#Heart immediately loving the plush beloved | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pucksandpower · 2 months

Text

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.

960 notes · View notes

tainted-liquor · 8 months

Text

'Watch Your Fucking Mouth! ...₊˚⊹♡ Ft. 42Miles

...˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

e42!Miles Morales x Autistic!BlackFem!Reader

ingredients: Sugar, Lemon zest, n a lil bit of smiles!

TWs: 'ual harrasment, Miles choosing violence, cussing, bullying

A/N: this is designed for blackfem readers on the mild to moderate end of the autism spectrum. NOT every autistic person is the same, but this is specifically modeled based on MY experience with autism, because this is how I see the world. Enjoy

Reader has a kirby/retro games special interest btw

For the past 7 months, you've been dating your beloved boyfriend, Miles Morales! Of course, this was way easier said than done. Miles had a permanent stone face, a smooth and focused voice, and struggled to describe or depict his emotions. Regardless of that small barrier, he made every effort in the world to make sure you understood where he was coming from. By now he had a pretty good understanding of what to do and what not to do, even going so far as developing somewhat of a routine with you.

You were walking hand in hand with Miles, listening to him recall his day before you briefly paused to look at a cute little shop housing tons of adorable plushies, but most importantly Kirby plushies. Miles stopped, watching as you stared down the cute little sleeping Kirby in the window. Miles chuckled to himself, finding the whole ordeal adorable as you ripped your eyes away from the display window. "You want that plush, huh?" He asked, leading you back in the direction of the tiny store as you nodded eagerly. "Aight, c'mon. Go get it" he nodded as his heart throbbed in his chest while he watched your face light up.

You left the store with 2 new action figures that you fought to pay for and several Kirby plushies. "Happy?" he asked, smiling subtly as his hand found purchase right in yours. "Mhm! I fucking love Kirby man he's just so...cool!" you beamed, rocking your arms side to side with joy. "Aight, c'mon. I gotta get you home before your mom blow my top off" he chuckled, rolling his eyes with faux annoyance as he led you home. "'Kay. Can you walk me to school tomorrow, please?" you asked, gazing into the paper bag holding your merchandise.

"Of course, mama. You want me to bring you a croissant from that bakery?" He asked, watching your side profile with a soft smile gracing his features. "Yes please!" You beamed while rounding the corner to your house. "I think when I get home I'm gonna play with my kitchen set or something...that shit was fun" You giggled as Miles pretended to help you up the stairs like a bodyguard, pressing his imaginary earpiece and muttering an 'all clear'. You waved goodbye, peppering every inch of his face with kisses and tiny bites.

The next day rolled around within the blink of an eye, prompting you to do your daily routine of a hot shower and self-care. You quickly touched up your Fulani braids, slicking down your edges and adding pink star clips to tie the look together before throwing on your uniform, mentally cringing at how the waistband felt against your stomach. You charged down the stairs with your backpack, waiting on the couch for a couple of minutes before getting a text from Miles informing you that he was outside. You flung the front door open, immediately smiling as you caught sight of your boyfriend. "Hey Miles!"

"Hey. I gotchu your croissant, c'mon" he smiled as he gestured behind him with his head. You locked your front door, walking alongside him as he handed you your food and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You walked the entire way to school, giggling like children as you showed him some dumb 'school tea pages' on your phone. "Niggas be irritatin'...HELP LOOK AT THIS ONE!" you guffawed, tears clouding your eyes as you showed Miles a 'lala bop' video. His eyes widened, jaw hanging open as he read the caption before bursting out in laughter.

"Nah that's TRAGIC...how you 15 with 17 bodies? That's fucking CRAZY!" He gasped, shaking his head in disbelief as you made your way into school. "Aight, Imma see you during 3rd, okay?" He reassured, giving you a kiss on the cheek before walking in the direction of his advisory. You waved bye in between bites of your croissant as you skipped over to your advisory, ready for another boring and dull day of school. You hated the constant cycle of sad blue and white days, praying that something would spice up the day. Well, you got your wish! It just wasn't what you were expecting...at all.

Miles walked through the halls, scrolling through your Instagram on his phone before deciding to make a slight detour to the bathroom. He huffed in annoyance as he saw a small line leading out of the boy's bathroom, opting to lean on a neighboring locker while he continued to mind the business that paid him. "YEO! Miles!" Someone shouted, prompting him to snap his head towards the noise. He locked eyes with his friend Terrence, smirking slightly as he dapped him up. "What's good witchu? You trynna skip 1st period?" Miles asked as he tucked his phone in his back pocket.

"Yessir. Who the fuck bouta be up at 8 AM doing math? They must be fuckin' stupid or some shit, like. Fuck is you talkin' bout" Terrence complained, rolling his eyes with an obvious grimace. "Nah, I feel you. I just do the homework they posted cuz fuck I needa go to the class for if you post the lessons?" Miles grunted, dawning the same grimace as his homie. "Bullshit, that's what it is. But YO! I heard from niggas that you dating what's her name now?" Terrence poked, smirking slightly. "Y/N," Miles corrected "And yes, that's my girl. Why?" He asked, furrowing his brows slightly and turning his head to the side. "Okay, I see you my boy. Her shit mad yurky too I understand" Terrence joked, elbowing Miles slightly with a...disgustingly lustful expression.

"Pardon?" Miles asked, leaning his head towards the shorter boy in an attempt to make sense of his previous sentence. "I'm sayin', she got a body on her. Can't be there for the personality, that bitch a fuckin' geek, just tell her you trynna hit!" Terrence giggled. "Yo, Terrence. Watch your fucking mouth" Miles spat, feeling anger and rage bubble throughout his veins. "My bad gang, I assumed you was in it to hit it! C'mon man, don't tell me you like-"

BOOM!

There was a universal wave of "OHHHH!" and gasps. Splotches of blood littered the floor as the metal locker dented slightly. "Say it again. So I can fuck you up, c'mon" Miles grunted, delivering a disgustingly heavy kick to Terrance's head. "No te quedes callado ahora, vamos" He giggled, leaning back against the locker like nothing ever happened. The news took absolutely zero time to get to you, considering you were two rooms down from the actual fight. "Fuck" you whispered, mentally preparing yourself to have to yell at your boyfriend for two hours.

"MILES FUCKING GONZALO MORALES! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING! WHY WERE YOU EVEN FIGHTING THE NIGGA IN THE FIRST PLACE!" You screamed as soon as Miles showed up at your bedroom window after school. "Baby I'm not gonna subject you to the shit he was saying, but just know it was for you" He cooed, subtly ignoring the fact that you were practically berating him in real time as he mushed his cheek against yours. "DO YOU EVEN HEAR ME RIGHT NOW?" You yelled, ripping his face away from yours as you held his jaw in both hands. "Yes, 'm sorry. I swear I am, but I do not like when niggas talk about my girl" he grunted as he rolled his eyes. You sighed, rubbing your temples as you called upon your ancestors to give you the strength to deal with this boy.

"Look, I can handle myself. Don't do that shit again, aight?"

"Yes my love."

Taglist:

@ashsostrange @chessbox @faeriesoiree333 @janaeby @an1bara @fivestardior

#miles morales x reader #atsv #spiderman atsv #spiderverse #into the spiderverse #miles morales #miles morales fluff #miles molares #across the spider verse #miles morales headcanons #earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles fluff #earth 42 miles morales x black!reader #earth 42 miles x you #42 miles morales

884 notes · View notes

fatuismooches · 6 months

Text

fabulam diu oblitus - first interlude.

synopsis: The tale of the raven and the sparrow has long been forgotten by most, but some will always remember.

includes: dottore w/ gn! reader

notes: This is the second part of a multi-chaptered Dottore fic, please read the prelude before reading this one. Your and Dottore's life continues to be told via a fairy tale crafted by the one and only Dendro Archon. Mostly fluff this chapter but the last two will not be so nice. Obligatory @kaixserzz mention and all my anons who inspired me to write this! (🎐 anon <3)

prelude. first interlude. second interlude. postlude. sequel.

“But one day, a miracle happened. The bird woke up from their eternal rest, utterly confused and lost.”

When you woke up, everything was hazy. Your eyes were open, but you couldn’t see anything. Rather, you could not process what you were seeing. It was a strange state. Everything felt fuzzy… but then the light from above glared suddenly right into your eyes, and you instinctively moved your hand to block the blinding light.

You were wide awake now, blinking your eyes and rubbing them. And though you had just woken up from a good nap, you quickly realized nothing made sense. Everything was eerily quiet, to the point where you could hear a pin drop. The grand and expensive room, the large plush bed. This wasn’t the hospital! And it looked absolutely nothing like the Akademiya either, not even the architecture! When you moved to stretch your arms, that’s when the biggest discovery finally hit you.

Attached to your arms was an alarming amount of wires, hooked up to machines and whatnot.

Okay… now you had gone from mildly confused to kind of scared. You weren’t dead, right? Nope, pinching yourself still hurts. And- ouch, the random sharp pains you suddenly got in parts of your body were most definitely real. And these clothes, they weren’t yours, but they looked like something you’d wear. But… why were you like this? And more importantly, where was Zandik? You remember your beloved quite clearly… you were waiting for him to visit you again… hmm. And for some reason, you felt… a lot better than what you remembered? You felt super tired in that hospital, but now, you think you got a bit better. That was weird. But anyway, you had bigger issues. It was even weirder how you were no longer in that drab, busy hospital.

There was no other option than to go find Zandik and learn where you were. However, you had to get rid of these wires first. Without putting too much thought into it, you pulled one off your arm.

Horrible idea.

Before you could even blink, a loud alarm suddenly started blaring inside the room, scaring the shit out of you. What the hell? As any frenzied person would do, you began to pull off even more wires from your arm rapidly before finally all of them were off. The alarm merely kept going off which was obviously quite disturbing to you. Were people going to burst through the door at any moment and incapacitate you again? Wait, were you kidnapped? Oh, you just wanted Zandik to be with you right now, you thought as you pulled the heavy blankets off your body. Surely he’d know what to do. And then the door to the room slammed open, immediately beckoning your attention as you snapped your neck to see who it was.

And lo and behold, it was Zandik.

Your Zandik, draped in the Akademiya’s robes. Those red eyes and blue hair that you loved. Suddenly you could forget about your current abnormal situation and block out the noise, solely focused on your heart positively soaring as you gazed upon your love.

But you quickly realized that he did not share the same expression. Not in the slightest. Rather, Zandik was looking at you with surprise, shock, astonishment, whatever you wanted to call it. It made you feel wholly uneasy. Why was your love looking at you as if you were from another universe? Like you had come back from the dead? Before you could question him, another person barreled in through the door. Another mop of blue hair. Another pair of red eyes. Another Zandik.

Your heart stopped for a moment.

Who were these people, and what have they done with your Zandik?

It only got worse when yet another Zandik look-alive entered. Only this time he was wearing bloodied clothing and gloves. You were too shocked to scream, and now all the other blue-haired people were panicking at your fearful expression and began fighting amongst themselves.

“Why would you come in looking like that?!”

“How was I supposed to know they had woken up?! It’s been centuries, I thought a wire detached by accident or something!” The one with the bloody coat and pink bow tie snapped back. The bickering continued but that was the least of your worries right now. You glanced around the room, trying to see if there was another escape route.

The windows. Yes, they would have to work. You didn’t know what floor you were on, but you’d have to take a gamble. You inched towards the end of the bed and swung your legs off the edge, hoping to bolt to it quickly. You placed one foot on the ground, putting all your force into it to sprint and-

Instead, your legs buckled and you fell pathetically to the floor, squeaking in a mixture of pain and surprise. You tried to heave yourself up with your arms, but your legs felt too weak. It was as if your legs wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t listen to your demands. You wiggled them around a bit, but it seemed as if they didn’t have enough strength to stand up on their own. You didn’t understand. Even though you were quite sick before, you could still walk a bit. This, however, was an unfamiliar sensation that filled you with dread. And now the Zandik clones’ attention was back on you.

“Oh fuck,” one of them mumbled, running his hands through his hair. You gulped, but they seemed reluctant to come near you judging from their nervous expressions. Well, you were going to take advantage of that, so you continued crawling toward the window. “Go get Prime. Now,” he hissed. A clone rushed out of the room but that was the least of your concerns. It was slightly humiliating to be watched as you crawled, but you persevered anyway. Thankfully, there was a table near the window, so you could use it to pull yourself up without using your legs too much. How were you going to escape with virtually no legs? Well, that was future [Name]’s problem.

The clones, on the other hand, seemed incredibly antsy about your hand on the curtain, ready to pull it away. It seemed as if they were trying to speak but didn’t know how. But without any more delay, you yanked the curtain to the side to reveal…

A completely white background. Snow that certainly was more than knee deep, that clung to the windows and weighed the trees down. You had never seen anything like it before. The mere sight of it made you dizzy and a nauseating feeling came over you as you stumbled back and landed on the floor again. Wherever you were, it was not Sumeru. And even if you could escape, you would certainly freeze to death in a few seconds. The reality of the situation made your skin crawl and overheat. You looked back at the fake Zandiks and noticed they were a bit closer than before. Your rapidly beating heart was not a good combination for the major headache that was beginning to grow.

“Don’t… don’t come near me,” your lightheadedness made the words come out more of a mumble than a command, your throat now dry and clogged. Not being able to defend yourself was a horrible feeling. Through your blurry eyes, you think the clones felt sorry for you… which really made you feel worse, to be honest, actually to the point of feeling like you were going to pass out from all of this stress and pain.

… And you did pass out. But not before a pair of hands caught you before your head hit the floor.

—

“Meanwhile, the raven could not contain his excitement. Finally, after four hundred years spent alone, his beloved was back. Despite all of the power and knowledge he basked in, he was admittedly… lonely without them. If the raven had never met them, he would have been fine. But the sparrow had relentlessly pecked a hole into his formerly impenetrable heart, one that they vowed to fill for eternity as an apology. But… they were not here to fill it for so long, creating an indescribable void in him.”

When one of his segments burst into his office without even knocking, Dottore was initially irritated. He did not like to be disturbed, especially in the middle of his own personal research. But 02 only had to say one word for his attitude to flip dramatically. Your name. He didn’t even wait for the clone to finish his sentence before he quickly made his way to your room, multiple possibilities running through his mind as to what could have happened. Surely it wasn’t possible for your condition to get even worse, right? He gritted his teeth and increased his pace until he saw the crowd at the door of your room. He didn’t bother questioning any of them as he stepped into the room, expecting to see your body still lying on the bed. But it was empty… because you were awake, wide-eyed, and a bit terrified, but awake nonetheless.

Even the wise doctor couldn’t help but be frozen in shock. Four hundred years of emptiness, of silence, of nothingness. A stagnant eternity had passed in front of his eyes. You had remained ever so still for so long, but now you finally were moving and speaking in front of him.

Would he call this a miracle? No, he would not because the scientist did not believe in miracles. He didn’t believe in anything that the Gods supposedly granted. He knew you would wake up, it was just a matter of when, and however long that was, he would wait. Contrary to what many people thought, Dottore could be a patient man. Perhaps it was because all of the people in the Fatui were witnesses to his short fuses and a low tolerance for inability, but he could be extremely patient with the proper circumstances. Now, all his waiting had finally paid off, Dottore thought as he caught you in his arms. Indeed… everything had finally paid off.

Dottore wondered how you would react when you woke up again. How much would you remember? Would you recognize him? He already had a multitude of notes and plans written for when you woke up, but it would depend all on you. You, you, you… yes, he would go to astonishingly and morally dubious lengths just for you.

—

“The butterfly had come to realize that their beloved raven had changed while they were sleeping. The raven had draped himself in fox fur, no longer the same from hundreds of years ago. The butterfly was not too bothered, as they were changed too, but they could not help but feel that they were left behind.”

When you woke up once again, the ceiling looked different and the bed you were in was much more plain and stiff than the previous one, as if no one used it. Though the out-of-place blanket and pillows looked as if someone threw them in out of consideration for you. You raised your hand to your temple and gently rubbed it. Somehow, your oncoming headache was gone, which was good. You began to observe the room. This one was a stark difference from the other one. It was mostly plain and boring, and much smaller. It literally only had this bed and a desk which was crowded with piles upon piles of paperwork, and you could faintly make out the writing. It was hard to read and bore a resemblance to… Zandik. Instantly your curiosity was piqued.

You don’t know what happened during the time you fainted, but somehow your legs seem to have gotten a bit stronger. In fact, there seemed to be a new bandage on your leg. Did someone inject you with something while you were sleeping…? You swallowed the unease before you hobbled over and quickly took a seat on the chair, eyes sweeping over the multitude of papers. You began reading the one on top.

“Experiment 23 has failed me once again with their utter uselessness. No matter how many times I modify the drug, their body keeps rejecting it leaving me only with a mess to clean up. What a pathetic waste of my time.” Alright, that was… something. You pushed that one to the side and began reading through more, but they were mainly the same gist. “Subject 14 died today. I must tell one of the segments to take care of it. Perhaps we can still get some use out of the body… A test subject attempted escape today. That was the first one in a while, but it was handled quickly.” More experimentation on different subjects, all labeled with a different number. It was no doubt horrifying but… oddly interesting to you. But one thing that stuck out to you was the name signed at the bottom.

Il Dottore. Il Dottore? What kind of name was that? You kept flipping through the papers, many falling to the floor when you noticed the desk also had some drawers. Pulling them open, there were a few notebooks inside. But that’s not what bothered you. It was the fact that each of them had one word on the cover.

Your name.

This day could not get any creepier. The theory of you getting kidnapped by some crazy person was starting to seem a lot more plausible. Though you hesitated at first, you just had to know what was inside, picking up the notebook on top. You flipped open to the first page. It had nothing but the same few words repeated over and over, divided by lines as the day changed. “No changes in [Name]’s condition.” Alright then… strange. Your eyes flicked over to the date written at the corner of the entry. Month, day, year, yes…

Wait. That year. Your eyes nearly popped out when you looked at it, for it simply could not be true. Because it was… extremely far into the future. A horrible feeling sank into you as you began rapidly turning the pages. Maybe it was just a mistake, you begged no one but yourself, but it was the same over and over again. And that’s when you got to the page that made you dizzy. “Today marks four hundred years since [Name] fell asleep.” The sheer shock of that sentence could have made you faint again.

Gulping, you grabbed the next notebook in the pile. The dates of these were before those of the first one. Yet again, one of the pages stated, “Today marks three hundred years since [Name] fell asleep.” And then the next notebook said, “Today marks two hundred years since [Name] fell asleep.” The last journal in the pile ended with, “Today marks one hundred years since [Name] fell asleep.”

In that one, the first page started with, “Today marks the first day since [Name] fell asleep.” The date on this page was very familiar to you. It was the year when you got sick. Trying to calm your unsteady breaths, you read the writing.

“I would have never thought things would have turned out like this. This possibility is one that I never thought of. That was completely foolish of me. I should have been more practical, more realistic. If I had planned for and acknowledged the possibility, perhaps I would have been able to prevent it. But it is too late now. I will write here every day to keep track of [Name]’s condition. If all goes accordingly, they will wake up in due time.”

You placed down the book and put your face in your hands, contemplating what you just read. So… if you were understanding this correctly… you’ve been stuck in a coma for over four hundred years, only now waking up. And this person, it had to be Zandik. He was the only one who would do all of this for you. But that didn’t explain why there were multiple copies of him running around… Oh… but the fact you were asleep for four hundred years… was that even possible? Was this real? A wave of fatigue at this information rolled through you again.

Not only did you miss over four hundred years of life… that meant you weren’t exactly human, were you? Or perhaps you were and you simply had your lifespan increased? So, so many questions. What happened to Zandik during this time? What happened to you? Were you even okay? How had your body survived such a thing? You felt like crying. How could this happen to you… you were about to actually start weeping when the door opened, giving you a start.

Another Zandik - or perhaps this was Il Dottore - stood at the entrance, hand frozen on the doorknob as he looked straight at you. You instinctively backed into the chair. You couldn’t help but still be uneasy after everything you just went through.

“[Name],” your name spilled out of his lips almost unconsciously, his face still expressionless, but that quickly changed as he broke out into a large, pointy smile. “[Name],” he said again, though much louder this time before locking the door behind him. “[Name]... you’re truly awake.” The way he reveled in your name seemed almost mad and obsessed. The man then noticed the disarray of his desk and grinned even further, striding up to you.

“Ah, ever the inquisitive one, are you? Seems like your curiosity has not changed. And you can still read my notes… good, good. Better than what I expected.” Zandik’s(?) voice only grew more delighted. You remained silent, to which he looked slightly disappointed, but he seemed to have expected this reaction as well. He bent down on one knee, placing one hand on his chest while the other intertwined with your own hand. He didn’t externally show how he felt when he did so, the sheer excitement he felt when your hand was no longer deathly cold, instead some warmth running through it now.

“Do not look like that, [Name]. You know who I am, do you not?” The scholar looked up at you expectantly, the pleased smile never leaving his lips. His touch, though it was through gloves, was so familiar. The voice, that was deeper than how you remembered it, made you feel a certain way. Your free hand reached out to his face, fingers tracing the mask he wore. Slowly, you began to remove it to see if he would object, but he did not even flinch. When you looked at his uncovered face, you just knew deep down it was Zandik. It was your Zandik who belonged to you. Though his face now had scars, it was him. Your beloved. You brushed your fingers against the scarred skin, and this time he nuzzled into your touch as if you were some kind of divine being.

“Zandik… Oh Zandik,” you murmured, staring right into his brilliant red eyes. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Zandik moved your hands closer to his lips, before biting down on your fingers with those sharp teeth of his.

“Indeed I am, dearest, but these days they tend to call me The Doctor.”

After that, you wouldn’t let go of Zandik, or rather, Dottore, as he came to explain. He answered your barrage of questions, one by one, which only blew your mind each time. After you fell into a coma, he was recruited by the Fatui. With their funding and support, he was able to keep you stable and also advance his own research, even reaching the high position of the Second Harbinger. Il Dottore, The Doctor to be exact. And those other people you saw, those were his segments. Segments from different periods of his life that he made… You were stunned by those accomplishments.

For hundreds of years, this went on as you remained stagnant… until now. Now, everything had changed, and Dottore was entirely fascinated with you. He ran countless tests, poked and prodded at all parts of your body, all while dumping so many things on you rapidly and excitedly. A recollection of all the things that had happened during your slumber. There were a good amount of words that you didn’t understand too… the language of Teyvat had surely changed a lot. It was quite reminiscent of the old days when he would keep you awake in the dorm with his rambling, but this felt oddly… different.

Dottore was a completely different person from the Zandik you knew. Though the old Zandik wasn’t a good person, Dottore was… different. Very different. There was no boundary he wouldn’t cross for his research, ignoring the laws of Teyvat and life itself. And he was wearing a fucking harness too… but… he did look quite attractive in it so… it was an upgrade for you. Though what really happened while you were asleep? He was different, so so different - powerful and intelligent enough to rival even the Gods, among numerous other feats. It felt like he was a completely different person.

Meanwhile, you felt as though you were stuck as that useless, weak student whose purpose was dwindling by the day. And that wasn’t really a lie to be honest, as you soon learned you still were quite ill. You had only woken up from a coma. You weren’t cured. Your body was still frail and fragile, needing medicine and lots of rest otherwise there would be consequences. And your legs, they were able to get a little bit better from the shot Dottore gave you that worked since you were no longer unconscious, but you still wobbled a lot. You still had a lot of pains in general from this mysterious illness as well. So all in all… conscious and alive, but not very well. But, you were still grateful. You had over four hundred years worth of life you missed out on… you wanted to catch up desperately.

Of course, there was also the number one desire to spend countless hours with Dottore now. And you had to get used to his new personality… No longer was he the snarky, snappy, and irritable boy you once knew. Now he was effortlessly cunning and charming, so above others as their opinions could not mean anything to one akin to a God. And while he had always been possessive, Dottore seemed to ramp it up out of nowhere. In a way, you understood, because if you had to be consciously separated from Dottore for that amount of time, you would have gone crazy a long time ago.

You were possessive too, but Dottore somehow was much more comfortable with physical and verbal affection than his old self from over four hundred years ago. You remember you’d have to beg and plead to merely sit on his lap before, but on the first day you awoke, he hoisted you there and refused to let you leave. He nipped at your ear and sensitive spots teasingly with no hint of embarrassment, all within a few hours after you woke up as if he couldn’t wait another moment. His hands were so big and they seemed to know every part of your body, he seemed to know exactly what to say to push your buttons now, all so different from when the positions were reversed a while ago… Of course, you still knew him quite well too, but still, you felt as though maybe he was partially a stranger now… Only time would tell you how much he had changed. You just hoped you were still good enough for him.

—

“Over time, the raven had divided himself into numerous others, each with a unique personality. The butterfly was initially scared by these new creatures, but eventually, they warmed up to the new ravens.”

It had been only a few weeks since you’d woken up, and although Dottore presented you with your own grand room in the lab, you hadn’t touched it much. Who could blame you? You were still jittery and nervous about all the new things in this world, and how to adapt to your new life. So he had gotten used to you crashing on his bed now every day. No, he wasn’t upset in the slightest. After all, he still had a lot to talk to you about. It would probably take a few centuries to tell you every little thing that happened during the last few centuries.

Dottore had shown you so many new wonders of Teyvat, things that could have never existed centuries ago, in all subjects and areas. It made you feel a bit scared and almost disheartened to know the world changed so much in your absence. But… there were some people in the lab to help you.

Dottore’s segments.

You had learned that the numbers went up to 24, but there weren’t actually 24 segments. They were numbered in the order of creation, and not all of Zandik’s created segments were successes so it jumped around at times. For example, there were no 11, 12, 17, and so on. Even with all of Dottore’s expertise in making clones, he didn’t guarantee success. And yes… their names were merely numbers.

Although the segments hadn’t hurt you in any way, you were still a bit… scared. Hearing that your lover now had copies of himself running about was one thing. Accepting it was another thing, and you tried to cling to your Zandik as much as possible. But the clones were always scattered throughout the laboratory, so you usually ended up bumping into them. Or perhaps they were following you on Dottore’s orders. He probably thought it wasn’t safe for you ever to be alone, especially right now. But you were trying your best to warm up to them, because, after all, they were still Zandik, no? Their love for you stemmed from Zandik’s overwhelming love for you. They were really a testament to how much you were cherished. And so, they were obviously worthy of your love and attention.

01 was the spitting image of Zandik when he was in the Akademiya. The last person you’d seen before you fell into a long sleep. Every time you looked at him, your heart hurt a little bit. He still had that snark you remembered so well, especially towards other people. And he still had that subtle softness afforded only to you, that you also remembered.

The bloody one who gave you a fright was 02. He had a pink bow tie and also donned a suit. You honestly weren’t sure what kind of phase Zandik went through during that stage of life to dress and act so drastically differently compared to his other clothes but it was… cute. You liked 02. He was a stark difference from the composed nature of the other clones, but you liked his laugh. Whenever you responded favorably to one of his long tangents, he sometimes hee-hee-ho-ho-ed loudly. 02 was also the most likely to bite you unprompted.

You had yet to meet 10, which was surprising because all the other segments were jumping at the opportunity to merely be in the same room as you. All Dottore had said was that he “needed some time” before he decided to speak to you. You weren’t sure what that meant, but you didn’t question it further. There were other segments as well, like 04. He was a serious and stern segment. The others were especially cautious around him. You were too, seeing his demeanor, but thankfully, he seemed to cool down around you. And 18 had a noticeably softer tone than the other segments and longer hair that embroidered his face nicely. He was also the one who seemed to smile a lot. This segment would always wave hi to you as well, funnily enough.

Meanwhile, 24 seemed to be the strongest of the segments and the highest-ranking one. The others didn’t seem to like him very much, but in the end, they always had to listen to him. He also seemed to be the boldest, and the most greedy. You distinctly remember your first meeting with him. It was something alright.

24 had raised your hand to his lips and kissed it, the smile on his face never leaving. “I have been waiting a long time to finally meet you, [Name].” Your words almost got stuck in your throat from the blatant display of affection. None of the other clones were ever so daring, instead settling with awkward conversation and fleeting glances of longingness at you.

“Oh… well, it’s nice to meet you…?” You waited for his name.

“Twenty-Four.”

“Ah. Nice to meet you then, Twenty-Four.”

“No, the pleasure is all mine,” he hummed before releasing your hand. “If you ever need something, by all means, feel free to tell me. I shall see it done, far more efficiently than anyone else.” You ignored the subtle remark thrown at his other fellow segments.

“Thanks, Twenty-Four,” you smiled slightly, not sure what else to say after that.

“Of course. I do look forward to our further conversations, [Name]. I imagine they will be quite enlightening,” his deep voice chuckled as he walked away. Well… that was certainly something. You swallowed your throat that had gone dry, still feeling a bit fuzzy from that kiss. His lips felt soft against your hand.

Well, regardless of how you felt about the segments, you had to warm up quickly as they were starting to be with you for almost every task. Though Dottore had solely administered your medicine at first, you learned that his Fatui work kept him far more busy than you anticipated… he really was different now, huh? No longer the student you could bother all day.

So instead, the clones had begun to share the responsibility of taking care of you, whether that be medicine, shots, check-ups, general tasks, or anything really. Nothing was off the table, considering how much you still struggled sometimes. You felt awkward at first, asking them for help, seeing as you felt embarrassed asking people who you didn’t know well, but they always seemed pleased to do it. Especially if you asked them specifically rather than another clone. So it would only be fair if you returned the energy to them.

You began with conversation. They reciprocated. You moved on to small touches. They liked that. You decided to give them each a kiss on the cheek. You probably should have thought some more about how that would affect them because there was no going back after that. Once you had shown so much interest, there was no way they weren’t going to take you up on your offer. Let’s just say it never ends with just one kiss. It ends with too much to count. So… nowadays it wasn’t unusual to find yourself on the operating table after a check-up, a segment on each side of you fighting over your attention. Perhaps one arm wrapped around your waist and another resting on your thigh… yes, very normal.

However, dealing with your health concerns wasn’t the only purpose of your beloved segments. They also had to teach you other things. 01 was on academics, as you would assume, him being the Akademiya clone and all. Well, it was less academics and more like relearning how to write properly and Teyvat’s new language. It was really hard, to be honest, to have your brain try and keep up with the sudden onslaught of new information, and for you to steady your hand from shaking so much, but surprisingly enough, 01 didn’t lose patience as quickly as you thought he would. You thought he would, considering how snappy you remember Zandik being in the Akademiya. 01 noticed your curious stare.

“What?”

“Nothing… I was just wondering why you haven’t said anything remotely snarky yet,” you hummed, leaning into the segment with squinted eyes. He rolled his eyes.

“You act as though you want me to yell.”

“Well…” you giggled at his incredulous expression before quickly retracting your statement. It was fun to tease him. And you already had a suspicion as to why he was so patient with you. That was… nice of him.

And 02… well, you weren’t exactly sure what 02 was supposed to be teaching you. He would just… talk a lot, about many different things, pace around the room as he did so, long coat fluttering after him, periodically fixing his bow tie. At the very least, he was quite knowledgeable and had experience journeying in other nations. Yes, that was what intrigued you the most out of all his rants. Especially when he spoke of his exploits in Mondstadt.

“You’re saying… you slayed a dragon? Like, killed it? It’s dead? All by yourself?”

“Indeed, I did. Though it’s a shame that-” Before 02 could finish his sentence, you could not help but jump up and clasp his hands in yours, beaming with excitement. Because really, how could you not be ecstatic at something like that? If one of Dottore’s clones could use such strength easily, it only further boggled your mind as to how strong Prime was.

“That is so, so, so amazing! I had no idea you were so strong!” Your eagerness to hear more was easily noticeable in your tone of voice. 02’s expression went blank for a few seconds, seemingly processing the sudden physical contact and how close you were to him, along with your words, before erupting into loud laughter, his very pointed teeth gleaming in the light. It suddenly occurred to the segment that this would be a perfect opportunity to unabashedly display his brilliance to you.

“Hahaha, if that story pleases you so, then you’ll be far more interested in what I have to say next. That was nothing really, hehe,” 02’s razor-sharp grin did not leave his face, nor did his hands release yours. Let’s just say 02 has a lot of tales to tell. Some were… not for the faint of heart, but you still loved them!

Though, all of the segments’ general duty was to help you regain what you’ve lost. Even the simplest things were not easy anymore. You had to come to terms that your stamina wasn’t the same. Yes, you even had to practice learning how to eat and cut up your food again. Your tongue had to adjust to the flavors of cuisine all over again. Deal with the suddenness of feeling very cold to suddenly hot. Shaking fingers and hands. You had to understand that you had stricter limits now, no longer being able to run or do certain tasks that would overexert yourself. Or sometimes you simply didn’t have the mental energy. Bathing, changing clothes, brushing your hair. Resolving yourself to get out of bed when you knew nothing you could do would amount to anything special. But… the segments helped you with everything. Every morning. Every night. And you were thankful for that.

So, all in all, your relationship with the clones was going pretty great! It's not like it couldn’t, considering how much they all adored you, to be honest. Yet, you still had not met the segment named 10. At first, it didn’t really cross your mind, but the more time you spent with the clones, the more you pondered about who the mysterious segment could be. When you asked 01, you were met with a scoff and eye roll. Hmm… guess they weren’t really a fan of him. However, your curiosities would be remedied soon enough, for there was a quiet knock on your room door a while later.

It was so quiet as if the person was unsure about whether they wanted to knock or not. Was it one of the segments, trying to slack off work again to talk to you? You quickly opened the door and were met with… nobody. You furrowed your eyebrows before a timid voice sounded from below.

You tilted your head down and there he was, a young child with blue hair and red eyes… that was startlingly similar to some people you knew… Then, everything seemed to click, and you instinctively knew who this mysterious child could be. It was 10. The one segment you hadn’t seen yet, the one Dottore told you not to worry about. Well, he was here now, but… that meant 10 was a clone of Zandik from when he was a child.

You were, quite frankly, shocked, because never did it cross your mind that Dottore would ever clone his child self. You couldn’t think of exactly what purpose that would serve, considering how the kid couldn’t do the same tasks his adult versions could. His perspective, perhaps? But you knew what happened to Dottore during his childhood. You clearly remember the night in the Akademiya when you told you. He didn’t want your pity, your sympathy, he spat. Despite his protests and attempts to push you away, his words were smothered when you held him close to your chest that night.

But nevertheless, it was time to put those feelings away for you must put your attention on the child in front of you, who was now fiddling with his clothes and fingers in silence. His eyes flicked back to you and the ground, his mouth opening to speak but closing it again before any words could escape, so you spoke first, crouching down to his height.

“Hello, little one. You must be Ten, am I right?” The boy perked up at the mention of his name.

“You know me?”

“Of course I do,” you smiled. “I’ve been eagerly waiting to meet you.” Those few words made 10’s face light up. It seemed like he enjoyed attention. But he still looked nervous. Based on what you knew, you guessed that he’d been hurt by adults and people in general far too much than he should have been, so he was wary about you for a while despite Dottore’s and the older segments’ adoration for you. Of course, you wanted to help him feel safe and reassured around you. And that would only happen by spending time with him.

“Would you like to come in? I have snacks we can share!” You gestured to the inside of your room, and the child looked intrigued, but still on the verge of indecision. “... And I can also read cool stories for you!” That was something kids liked, right? Well, it looked like you guessed right because 10’s whole expression changed as he nodded and suddenly invited himself into your room. It seemed like 10 wanted to trust you badly… and trust you he did.

10 was absolutely precious, more than words could describe. During the first few days, he was quiet, preferring to listen to you read the books he brought you. Sometimes you caught him looking at you, perhaps studying you. But once you continuously showed him kindness and love, the child transformed into a brand new person. He was glued to your side, and all the segments knew about it too. 10 always wanted to be near you. 10 liked the other segments, he really did, but you were the only one who was so nice to him. Ruffling his hair whenever he learned something new. Always indulging his silly little requests, drawing and coloring with him. Showing you his favorite hiding places around the lab. You were sad you couldn’t carry little 10 in your arms, but holding his hand as you two walked together was more than enough.

There was just something about 10 that was so endearing, that felt like he was healing your soul, even just a little bit. He was also extremely openly worried about you, scared that you would get winded over the simplest things. Which was a valid concern, but you reassured him you were stronger than it. It was quite sweet to see him run in front of you to open the doors for you like a gentleman, however. You also learned not to underestimate him, because 10 could truly give some of the most crushing hugs ever. In a loving way, of course. If only you didn’t need the ability to breathe, you’d let him hug you like that whenever. In other words, 10 was your baby.

But, in a way, it was strange to know that Dottore was once a child as simple as they come, although with his own eccentricities and curiosities. A child who did child things before he was deemed a monster. A child who just wanted to be held and reassured.

Regardless, lately, you've been thinking about something. Thinking about the segments’ names, to be exact. You really did love them, and so now you were starting to have an issue with calling them random numbers. They were clones, but they were still people to you… their identity was more than a number! Especially 10. You really did not want to refer to the sweet child as 10.

This had been resting on your mind for a few days and the segments noticed your contemplative expression. It was one of those days where you would just sit in the lab and watch them as they scurried about, doing their duties. It was interesting to watch. But you were caught in a daze more than normal when a voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Do tell me [Name], you seem to be in deep thought lately. What plagues your mind so?” It was 24, his deep voice resonating in your ears. It was then you realized all the other segments’ attention was on you too. Oops. Perhaps you were daydreaming too much.

“Oh… it’s nothing really,” you wondered if they would think your idea was stupid. After all, they didn’t seem to really care about being called a number.

“Nonsense,” 24 shook his head. “Speak your mind.” Well, here you go.

“How do you all feel about your name?” You asked, addressing the other segments as well. “About being called a number, I mean.” The segments looked at you a little strangely.

“I don’t really care,” one of them spoke.

“I care,” another huffed. “Why does Prime get to be called Prime while we’re nameless?”

“That’s a stupid question. It’s because he’s the creator, and we’re merely the segments.”

“It is annoying when someone mixes up our numbers and then something gets messed up with the operations. But nothing major.”

“Why do you ask, [Name]?”

“Well… I was thinking of not calling you guys numbers anymore. I just don’t like how it sounds, considering how much I know you all now, you know? I was just wondering if maybe I could give you all real names instead. But if everyone likes it the way it is now then that’s fine too.” When you finished speaking, the lab was uncharacteristically silent.

“Um… hello?” You chuckled awkwardly as you looked around to find the clones with blank looks on their faces before they all started speaking the same thing at once.

“I want the name.”

“I would like one as well.”

“Me too, dear [Name].”

“To think you would be the one to bestow me with a proper name. How fitting,” 24 smirked. Shit, even he was on board with this.

“Huh? Didn’t you all just say you didn’t care too much about it??” You could have laughed at the dramatic switch-up.

“I’ve changed my mind. Being called a number is actually quite a hindrance.” (That was mostly a lie, this segment didn’t want to admit he just wanted to own something that was given by you, and what bigger honor could be given by a name?)

“Indeed, having a real name would surely be beneficial for many reasons.” (The many reasons being that he could be happy that you gave him a new part of his identity.)

And now, all of a sudden, you had many pairs of eyes directed towards you, waiting expectantly, and you felt extremely unprepared now. What would you name them? For one, you really weren’t that good at names. And you didn’t want to name them something weird either. They were Dottore’s segments after all. It had to fit them… Think, [Name], think… think of something good right now or else you’ll disappoint these poor segments who look so pleased over a name. You then remembered a book you had skimmed through while practicing with 01, that held the letters of a certain alphabet. And suddenly, a brilliant idea popped into your head.

“I’ve got it!” You jumped up and exclaimed to the room. And then, with glee, you swung your hand and pointed it to 01. “From now on, you are no longer 01. You are Alpha.” Alpha blinked at your declaration.

Then, you moved onto 02. “You, my dear, are Beta. And you,” your finger moving to every clone in the room. “you’re Gamma. Delta. Epsilon. Zeta.” The more you went on, the more they predicted what their name would be. “Eta. Theta. Iota. Sigma. Phi. And lastly, Omega.” You grinned pretty widely after that. That was pretty smart of you, wasn’t it?

“I see… using the letters of that alphabet also corresponds with the numbers that we were given… hehe, how clever,” Beta grinned to himself, enjoying the first few seconds of being Beta.

“And they are short and easy to remember,” Omega hummed. “Good, very good indeed, [Name].” Omega’s hands brushed your cheek, always the possessive one, while the other segments looked on in jealously. You cleared your throat.

“A-Anyways, make sure to tell everyone your new names!” And soon enough, everyone in the lab was aware of the replacement. Even Dottore, as you had made sure to tell him right after. Initially, he thought you were joking, but nope, you were one hundred percent serious. Alright then, he’d let you have your fun. He didn’t know you were this bored, to be honest.

But it wasn’t until previously named 24 corrected him with only the word “Omega” when he referred to the segment as a number that he realized that you really did change all of their names. Well, Dottore didn’t care too much for names or numbers regarding them, it was all the same anyway, but he’s been letting you spend too much time with the clones… he’ll have to force you to sit on his lap for a while when he’s stuck doing paperwork. He’s the only one who should be the center of your attention.

There was still one last segment you had to name - your dearest 10. You were most excited to name the little boy, having wanted him to have a name to call his own the most. But, there was something that didn’t feel right. Sure, you could just give him another letter of the alphabet but 10’s one had to be… different. The child just had that much of a special place in your heart. And so you pondered and pondered until you came to a decision.

Zandy was the one who would quite literally run behind you and cling to your leg whenever another segment was near. Zandy was the one who would sit in your lap and ask you to read and explain big words to him. Zandy was the one who wouldn’t let go when he softly spoke about the nightmare he had with his hometown.

He was Zandy.

—

“Although the flightless butterfly found great company and love in Dottore and his segments, they still longed for the companionship of others. Thankfully, they managed to make a few friends - a friendly orange fox, a lovely white dove, and a sly snow leopard.”

There was no one that you loved and cared for more than Dottore. That was a fact that would never change no matter what he did or how much blood stained his hands or morals. His presence was one that brought comfort to you, which obviously would sound like a deranged lie to anyone else considering the kind of man Dottore was. But so be it. No one would ever understand your relationship.

But… it would also be a lie to say you didn’t long for the camaraderie of others. It had been a while since you woke up, and the urge to have a friend or two was much stronger than in the Akademiya. Perhaps the loneliness that came with your illness was getting to you. You knew you could tell anything to Dottore but… it would feel nice to have someone to chat with every now and then about mundane, funny things, to get your mind off other stuff, and not to bother your lover so often. It seemed luck would be on your side this time (how rare) because you got exactly what you wanted.

Childe was the first one who had found you first, and it was wholly a chance encounter.

You were simply going back to your room when suddenly a voice called out to you. (Speaking of, you began living in your own room instead of hogging Dottore’s one all the time. You liked it there, you really did… but it was too boring and bland, and your bed was way more comfy than the brick that was Dottore’s bed. And you were starting to adjust to life a lot more now.)

Regardless, the voice certainly wasn’t Dottore or the segments. Turning to look, it was the unfamiliar face of a blue-eyed ginger-haired man. Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull.

Practically no one knew of you. The few Fatui assistants there who happened to come across you merely thought of you as another experiment, perhaps one he favored more than the rest. You didn’t talk to them, and they didn’t talk to you. Dottore’s order of others to leave you alone was understood as just another one of his cruel ways of isolating you.

Of course, this wasn’t his intention. If you want to talk to others, then you should do as you please (within reason… no one else shall be hogging your attention besides him.) He respects you. But at this point, it was simply far too risky. Even with the clones, it could be dangerous for you. And of course, not only as a scholar but your lover, he must take into account all possibilities. If there was the slightest chance you’d be hurt, he wouldn’t do it. So you were resolved to be lonely for a while.

Until now. The tall man continued walking towards you, donning a gray suit with a contrasting red mask and scarf, Hydro Vision hanging off his hip. His smile seemed friendly enough and he even raised a hand to greet you, but you were stuck with your hand on your doorknob.

“Hello, comrade. How are you doing?” He was awaiting a response but you were just stuck in the same blank expression, completely unmoving as you gaped at him.

“Are you alright?” He noticed and inquired. Oh dear. This was growing far too embarrassing for your liking. No one had ever prepared for you for what to say in these situations. Should you respond? Or leave? You decided to go with the former, opting to simply nod your head in confirmation. The ginger chuckled, playing it off as you were probably being intimidated by his Harbinger ranking, unbeknownst to him the fact you had no clue who he was.

“I was wondering if you knew the way to Dottore’s office? The segments gave me directions, but every time I come here, I always get lost. This lab is never easy to navigate,” he sighed, scratching his head.

You raised an eyebrow at his comment. This hallway with your room was specifically hidden within the lab, woven deep between many twists and turns. You genuinely wondered how lost he had to be in order to find himself here. But more importantly, you were faced with the question of whether you should help this man or not. Surely it was okay, you were just giving him directions after all. You would be irrelevant in his mind soon enough. It wasn’t like you were craving some human interaction even though you were a bit scared of talking to people.

Decisively, you turned around and pointed forward. “Go down that way,” you began softly, “and then take two lefts, then a right, another left, then straight, and finally one more right.” You knew the way like the back of your hand, after all, you went there frequently when you were sad, happy, in pain, whatever. When you looked back, the man looked as if you had just spoken another language.

“...Thank you, comrade. Hopefully, I find it, then!” You smiled at him. He was pretty nice.

“Of course. It’s not as long of a walk as you think, too.” The man chuckled in response.

“Whatever distance is fine with me. I always welcome the extra training!” With that, he waved you goodbye and began walking in the direction you pointed him to. Ah, you didn’t ask him his name… but you probably wouldn’t see him again anyway. But he did have a Vision so he was probably fairly strong… oh well. When you were all comfy between your blankets you’d soon forget about it anyway.

And you were right. You did forget about it once you were tucked in with a nice book to read. Until there was a knock on your door. You thought nothing of it, thinking it was a segment at your door for whatever reason. A snack perhaps. Or one of them snuck away from their duties to visit you. Or maybe even Dottore himself! Regardless, you opened your door without hesitation ready to greet them. Unfortunately for you, it was not a segment. It was not Dottore. It was the same ginger from before, standing at the entrance to your room, with that same smile except it was more apologetic this time.

“Hi there again. You see, I did follow the directions you gave me but I was unsuccessful. So I’m back here again,” the man laughed and rubbed his neck. “I was wondering if you could take me there yourself? You seem to know this place pretty well.”

Your throat went dry as you had to hide your incredulous expression. Seriously, what kind of person did he have to be to end up here not once, but twice? Though he didn’t seem to think anything of it, which was good. But it was then he took notice of the environment behind the doorway, a brief surprise flickering across his face.

“Wow, quite the room you have there.” His stature made it easy for him to peer into your room. Since there was not much for you to do with your illness, you had a lot of fun designing your room (which came out of the “Regrator’s paycheck” according to Dottore.) Your room was decorated and tailored to your preferences, whether that was posters on the wall or hanging lights, shelves lined with your special interests and hobbies. It was easily the most “normal” room in the lab like someone actually lived there. Quite unlike the clones’ room which was literally just a bed and desk. Zandik’s wasn’t much better, but you bought stuff from your room and left it in his in hopes of making it more comfy for him. Instinctively you closed the door further in.

“Maybe you should just go back and ask one of the segments,” you murmured, trying to escape the situation and inching the door closer and closer in.

“I could, but those guys would probably ignore me and give me the same directions again. They aren’t very fond of me.” Well, even you couldn’t really deny that. They didn’t really like anyone… besides you of course. “And then I would end up back here, bothering you again. And finding another agent to assist me would take even longer. And Dottore doesn’t like to be kept waiting, you know.”

He did have a point… really, it wasn’t like you minded taking him, you were just worried about if it would have any consequences. But, when you finally got a good look at the ginger, for some reason, you didn’t feel like anything bad could possibly happen. Plus, it wasn’t like the segments had to know… maybe, just maybe, you could trust him and finally have a real human conversation with someone besides your lover and his segments. Before you could change your mind, you agreed to his proposal with newfound confidence.

“Okay, follow me then.” Then you locked your door and the man began to follow you. Thankfully the dull-eyed man had no problem starting the conversation first.

“By the way, I don’t think I’ve got your name.”

“I’m… [Name].” For a brief second, you contemplated giving him a fake name but couldn’t think of anything good. “What is your name?” He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“You don’t know me? I’m Tartaglia, one of the Fatui Harbingers. But you can just call me Childe.” Childe. Childe. That name sounded vaguely familiar. Childe… that was one of the guys Dottore always complained about.

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of you from Dottore.”

“Plenty of bad things, I assume. But I can promise you, I’m not as bad as he says.” You giggled a bit at that.

“Well, I’ll trust you on that.”

“But I am curious. You don’t seem like one of Dottore’s experiments.”

“Yes, I’m not.”

“So are you a Fatuus?”

“Well, I guess you can say that.” Does being Dottore’s lover make you a member of the Fatui by extension?

“Most members of the Fatui know who the Harbingers are, you know.”

“Err, well, I’m one of his personal assistants,” you lied. “So I don’t know much about the organization itself, since he makes me stay here all the time. You know how he can be. Haha.” You didn’t know what kind of bullshit you were spewing but you just hoped it made some sense.

“Oh, you’re one of his assistants? I haven’t seen you around. I thought he goes through assistants like nothing.”

“Yeah, he does, but… I have special… skills that he likes.” You hoped that would be enough. Childe seemed to nod in understanding.

“Your clothing doesn’t seem to be one of an assistant, though.” He was referring to your casual and comfortable daily outfit.

“As I said, I am special. You know, I have privileges.” That wasn’t a flat-out lie, at least. Childe looked amused.

“How interesting.” And then the conversation moved elsewhere. Childe was still definitely a bit suspicious of you. You could tell by the way he looked at you. But he was a seemingly friendly and easygoing man. If he asked a question that you couldn’t answer, he steered the conversation elsewhere. He was a great conversationalist in general, allowing you to open up a bit despite having just met him. Childe spoke about many things, his training, some battles, his cooking (he even shared with you some new Sumerian recipes you never heard of!), and most interesting to you, the world beyond the lab. Time flew quickly and soon enough you two were outside of Dottore’s office. And you couldn’t help but admit, that was incredibly pleasant.

“Well, here we are, Childe. Dottore’s office.”

“Ah, you were right! That wasn’t as long as I thought. Thank you for your help, [Name]. I’ll go in now.” He sent you a final smile before turning around but you quickly interrupted.

“Oh! Um, by the way, it would be for the best if you kept the fact you met me a secret. Please.”

“Alright then, I will. No one will know.” You beamed in response.

“Thank you! Now, I guess… good luck with the meeting!” And then you two went your separate ways.

You liked Childe. He was fun to talk to. And it seemed like your wish would be granted because the next week, there was a familiar knock at your door. It was Childe. Although he knew the way better now, he still wanted you to guide him “just in case.” And of course chat with you along the way. Perhaps the latter was the true purpose of his visits, but regardless, this was the start of a secret friendship between you and the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger. Childe’s visits to Dottore were sporadic and you couldn’t predict when he would come, so it was a nice surprise whenever he did come around. And no one, not even Dottore himself knew. You didn’t like keeping secrets from your beloved, but it was too good to stop. But of course, all secrets are revealed in the end…

You had once again fallen asleep in Dottore’s office, refusing to leave his side and actually sleep in a proper bed. So he was carrying you back to your room to tuck you in so you wouldn’t whine to him about cramps and sores later. You’d probably complain to him about how you wanted to stay with him but he was used to it.

Dottore didn’t need to worry about being seen as these hallways were specifically hidden and practically couldn’t be found unless you were perhaps looking for them. And no one would look for them as no one besides he and his segments knew of their existence. So Dottore took the time to gaze down at you as he walked. There you were, sound asleep without a care in the world. A part of him still found it amusing how knocked out you were in the arms of a person like him. Weren’t you even the least bit concerned about what he could do? (Of course, the answer was no, because you knew he would never hurt you.)

He continued to your room with an uncharacteristic softness that would almost appear disturbing to others. At last, he reached it, without any-

… Problems, is what Dottore would have liked to say, for at your door was the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, hand about to knock but now frozen, the two Harbingers standing silent as they stared at each other, almost comedically unmoving. Childe immediately took note of how Dottore held you in his arms bridal style, your head nuzzled into his chest and arms bunched together there as well. The soft rises of your chest signaled that you were peacefully asleep in the Doctor’s arms. There were absolutely no signs of discomfort or fear as any normal person would have around the mad doctor.

Unconsciously, he gripped your body tighter. As much as Dottore would have liked to know why and how the fuck Childe managed to get here, and somehow want to knock on your room of all doors, he was absolutely beyond the point of questions.

“Tartaglia.” From his tone only, Childe knew he had stumbled upon something he should not have seen. “Speak of this to anyone, and not even your title will save you.”

After that little encounter, when you woke up, Dottore confronted you about what happened, and immediately couldn’t help but spill everything that happened over the course of the past few months. When you looked up at his expressionless face, you were internally scared that he would be angry with you, the silence after your confession driving you crazy, but thankfully he wasn’t. The only thing he did was sigh at your pleading face and then thumb your cheek.

“Perhaps I’ve been too harsh on you. I do remember how you liked to talk to others back then,” he hummed, which was the complete opposite of his younger self. You buried your head in his chest and looked up at him with imploring eyes.

“So can he come over again?” Of course, Dottore’s first instinct was to reject this proposal for he didn’t want that fool to be even six feet near you, but the helpless expression you were giving him made him waver.

“I shall… think about it.” That was enough for you as you kissed him on the cheek. “At least it wasn’t the Third or the Ninth. They would be insufferable.”

“Those are the other people you always complain about,” you giggled.

“Yes, but you needn’t think about them. They won’t be coming around here anytime soon.”

Unfortunately for Dottore, it was already too late.

A few days later, there was another knock at your room door. It was almost comical at this point, you thought when you saw a young woman with numerous white accessories and a man as tall as Dottore wearing an unreadable smile at your door. Hell, you should just host a sleepover at this point.

“Well, it seems that Childe didn’t lie after all. Now I know who Dottore spends my precious Mora on behind my back,” the smiling man seemed more amused than angry if anything. Oh, so this was the guy who funded Dottore…

“You know, it was quite a challenge to get here, dear [Name]~ It’s not that easy distracting so many segments.” The girl also seemed amused and giggly. Both of them had their eyes closed with only smiles… it was an odd combination that worked.

“Um… are you Miss. Columbina and Mr. Pantalone by any chance?” You managed to piece together the names and rankings by paying more attention to the segments’ rants. The two most “nosy and annoying” people that Dottore has the displeasure of working with, apparently.

“Why, did you hear that, Lone? They know our names already! Perhaps our dear Dottore has been talking about us more than we think,” Columbina laughed, treading her fingers through her long hair, to which Pantalone chuckled along.

“Indeed, though I wonder what kind of tales he has told this one. [Name], may we come in?” The banker tilted his slightly to the side, and you had no reason to refuse. You just hoped Dottore wouldn’t be too mad. (Poor him, his dear darling being corrupted by the likes of the Damslette and Regrator. Oh well.)

Regardless, the three of you hit it off immediately. The conversation flowed naturally, a lot of it being stories of Dottore that you had no clue about. You were surprised by how naturally everything came. Of course, the two powerful people still largely had their guards up, but it was still… nice. Fun. Perhaps the Harbingers have a little more humanity in them than most people think.

Columbina found herself around you the most. You were surprised at first - she was the Third Harbinger - surely she had much more important things to be doing besides hanging out with you. But she always laughed airly, reassuring you. She had known Dottore for a long time, she said, but never knew about you. And she would like to learn more about her newfound friend. Especially to see the annoyed expression of The Doctor when she steals too much of your time. (She loved to irritate him.)

Pantalone valued your intelligence. For some reason, he began asking you for your opinion in matters, nothing confidential of course, but still, it was notable. You were no Dottore, but the difference was that you were always willing to assist, much unlike The Doctor and his segments. And, you were greatly helpful in deciphering the confusing words of the segments and Prime himself, so Pantalone ended up taking a strange liking to you. You weren’t sure if it was because you were useful to him and his endeavors, or if he just found you amusing, or if he genuinely thought of you as a friend or just probably just an acquaintance, but no matter the reason, it was… nice to be around him every now and then. So long as Dottore wasn’t there. Otherwise, the calmness would quickly become tense instead.

Childe too, was like a little brother to you. You didn’t know why you felt that way, but you just did. He was arguably the most “normal” out of all of them (as normal as a Fatui Harbinger could be) and he was just… pleasant to be around. He was knowledgeable in the more “ordinary” aspects of life, having his own family which he loved dearly. You liked that about him. It felt silly talking to Dottore about such simple things, but not with Childe.

At the end of the day, your friends made you happy. Whether it made Dottore and his segments happy, seeing these three idiots invade the lab more often than they liked, was something you already knew the answer to. But your lover wouldn’t do anything too harsh. Not when you looked so joyful from this. So perhaps this was a small price to pay, considering how miserable you looked in the beginning.

And really, you always would belong to him, after all. Nothing would ever come in between.

—

“Though not everyone liked the butterfly. In particular, there was a fierce cat that always seemed to swipe at them whenever the two met.”

The Balladeer was someone whom you were used to seeing in the lab every now and then. You didn’t really care much for him in all honesty, but he certainly had taken some kind of interest in you, at least enough to say some not-so-nice things to your face. The puppet had seen you with the clones, with the Doctor himself, and the adoring looks you sent to them… he was disgusted by the notion of love to say the least, especially between you two but… he was intrigued. Scaramouche wanted to at least have a glimpse into the person who would make the Doctor leave in the middle of his beloved experiments to check on.

What he found was nothing spectacular. You were so fragile, even frailer than the young child he met all those centuries ago. You were weak, so weak. In fact, even an insect would be harder to kill than you. Useless too, he thought, and it was as if you knew it too because he’d see you beg the clones to just give you something to do, something to occupy your hands and mind. And… he found the personality and looks of all humans to be unexceptional so that didn’t help your case either. Scaramouche was practically convinced you were nothing more than a source of amusement for the Doctor, the doting only a form of his usual cruel manipulation. Again, you didn’t care for his theories, but his voice did grate on your ears.

Though, this time, the Sixth Harbinger had caught you on a bad day. There was no particular reason why you were having a bad day. It was just one of those days, where everything seemed to bother you. Not to mention you felt your illness was acting up more than usual… going on a walk around the lab’s endless corridors always seemed to free your mind up though.

Though of course, you were accustomed to things not going your way.

“Well well, look who we have here. The Doctor’s little plaything,” Scaramouche mocked. Oh, it was just your luck. Out of all the deserted halls, he had to be in this one. You decided to try and simply ignore his words, yet in an instant, the Harbinger was in front of you.

“I really don’t see what he sees in you,” he narrowed his eyes at you. “What kind of amusement does he use you for?”

“... I would appreciate it if you left me alone.” Scaramouche scoffed in response.

“Maybe you don’t want to admit it, but the Doctor has no capacity for feelings or emotions. Anyone close to him will meet a nasty end. Do you really think you’re any different?” The Balladeer smirked.

“...” Normally you would just turn a blind eye, but you were just so annoyed with everything today.

“What’s wrong? You’re usually so lively and talkative-”

“Look,” you finally interrupted, “just because you’re pissed with the world doesn’t mean you have to bother me with your delusions,” you snapped, fed up with his bickering with you. Hell, your life was no sparkles or rainbows but you didn’t go around making everyone miserable because of it. “At least my lover didn’t abandon me for crying, unlike someone else’s mommy.” It was only after the words had come out of your mouth that you realized what you said.

For a few seconds, there was a tense silence in the corridor. The expression on the puppet’s face made you stiffen. Oh fuck.

“How dare you, you insignificant-” Before the Balladeer could hurl any more insults at you, a stern voice interrupted him.

“I suggest you speak to them in a more respectful tone, Scaramouche.” The sudden intrusion made both you and Scaramouche jump. Neither of you had sensed the Doctor’s presence, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere as he loomed over Scaramouche. “Any further language will not be tolerated.”

For a split second, Scaramouche froze but quickly regained his usual demeanor, his ever-present scowl and balled fists returning. “Whatever,” he flipped around mumbling some more curses under his breath, the back of his hat swaying with every movement. In no time, it was just you and Dottore in the hallway, and he was staring right at you.

“How long?”

“Well-” you were going to try and blow it off as nothing important but the look he was giving you made you realize that he wouldn’t take that as an answer. “A w-while now,” you admitted. Dottore was silent for a few moments before he spoke.

“He will be dealt with accordingly,” Dottore promised as he cupped your cheek.

“...Okay,” you murmured, leaning into his touch. You knew that this wasn’t exactly right. You knew that later today you’d hear the screams of the puppet echoing throughout the lab. But as the warmth of Dottore’s hand permeated your cold skin, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

—

“The butterfly’s life seemed to be going well. A partner who loved them along with multiple segments. Friends who spent time with them. But in reality, life was much harder and dim for them than they outwardly showed sometimes. In fact, the butterfly found themselves plagued by dreams. They weren’t nightmares, but when they woke up, it certainly felt like one. Or when they did have genuine nightmares, they felt the same unease and wept about their unfortunate situation.”

Ah. Nahida was at this part of the tale. Though she would always disapprove and be the enemy of you and the Doctor, the kind God couldn’t help but feel a little bit of sympathy for you. In all of her wisdom, even she had no information of your illness. Not to mention your loneliness… she too, was lonely once, when she was trapped all by herself in the Sanctuary. But at the very least, she was able to visit others through dreams.

You, on the other hand, had no such escape. Trapped forever in your own body, with not much to be done… your own dreams serving as torment instead… how tragic, Nahida admits. But nonetheless, the Dendro Archon gets herself ready to continue the fairy tale she’s crafted.

476 notes · View notes

sillylittleguytm · 4 months

Text

Indulgence

Papa Emeritus IV x gn!reader

Summary: Just a lazy day in bed with our beloved Papa :)

Warnings: Google translated Italian, nothing really- just pure fluff

Word count: 649

A/N: A little nervous since this is the first fanfic I've ever posted. It's just a drabble of an idea that's been bouncing around in my head for weeks that I finally got around to writing. I intend on writing and hopefully posting more.

You hardly ever see your own quarters anymore. At this point, you practically live in his.

It all happened very fast, perhaps to make up for the time you and Copia spend dancing around each other. You knew Copia as a Cardinal, secretly and subtly pining for him. He spent the same amount of time falling for you, although far less subtly. Copia didn’t get the confidence to ask you out until he became Papa, and things have been a blur since then. You now invade his closet, his space, his thoughts, and his heart, just as things are meant to be.

You now sit on Copia’s floor, your body facing his small TV and your back pressed against his bed. Copia’s legs rest on both sides of your form as he sits up on the mattress, controller in hand as he plays a game. In your own hands, you hold two juice boxes. It’s your duty to indulge him in a sip of his favorite drink whenever he lovingly nudges your head with his thigh. It made you giggle every time.

It was a beautiful sight, really. You got the privilege of seeing your beloved Papa and lover bare-faced, wearing just a t-shirt and boxers while he lost himself in this mindless game with you by his side. It was one of the few times that Copia truly got to relax. Here, he wasn’t Papa Emeritus IV, he was just Copia. Inwardly, he was overjoyed to have someone he could feel this comfortable with. He thanks Lucifer every day for your presence in his life. You felt very similarly, grateful that you're able to be a safe space for him.

As you zone out and admire him, his plush thigh makes gentle contact with your head again. You laugh quietly to yourself as you lift the juice box to his lips. He noisily sucks it down before pulling back from the straw. “Grazie, amore.”

You hum softly in response before setting the juice boxes off to the side and straying from your spot on the floor. You rise and take the controller from his hands. He grumbles quietly in protest as you pause the game, but all of his complaints die in his throat at you place yourself in his lap, burying your face in his neck. Copia chuckles and wraps his arms around you in return.

"Is watching me play really that boring, schricchio?" Copia teases, running his hands up and down your back. You look up at him with a loving smile.

"No, I'd just rather watch you instead." You say. Copia's face lights up with a warm and infectious grin and he immediately begins to pepper kisses all over your face, causing you to giggle and squirm in his lap.

"Il mio cuore, la mia vita." Copia mutters in between kisses. "Sei troppo dolce per questa terra, amore." As the kisses come to an end, you look at each other with adoration. Even with your unkempt hair and the clothes you slept in the night before, you were utter perfection to him.

"Ti amo tanto, tesoro. You don't know what you mean to me." Copia says affectionately, brushing back your hair to give a final kiss on your forehead. You beam under his loving gaze before you notice his expression shift. His smile becomes a smirk and you know just what's about to happen.

"Copia, I swear to Lucifer below if you-" Your warning is cut off as he restrains you with one arm and tickles you relentlessly with the other. You scream and squeal and thrash as he continues the playful assault. "Stop! Stop!" You yelp, trying to fight back through laughter.

Eventually, Copia decides to have mercy on you. His tickling comes to an end and you lay limp in his arms trying to catch your breath. "Oh, I hate you so much." You breathe, playfully smacking his shoulder. He chuckles at this.

"I love you too. Now, shall I get back to my game that you so very rudely interrupted, piccolo diavoletto?" Copia jokes, keeping you in his lap and picking up his controller. "Don't worry, you can play with me this time."

-----

Translations:

"Grazie, amore"- Thank you, love.

"schricchio"- Squeak

"Il mio cuore, la mia vita. Sei troppo dolce per questa terra."- My heart, my life. You are too sweet for this world.

"Ti amo tanto, tesoro."- I love you so much, treasure.

"piccolo diavoletto"- Little devil

A/N: Thank you for reading! I really do hope you enjoyed this. Like I said, I intend on posting some more drabbles. However, I do have an idea for a full length Terzo fic teehee

#ghost band #ghost bc #papa emeritus iv #copia x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #papa emeritus x reader #the band ghost

197 notes · View notes

dragon-ascent · 1 year

Text

Paraphernalia

You are an avid collector of Rex lapis merch...and your husband is Rex Lapis himself.

★彡fluff, fun stuff, zhongli finds you amusing as always

Zhongli had revealed his identity to you much before you two had gotten married. You’d been very respectful and told him how much you admired him as both a man and a deity...but oh boy, if Zhongli thought that was where your devotion ended, he was in for a long ride.

“Oh my freaking gosh! Eeeee!”

At your squeal, Zhongli is immediately at your side. “What is the matter- ah.” He sees the pamphlet you’re holding and suddenly it all clicks into place.

You clutch your husband’s arm, barely able to contain yourself. “New Rex Lapis plushie launching tomorrow! Eeeee! Let’s go down to the store as soon as it opens!”

Zhongli kisses your forehead, his heart fluttering at your enthusiasm. “Allow me to take a look.” He gently takes the pamphlet from your hands and peruses it, then looks up at the bed you two share...where you also keep your enormous pile of Rex Lapis plushies. “Erm...dear, what is different about this new one?”

“Look!” You point at what the new plushie is holding. “It comes with a free Mora coin plush! I haaaaave to get it!”

It’s worth it, really. There’s nothing Zhongli cherishes more than seeing you happy. And when he finds you the next day curled up in bed, napping away with your brand-new Rex Lapis plushie pressed to your chest, he finds his heart melting like the sweetest chocolate on a summer day.

Of course, with how fanatical you get sometimes, you get so caught up in all your Rex Lapis paraphernalia that you almost forget who Zhongli really is...

“I’m doomed! I have blasphemed!”

“Did you sit on the lap of one of the Statues of the Seven again, dear?” Zhongli inquires without even looking up from the morning paper. “I told you, it does not count as-”

“Even worse! The new glow-in-the-dark Rex Lapis keychains are all sold out and I missed my chance to buy them!”

At this, Zhongli gazes at you sympathetically as you huff and puff around the room, equal parts agitated and distressed. He knows how much your collection means to you. “I see. Well, you can get one when they restock, can you not?”

“No way!” you cry out, staring at Zhongli like he had just grown horns and a tail. “The restocked keychains will be B-grade ones! I need to own only first-edition, top-quality merch!”

“Ah. Oh dear...”

“What would Rex Lapis think?” you wail, flopping into your husband’s sturdy arms. “Rex Lapis, what do you think of me?”

“I don’t think ill of you, darling, I never could,” Zhongli assures, planting a soft kiss to your temple. “I still love you regardless of how many Rex Lapis-themed items you possess.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice!”

Zhongli chuckles. “I’m saying that because I love you, and married you for love. I never once wondered how many keychains in my image you obtained before I slid the ring onto your finger.”

Your lip wobbling, you ask, “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course I do, my beloved,” he answers softly, kissing the spot under your ear and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Come now, let me show you just how much.”

Of course, even when he offers you tender, affectionate consolation, Zhongli still ultimately wants to see you at your happiest. So wherever he can, he tries to pull some strings~

“Darling,” Zhongli calls after a long day of work. “I’m home!”

“Welcome home!” You run over to him and give him a peck on the lips. “How was your day?”

“Quite eventful,” he answers, “especially since I managed to procure a very important item.”

You quirk an eyebrow.��“An important item? What is it?”

Zhongli smiles, holding out both of his hands, fists closed. “I shall let you find out.”

Utterly intrigued, you look at both closed fists, trying to gauge which one has the item. It must be quite small to fit in his palm...what important item could be that small?

Pushing away the question since it was sure to be answered within a few moments, you go with your gut and pick the right hand. Zhongli’s smile widens and he opens his palm...

Gasping, you let out a squeal. “Is this...what I think it is?!”

“The very same.”

Still in disbelief, you take the keychain and observe its details. “It - it really is a first edition glow-in-the-dark Rex Lapis keychain...oh my gosh...but how..?”

Zhongli pulls you into a hug, chuckling at they way you seem to vibrate in his arms in excitement. “I managed to get ahold of a scalper and...persuade him to sell it to me at regular price.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You beam, singing his praises while waving the keychain around happily. “I love Rex Lapis sooooo much!”

Your husband kisses you, practically glowing at your happiness. “Rex Lapis loves you too, my beloved.”

#zhongli #genshin impact #zhongli x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #sini writes #zhongli x you #fluff #drabble #rex lapis

807 notes · View notes

colourstreakgryffin · 8 months

Note

Okay here me out please....So reader leaves their beloved baby with their father Muzan for the night, because he said he can handle it....he can't the baby is everywhere, he can't take his eyes off of them for a minute without her just vanishing to somewhere else. Eventually baby get's of the infinity castle and finds herself being coddled by Yoriichi and Muzan is just.....`he's panicking and like he don't know what to do, so like eventually he has to fess up to reader that he fucked up and she has to go get the baby and she and yorrichi lightly have a conversation (roast session) about muzan and responsibility

I know this is a bit strange but please I just think it would be funny

Oh? Okay, okay! I’ll try my best with this and hey, we get to see Yoriichi again! I missed Yoriichi so thank you dearly for giving us the angel back! The angel and demon

If you don’t mind, I’ll name the kid myself since haven’t been given a name

Kibutsuji Muzan- Wondering Child

“Muzan, my love. All you need to do is watch Kuragari” You gently remark with a soft voice and a understanding tint, offering the newborn Kuragari to your husband as his blood reds scanned over both you and the cooing baby. Muzan scoffed under his breath at the rather easy task you given him, watch his own biological infant. He could do it blindfolded and with one arm tied to his back

The moment you walked out of the room, Muzan immediately plopped the blood red-eyed baby into his cute little playcrib as he sat down, right before Kuragari in his playarea, to pick up a nearby abandoned novel to skim through the hefty pages and pinpoint the chapter he was at. He took his eyes of the boy for only a minute or so when he realised the lack of cooing and giggling was concerning, looking up. His heart drooped in concern

He’s gone? He’s gone?! Where did he go?! He’s a baby! How is he gone already?!

Muzan almost panicked as he shot up from his comfortable plush arm chair and frantically checked every nook and cranny of the spacious room for Kuragari with some… or more, all furniture thrown at the walls along the way, no success further alarmed him. How is a few months year old already more fidgety and energetic than a bumbling four year old

Muzan ended up almost destroying the entire Infinity Castle in search for a single small demon. He truly had no clue where that bouncing newborn could be and the only reason he had a decent clue was because a number of trees leading down a specific dirt path, once transported out of the Infinity Castle, had the same fang-like bite marks in them. As if a baby animal was teething on the trunks

Perfect

The King of Demons couldn’t be anymore thankful that time itself had given him a shred of mercy and averted the sky to pitch black so the glowing moon would shower cool moonlight down on his dead white complexion. His slight relief was cut short when he finally found the source of sudden familiar giggling, he knew that voice belonged to his son so he followed it

And what he saw terrified him as he definitely had his hands too tied to be able to take action

That… that bastard, Tsugikuni Yoriichi holding his precious baby boy in his lap as Kuragari happily rose his cute tiny hands up to touch Yoriichi’s much bigger, calloused palms. The monstrous human had a very shocked expression on his face as his plum reds looked ready to swell up in tears, his heart touched by the Prince of Demons being so sweet and playful, despite being the enemy

Muzan knew very well he couldn’t intervene at all as the last time he hardly butted heads with that Yoriichi. He only got away with one single strand of his entire being left, it was far too close for his comfort though, he knew he also needed to get his beloved Kuragari back. The only solution that came to his head was you, the boy’s mother

You were a human, just like Yorichi. You could get the boy back, no problem. Unlike Muzan himself

Cemented on his meticulous plan to get his baby back from the monster, Muzan rushed back to the Infinity Castle at his top speed and seemingly arrived in the same room you stood before, just in the nick of time to greet you. “Greetings, my love. Where’s Kuragari?” You ask softly and almost immediately, out of concern as Muzan flinches guilty, sighing out to try relieve him of the stress. He should just tell you, no need to lie or gaslight you into believing such nonsense

“You know that beast, Tsugikuni. He has stolen our son. I only took my eyes off him for a minute, if not two and he was gone, I luckily tracked him down by the teeth marks on trees but I cannot get him back, you know” You sighed displeased, part of you knew this simple task would end in absolute disaster but since you loved the clueless demons, you just flashed a sweet, gentle smile and took his hand encouragingly

“Let’s go find our Kuragari then, my dear”

Laughing joyfully with your precious Kuragari sat on your lap, fiddling and pulling on the lengthy ends of your haori to entertain himself and satisfy his curiosity. You were perched on the open wooden edge-skirt of the homely Minka belonging to the one and only swordsman that ruled the battlefield with a platinum fist, Yoriichi himself. The same Yoriichi who apparently ‘stole’ your son but you got the actual picture from Yoriichi and it made you realise your husband is no where near competent with childcare

“I found this one crawling around my backyard. I don’t know how he got there but he seemed to have travelled miles and was hungry, he kept biting at everything” Every word that human man said felt very genuine and you weren’t ever gonna try deny that him and his statements were

His explanation of the situation made much more sense than what Muzan proclaimed happened, such a weird one nevertheless. Yoriichi didn’t even know your son existed in the first place, why would he go after him?

Needless to say… you and Yoriichi spent almost a hour trading innocent insults at Muzan and his so-called parenting style. You didn’t really hate your husband, he actually tried and took responsibility by telling you about losing him but he should always be watching Kuragari, the newborn should never left alone not had eyes taken off him for even a minute and somebody like Yorichi, who lost his soon-to-be-born child to a demon, knows that

You have learnt to never entrust Kuragari to Muzan, you will just have to go to Yoriichi instead

263 notes · View notes

sugumii · 11 months

Note

Hello Suga! I read several of your posts about HSR and really love them! They made my heart flutter uhh help 💘✨ I want to read more of your work, so I have an idea: "It seems your lips are a bit dry. Here, let me moisture them for you ❤" by Jing Yuan and Blade (or the more the merrier) pretty please 🙏 🥹 Arigathank you gozaimuch 💃 Luv to U ✨✨❤

HSR Men- "Your lips are a bit dry... let me moisturize them for you.":

Of course, you're my first request so I included others and decided to make two more romancey to spoil you. Enjoy and feel free to request more. Also, thank you for requesting, it means a lot to me! Have an amazing day/night. Love to you as well!

Jing Yuan:

Jing Yuan sighed leaning his back into the plush, velvety chair. Mountains of paperwork littered his desk as well as proposals from businessmen who wanted his approval for future projects. In the distance, he heard Fu Xuan barking orders and formulating strategic plans to combat enemies. The male oh so desperately wanted to take a break and see his beloved, but it would appear he still had much work to do.

Just then, a knock was heard at his office door. He groaned internally, wondering who else was here to give him more work, and he shouted a stern, "Come in." The door opened as he looked towards the unexpected visitor only to light up once he saw who it was- it was you, his darling s/o. Jing Yuan’s eyebrows raised inconspicuously as he came to an immediate stand, quickly walking towards his lover.

You smiled at him, arms full with the bento boxes you had made for him. You knew your husband would be too occupied with work to remember to eat lunch, so you took the initiative to prepare something for him. Shutting the door softly with one foot, you spoke and greeted him warmly.

“Apologies for intruding, love, but I just wanted to bring you some food as I know my general is hard at wor-“

You were interrupted by large arms embracing your smaller frame and a face burying into your neck. You flushed at the unexpected act of affection but embraced it nonetheless. You giggled at the feeling of his fluffy hair tickling your neck.

“Well, well what’s this all about my love? Missed me?” You teased.

“Like you wouldn’t believe, love.” The general replied back, continuing to bury his face into you, and inhaled softly. You smelled of sweets and perfume, a scent that always comforted him. It never failed to make him feel safe despite the strong urge to protect you. You smiled at his words and ushered him to take the bentos.

“ I would love to hug you back my dear, but I cannot since my hands appear to be full at the moment come on, let’s eat.”

He leaned back with a soft smile on his face and gratefully took both bentos with one hand. You grabbed his hand and attempted to make your way to sit at his desk, however, he pulled you back before you could continue. You made a noise of surprise at his sudden actions.

"Wha-?!"

"My beloved..." Jing Yuan murmured, leaning his face down closer to yours. Your cheeks flushed pink at his actions. Just what was this man thinking?

"Jing Yuan..."

His gaze suddenly shifted to your lips as he licked his hungrily. He leaned in slowly, holding you close to his firm body. Your chests were pressed together as he held you lovingly.

"Your lips look a bit dry, my love... have you been so busy preparing this marvelous meal for me that you forgot to care for them? Let me fix that..."

With that, his lips captured yours in a gentle and loving kiss. Your blush worsened at the feeling of his lips moving together with yours almost in sync. The way he held and kissed you was like he was cherishing every moment with you. His hands moved down to rest on your waist as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to the side. His tongue mischievously licked at your bottom lip, causing your mouth to part in surprise. He took advantage and slipped his tongue into your mouth for a brief moment before pulling back with a slight smirk.

"Now then, shall we enjoy our meal together, hm, love?"

Blade:

"Blade, what do you think about this?" You smiled, twirling around in your new outfit.

"Looks good."

You and your boyfriend were both currently in your room. Your stoic lover leaned and rested against the wall, eyeing you curiously. He was dressed in his usual attire while you were showing off the new outfit you had recently bought for your date. He remained as expressionless as usual, save for the minor soft look in his eyes.

Your expression brightened at his reply and you ran to hug him, enlightened at the compliment he had given you.

"Thank you, darling! I'm glad you like it. I bought it specifically for our date today." He slowly returned the hug, secretly admiring your happy expression. The way you looked up at him made his heart skip a beat, something he never thought he'd be able to feel again. You were truly his angel slowly saving him from his darkness. He never told you, but he was incredibly grateful to have met someone as amazing as you.

"You're beautiful no matter what you wear. Are you ready to go?"

"Ah, yes! Let me just apply some chapstick before we go." You hummed and attempted to pull away from him. Before you could, however, the raven-haired male grabbed your waist and pulled you in closer to him. You looked up at him with a confused and flustered expression, not used to him being so bold. Blade cleared his throat as his topaz-colored eyes locked onto your lips. He smirked and licked his lips hungrily.

"Don't need it. Let me help you."

With that, his lips captured yours in a deep and tender kiss. You closed your eyes and kissed him back shyly, feeling him smirk. He licked at your lips hungrily, then bit down on your bottom lip without warning. Your mouth opened as you gasped, lips parting as you felt Blade slip his tongue into your entrance, invading every inch of your mouth. You blushed darkly and opened your eyes in surprise, only to lock eyes with his. Blade kept eyeing your expression the entire kiss, loving every inch of expression you had to offer.

With that, the navy-haired male pulled back with a string of saliva connecting you two. He smirked smugly before muttering.

"Done. Let's go."

Sampo:

Sampo Koski. A silver tongues “salesman” who is often seen profiting off his poor victims. Well, “customers” as he likes to refer to them.

Unironically, his first meeting with you had been from him attempting to engage in small talk with you. He had seen how well you dressed and how eloquently you had conversed with others, ultimately deducing that you came from a rather wealthy family. And so, he approached you and complimented your outfit, coaxing you into revealing some valuable information about yourself. Your big, e/c eyes stared up at him wide with innocence and curiosity, at least what he believed, as he felt his heart flutter.

The way those beautiful lips spoke and how your voice was as smooth as honey, he knew he was in trouble. He never felt his heart beat so fast, aside from running from the captain of the Silvermane guards, and it was exciting. Thrilling, even.

After learning your name and becoming acquainted with you, he offered you his business card with his contact information listed on it. He told you if you ever needed a sweet deal or some intel, he’d happily do so for a cheap price. You scoffed jokingly at this and with that, he winked and went on his way, a faint blush coating his cheeks.

Weeks went by and as did constant “coincidental” interactions with him. You found that whenever you went into the city, you always seemed to run into him. May it be from him attempting to gain more clients or hiding from Gepard, you saw him everywhere. His emerald eyes would always meet yours and a conversation would strike, though it was mostly him attempting to persuade you to strike a deal with him. Eventually, a relationship blossomed the closer you got and you found his presence to be comforting despite his sketchy business.

It was just another day of walking through town and eyeing trinkets in the store windows, however, this time Sampo walked alongside you rather than being elsewhere.

Together, the both of you walked hand in hand as he wore a dazzling grin. He kept sneaking glances at you, admiring the way your hair blew in the wind and the way you walked with an air of confidence. He squeezed your hand softly, causing your attention to turn toward him.

You watched as his eyes held a look of mischief and his smile got bigger.

“Sampo? Is there something you need hon?” You asked, watching in mild amusement and curiosity as you watched your lover’s smile turn into a smug look. Uh oh.

“Ya know, Y/n… I’ve been meanin’ to tell ya somethin’. Somethin’ of valuable information, you see.”

You stared at him with a blank expression, already knowing where this was going. Sampo noticed your change in demeanor and quickly added, “Free of charge for my lover, of course.”

“What would that be, hmm?”

Sampo grinned and led you to a nearby bench, sitting down as you followed suit. He casually leaned back and put an arm behind you.

“Well, you see, The Sampo Koski, with his ever so attentive eyes, noticed you buying a new product from a certain rival of mine, more specifically, a chapstick. Tsk, tsk, and I thought I was your only love! I feel betrayed, Y/n. If you needed a new one you coulda’ just asked me!”

Your eyebrows lifted in mirth and a smile coated your features. Laughter threatened to escape your throat as you eyed your boyfriend in amusement. Was he really jealous that you bought an item from someone else? A chapstick, nonetheless?

“But this is one of my favorite products from him. I like the way he makes it, it keeps my lips from getting dry.”

“Ah-ah, wrong! His formula ain’t that good, besides…”

Sampo’s face leaned in closer to yours while his eyes shifted down toward your lips. Your face flushed slightly at his proximity but your eyes never left him. He examined your lips and sighed playfully, bringing a hand up to your chin.

“They still look a bit dry to me! If you had told me, I coulda gotten them nice and moisturized way better and for a cheaper price.”

“What are you implying, Koski?” You asked with a blush, watching as his hand tilted your head and he pulled you in closer. Your eyes fluttered close, already knowing what was coming next.

“Your lips look a bit dry… I could moisturize them, free of charge of course.”

With that, he closed the distance between you two as his lips locked with yours. He kissed you a bit roughly, tongue swiping over your lips sneakily. You let out a small gasp and pulled back, blushing profusely and lightly scolding your cocky boyfriend.

“Koski! We’re in public!”

“Just as the great Sampo Koski thought.” He smirked confidently, leaning back into the bench. “His chapstick doesn’t even compare to mine! False advertising! I, on the other hand, would never scam you like that. Like my services? I just moisturized your lips free of charge.”

Welt:

You were lying down on the bed in your shared bedroom, scrolling mindlessly through your phone in boredom. You were waiting on your lover, Welt, to return from his mission in Jarilo-VI. It was a minor one, just quickly paying a visit and checking on the damage the Stellaron had caused, nothing more.

Suddenly, you phone pinged- a new message popped up. You saw it was from your beloved and grinned excitedly, quickly tapping on the notification.

“Dear, I just completed the mission. It went smoothly. On the way to the Express, I passed through the town and saw something that reminded me of you. I hope you like it.”

Your heart fluttered at the thoughtful message, internally thanking the eons for blessing you with such a wonderful boyfriend. You eagerly typed back and replied to his message.

“Ah, that’s good to hear that everything went well! Aww, you shouldn’t have dear. Thank you, I look forward to seeing your gift! :)”

You got another notification almost immediately and smiled at his reply. He mentioned he would be back in a few minutes and to please wait patiently for him in your shared room. You continued lying down on the bed, swinging your legs excitedly as you waited for your boyfriend’s return. Moments later, you heard the door open as he came walking in, his stressed facial expression turning into a loving one upon seeing you.

Instantly, you leaped off the bed and pounced onto him, hugging him tightly. He laughed softly and wrapped his lean arms around you, embracing you gently as if you were made of porcelain. Placing a gentle kiss on your head, he smiled.

“I’m back, dear. It seems my beloved missed me.”

“I did! I missed you soooo much. Now, what did you get me? I’m so excited to open it!”

“Ah, yes. I have it right here. Here you are, dear. I hope you like it.”

With that he handed you a small shopping bag he had been carrying in his left hand, watching with a smile as you eagerly sat down on the bed and began opening it. He joined you, taking a seat right beside you as you pulled out its contents.

“Woah!” You gasped, admiring the gifts he had gotten you. The bag consisted of countless expensive face products such as different expensive brands of makeup, skin care products, hair products, and even an assorted variety of chapsticks that recently came out. You had been complaining about the cold weather making your lips more chapped, and so your lover had gone out of his way and graciously bought some products he thought you’d appreciate.

Welt studied your expression, pleased with the massive smile gracing your features. “Is it to your liking, my dear?”

“I love them so much! Thank you, dear!” You exclaimed, hugging said the older male tightly. He chuckled at your reaction and hugged you back.

“Why don’t you try one of the chapsticks? They were recently released in stores and have been selling out rather quickly.”

“Alright, I will!"

You grabbed the small box of various chapsticks and contemplated which flavor to pick from. Eventually, you settled on the cherry one and opened it, quickly applying it to your lips. It smelled delicious, it even tasted faintly of cherries as well. Welt watched you lovingly as you applied the product with ease and smacked your lips quietly.

“It’s amazing! My lips feel moist already. Thank you Welt!”

“One moment, love. You missed a spot. Let me help you.”

“Huh?”

Welt gently took the chapstick from you and opened it. One hand grabbed your chin, tilting your face upwards towards him as he began to apply the product to his lips instead of yours making your face contort to a confused look.

“What are you-?”

Lips soon met yours in a gentle, tender kiss as you felt his now moisturized lips cover yours entirely. He moved his lips to coat every inch of yours with the remaining product he wore, allowing you to kiss him back. Eventually, you pulled back in a daze at his bold move. His smile remained gentle and loving as he apologized, grabbing your hands and placing kisses on them.

“Apologies, my dear. Your lips were a bit dry on the spot you had missed. I just wanted to ensure you had a thorough application of the product.”

905 notes · View notes

pinkeos · 7 days

Text

AFAB! Neuvillette x AMAB!Reader || 18+ MDNI

Warning/s: SMUT, they have seggs in a lake

Notes: *drops this and scampers back to play swarm cause ive been procrastinating*

In a secluded lake, somewhere in Fontaine only known to two, was the Chief Justice. His horns glowed a translucent blue, tail swishing in the water as he relaxed his body.

Neuvillette seldom took breaks, often drowning himself with piles of papers, working tirelessly for the sake of his nation. However, he needed a break. He deserved a break.

And being a good partner, you decided to take him out for a late night swim, knowing well it would help him clear his mind off of his troubles. That, and you also wanted to finally spend time together outside of the very quick lunches you shared.

The surface of the water rippled when you entered, the man turning to face you with the softest smile on his face. The moon was bright and high up in the sky tonight, the way its light shone down upon your lover only made him even more ethereal than he already was.

You returned his smile, leaning forward to press a soft kiss on his forehead while he instinctively wrapped his arms loosely around your neck. You felt him shiver in your arms at the way your fingertips gently traced his spine, going down until your hand settled on the fat of his ass, earning a gasp from your beloved.

“You look so perfect.” You murmured against his cheek, placing kisses against his cheekbone, adding with a chuckle, “As you always do.”

Neuvillette smiled, “You flatter me, my love.”

Your kisses on his cheek traveled downwards, reaching his jaw and then his neck. In compliance, the white haired man tilted his head to the side, giving you more room to place loving kisses on his skin.

He could feel your hands roaming his body, groping, caressing with adoration. You’d been intimate with him a number of times, but nowadays, with the sudden rise in the number of cases he had to deal with, you could only sneak in a few kisses and sometimes make out that would ultimately be cut short due to his busy schedule. He sighed in pleasure, slowly feeling his knees grow weak at your affectionate touches.

Your naked bodies pressed against each other when you pulled him closer to you, the water flowing softly at the sudden action as his tail wrapped around your waist. It was quiet, with nothing but the sound of nature surrounding the both of you, coupled with Neuvillette's whines when you nipped on a sensitive spot on his neck.

“It’s been so long. I need you, sweetheart.” You groaned into his neck, snaking a hand between the both of you to take a hold of the base of your cock, inserting it in between his plush thighs to rub against his throbbing pussy.

The Chief Justice whined, hand coming up to hold onto your bicep as you continued grinding, your length rubbing against his folds, the veins stimulating his clit just right, “Then— ahh!— t-take me.”

You didn't need to be told twice, really. Your hands immediately grasping his thighs, mouth devouring his own with a sense of urgency, so thirsty and deprived of him. His tongue danced with your own, his hand running through your hair while the other held onto your shoulder as you wrapped his legs around your waist.

“Mm!” He whined into the kiss, feeling your fingers rub his nipple, twisting and pulling. The stimulation along with your tip pressing and teasing against his clit drove him nuts.

You pulled away from the kiss, panting as you caught your breath, staring lovingly into his eyes while your hand guided your dick near his entrance, pressing into him slowly. The man’s lips parted, forming a small ‘o’ at the sensation of the stretch.

He could feel your eyes linger on his face, intently watching to see if he was in pain. It was a simple action, but it did make his heart flutter with how attentive you are. As much as you wanted to pound into him with everything you have, especially with how good he felt around you, you still prioritized his comfort and feelings first. You weren't going to lie, though, taking the hydro dragon in a secluded lake was hot.

“You feel so tight.” You grunted, slowly grinding your hips against him as you waited for him to fully adjust.

With red cheeks, Neuvillette buried his face against the crook of your neck, “I-It’s been a while…”

A smile spread across your lips before you drew your hips back until only the tip was left, and thrusting back into him. You kept a steady pace, eyes closing and eyebrows furrowing as his warmth clouded your head, feeling nothing but his walls clenching around your cock.

“Mmm-ahh! Aaahh! F-faster… go faster…” He whispered through pants, gritting his teeth as you placed your hands on his hips, bringing him to meet your every thrust. He could feel your tip kissing his cervix, tears gathering in his eyes at the immense pleasure.

“Keep clenching around me and I might just come inside you.” You groaned, speeding up your thrusts, your movement creating waves and splashes.

His sharp nails scratched your back, desperately trying to ground himself from the overwhelming ecstasy brought by your onslaught of pumps into his pussy, pulling at the knot in his stomach to cause it to tighten and tighten.

From the way he only tightened even more at your words, you could tell he wanted it. He wanted your cum to paint his insides white, for you to breed him without a care in the world.

Neuvillette tilted his head upward, hearts in his eyes and tongue lolling out. He looked adorable like this, all dumb on your cock.

Without warning, his eyes widened, a loud gasp falling from his parted lips as his legs shook, hold on you loosening as his climax tore through him, his pussy spasming. You had to hold him tighter, making him lean against your figure as you continued to chase your climax.

“Cum… inside me.” He panted, biting his lower lip, “Breed me. Please, please…”

Who could refuse when he chanted and whined in your ear, meeting your thrusts and coaxing you to do as he told you.

“Fuck, that's so hot.” You grinned, finally stopping still, groaning into his neck as you spilled your semen inside of him, directly into his cervix.

He whined, ignoring the cool water the both of you were in, instead focusing on the warmth of your seed inside him.

You held him against you still, rubbing his back and placing soft kisses on his shoulder, whispering how good he was for you. He remained silent, however, and before you could ask what was wrong, you felt a drip of water against your cheek.

Slowly, droplets fell from the sky, clouds now blocking the full moon as rain took over. With wide eyes, you pulled back just enough to show him your worried face.

“My love, are you alright? Were you hurt—”

Neuvillette shook his head, nuzzling closer towards you, “It just… it felt too good.”

You worry dissipated, instead chuckling softly as you cupped his cheek, “You’re adorable.”

Ending note: i love neuvillette sm (totally didn't skip his rerun for a 4* in 4.7🤡)

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact fanfic #neuvillette #genshin fanfic #genshin x male reader #neuvillette x male reader #x male reader #genshin impact neuvillette #genshin neuvillette

54 notes · View notes

tulipsforvin · 7 months

Note

Hello! Your works literally give me life.

Could I please request an oneshot with William James Moriarty? If possible, I'd prefer the format to be story writing, but I don't want to inconvenience you if you feel more comfortable with headcannons.

So, William is worshipping his wife's body, and she reveals to him that she feels very insecure about her extra fat, especially on her belly (She's not exactly chubby nor thin, if that makes sense) and she comforts her and reassures her that she's beautiful (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠).

I hope this made sense! Thank you in advance (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)

That's absolutely adorable 😭 Thank you for the request! I hope you have a splendid day/night ahead of you.

Tags: Married Couples, Assurance, Reassurance, Fluff, Relationships, Established relationships, Comfort.

Format: Story Writing.

“Symphony of Love„

William J. Moriarty x Fem!Reader

There were almost ritual-like night routines that (Name) and William followed, bodies embracing underneath the sheets of their shared bedroom. Tonight felt infinitely more intimate, soft sighs escaping the both of them as William leaned in to press a pepper of kisses on his wife's cheek.

“Love you. I love you so much.” William murmurs love-drunkedly, glancing up to look at (Name)'s face at the calling of his name. So breathy. So beautiful. So, so sensuous.

(Name) has her head lying against the plushness of the pillows, looking up at William as he hovers over her — each arm beside either sides of her head.

His lips trail across her jawline heart-achingly slow, moving with a symphony of love. Softly, sweetly, his lips travel further down, kissing her neck next. Lower. Lower. Lower.

(Name)'s breath hitches, watching her husband draw his lips closer to her ribcage, nearing her stomach. She stiffens, and almost instantly noticing her unease, William pauses.

“Darling?” He whispers softly, lifting his head to view her expression of nervousness better.

“I— uh,” She looks around. “I think we should stop for the night. I'm.. I don't feel so good.”

His brows furrow ever so slightly, lips forming into a small frown. “What is wrong, my love?”

“I just.. I don't know. This feels weird.” She gestures to the space between them. “*I* feel weird. Lately, I've been grappling with feelings of insecurity and..um.”

(Name) watches as her husband's expression immediately softens, turning to one of sympathy. “My love.. you're beautiful.”

William's frown only grows deeper as (Name) avoids eye-contact with him, looking down.

“Thank you.” She says halfheartedly, chewing on her bottom lip absent-mindedly. “I just don't really feel beautiful.”

“(Name),” William breaths in. “When I look a you, I see a marvellous mosaic of everything you have gone through. Each curve, each freckle and each scar on you tells a unique story of the journey it took to get you to me."

A brief silence fills the room with (Name) unsure how to respond before he speaks again. “My love, your body carries the imprints of the past, a cultivation of love and affection of ancestors that have come before you. You are a living embodiment of their stories and the love that has flowed through their veins, now passed onto you.”

Hearing her lover's words, she looks up at him from her lashes - feeling her bottom lip quiver.

“You think so?” She asks feebly, voice tinged with vulnerability. William smiles, nodding.

“I know so.”

“Do you think I'm chubby?” (Name) mumbles.

William laughs softly, cupping her face in his warm palms as he leans in to place a kiss on her nose. “Why does that matter?”

His beloved shrugs. “Dunno. I just think I could've lived a more beautiful life had I been..you know, slimmer.”

The tips of his slender fingertips travel down the length of his darling's arm, evoking a shudder of soft delight from her.

"Your body has relished in midnight conversations and savored sweet treats, delighting in the taste of decadent chocolates, the warmth of hugs, the gentle caress of hands held and the electricity of shared laughter. It has felt the softness of a favorite blanket and the cool grass beneath bare feet on summer days and the comforting warmth of hot cocoa on cozy winter nights.” He whispers, pulling (Name) into his arms.

He continues, “These experiences, etched into the fabric of your being, are proof of the vibrancy & beauty of a life fully lived."

William feels (Name) turn into a pile of mush in his embrace, nuzzling deeper into him. Not sure if she should either cry from becoming too emotional or laugh from joy at the words that her lover speaks, she dips her head into William's chest — snuggled up to him.

“...Mm. Thank you.” She murmurs quietly.

William presses his lips on the crown of her head, holding her close as the both find solace in their togetherness. “Anytime.”

#william james moriarty #william james moriarty x reader #william james moriarty x y/n #william james moriarty x you #moriarty the patriot #x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #james moriarty #yuumori #soft fluff #fluff #univerrse #william james moriarty fanfic

75 notes · View notes

enchantedchocolatebars · 8 months

Text

Still Alive And Present (Fic based on this AMAZING theory sent to me by an anon)

Hunter was in his room carving a palisman commission for a customer with a smile on his face, meticulously whittling in the desired details that were requested of him - round ears, vertical slits for pupils, a heart shaped nose, a round body, and stubby little legs and feet.

According to the father who had paid for the piece a day ago, the palisman was intended as a birthday gift for his daughter and that pandas were her favorite animals. 💕 🐼

Although Hunter had never carved a panda before, he was having a great time doing so.

Gus had previously presented him with pictures of them.

He said that unlike giraffes, they were a lot friendlier and less vicious.

Once the carving was complete, Hunter planned on giving it to the father first thing in the morning.

He was already imagining the excitement and radiant smile on the girl's face as she opened her gift on her birthday.

The carving apprentice was confident that she would love her new palisman pal.

He knew he did.

"I wonder what your name is going to be?" The blonde would ask rhetorically, aware that the palisman could hear him.

He smiled.

He wouldn't have ever been allowed to carve in the castle, especially not with Belos around.

Hunter was unsure of why, but he experienced moments where he missed his uncle, but he made an effort to remove those thoughts from his mind.

Belos... Philip... was a bad man.

A bad human.

A wicked, unforgivable monster who had committed heinous acts against others and had finally met the demise he deserved in the end.

Hunter, as well as the Isles, were finally free of him.

Meanwhile, Waffles observed Hunter hawk-eyed carving from her wooden bird perch, with an almost possessive look in her yellow hues.

Flying over to her owner, she perched onto his right shoulder.

"Chirp!"

Looking to this right, he spots her and sends his beloved bluejay a serene smile. "Oh, hey, waffle cone," Hunter gently greets the bird with her nickname as he pulled from behind him a single peanut nut. "Would you like a snack?"

The nut was pinched between his thumb and index as he brought it close to her beak.

She grabbed it, but then immediately turned to the left to spit it out.

Hunter was taken aback by her actions. "I thought you loved peanuts."

He then chuckles. "I guess you weren't hungry."

Waffles fixes her gaze on the palisman that Hunter goes back to carving. "What are you carving?" She questions him with a tweet.

"Oh, this? It's a panda palisman. I'm carving it for a commission. I think it's coming along rather nicely!" He showed off his hard work to Waffles. "Don't you think?"

Waffles' eyes squint at the panda, giving it an annoyed look. "Chrip, chirp, tweet, tweet, chrip."

"Well, you're certainly quite the critic," Hunter comments with a small chuckle.

Her second set of chrips and tweets earns her a playful glare from the blonde. "Okay, now you're just being mean."

When Hunter carefully applied the finishes to the panda, he grinned from ear to ear at his creation.

"There! It's done!" He pulls out a cloth and begins to wrap the panda in it, sitting it aside on his nightstand where his lamp and Polly Plantar plush sat at.

Waffles flutters over to Hunter's bed as he heads towards the door. "I need to get some paint for them. Be right back, waffle cone."

As soon as the room door is shut, Waffles slowly develops a malevolent expression on her face as she turns to the palisman on the nightstand.

...

Hunter returns to his room with some pink and white acrylic paints and two paint brushes in his apron pockets, only to see a sight that made him gasp.

His brown eyes witnessed Waffles pecking violently at the newly carved palisman he had just made.

"Waffles, wait, no, stop!" He rushes over to her as she stops.

He swiftly grabs the palisman and inspects to ensure it was not damaged.

Luckily it wasn't.

He sets the carving down on his dressing table.

"Waffles, you can't do that." Hunter tries to correct the bird as calmly as possible. He didn't want to come across as angry towards her.

Gazing at the ground, Waffles emits a somber chirp.

She's so ashamed.

"Do I hate you?" Hunter whispered in disbelief at the question. He shakes his head. "No, no, of course not. Waffles, I could never hate you. Listen, we all make mistakes. No one's perfect. I know you didn't mean it."

Seeing his birdie in such a sad state causes the blonde to shine her a sympathetic smile. "I'll have to paint that little panda later. In the meantime, how about we go see Luz and the others? You'll have the opportunity to hang out with your palisman pals! Would you like that?"

Waffles immediately looks up at Hunter at the offer.

A chripy tweet leaves her beak as the bluejay wastes no time perching on Hunter's shoulder.

She couldn't wait to see her friends!

Hunter gave her chin a gentle scratch. "Alright then, let's go."

As the blonde approaches the door, he fails to notice the sly smile on Waffles' face as her yellow eyes begin to glow in a chilling blue.

32 notes · View notes

astrobei · 1 year

Note

hello beloved suni. for valentine's day ficlet prompt... a lumax valentine's day perhaps?

(ft. lucas going Overboard and max secretly loving it?)

abby i would literally give you the world if you asked me to <3 happy early valentine's day and i hope you like this one !!

“I don’t understand this holiday,” El frowns, peering over the displays of red cardboard boxes and bulk-order roses. This corner of Melvald’s is completely decked out, with glitter and flowers and plush teddy bears as far as the eye can see– or at least until aisle three, where the store returns to its regularly scheduled programming of household cleaning supplies.

The floral scent is almost nauseatingly strong, and Max is suddenly extremely thankful she’s nowhere near as allergic to them as she used to be, or Mrs. Byers would have had to drive her to the hospital as she broke out in hives. “Me neither,” Max says, squinting at a teddy bear with particularly beady eyes. “Consumerist nonsense.”

El gives her a bit of a weird look. “Um–”

“It means they just overdo the lovey-dovey thing to get people to buy stuff,” Max adds, and El’s frown smooths itself out.

“Oh, okay. I was just going to say that I don’t know why there’s only one day out of the whole year to buy someone flowers.” She reaches out, touches a tentative finger to one of the petals on the nearest rose, and then immediately retracts her hand as the petal falls off and flutters slowly to the checkered tiles of the floor. “Oh no.”

Max bites back a laugh. “I bet those flowers have been sitting in storage since the beginning of the month.”

“I don’t get this holiday,” El says again, and shakes her head. “Why buy someone flowers that have been sitting outside for two weeks?”

“Again,” Max says, rolling her eyes at the 20% off! sign, “they just want to make money off this stuff. They don’t care about love.”

“Bullshit,” El says, so suddenly that Max can’t bite back a laugh in time to keep herself from giggling loudly, the sound ringing through the quiet of the store. Half an aisle over, a guy in a suit shoots her a glare. She pulls a face at him.

“Bull– yeah, I guess so,” she says, as El turns to study the display of chocolates on their other side. “So jaded already?”

“I don’t know what jaded means,” El muses, “but I think this holiday is bullshit.”

“Yeah, that’s– yeah,” Max nods. “You got it. Hey, if these chocolates are on sale, then maybe we should get some anyway.” She picks up a heart-shaped box and flips it over. “You’re not allergic to nuts, are you, El?”

“I don’t think so. Won’t Lucas buy you chocolates?” El asks, turning back around to give Max a curious look. “He’s your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, well,” Max sighs. “This whole thing is so cheesy. I don’t need him to buy me chocolates, I just need him to put up more of a fight before I beat him at Super Mario Bros. I swear it’s not even fun anymore.”

El wrinkles her nose. “At least it would be better than what Mike did.”

“Oh yeah?” Max raises her eyebrows, then puts the box of chocolates down. The handful of change in her pocket can be spent on better things than overpriced and over-marketed chocolate anyway. “What did Mike do?”

“He got me a card that said I like you.”

Max stares. “I like– you’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” El pops the p, and gives Max a look like yeah, I know.

“Okay, well, good riddance,” Max snorts. “I’ll be praying for Will. Poor guy.”

“I think it probably helps to actually love the person you give the card to,” El says thoughtfully, which is a pretty good point, and Max honestly doesn’t have much to add to that. She gives another cursory glance over the piles of sickeningly-sweet flower displays, the rows upon rows of stuffed bears that all look exactly alike, and then her eyes land on a discount bag of M&Ms.

“Okay, well, I still want these,” she says as she grabs them. “M&Ms are good no matter the day. You want anything, El?”

El peers around the corner of the aisle, and her face lights up. “Reese’s!” she cheers, then disappears from view. “One second!”

Max sighs, tossing the bag of chocolate up and down in one hand as she waits. She can imagine it now, being one of those poor schmucks at school who get bombarded with tacky cards and flowers that are on the brink of collapse. Just another way to flaunt relationships that are equally on the brink of collapse, probably. No one goes through the motions of over-the-top, elaborate stuff like this unless they’re trying to compensate for something.

She thinks about it, for a fleeting second– being given roses at school. The secondhand embarrassment of it all. A teddy bear that’ll no doubt collect dust on her bookshelf for the next ten years. Cheesy greeting cards– be mine and hugs and kisses and–

“Ready to go?” El pops back into her field of vision, a bright orange package clutched in one hand.

Max blinks. “Yeah,” she says, then firmly banishes any thoughts of cheesy greeting cards from her mind. No, thank you. She’s fine with her discount chocolate– that she got herself, mind you. No consumerist bullshit for her this time. “Yeah, let’s head out. Maybe Mrs. Byers will let us use her employee discount again.”

—-

Max knows something is off the next morning before she even gets in the car.

“You look weird,” she frowns, in lieu of a greeting. “What’s with you?”

Lucas ignores her. “Good mooorning,” he says, long and drawn-out and not nearly as obnoxious as it should be. “Are you ready for today?”

Max slams the passenger door shut behind her and says, “Well, my history presentation is today. So, no.”

“You’re going to crush it,” Lucas says, even though they have different history teachers this year and of course Max got stuck with the nitpicky one. “World War II isn’t going to know what hit it.” He takes the car out of park, backs slowly away from the lot in front of the trailer, and onto the main road. “But come on, that’s not what I mean.”

Max raises her eyebrows. Look, she’s not dumb, okay. It’s February 14th and she’s dating Lucas Sinclair. She knows there’s only one place this conversation is leading to. “Oh yeah? Well, I heard they’re serving chicken nuggets in the cafeteria today,” she says anyway, just to be difficult.

Lucas indulges her. He always indulges her. “Well I’m ready for chicken nugget day,” he says, even though he shouldn’t be, because Max is certain they haven’t used chicken to make them since before Indiana was even a state. He reaches for her hand over the console and says, “You might have to drive me to the hospital after but it’ll be worth it.”

Max bites back a smile and looks out of the window before he can see. “Loser,” she says. It comes out too fond for her to have any hopes about hiding it, and even though the radio is blasting Madonna, she hears him laugh as he squeezes her hand.

She thinks he’s dropped it, or maybe he’s picked up on the hint and hastily canceled whatever it was he’d been planning, but of course, no such luck. “Okay, well,” he says, as they get out of the car and make their way up to the school. “Can I walk you to your locker at least?”

She stops in her tracks. It wouldn’t have been suspicious if he didn’t ask, because he always walks her to her locker before class starts, but now–

“No,” she decides, walking away as fast as her legs will allow. “Don’t you have Calculus to get to?”

He catches up to her easily. “Come on,” he grins, matching her pace effortlessly. “It’s–”

She holds a finger up to his face. “Don’t say it.”

Lucas holds both hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re thinking something! I know it! You’re– you’re scheming and you’re– up to something, I don’t know. Up to no good.”

“Up to no good?” Lucas laughs. “What are you, fifty?”

“Shut up,” she says, and then they’re basically at her locker already, and his grin grows exponentially which leads her to believe that maybe this was the plan all along.

“You should open your locker,” Lucas says, leaning against the adjacent one and clearly trying his hardest to look blasé about the whole thing. “Just saying. Because your books are in there and stuff.”

“If I open this and something jumps out at me,” Max grumbles, spinning the combination lock. “I’m going to–”

She trails off. Stares.

“Um,” Lucas is saying, peering around the open locker door. “You’re going to– what?”

“Kill you,” she whispers, before reaching into her locker and pulling out the biggest fucking bouquet of roses she’s ever seen. “What the hell?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lucas smiles. There’s something a little nervous about it, like maybe he was worried that she had some deep, lifelong trauma rooted in the holiday and maybe she was about to start crying in the middle of the hallway. “Do you like them?”

She could lie and say no, just to keep up appearances, but that would be mean, probably. “Yeah,” Max says, feeling herself smile before she can help it. “What– how did you get my locker combination?”

Lucas waves a hand dismissively. “Dustin,” he says, like this explains everything. Maybe it does– she doesn’t know. She tries not to keep up with whatever they have going on, because the less she knows the better. “But seriously– do you like?”

“Of course,” Max says softly. They’re pink roses, the real kind, fragrant and fresh and not falling apart at the seams like the flowers that had been shedding all over the Melvald’s floor yesterday. She wonders where he got them. She wonders how much he paid for them. “They’re– how?”

“I have my ways,” and okay, apparently Lucas is a total man of mystery now, and Max does not care enough to find out what his ways are, because–

Oh, these flowers are gorgeous. Like actually, genuinely, mind-blowingly gorgeous.

“You got me flowers,” she says, more to herself than Lucas, like maybe stating this fact as just that– a fact– will make it easier to comprehend.

He got her flowers. A lot of flowers.

Apparently Max Mayfield is, after all, one of the poor schmucks being given flowers at school.

“Well, I figured you’d think the red ones are dumb,” Lucas goes on, blissfully ignorant of the way Max can literally feel her entire face turning hotter than the inside of an oven. “And I know you like red, but they're red roses, which I know you’d think are tacky, so I figured these would be more your speed. More subtle. More– uh. Max?”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“Are you okay?” Lucas frowns, waving a hand in front of her face. “You haven’t blinked in, like, a minute.”

Max is definitely very, very red now. “I’m fine,” she gets out, “it’s just– thank you. These are nice.”

“Oh.” The tension slips away from Lucas’ shoulders, and he stands up a little straighter. Puffs his chest out just a bit, which makes her laugh. “Good. I’m glad.”

“I might just– leave them here for now, though.” She motions to the locker and tucks the flowers back inside. “If that’s okay.”

“Fine by me,” Lucas grins, then slings an easy arm over her shoulder. “Now about your history presentation–”

—-

And Max isn’t stupid, per se, but maybe it wasn’t the smartest of her to assume that it would end there. At lunch, Max is about to resign herself to her fate of a pathetically soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, when Lucas’ grinning face pops up in front of her.

“Hey!”

“Jesus Christ,” she gasps, and Mike snickers softly as she jumps.

“No,” Lucas says, pointing at himself. “Lucas.”

Max peels back the cling film around her sandwich with a growing sense of trepidation. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh, no reason,” Lucas says, and so obviously Max does not believe him in the slightest. He’s got both hands behind his back, and Will is next to him stifling a laugh into his hand, and Max doesn’t trust Lucas as is but she especially doesn’t trust him if Will is involved.

“Could someone just tell me–”

Lucas sets a plastic tupperware container in front of her. “Ta-da!”

Max frowns. “What’s this?”

“Well maybe if you opened it,” Mike starts, and then she elbows him and he lets out a sharp, offended gasp. “Ow!”

“Shut up,” she says, peeling off the lid of the box. And then, “Lucas.”

He grins. “Yes?”

What the fuck. Max reaches into the box and pulls out the most perfect cupcake she’s seen in all seventeen years of her existence. “Did you– did you bake me a cupcake?”

Lucas scratches the back of his neck with one hand and says, “It’s from a box mix but. Technically, yes.”

“And it’s–”

“Red velvet!” Lucas announces, and he’s definitely being a little smug about it now, but Max supposes it’s probably deserved, with the way she’s been staring at this thing for the past forty seconds. “Um. Your favorite.”

“I–”

No one’s ever baked her anything before. She figures that no one’s really had any reason to, before Lucas, but that means it’s something that hadn’t even been on her radar of things that you can do for other people until now, which also means that she’s been staring at this damn thing long enough for Mike Wheeler to reach across her and try to scrape some of the frosting off the top.

That spurs her into action. She swats his wrist away. “Hey! Get your own!”

“I don’t have my own,” Mike pouts dejectedly. He looks over at Will. “Can you make me a cupcake?”

Will sets a second tupperware down in front of Mike. “One step ahead of you,” he laughs, “but you ruined the surprise.”

Mike’s mouth drops open, then closes, then opens again, in an excellent impression of a goldfish. “What–”

“Will came over last night,” Lucas announces, and they both have identical grins on their faces now. “While El and Max were off wreaking havoc on the poor city of Hawkins.”

“We went to catch a movie,” El chimes in, shoveling baby carrots into her mouth. “Hawkins is fine.”

“I can’t believe you,” Max hisses, because this is the second time Lucas has made her turn redder than a beetroot today.

Lucas just grins wider. “You love me,” he says, linking their fingers together across the cafeteria table.

“Gross,” Mike gags next to her, and then Will touches a hand to his wrist and he falls blessedly silent.

“You were saying, Wheeler?”

“Oh, shut up.”

—-

Max thought that maybe going home would mean an end to her suffering, but apparently not.

She frowns. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. It’s not like the roses and the desserts and the cheesy greeting card Lucas had pressed into her hands before dropping her off are hurting anybody. She rolls over onto her side in bed, hours later after dinner and homework and when she’s done boiling herself alive in the shower, and stares at the card where she’s propped it up on her desk.

I love you bear-y much, it reads, with the most ridiculous cartoon illustration of a bear behind it. So ridiculous, in fact, that she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d totally just picked it out to see the look on her face when he gave it to her. And it must have worked, and she totally gave him exactly the reaction he’d been looking for, because he’d laughed for, like, a solid three minutes after pulling up in front of her place.

“This is so stupid,” she’d said in the car, fighting back a laugh with every molecule in her body, and it’s true– it is stupid, maybe one of the most stupid things she’s ever seen– but suddenly her cheeks hurt and there’s something warm and fuzzy and gross bubbling up inside her chest, and she’s smiling.

“What the hell,” she whispers aloud, horrified, hiding her face in her pillow like there’s anyone around to witness her throwing all sense of morality to the wind and partaking in stupid greeting card traditions.

Clink.

Max sits straight up in bed. There’s a noise from the window, like someone’s tapping on it, but there’s no one there.

She frowns. What? Maybe it was a stray gust of wind, or a tree branch, or–

Clink.

A pebble comes flying at her windowpane, so small that she barely even sees it, then bounces off harmlessly.

“What–”

Lucas Sinclair is standing outside her bedroom window, waving like a maniac. “Hi,” he says, as soon as she gets the window open. “Are you busy?”

“Lucas?” Max looks down at her pajama pants and t-shirt, one she’s had for so long that she’s started to wear holes in it. “No, I was just– what the hell are you doing?”

“Being romantic,” Lucas says simply. “I was going to bring a boombox and blast something cheesy but I figured maybe waking up your mom and the entire community was less romantic and more asshole-y.”

“Asshole-y is not a word,” she says, in a meager attempt at a distraction from the smile breaking across her face. “You could have just knocked. At the front door.”

Lucas makes a face. “But that’s boring. Now are you going to come outside or do I need to climb through your window again?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Max decides, even as she swings one leg through the open window, shaking her head. “You are so ridiculous.”

“You’re laughing,” Lucas says gleefully. Her feet hit the grass and she shivers slightly, the ground gone icy with the February chill.

“Yeah, so?”

“And you’re also cold,” he says, and then he’s shrugging his jacket off and holding it out. It’s his varsity jacket, the one he has on almost every day. She’d never tell him, but she loves wearing it because it’s already a little big on him which means it’s huge on her and maybe the most comfortable thing she’s ever put on.

She accepts the proffered jacket without a fuss, which is maybe out of the ordinary for today, but whatever. “Someone’s being real gentlemanly today.”

“Please. I’m always a gentleman,” and he says it kind of laughingly, but it’s not a joke. Not really. Lucas is the most gentle person she knows, and he brought her flowers and baked her cupcakes and gave her the most stupid card ever, and–

“Thank you,” she says earnestly, tucking the jacket in around herself.

Lucas shuffles his feet on the grass. “I know you’re cold,” he starts, “so I won’t stay too long. I just wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?” Max stares. “You saw me all day at school. And you picked me up and dropped me off and–”

“I meant just you,” Lucas corrects, tugging her arms down from where she’s got them wrapped around herself, twisting their fingers together. “No rush. No first period bell. No basketball practice in the way.”

“I,” Max starts, throat gone completely, embarrassingly dry. God, she’s dating this guy, and she has been for forever, so why the hell is she still getting so flustered? “Really?”

“Uh, yeah?” Lucas says it like a question, like it’s obvious. “And I know Valentine’s Day isn’t your thing because you think it’s totally stupid, which is fine, because you’re kind of right, but– I don’t know. All I could think about all day was how lucky I am to be dating you.”

Jesus Christ. This is not a good look for her. If Mike ever asks, Max kept her composure, and was calm and collected and as totally cool as a cucumber.

“Really?” she squeaks, just a little bit, because the unfortunate reality of the situation is that she is not as cool as a cucumber and is, instead, as warm as– something that’s very warm. “You– really?”

Lucas laughs lightly. “Yes, really,” he says, thankfully ignoring her sudden combustion into a thousand little Max-shaped pieces. “And I’m sorry if the flowers and everything was over the top and they were so cheesy, but I literally just could not help myself.”

Max shakes her head. “No,” she says, warm and fuzzy and so happy that it’s threatening to spill over and out of her entirely. “No, it’s– I loved them,” she admits softly. “I did. They were lame and corny but I loved them. Even the bear card,” she adds, and he laughs again. “But holy shit, Lucas, you gave me so many things.”

“You deserve lots of things,” Lucas says. “Lots of good, corny, cheesy things.”

“I’m going to need you to shut up now,” Max says, then promptly buries her face in his chest. He doesn’t even seem fazed by the impact, solid and steady and unmoving as she wraps her arms around him. “But happy Valentine’s Day, stalker.”

She hears him laugh, somewhere above her. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, and kisses her on top of her head. “I love you.”

#posting this now for the five people that are online #oh i love lumax so much #so disappointed in myself for not writing them before #anyways #lucas sinclair the boyfriend of all time so true #max mayfield the astrobei self insert of all time she's just like me fr #ugh #just let her be spoiled and given good things n made flustered and and and #<333333 #lumax #max mayfield #lucas sinclair #+ a little bit of #el hopper #fic #fun sized fics

122 notes · View notes

tainted-liquor · 8 months

Text

'Watch Your Fucking Mouth! ...₊˚⊹♡ Ft. 42Miles

...˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

e42!Miles Morales x Autistic!BlackFem!Reader

ingredients: Sugar, Lemon zest, n a lil bit of smiles!

TWs: 'ual harrasment, Miles choosing violence, cussing, bullying

Reader has a kirby/retro games special interest btw

BOOM!

"Look, I can handle myself. Don't do that shit again, aight?"

"Yes my love."

Taglist:

@ashsostrange @chessbox @faeriesoiree333 @janaeby @kxllanxtdoor @an1bara @fivestardior

#atsv #across the spiderverse #into the spiderverse #miles morales #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles #e42 miles #e42 miles x black!reader #miles 42 #42 miles morales #earth 42 #earth 42 miles morales x reader

277 notes · View notes

darkstar225 · 8 months

Text

Twice's 10th member loses her stuffed dinosaur ft Girls' Generation's Tiffany as GF

A/N: Heyyy, I'm coming up with a lot of stuff for you guys so I can make up for the time I'm gone lol! Sry for taking so long to post :D I hope that my friend LyraHarris6 who gave me this idea on Wattpad likes it! :)

The request: Hi its me again. I want to request can you do where y/n is dating Tiffany snsd and y/n lost her favourite stuff dinosaur and throw a tantrum and the members call Tiffany and she came right away to the dorm to calm you down and help you find it. Thank you and love you ❤️

PS: Tysm for everyone who reads what I write, I hope I can bring a smile to your faces every time I post! I'd like to thank whoever sent me this idea 'cause I loved to write it <3

__________________________________________________________

The TWICE dorm was bustling with activity on a typical sunny afternoon in Seoul. Laughter and chatter filled the air as the members went about their various activities. Y/N, the group's 10th and youngest member, was in her room, frantically searching for something.

Y/N - Where is it? Where did I put it?

The maknae kept muttering to herself, her brows furrowed in frustration.

The object of her search was her beloved stuffed dinosaur, a plush toy that had been with her since she was a child. It was her comfort item, the one thing that always made her feel safe and happy. But now, it seemed to have disappeared.

Y/N's girlfriend, Tiffany from Girls' Generation, had often teased her about her attachment to the dinosaur. Tiffany found it endearing, and she understood the sentimental value it held for her girl. They had been dating for a few months, and Tiffany had quickly become an important part of TWICE's angel's life.

As the younger girl continued to search her room, her frustration grew. She had already turned the place upside down, and there was no sign of her precious dinosaur.

Y/N - Where could it be?

She mumbled, on the verge of tears. TWICE's sunshine had a busy schedule, and the thought of facing the world without her beloved stuffed animal was making her anxious.

In the living room, the other TWICE members exchanged worried glances as they heard Y/N's distressed murmurs. They had all grown fond of their sugar and knew how much the dinosaur meant to her.

Sana, one of the closest members to the girl, finally spoke up.

Sana - Maybe we should call Tiffany unnie. She might know where it is.

The suggestion seemed to be a lifeline to Y/N. She immediately grabbed her phone and dialled Tiffany's number, her hands trembling with anxiety.

Tiffany, who was at the SNSD dorms working on some solo projects, answered on the first ring.

Tiffany - Hello, babygirl. What's up?

The voice on the other side of the line quivered as Tiffany listened attentively.

Y/N - Baby, I can't find my dinosaur! I've looked everywhere, and it's just gone. I don't know what to do.

Tiffany's heart ached at the distress in Y/N's voice. She knew just how much that stuffed dinosaur meant to her girlfriend.

Tiffany - Don't worry, sweet girl. I'll be right there. We'll find it together, okay?

TWICE's lovebug let out a shaky breath, feeling a bit of relief.

Y/N - Thank you, my love. I love you.

Tiffany - I love you too, boo. I'll be there soon!

Tiffany reassured her before hanging up.

The TWICE members watched as Y/N hung up the phone, her expression a mix of anxiety and anticipation. They knew that Tiffany was the only one who could calm her down in a situation like this.

True to her word, Tiffany arrived at the TWICE dorm in record time. She was greeted by a tearful Y/N at the door, who immediately threw her arms around her girlfriend.

Tiffany hugged her darling tightly, whispering soothing words in her ear.

Tiffany - It's going to be okay, my heart. We'll find your dinosaur, I promise.

Y/N pulled away, her eyes red from crying.

Y/N - I don't know where to start, Tiffany. I've looked everywhere. *pouts*

Tiffany smiled gently and took her girl's hand.

Tiffany - Let's start by retracing your steps. When was the last time you saw it?

The younger girl thought for a moment.

Y/N - I had it with me last night while we were watching a movie in the living room. I remember snuggling with it on the couch.

Tiffany - Okay, let's check the living room first. *nodding*

They walked into the living room together, and Y/N's eyes scanned the room in desperation. But there was no sign of the dinosaur.

Y/N's voice quivered as she spoke next.

Y/N - It's not here, Tiffany. I don't understand where it could have gone. *sobs*

Tiffany remained calm and composed, determined to help her precious girlfriend find her cherished possession.

Tiffany - Let's check your room one more time, just to be sure.

They returned to the SMC's room and began searching once more. Tiffany carefully looked under the bed and in the closet, while Y/N checked her nightstand and the bookshelf.

As Y/N reached out to pull open a drawer, she let out a gasp of surprise.

Y/N - Tiffany, look!

She held up the stuffed dinosaur triumphantly. It had been hidden under a pile of clothes in the drawer.

Tiffany couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of her sunflower's joyful expression. She pulled her into a tight hug.

Tiffany - I'm so glad we found it, baby.

Y/N clung to Tiffany, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks.

Y/N - Thank you, darling. I don't know what I would have done without you.

Tiffany pressed a tender kiss to Y/N's forehead.

Tiffany - You never have to worry about that, hon. I'll always be here for you.

The TWICE members, who had been waiting anxiously in the living room, let out a collective sigh of relief when they saw their youngest and Tiffany emerge from the bedroom, the stuffed dinosaur safely in their dongsang's arms.

Nayeon, as one of the older members and Y/N's mom, felt the need to tease them.

Nayeon - I guess Tiffany unnie is the hero of the day, huh?

Tiffany chuckled and hugged Y/N tighter.

Tiffany - Just doing my duty as Y/N's girlfriend.

Y/N's face turned a shade of pink as she buried her face in Tiffany's shoulder. The members' teasing only made her feel more grateful for the love and support she had in her life.

As the evening continued, Y/N held onto her stuffed dinosaur, feeling more secure than ever. She knew that no matter what challenges she faced, everything would be okay if she had Tiffany by her side.

The TWICE sisters watched the couple with warm smiles, knowing they were witnessing a love that was as enduring and comforting as Y/N's beloved stuffed dinosaur. And this made them only have one thought:

We love our dear maknae.

A/N: I’m sorry for any errors, English is not my first language. Pls, let me know if there’s something wrong, ty for reading <3

29 notes · View notes

xelasrecords · 1 year

Text

The Love We Live For

Kim Jihyun x MC x Han Jumin

Jihyun comes home injured so MC and Jumin fuss over him. MC's love for them is romantic and reciprocated, while Jihyun and Jumin's love is platonic. The idea for this came when I replayed Jihyun's route and realised I couldn't choose between them. I want to feel loved and admire their love. Everything else comes after. I hope this story will make you feel loved too.

Words: 4.3k

Masterlist Read on AO3 Moodboard

The evening saw her and Jumin lounging on Jihyun's couch, her bare feet on Jumin's lap, Jumin's head tipped back against the plush cushion. Her heart was thrumming with anticipation of Jihyun coming home today. It was the kind of yearning that one didn't realise one could have until the object of affection was gone. She welcomed the feeling without objection, for there had always been fondness between the three of them. And if hers developed into something more—equally yet differently—for the two men she always searched for in empty rooms and bustling crowds, it was not something she could control.

"Jumin, this is not the time to be sleeping." She nudged Jumin's side with her toes when his eyelids were drooping.

A few weeks had passed since Jihyun's departure for work, and instead of growing accustomed to his absence, they had grown to miss his presence. So when she asked Jumin to join her in welcoming their beloved friend at his home, Jumin accepted her offer in earnest. No one wanted to miss the opportunity; the right place at the right time couldn't come often enough for three people who lived vastly different lives.

Jumin closed his hand around her ankle, not bothering to open his eyes. It was a wonder that a touch so familiar could still send sparks up her veins. "Allow me to take a quick nap."

She was glad when he didn't move his hand away. "I don't think your best friend would like it when his surprise gift is a sleeping log."

"He doesn't have any expectations from me. He likes me always," Jumin said. "And I would make a sustainable log."

She sunk into the sea of throw pillows and made herself comfortable. "I'd process you into paper immediately."

Jumin peeked at her. "To write a heartfelt love letter proclaiming your feelings for me?"

"To revise your sleeping habits and make a better you." She cracked a grin. She liked how Jumin could flirt with her in a playful manner. He never revealed this side of him when there were others around. Of course, Jihyun was excluded from the grouping. He was not other people to them.

"You only need to turn to Jihyun for that," Jumin said after a moment. "He is the better part of me. His kindness is what makes me who I am. I wouldn't be sitting with you here if he never influenced this acceptance into me."

"Then who are you to him?" The first button of Jumin's white shirt was undone, revealing the slope of his throat that ran down to the base of his collarbones, but she fought to train her eyes on his face.

"His conscience. I think he looks to me as some kind of moral compass. He's always apologetic for the things he hasn't done enough. He doesn't think about what he has done, only what he hasn't. I'd like to believe that I lessen his burden by having faith in him."

"Do you ever wonder if that faith is misplaced?" There was no judgement in her voice, just curiosity. She could never tire of listening to how much Jihyun meant to Jumin. Jumin was at his tenderest when he spoke about his friend, the one soul that he could recognise from afar and would not let go no matter the circumstance.

"It wouldn't be faith if I doubted my belief in him," Jumin stated like it was a fact known to all. "It's how I believe in you too."

"I don't think I look at you like you're my guiding star."

He lifted his head to face her. "Quite the opposite. I believe in you because you possess a good sense independent of anyone's opinion, a sense that sometimes I lose, and you care for Jihyun like no other. That's enough to tell how trustworthy you are."

"I care for Jihyun like I care for you," she said softly. "There's no one I'd rather be here with than you. Your company means more to me than you can imagine."

Jumin smiled at her. "I know."

She was about to reply when they were interrupted by a click at the door. Immediately, she and Jumin rose from the couch, him gently putting her legs away and her shoving the pillows aside to get to her feet.

It was Jihyun. It was Jihyun who trudged in with a camera slung around his neck. It was Jihyun with a face peppered with scratches and bruises and ragged clothes stained with dirt.

She stopped short before him, her initial joy upon seeing him twisted into horror. One glance at Jumin's stricken face confirmed that his feelings mirrored hers, his clamped fists turning white at his sides.

Jihyun was just as astounded to see them. He turned his head away as if to hide the scars on his cheek, but she slowly tilted his jaw back to her, the other hand hovering over a blooming bruise. "What happened?" she breathed out.

Jihyun gave them a rueful smile, eyes darting from her concerned expression to Jumin's terse form. "I didn't know that you two would be here."

"We need to get you to the hospital right away," Jumin said, his tone urgent.

"It's only a light injury, Jumin. No need to call the doctors. I didn't hit my head and there are no open wounds, see?" Jihyun widened his arms. After a quick scan and her experience of tending to his worse wounds, she could tell that he was telling the truth. It relaxed her a bit.

But his comment seemed to shake Jumin out of his shock and shifted his mood into annoyance. "Oh, I have seen light, and this is not light."

"It's deep purple—the bruise, I mean," she commented helpfully.

"Thank you for your observation," Jumin deadpanned. "He should paint his next artwork with that colour."

"Dark violet would be a nice shade to paint with," Jihyun mulled.

Jumin shot him a reprimanding look and helped him shrug off his coat. Slowly, Jumin got Jihyun's arms out of the sleeves, cautious not to let the fabric scrape against the cuts on the skin. No matter how angry Jumin was at him, he would never use aggression to handle him. It was another thing that she liked about Jumin.

Jihyun, however, wasn't exactly likeable at the moment. She was relieved that he didn't need urgent care, but she shared Jumin's displeasure. A nagging suspicion crept up when she noticed the guilt darkening Jihyun's expression.

"Did you do something stupid?" she asked.

"It's in poor fashion to assume he's the perpetrator when he could've been the victim," commented Jumin.

"It wasn't something stupid." Jihyun seemed as innocent as he could be, but she could see through his distractingly angelic face, the battered face that sent a fresh sharp pang to her heart whenever she examined it. "I was trying to take a photograph of a flower growing on a high wall when I slipped."

Jumin dropped the dirty coat that he'd folded and stared at Jihyun. "I take it back. You are an idiot. Did you not check for your safety before you put yourself in a precarious position?"

"He wouldn't be in this state if he did," she muttered.

Jumin bent down to pick up the coat. "You have been very helpful tonight."

"Sarcasm from a handsome brooding man, just how I like it." She winked, trying to make light of the situation. Jihyun had been through worse, so this was fine. This was manageable. There were no serious injuries, so self-treatment would be enough. They could head to the hospital the next day if they really had to. "Now I'm about to be even more helpful. Pretend to be surprised, Jumin."

But it appeared that Jihyun could sense her underlying anxiety. He touched her forearm and offered a reassuring smile while nodding his head once, silently encouraging her to do what she had planned. She pressed her lips into a tight smile and placed a hand on his back, guiding him to the couch. She could feel Jumin's gaze burning the back of her head, but she ignored it. Better for him to be irked than incapacitated with terror.

Jumin sighed and stalked off to another room, presumably in search of the first aid kit. In this house, nothing ever stayed at its original place. Jumin often brought it up as a complaint and had attempted to stage an intervention for it, but she didn't mind if Jihyun did not. She found Jumin fussing about and Jihyun watching him in resignation rather endearing.

Once she cleared the throw pillows from the couch, Jihyun took her hand and brought her down to sit beside him. "I didn't want you and Jumin to know," he said.

"I know."

"I didn't want you to be worried about me."

"I know that too." She took his camera off his neck and placed it on the table. "But we'll worry nonetheless. Partly because you're always up to questionable things but mostly because you're our friend. You can't expect us to be happy all the time when that isn't humanly possible."

Jihyun pushed aside the strands of mint hair that fell over his matching-coloured eyes. "I'm afraid that I'm a burden to you and Jumin."

"Do you think it's a burden to love?" She briefly wondered how it would feel to thread through his hair but quickly banished the thought. This was not the time.

"To love me?"

"For you to love someone," she clarified. "Me. Jumin."

A small, disbelieving laugh slipped past Jihyun. "How could I, when I've known how warm it feels? I feel it when I see you and Jumin, and I feel it from the two of you. It's like the three of us are running on the same wavelength." He met her unwavering gaze. "I would do anything for a chance of your happiness even if it's the most laborious and harmful task, and I wouldn't think of it as a task. It'd be the easiest thing to do in the world because it's not something I'd have to choose. I would just do it."

The edges of her mouth curled into a small smile. "Helping you isn't something we have to choose either. When you love someone, sometimes you've got to let them do a little more work when you can't. Love is not about giving until you break yourself. You need to refill your vessel by receiving love too. We're here with you, so stop driving us away." She arranged a pillow on the couch before sliding to the floor. "Come, lie down. I bet you're tired. You drove on your own, didn't you?"

Jihyun gave her another apologetic smile but obeyed her request without protest. Jumin's footsteps echoed behind her—footsteps that she had become familiar with from the many times they slept over at each other's houses, how he always took long, steady strides like he had a place to be. Jumin swerved his body away from her as he passed by, carrying a large bowl filled with water in one hand and a first aid kit in the other while she shifted to give him space.

He set down the bowl on the table, water swishing inside. "Jihyun, you need to let me call someone to organise your home. Did you know where I found this?" Jumin rattled the first aid kit. "In the cereal cabinet. What on earth was it doing there?"

She craned her neck to look at Jumin. Though his shoulders were slumped from exhaustion, there was still an air of authority about him. "I heard you could use iodine as a replacement for milk. It'd look like blood and tempt the modern vampires from the book you read," she paused, thinking. "But you have to consider its texture. It's not thick enough to be confused with blood."

Jumin looked at her with newfound fascination, his irritation temporarily forgotten. "That's an interesting observation. Iodine smells like iron, so there's a chance that they could be fooled. I must tell Assistant Kang to retrieve some samples and test them out later."

Beside her, Jihyun leaned across to her ear and whispered, "Should we stop him?"

She snorted. "Maybe I could be your test subject, Jumin. Who knows? I might be a vampire, or it might turn me into one."

"Not now, then," Jihyun said under his breath and reclined to his previous position.

Jumin brandished the bottle of iodine from the kit and examined it with utmost curiosity. "According to the book, you'd have to be bitten to be one."

"Please," Jihyun cut in. "I merely wanted to take out the cereal but I forgot and shelved the kit instead."

Jumin deflated with disappointment. "So you were hungry and bleeding?"

"I understand." She raised her hand empathically. "I get that once a month."

"If it helps, I'm still bleeding now," Jihyun offered.

"Right." She arranged herself into a kneel and squeezed out water from the floating cloth in the water bowl.

The water was warm as it dripped down her elbow. She gently rubbed the cloth over Jihyun's face, cleaning it of the dirt that smeared across his jaw. He smelled like it too, she thought as she plucked a twig out of his mint-coloured hair. It might have been a small accident, but how many more small accidents should occur until they amounted to fatal destruction?

When she reached his split lip, she hesitated. Dry blood had crusted around the cut, but fresh blood was pooling again; it must have cracked when he talked. She was regretting how she couldn't be there for him when he lowered her wrist just enough to see her without the cloth obstructing his view. "It's all right, take your time. It doesn't hurt as much as it looks," he encouraged.

It was as if he could read her mind.

She nodded in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. "This may sting a bit," she warned before wiping the blood away. She was conscious of her movement and his breath fanning the back of her hand, the softness of his lips despite the injury. It was the closest she had ever got to it.

She was also aware of Jumin's presence beside her, who had sat on the floor with her to clean the cuts on Jihyun's arms, her shoulder occasionally brushing Jumin's. She could feel his eyes flitting from Jihyun to her when he thought she didn't notice, but was there any chance that she would not? It was almost impossible not to bristle under his intense stare studying her actions and reactions. She bit her lip and tried to concentrate on her duty at hand.

Jihyun cleared his throat. "I know I said that I felt bad for making you two help me earlier, but if I'm being honest, I'm also relieved that I don't have to do this alone." He smiled apologetically at both of them. "Thank you."

Jumin halted his ministration and looked up at Jihyun. "How many times do we have to tell you that you're not alone? Even when we're not here, you can always call us and we'll come in a heartbeat. Or I can call in a house doctor for you if you prefer. You simply need to ask." Jumin stared at the bandage that he just patched on Jihyun's arm. "Or don't ask, but I would do it regardless."

"Asking for help is harder than believing I would receive one," admitted Jihyun. "I know that you would come to my aid. You always have, but letting myself be weak has never been my strong suit."

"If it is reassurance that you need, then I will give it to you: being weak is not wrong," Jumin said, a hard edge in his voice. "What's wrong is putting yourself in dangerous situations for the sake of art. I worry that your pursuit of it is making you self-destructive. Is there no other healthier way to do it?" The gauze in his hand was trembling—from frustration and desperation, she guessed.

Alarmed, Jihyun pushed himself up and leaned towards his friend. "I'm surprised you're in this much distress, Jumin."

She felt compelled to comfort them, but she knew soothing words would not fix anything. The two men, the only men she could love this much, had to come to an agreement themselves. Jihyun always put every other thing before his health and Jumin was always worried about him. No one meant harm, but it did not mean no harm came to them.

Jumin shook his head in disbelief. "How can I not be? She and you are all I have. What if someday you do something so foolishly dangerous that you—"

"No!" Jihyun exclaimed, shocking both of them. "That won't happen." He grasped at Jumin's hand, the gauze falling to the floor. She had never seen such an intense display of emotions between them. "You forget that I love you. You're my best friend and I won't leave you for a temporary thrill. Art may provide me respite, but hurting you would scar me forever. It's not a line that I dare to cross."

"You're famous for blurring the line of death."

"Not this time. I know I'm selfish for this, but when I imagine toeing the line over and over until I've done irreversible damage to you, I shatter inside. I don't think I could live with myself if that happens. It is difficult enough to live with myself as I am."

"Then I would live for you." Jumin's eyes blazed with righteous rage. "What is it that you think I have been doing this whole time? I forgive you so you can find it in you to forgive yourself. I stand by you through everything because I believe you are good when you fail to see why, which is always, but I can't stand it when you promise one thing for my sake and do another behind my back."

"I won't—"

"Don't," Jumin warned, "make another empty promise."

"Jumin, no." Jihyun's tone was pleading. "That was before."

At once, she and Jumin understood what Jihyun meant. For Jumin and Jihyun, there was only before she came into their lives, and after, when everything fell into clear focus. Jihyun turned to her, reaching out to touch her face, and she drew closer instinctively. "The sight of you heartbroken isn't something that I ever want to see." His voice was barely a whisper.

Everyone held still. They never saw her as an intruder to their friendship; she was the missing key that locked their bond together. It felt right to be three, or they would spend their time constantly wondering how the missing one was doing. Jihyun's honesty was a surprise to her though—she didn't think he could have faith in how deep her feelings ran for him, and in turn, did not want to betray her heart because he cared about her just as much. She had thought that treatment was reserved for Jumin.

"It's fine to do the things you're passionate about," she finally said, dimly aware that her fingers had pruned under the wet cloth she was clutching. "You'll fall sometimes. That happens when you hit the ground running. Only don't disregard your safety completely, and rely on us when you need to. That's how you can keep my heart."

A small smile played on Jihyun's lips. "I will try."

She smiled back and turned to Jumin, only to have him already regarding her with such tenderness that made her feel like folding into herself. She knew what he was trying to convey—thank you for looking after my friend, thank you for telling him he's fine the way he is, thank you for loving him. And the most palpable of all, thank you for being here with me.

But she hadn't done anything grand. It was simply a love she couldn't hold back from spilling at the brim. Both Jumin and Jihyun came with their own set of irritabilities, but they were easy to love. Where else could she find a love that stayed up with her because they loved the person she loved, a love that was willing to kneel on the floor with her until their legs went numb because someone she loved was in more pain? It was the kind of love where she didn't have to explain herself because there was nothing to explain, because they would understand her or strive to do so without judgement.

She would not give it up for anything.

Jumin, gentle eyes still on her, switched out the cloth from her hand with an ointment. "How much scrubbing are you trying to do to him? You're flooding the floor." He bent down and used the cloth to wipe the water pooling before her knees, his knuckle skimming her skin, a contact that sent a pleasant shiver through her body.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, silent gratitude for what he had said to Jihyun. There was love in Jumin's words. She could hear it as she could read it in her own actions, as Jihyun could feel it through their care. They loved each other so, so much, and she knew that if they were offered a chance to find a better friend, none of them would have taken it. No one was like the two men, and no one was like her.

Jumin tilted his head up to her and nodded with a smile. With Jumin, it was always the words unsaid that spoke the most volume.

"She could polish me until I'm shiny," suggested Jihyun.

Jumin straightened his back. "That's impossible. You're not a statue."

She shrugged. "He looks like one."

"Oh no, that can't be." Jihyun waved it away. "Jumin is more handsome than me."

She took a swab of the ointment and applied it generously to Jihyun's bruising cheek. "All right, if you're going to be humble, then I'll proudly announce myself as the most beautiful one here."

"While that is true, I didn't say I was going to be modest," Jumin jumped in.

She opened the iodine's cap, the strong biting smell stinging her nose, and dabbed it on the cuts on Jihyun's forehead and chin before covering them with bandages. "But you did agree that I'm the best, so no point in making a point of your handsomeness now."

"She's right, you know," Jihyun said.

Jumin grunted and stood up, apparently done with his help. "Why do you always pick her side over mine?"

Jihyun grinned. "Just following my heart."

She patted his shoulder after she finished applying salve to his split lip. "You're all patched up. Just be careful for the next few days."

"Forever," Jumin corrected.

"You two are incorrigible." Jihyun laughed and shook his head. It was a lilting, melodious sound that she never wanted to lose from memory. "I will be more careful in the future. Please believe me this time."

She and Jumin shared a look. His steady belief in Jihyun did seem to strengthen Jihyun's resolve in himself. She knew the change would not be instantaneous, but the fact that he listened already spoke a lot about his usually obstinate character. How could one affect another so greatly? She saw her wonder reflected in Jumin's expression.

"I'll believe you," she said.

"So will I," said Jumin. "Since we have toiled into the night for you, it would be appropriate to commemorate this moment. May I use your camera?"

Jihyun gestured at him good-naturedly while sitting up. "Go ahead. Just turn the setting to automatic."

She and Jihyun shared knowing looks and suppressed their giggles as they waited for Jumin who was busy tackling the buttons and adjusting the lens. Jumin's eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, occasionally looking through the viewfinder only to alter the settings again. Why he didn't ask Jihyun for help she couldn't fathom. Perhaps he wanted the satisfaction of succeeding in figuring it out alone.

Finally, he looked up with a smirk. "I'm all set. Do get into position now."

"You don't want to be in the picture?" she asked.

"I shall try to be Jihyun tonight. I'm eager to find out why he's willing to put his life on the line for this." Jumin gave Jihyun a pointed stare, which Jihyun returned with a wince.

She chuckled to herself, mesmerised by how easily Jumin could get annoyed by Jihyun's antics, and yet it was impossible to find another love as pure as theirs, and how they welcomed her with open arms. Now that she knew with whom she belonged, everywhere else felt foreign. In this friendship they had, she was not a trespasser and did not have to cross any line; there was never a line to begin with. They accepted her and loved her, as simple as that.

She settled into a relaxed pose, folding her legs into a cross while still sitting on the floor. She placed an elbow on top of Jihyun's knees and looked up at him, her chin in her palm. With a smile, he caressed her hair and placed his hand on her shoulder, angling his body close enough that her head could lay against his chest if she dared to.

Jumin watched them with patience and fondness. They were all happy at this moment—yes, yes, they were. It was almost more important that they could capture this present joy than the scene itself; if only feelings could be frozen and preserved. Was this the reason Jihyun took pictures? At the count of three, they both smiled into the camera and the flash went off.

The result?

It was not even a question worth asking.

Of course it was blurred.

Footnotes:

The theme of this story is becoming better because of the people you love. I know Jihyun is the type who can hurt himself even though it hurts his loved ones, but that's when he's at his worst with Rika. I'd like to think that surrounded by the right people, he could be influenced to be better. When I was younger, I thought it was impossible to be deeply changed by anyone and that it'd be a bad thing if we were, but I've learned that it isn't always. We can bring a good impact on others' lives too.

Hardest one to write yet because I'd never written about love this honest and fond before, but I had fun doing it although I wanted to scream whenever I got stuck articulating the feeling. The platonic side was easy, however, since it was my love for my best friend that I poured into Jumin and Jihyun. Sometimes I really do believe that our souls are intertwined—no one can see through me the way she can and vice versa, and I admire her for everything that she is. This is my love letter for her of sorts. I wouldn't be who I am without her.

Now I NEED to talk about the header. I thought it fitting to use paintings that feel intimate and vulnerable, and purposely didn't give MC any physical attributes to be more inclusive (fought the urge to project my characteristics to feel like the main character). MC has a painting of a red rose that stands out among 2 white roses because she brings colour to the twin soul best friends. Jumin has 2 silhouettes watching a lonely shadow go. Jihyun has a close-up of a man with bright brushstrokes looking out forlornly. The background is crimson red to match the intensity of their love. I literally cannot be chill I will think about everything this is how I have fun.

Buy me a glass of something that's definitely not coffee because I can't stand it but it is the website's name if my story touches you in some way? No worries if you don't. I'm still grateful you've read all the way through here.

62 notes · View notes