, so you keep your head down, pitifully wiping your tears away.

“I’m not.”

“Sure you aren’t.” His voice is airy as he rolls his eyes, frowning at you. What, now you get to act all disheartened? What did he even do to upset you?

“I’m not crying.”

“C’mon, Kuni. It’s okay to say if you’re sad. Here, cheer up, and I’ll give you this flower, okay?”

A voice echoed in his head.

“...Huh?”

And it’s strange, really, how the sight before him mirrors one from long before. The way your eyes hold so much sorrowful desperation, the way you seem so broken inside, and most of all, the way the tears that run down your face seem achingly familiar.

“Shit.” His voice seems small, too small. “Wait, love, I-” His voice cuts off as he sighs, unsure of what to say. The beating of his anxious heart overpowers all noise.

“Love, I was… joking. I don’t mean any of it.”

“You being here is a blessing of itself.”

“Archons, please know how much I love you.” ♥

(a/n) i accidentally made xiao's part the shortest i am a disgrace to humanity

[ddarker-dreams]

BRILLIANT fucking idea: SR reader insinuating/offhandedly admitting… she has never been intimate. everyone hearing it like 🧍🏾‍♀️ how do you mean. idk j the flustered bashfulness of suddenly being like “wajt wait if im her bf ,,, im her first love”

SCREAMINGGGGG

[Scarlet Ribbons index]

Giorno

Giorno is a bit strange because he almost wishes he had a predecessor to analyze (and completely outshine). He isn’t disappointed per se, he’s not that weird, but having more study material never hurts. Positive relationships are foreign to him, since he’s been distant from others most of his life. He got along with people well enough — he just preferred his own company. Now that he’s had a taste of your company, he’s keen on making it a lifelong occurrence. Overhearing this admission has him wondering if traditional courting methods don’t do much for you. Or, more realistically, that they go over your pretty head. He's witnessed you interpreting the gang's flirtations as platonic. Consequently, he gives considerable thought to ensuring this isn't a fate that befalls him. Corny as it sounds, his new dream is to stand beside you as your husband. He's chasing this goal without abandon.

Bruno

Bruno feels immensely guilty for eavesdropping on a conversation involving something so personal, but he couldn't help himself. An immense weight feels like it's been lifted from his shoulders upon learning you haven't gotten romantically involved with anyone before. This relief is followed up with sharp self-condemnation — as your leader, he shouldn't get involved with your personal affairs. Maintaining any professional distance is difficult though, especially when you're so likable. People are naturally drawn to you and he's no different. That's why this revelation comes as a surprise, albeit a good one. He tells himself he'd be happy for you if you loved someone else... however, deep down, he knows the regret would eat him alive. He struggles to concentrate the rest of the day. His mind keeps wandering back to thoughts of you, specifically, finding solace in one another’s warmth. The most innocent thoughts make his heart flutter, the man is smitten.

Fugo

Fugo almost renounces his atheism — perhaps there is a God after all. Then he's reminded that you're completely out of his league, submersing him back into the Nietzsche headspace. His self-esteem isn't the best, so the way he looks at it is if no one else was good enough to catch your attention, what chance did he have? It's a miracle you even put him with him. He's blunt, stubborn, and easy to agitate, yet you're one of the few people alive who don't treat him like a ticking time bomb. When his initial pessimism dies down, he fantasizes about you getting flustered by things like a first kiss. It's a cute mental image. Would you fidget? Accidentally bump heads and apologize? Get sweaty palms? Before he knows it, he's invented an entire storyline in his head. It's mushy enough that he struggles to look you in the eye the next time he sees you.

Mista

Mista pretends he knew it all along, as if the Pistols hadn't kept him awake multiple nights, speculating over your relationship status. The little fellas held full-blown debates. Since he's a chill, go-with-the-flow type of guy, he wouldn't have turned green with envy had he learned you former lovers. If they brought you happiness, who is he to hold it against them? Regardless, he can't deny his budding excitement. Should you reciprocate his feelings, you'll experience all your firsts with him. Those initial milestones are the moments that stick with people throughout their life. It's your first kiss in particular that he'd like to have for himself. He intends to sweep you off your feet — literally. It's got to be like those old Hollywood flicks he grew up watching, or what's the point?

Narancia

Narancia has to stop himself from audibly cheering. The multiple abandonments he underwent in the past has him latching onto the few people remaining in his life. This includes you, naturally. You've brought him so much joy, the risk of losing that, losing you, it's a fear that eats away at him. He worries that if you had exes, you might compare him to them and determine he's subpar. Then he'd be cast aside like trash as he had been multiple times before. These insecurities nourish his possessive tendencies. Learning that he has no exes to fend off is a great relief because he would've defended you viciously. It isn't until later that he daydreams over the more innocent implications, like being your first (and only!) boyfriend. He gets so preoccupied by the thought that he walks into a few walls.

Abbacchio

He's actually surprised to learn about this. He considers using Moody Blues so he can hear the entire conversation, but decides against it, believing it to be an intrusion of your privacy. Abbacchio's of the opinion that to maximize your happiness, you should find love outside of Passione. He wants that for you, and yet... his heart physically aches whenever the possibility crosses his mind. What's the alternative, then? Would he make for a suitable partner? He finds the mere possibility laughable. Your brightness would be engulfed by the gaping maw that is his existence. He considers this an empirical truth, not some 'woe is me' sentiment. Ultimately, anytime your love life (or lack of one) is brought up, he distracts himself, so as not to fixate on his shortcomings.

[moonsaver]

Thinking back to a post you once made about Aeon Sunday… Imagine being someone who knew Sunday in the past before his ascension, only to then receive the gaze of Aeon Sunday later in life

Oh my god. I love this. This is simultaneously creepy AND oddly romantic.

Theres a lot of possibilities for this – was reader sunday's crush? A suitor? Maybe just someone he shared small talk with and actually liked it more than usual? Ooohohoho

Im not sure if its yan or not, so i just kinda.. kept it variable(?)

This ones a bit longer because i desperatley need to wordvomti . Thanks.

Achieving an aeon's gaze is strange, your discipline, morals, ideals, lifestyle, something has to deeply resonate with their followed path. Let us assume Sunday is something similar to a "dreamlike" aeon [maybe it's mentioned in his boss form description, all i remember is the embryo of Philosophy ;;]

But again, it's not exactly stated how you'd be able to achieve an aeon's gaze; i still have no idea how acheron did it [IX is literally a black hole??], because i cant for the life of me read through those huge blocks of texts in the dialogue.

So lets say Sunday's able to pull his own strings and maybe even force you on that path. He's an aeon – who's stopping him?

Its the middle of the night, you're awake in bed, tossing and turning. It feels like something in your chest is pulling, a weird sensation you've been trying to put off. Your eyes are burning from the lack of sleep, but your mind seems restless. You try to calm yourself down and think about one thing and then another, one by one, until you remember Sunday. You wonder what was going through his mind, his in-between words in that one conversation, what he could have meant..

And like that, you fall asleep. Your bones sink into the bed, your weight relaxes into the pliant surface.

And then you awake. But somewhere else. It's not your bedroom – not the familiar ceiling, nor the corner of your room with piled clothes or a messy table. It's the cosmos, littered with stars. It's strange. You almost don't notice until you try to move – you're floating in space.

You turn, and he's there. That recognizable golden halo, stretching out into the dark expanse like the inside of a star plunging into the depths, golden eyes that peer down at you; with recognition, understanding, almost sympathy, and something you can't quite place. Your ribs ache and your lungs burn when you're reminded to breathe – this is the man you were thinking about before you slept.

You wake up, panting, shooting up in bed. The familiar space of your room greets you this time. The night is young outside your window ‐ not much time seems to have passed in that brilliant moment.

You were ready to chalk it up to a dream, like the ones where you feel like you're falling and wake up with a racing heart. But then you look down, and see a strange symbol on your body, something akin to an eye.

It seems you've earned his blessing to follow his path.

And even more? It seems like you're the first person to actually follow this path.

It's strange and isolating in a way. You can awaken from the sweetdream paradise your beloved Aeon seems to have put penacony under. You gain this strange, superflous, iridescent ghost of a halo, and you realise you can use it to communicate.

You can communicate with Sunday.

But a part of you finds it pointless. you can't understand what he's saying anymore; Aeons' existence transcends language. You can only hear whispers of people speaking to you, as though it's from the corner of a room, somewhere in the distance, with one barely audible male voice standing out in the whispering; it might be sunday's real voice, but you're not sure. At least, to some degree, you've managed to make out a few words.

Some words give you information. You can monitor the true handiwork of your aeon this way. Every person's dream — sweet, deep slumbers, exquisitely woven by deft fingers, all in 7 days. You figured this when you phased out of the dream, looking down at your own sleeping body and freaking out, when Sunday communicated with you for the first time, instantly calming you down. Dream. Woven. 7 days. Those words were evident in the cacophony of whispers.

Some words carry warnings. Or rather, they're not exactly words.

When your curious hands boldly trace the surface of a particularly fragile dream, you hear breathing. In close proximity, too, as if its right behind your ear. Sometimes, if you try to wake someone, you feel the breathing; warm, and languidly flowing down the back of your collar. You've chosen to not find out what happens when you don't listen.

Sometimes, when you decide to simply phase out of the dream to take a look at your own body in reality – you talk to Sunday. You tell him what you think, who you met in the dreamscape, what he can do to make it better [since.. well, you can't exactly do much to awaken anyone or oppose an aeon]. You assume he doesn't hear you, since you don't get your whispery response, but after you catch a few glimpses of your suggestions in the dreamscape, you realise he's just a good listener.

Perhaps, even if you may be the only follower of this path for now.. it may not be as isolating as you think.

[bhaalsbabe]

This bed has seen everything

Pairing: afab!Durge Reader x Enver Gortash

Label: nsfw

Word count: ~2k

Summary/warnings: MDNI, afab!durge, durge is a magic user, unprotected sex, piv, creampie, some biting on both sides (and both sides like it), choking (receiving), the glove stays on, Gortash is a simp for durge but what's new, Gorty is more dominant here

Author's note: long expected part two of This desk has seen everything. Please enjoy and let me know your thoughts &lt;3

You need to focus or you'll get yourself killed. The Emperor's stern voice rumbled inside your head, the force of his mind pushing your urge back, enough for you to see clearer again. You were standing next to an open manhole. Looking around to figure out where you were, you noticed an undead beggar you ran into after entering the Lower City a day before. You sighed, rubbing your temples as you made your way back to the room you had acquired in Elfsong Tavern. As soon as you entered the main square, however, you were stopped by one of the steel watchers.

"Citizen, lord Gortash is looking for you. Please return to Wyrm's Rock Fortress immediately," its robotic voice said.

"And what if I don't return?" You asked, not in the mood to deal with both Gortash and this annoying piece of metal.

"Then you'll be escorted there against your will."

You frowned, thinking about your options quickly. You hated having to follow anyone's orders. At the same time, you weren't in a position where you could take out the entire city's guards, and while you could turn invisible to slip out of this steel watcher's grasp, you would have to show yourself eventually and be captured then.

"Fine, I'm going there right now. Happy?" Your voice was dripping with malice that totally went over the steel watcher's head. It continued standing there menacingly, watching you as you made your way out of the city again. You walked as slow as possible, wondering what awaited you.

Gortash wanted you. That much was evident. The surprising part was that you wanted him too. This man, who was ready to doom so many people for his god and hunger for power, who hurt Karlach so much and sold her to Zariel... You should hate him and be planning his assassination, putting a stop to all of this. Yet instead, you were thinking of how familiar his touch felt on your body, how it made your heart sing in a similar way as killing did. Even without the memories that would explain the reasons for it, you craved him, his brilliant mind and his reverent touch.

As you entered the fortress, you were greeted by the mechanical voice of the steel watcher, telling you that "lord Gortash is awaiting you in his chambers". Two guards, these made of actual flesh, then lead you to what you assumed were the doors to his chambers. You waited until they left before entering, your heart speeding up in anticipation.

The room was big and expensive looking. It screamed 'important person resides here'. Currently dimly lit through various hanging lanterns, you could still make out the prevalent colours, red and black, with occasional sprinkle of green. All the way back was a king sized bed with canopy, with its owner sitting on its edge.

"You gave me quite a scare back there. I thought you'd start a bloody rampage in the open." He chuckled but you noticed he sounded almost relieved as his eyes set on you. You felt a pull towards him, your feet leading you to the bed on their own.

"I warned you I'm not as in-control as you might think." You replied, stopping in front of him. The dark lighting of the room made him look more imposing and you had to admit, it suited him. Black was his colour. His smile widened as he caught you staring at him.

"Can't help yourself? I don't blame you~" You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead choosing to ask the question that's been burning in you.

"What exactly were we?" You winced at how unsure and vulnerable you sounded. Gone was your usual confidence. When it came to your past, you were lost and helpless and it scared you. Part of you berated yourself for showing a weakness to an enemy of such status as Gortash.

But he didn't take advantage of it. His eyes softened and his flirtatious smile changed into a melancholic one. You had a strong feeling not many people had seen this particular expression on him. He stood up, taking both of your hands into his while gazing into your eyes.

"Allies," one of his hands left yours to wrap around your waist and pull you against his lean body. You let him do it, intuitively putting your free hand around him too.

"Friends," he leaned close to you, his next word whispered to your ear as if it were the most precious secret.

"Lovers." You heard him take a deep breath, almost like he was taking in your scent, his hold on you tightening for a brief second before he pulled away, reluctantly letting you go and stepping back.

Hearing him actually say it made a bit of your doubt and guilt go away. Of course your body recognised your lover, even if your mind struggled. You weren't betraying your friends by wanting to be close to Gortash. How could they possibly blame you for wanting someone you used to love?... You could easily do more mental gymnastics to defend your following actions if necessary.

Your breathing quickened as you pushed him back, making him fall into the bed, before climbing over him. "Good. Now I don't feel so bad for wanting to fuck you."

His eyes widened as he took you in, looking up at you as if you were a god, a self-satisfied smile stretching over his face.

"Old habits die hard~" He said before using his strength to flip you over. "You should know your place, however," his voice was deeper, his clawed hand wrapping around your neck, making it harder to breathe. You glared at him in defiance, displeased that he'd dare to do this.

"Oh, are you imagining slicing me open now? Frying me with you spells?" His eyes and voice were laced with amusement. He put more pressure on your neck, the sharp claws digging into the soft skin of your neck. He leaned close to your face. "Good."

The moment your lips connected, he released his hold on your neck enough for you to be able to breathe better again. His other hand made it's way under your shirt, mapping your body to his memory again. He sighed contentedly, almost getting lost in the simple kiss-

And then you bit his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood and to make him recoil in shock. He pulled away, touching his bleeding lip gingerly before looking back at you. His eyes seemed to get impossibly dark as he watched you lick your lips, stained by his blood. His pants got more tight as you gave him a mad grin, one that used to be on your face so often before your disappearance.

"I didn't think you still had it in you," he chuckled, looking way too happy for someone who could've lost his lip.

"You seem to be enjoying the pain. Aren't you supposed to be a tyrannical sadist?" You teased him, dropping your gaze at his quite visible bulge before looking back at him.

"Oh I can be, trust me, dear. You're just too special." He got near your face again, scanning over your features with his eyes. You could see the imperfections on his skin in return - the soft wrinkles around his eyes, the laugh lines, the scar on his chin - and as you shared this moment, you truly felt special.

You started kissing each other once again, more passionately and ferociously, both of you needing to feel, touch, taste each other. Gortash pressed his clothed erection against your core and you moaned into the kiss, your legs wrapping around his body to pull him closer, to stimulate the spot that was crying for attention. All of a sudden, none of you had the power to continue your playful banter. You needed him, and he needed you.

He started undressing you, his nimble fingers making quick work of your clothes and he didn't even have to stop kissing you for a moment. His hands kept exploring your body, squeezing in all the right places. He knew your body well.

His mouth left yours to kiss your jawline and continue lower, to your neck, your clavicle, and even lower, to give some welcome attention to your nipple. As he sucked on that piece of flesh, one of his hands started its journey over your inner thigh all the way to your cunt. He only dragged his finger through your folds, spreading your slick, and your hips buckled.

"Fuck... Enver, just fuck me already," you panted, your chest heaving heavily, your nails digging into his shoulders. He left your nipple with a 'pop', his dark eyes drinking in the sight of you before him, all desperate and needy, although he wasn't doing much better and you uttering his name didn't help.

"As you wish, my dear," he mumbled, removing his pants and underwear hastily. He didn't bother with prepping you, knowing you enjoyed the sting of his cock splitting you open and so he inserted his dick in you in one fell swoop. You tensed up, unused to this kind of pain, trying to hold back any sounds of discomfort. Gortash noticed it, kissing you softly on the lips, before whispering into your ear:

"You're doing great, my love, just relax." His fingers started playing with your clit, mixing the pain with pleasure and soon you were urging him to move again. He didn't need to be told twice, his hips pistoning into yours immediately after getting your permission.

He was thick, making the muscles in your vagina strain as they tried to accommodate his girth. It helped that you were embarrassingly wet, the squelch audible every time his dick moved in and out of you. Gortash buried his head in your neck, letting out whimpers that made you feel less humiliated about the noises you made.

"Ah, I've missed this. I've missed you. Thought I'd never see you again..." he mumbled into your neck, his breath hot against it. He cradled you close, as if you could slip between his fingers at any moment, his hips picking up speed. He wanted to enjoy this more, he truly did, but he was desperate to state his claim on you again, make you his once more. He made sure to rub circles into your clit in an effort to bring you to climax along with him. You were so responsive to his touch, like the first time you gave yourself to him, and he wanted to make sure you'll come back for more.

His clawed hand that held you close kept leaving bleeding scratches behind that you didn't mind at all, not when everything in this moment made you feel so alive. You thought killing felt great but this was actually better than that. He then bit your neck, groaning at the same time, his hips stilling, and you felt a warm sensation in you as he filled you with cum. With the continuous stimulation in and around your cunt, along with the small bits of pain he brought you, you followed him over the edge soon after, a silent prayer of his name on your lips.

You were both breathing heavily, still wrapped in each other as you tried to recover a bit of lucidity. Gortash finally pulled out, making his sperm spill out of you onto the expensive bedsheets but he couldn't care less. He laid next to you, pulling you against his chest, and he kissed your head sweetly. It felt unreal, that a supposed tyrant like him had the capacity to be so gentle, to an enemy no less, and yet here you were.

Well, let's just say you're heavily considering your alliance now.