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seraphdreams · 7 months

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ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE DARK? | GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. the campus power outage gives your sly classmates a proper chance to get to know you.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. fem!reader, college au, dark content, kidnapping, use of toys, one (1) mention of “you cryin?”, vibrators / dildos, fearplay, eiffel tower position, blindfolds / restrictions, dubcon, squirting, double pen if you squint. mdni <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 4.0k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! happy friday thee 13th !! i know y’all remember me saying i wouldn’t write jjk anymore but i caved! so here’s my comeback to writing them , i literally can’t get gojo out of my head. as always, comment / reblog if you like it ! i’d muchly appreciate it ♡.

“isn’t she lovely, satoru?”

“fucking beautiful.”

a pair of crystalline-like eyes followed your bare figure down from your heaving chest to your lower abdomen where they settled on your glistening folds. you were spread open, laid against the armrest of the couch you were splayed across, hands bound taut by what felt like cheap, abrasive rope.

of the softer voice you had heard, its owner pulled out a silk piece of cloth from the pocket of his sweatpants, carefully binding it over your eyes, eluding your already subdued line of sight.

their mannerisms were recognizable, the two men who’d gotten you into that pathetic situation.

they were none other than gojo satoru and geto suguru from your foreign affairs class. prior to, you hadn’t shared much of a striking moment with them for their names to be ingrained in your memory, other than the times suguru would ask for a pencil, and gojo, a copy of the notes. it wasn’t until the start of the fall semester that you had grown closer to them.

they’d invite you to the campus’s library on account of needing you, /and only you,/ to tutor them, along with accompanying them to parties held by the school’s fraternity, and back to their dorm when things got boring — they took quite a strong liking towards you, despite your persistence on rejecting each advancement they made on you.

it wasn’t like you found them unattractive, or even unbearable. they just had more rumors than they could keep up with hanging off their reputation; rumors consisting of them switching girls much like they switch clothes simultaneous with how they weren’t particularly shy about their hookups, were among the ones you’d grown familiar with.

but, as the end of the semester grew nearer, you felt a need for excitement and a change of direction; especially in the form of gojo and geto.

“y/n?”

walking back from your overtiring night classes, the call of your name from a familiar voice whipped you straight out of fatigue. it was none other than the duo that seemed to follow you step by step, like puppies with their owner, as you turned around to catch a finer glimpse of them.

“hi,” your voice came out dulcet, and slightly hoarse. “why’re you guys out so late?”

“could be asking you the same thing.” suguru retorts, strands of long, inky black hair framing his mirthful expression. he had always been handsome to you, over six foot tall with sharp facial features that involuntarily caused him to exude an intimidating presence yet, he had a tame personality to back it up. there was a reason he was popular on campus.

he was also remarkably attentive when it came to you. suguru would make it a habit to check up on you from day to day, under the guise of morning texts and showing up to your dorm with limited edition beverages from your favorite cafe.

it wasn’t considered flirting if he was constantly referring to you as a “friend,” right?

satoru quickly came up behind him, resting his arm over the shoulder of the black haired man. he was donned in his signature style of attire, tinted glasses low on the bridge of his nose despite the sun being hours away from rising, which you had presumed was just his fashion choice. he looked better like that, anyway.

“i was just coming back from my night class. it let out early,” your words flowed airily into their ears, the tone cordial as ever.

it was the thing they loved most about you — your doe eyes, plump lips, and sexy curves that they’d fantasized about tracing every inch of with their tongues. you were too perfect, and far beyond naive. The ideal victim.

“pretty girls like you shouldn’t be out so late. it’s dangerous.” gojo held an emphasis to his last vocables, the warning you should’ve taken, yet brushed off as concern. because, of course it was. your friends were only “concerned.”

you nodded your head, lips involuntarily jutting out in a soft pout. “i know, i know.”

gojo was the rather flirtatious half of the duo, often opting to remind you of his undying attraction towards you that never seemed to get through to your glitter-filled mind. you were wrapped around his finger whether you knew it or not — you were but the final reward for him when having the others back to back failed to feed his salacious desires.

“you should swing by, though. satoru and i aren’t doing much,” geto spoke, looking at the blue-eyed man hanging off his side. “right, satoru?”

gojo perked up, a sly smirk making its way to his lips while he beckoned you closer with the movement of his fingers. “yeah, it’s friday. you deserve some time off, pretty thing.”

he wasn’t wrong. most of your time was spent dealing with school in which you barely had a moment for yourself. not to mention the fact that it was convenient, the commute to their dorm held less distance than it would’ve had you walked all the way back to yours. it worked out perfectly, for both parties involved.

with the mindless nod of your head and an “okay”, you made your way towards the two, and began to stride along in the direction of their place.

things were off about the duo, though, but not quite strange enough for you to think anything of it. the route was the same, some vacant corridor that always kissed your skin with its glacial breeze, leading to their hall, and down just a few steps was the doorway to their dorm.

as you patiently wait for geto to scan his keycard, the sensation of featherlight touch ghosting along the mast of skin that your tiny cropped top allowed to be exposed, shook you from your veil of comfort. you had come to realize it was gojo who took it upon himself to rest his hand on your lower back.

the world around you felt recognizable, yet you couldn’t shake the suspicion that deep down, something’s wrong.

the latch of the door beeped, signaling that it had been unlocked successfully, and with a sturdy hand, geto opened the door to allow for you and gojo to slip past while he kept his distance, treading leisurely behind.

satoru flipped up a light, the whole place illuminating immediately after. it looked different from the last time you came over, posters that littered every wall in the living space seemingly replaced by minute frames of artwork, all cohesive with the neutral nature of their dorm.

lit at the coffee table across from the couch where you decided to settle yourself at, was a single-wick candle that filled their air with its hints of fresh sage and amber musk.

“lemme take care of your bag,” suguru extended his arm out to you with a soft smile on his face. gojo sat down beside you, ridding himself of his glasses while you gave geto your tote. “i need to get something from my room so i’ll just put it on the bed that way you won’t have to worry.” he continued.

“thanks, sugu.” you returned his warm smile with a beam of your own.

gojo’s tongue clicked as he rolled his head back against the headrest of the couch. “marry her while you’re at it too, huh?” his tone is painted in vexation that wasn’t clear enough to distinguish between mirth or solemnity.

you heard geto chuckle as he made his way to the bedroom, waving off satoru’s comment. “wouldn’t hurt you to be nice every now and again.”

“you jealous, ‘toru?” you taunted to the ivory-haired man, relaxing further into the couch as his arm took purchase around your shoulder, pulling you in closer. “and if i am, baby? what’ll you do t’me?”

it wasn’t hard to get lost in his eyes, especially when they seemed to draw you in with that playful expression of his and kept you craving more of his attention. he’s so annoying.

you brushed off his query with an eye roll, turning your focus back to geto as he sat on the other side of you, a small box taut in his grip.

oddly enough, the soft whirring of mechanics died down along with the luminescence that filled the dorm shutting off, leaving the three of you in pitch black darkness, with only the faintest sliver of light emitted coming from the candle.

it painted an eerie picture, one that caused the pace of your heart to quicken as your body involuntarily tensed.

“oh?” suguru was the first to voice his mystification. he set the box aside, taking a haste look at gojo; which was more of a silent cue to the latter, reminding him of their true intentions.

what you assumed was geto’s hand over your thigh, diligently ran along the expanse of your lower half until its fingers curled at the hem of your bottoms. “aren’t we lucky?”

his touch was unfamiliar, nonsynonymous to you as the chivalrous suguru you knew. the sensation was weighty with lust, hungry against your skin, enough so to cause you to wonder.

“suguru, your—“

just as you were about to question the man before you, his eccentric best friend cut in.

gojo created the slightest gap of distance between your bodies, mainly to take advantage of the sight before him — geto working diligently to rid you of your garments, stripping you bare, safe for the thigh high socks struggling to contain the spill of your plush thighs.

“what? you afraid of the dark?” satoru’s teasing aided in affirming your suspicions. and the fact that you were utterly helpless, only sprung on his arousal as well. “we’ll take good care of ya.”

geto’s left hand found its place back on your thigh, more-so to spread your legs for the two. “you trust me, don’t you?” he smiled, that same smile that was painted over by an ulterior motive. he stood up, finding his knee in between your thighs, centimeters from your heat. “satoru, the rope?” he held his hand out for gojo, feeling satisfied once his request was fulfilled by his best friend, handing him the cord from the opposite end of the couch.

the words you wanted to say struggled to bubble up in your throat, rendering you speechless and anticipating. in one hand, suguru took both your wrists, tying them taut by the cable and stepping back to get a better view of your helplessness, specifically the way it leaked from your cunt and soaked into the cushions.

all the same events that explained the predicament previously mentioned.

after the unfortunate affair of being blindfolded, you felt lithe fingers drum at your clit. it was a teasing, rhythmic sensation that made it clear to you in the strongest way it could, that gojo was the one with reigns over your body now.

“our feelings are so hurt, babe,” his voice feigns offense, and although you couldn’t see him, you sensed that his signature smirk was etched over his features. and that, it was.

he toyed with your heat, running his index and middle fingers along your slit, collecting as much of your arousal as he could before sinking them into your hole. “you kept rejecting us in the past, but,” as his words trailed off, the pace at which his fingers pumped inside of you quickened. “we’re treating you fucking good, right?”

even though it was just two of his digits, the stretch that they’d allot to your hole was delicious, the tips of his fingers deliberately curling against your gummy walls, right at your g-spot which only made the shaking of your thighs worse.

“god—” you rasped, nodding your head. your heat made no effort in slowing the way it greedily sucked in his fingers. it was almost as if you were waiting for this, fantasizing how it’d be like to be one of their girls.

with every foolish thought came foolish actions.

satoru awaited your answer, speeding up to an impossible pace when you didn’t respond within his time bracket. “wanna hear you say it, baby. tell me how good I'm making you feel,” he demanded.

it felt as though your mind was going to break, the pleasurable mixture of sensations causing your head to spin and orgasm to build within you. you only allotted the fortitude for soft babbles, trying your hardest to conjure up something coherent. “f-fucking good! ‘s so fucking good!”

the pad of his thumb finds your clit, rubbing vigorous circles over the bundle of nerves. “attagirl,”

wet squelches were sonorous in the air, so much so, that the students inhabiting the dorms just across the hall could probably hear the filth taking place at that very moment. not that it was something new to them — it was just another satosugu friday night.

you couldn’t take anymore, your thighs threatening to close around his arm, yet his free hand kept you spread.

“i think she’s gonna cum, satoru,” geto coos, leaning down beside you while watching as gojo edges you closer and closer to sweet release. “can you squirt for us, princess? make a mess?”

before you could retort, your release rippled within you, sending shocks of pleasure throughout your body. evidently, geto’s questions were answered instantaneously the moment you soaked satoru’s fingers with your essence. your chest heaved, your breath growing ragged just moments after.

if only you had the reins to see them — touch them.

gojo slipped his soiled fingers into his mouth, moaning at the saccharine flavor you left him with. if he could live off the taste of you alone, he’d know for sure that he’d die happily.

“are you really that sensitive?” suguru queried. in his hand was the concealed box, filled with toys; some that could vibrate, along with others that were clearly meant to stretch you out. he pulled out one of the thicker dildos, running it along your slit in paintstroke motions.

“do you think this could make her squirt just as fast?” his inquiry to gojo made it undoubtedly clear that they’d been plotting against you from the very start; it wasn’t just some spontaneous idea.

gojo’s focus was unwavering on the dampness seeping through his sweats, his palm rested atop his hard-on as he watched the pleasant sight of geto sinking the silicone into your hole. amidst satoru, he was concerningly gentle. he had kept one hand at your thigh, draw soft patterns while he kneeled between your legs to give himself a better view at how hungrily your cunt sucked him in. “‘toru’s always so rough, isn’t he?” suguru cooed,

you mindlessly nodded your head; it wasn’t like you agreed, but you were stuck between heaven and bliss, not knowing which felt better. whereas gojo was, albeit, impatient and loved to get the good parts, suguru was refreshing, like a cold glass of lemonade on a warm summer’s day. suguru started up a thrusting motion with the toy, building it up to a speed that had your back arching and thighs quivering under his hold.

“you’re so tight, darling. you a virgin?” his soft voice speaks out.

as you were about to respond, gojo’s large hands found themselves at your tits, kneading the flesh while his fingers tweaked at your stiffened nipples. “this virgin’s pretty hot,” satoru commented.

“n-not a virgin!” your reaction came in the form of a cry, seemingly at the increase of stimulation within your gummy walls, the tip of the silicone cock nudging so sweetly against your gspot that the nothingness of your sight morphed into white hot pleasure.

you had fallen perfectly into their trap — what would’ve taken a considerable amount of effort, and even thinking, was handed to them easily though the power of the gods; they’d be sure to thank them later for their service .. or maybe you will.

suguru removed one hand from your thigh, relocating it to dig aimlessly through the box. he was satisfied when he pulled out a tiny bullet vibrator, switching it on to the most mild level and gently circling it against your clit. “mm, i don’t think i believe you,” an amused smile etched on his features watching you squirm in his hold.

with pleasure stemming from the most sensitive parts of your body, it’s difficult to chase away the feeling of yet another, messy, mindnumbing orgasm. “geto..!” your whines fell to deaf ears, suguru hyper-focused on the way your puffy clit twitches underneath the toy. he knew you were close; anyone within a mile’s radius could tell that, and perhaps he was covertly evil, because the loss of stimulation that came soon after he pulled the toys from your heat was pure work of the devil.

he spoke up just as he switched his attention from your aching cunt to your heaving chest. “if you’re not a virgin you shouldn’t have any trouble taking us both, right?”

oh?

they were like that. you should’ve known — the two did everything together, it’d be foolish to deny the possibility of them fucking together.

your obstructed vision was finally restored when gojo took off your blindfold. he figured it’d be much better if you saw how you were about to be obliterated — and obliterated you were.

he took your hand in his, standing you both upwards.

you wobbled beside him, your legs feeling like jello from the insane amount of stimulation your cunt had to endure. “look at her, suguru. she can barely stand,” gojo teases. “and we haven’t even got to the good part yet.”

he wastes no time in freeing his hard cock from the prison that was his boxer briefs. his length was long, bulbous head flushing a soft pink as beads of pre-cum dribbled down his shaft. he gave himself a few experimental pumps before turning you around and bending you over.

without the stability to keep yourself bent completely, you crashed into geto, who was no more than an inch away from your face. you looked up, sheepishly as he rid himself of his hoodie, faced with his toned abdomen.

“we haven’t done this position in a while, huh?” there’s a cocky smirk on geto’s face. one that was his own, yet it wasn’t the suguru you’d known.

since when was he the conniving type? did all his time with gojo finally rot his brain? or were you staring at a man you truly never knew?

suguru’s hand slipped just under the waistband of his sweats to free his cock. the tip tapped harshly against your lips before he took a firmer grip at the base to smear pre-cum over your already saliva drenched lips. “open up, pretty baby.”

instinctively, you slid your tongue around the head of his cock before suckling the sensitive area, only gradually taking in more. on the other end, gojo pushed himself into your core, letting out a low hiss at how eagerly your needy cunt took him in.

“she’s fucking tight,” he groans, squeezing at the plush fat of your hips while rocking his own into you.

“don’t get greedy now, ‘toru,” geto’s voice is soft as his hand in your hair gently guides you to take him deeper, up and down his cock. it’s evident you’re pretty damn good at giving head from the adoration in his eyes when he looks down at you, silvery orbs with hearts for pupils locked onto your vacant ones.

“what a well trained whore you are.” he praised, beginning to buck his hips up into your mouth, not rigorously, but enough to prod at the back of your throat and scatter tears to your waterline.

gojo slipped his thumb into your puckered hole while his thrusts became harder, with fervor. he wasn’t one to be patient nor hold back, especially when it came to someone like you, with a pussy so tight and moans so sweet, he’d have to break you just a bit. where’s the fun in that if he doesn’t?

his balls slammed against your clit, creating a potent string of pleasure to course through your body. throbbing was pertinent within your walls, each drag of his cock along the ridges inside you posing you weak from the shocks of euphoria. a hard slap came crashing down at your ass, gojo’s sizeable hand repeated the motion occasionally to watch the way the flesh rippled.

your moans were muffled by the intrusion of cock getting fucked into your mouth. the room reverberated in an array of messy skin slapping in tandem with groans and whimpers. it was music to their ears, a song they’d want on repeat if it were possible.

“shit.. ‘m gonna cum,” geto’s dulcet tone alerted. you watched in pride at how the muscles of his lower abdomen flexed in the onset of his orgasm. his rhythmic thrusts faltered, morphing into a resonance of scattered heavy thrusts that led him closer to his orgasm until he eventually jettisoned his seed into your mouth. the taste wasn’t as bitter as you were used to, it was almost pleasant and you swallowed every drop before he pulled out ever so slowly, his chest rising and falling while his cheeks were dusted in a soft rose flush.

“you were so much better than i imagined,” his fingers wrapped around your jaw, gripping ever so gently as he bent down to messily kiss at your lips, groaning at the taste of his orgasm on your tongue.

“yeah, yeah. good for you,” gojo started up in his usual bratty tone, sounding more guttural than his typical self. “can finally cum in her without you messin’ me up.”

suguru was used to gojo’s sharp tongue, his complaint not seering as deep as it would’ve had it been their younger years.

whorish moans slipped past your lips, your balance wavering as gojo picked up speed. he was far deeper inside your plush cavern, hitting at the spongey spot with precision that had your whimpers turning into babbles. “s-sho good .. you fuck me sooo good,” gojo took amusement in your slurred speech, pulling you up by the waist until you were completely upright.

it felt as though he couldn’t reach any deeper, yet he did, the feeling spreading all over your body, you were almost 100% certain that you could feel it in your ears. tears had filled your waterline and came cascading down your cheeks before you could even establish what it was. satoru held you close, your bare back pressed against his chest. it was an overwhelming feeling, one that made you lax enough to rest your head on his shoulder.

he smirked, gripping your chin with his fingers to get a better look at you.

“you cryin’?”

that familiar sensation bubbled up within you, what had felt like your nth orgasm had come in blissful surges, his cock coated in the translucent milky essence of your release.

with haste, you were fucked through aftershocks and overstimulation as satoru chased his high.

he had stamina for days, having built it up through multiple one night stands, and yet, he wasn’t quick to pull out like his counterpart, no. there was something of love that came with cumming inside you.

the skin of your thighs clung together with a mixture of your cum and his as he pulled out of your twitching hole. you stumbled a bit, getting back grounded on your feet, the two men tucking their third legs back into their garments.

a flickering noise was sounded from the building, different from the soft flickering of the candle that was beside you. quickly, the surgance of electricity illuminated the dorm, bringing much needed light to the situation at hand. you looked down at your bound wrists before the rush of embarrassment washed over your being once you had taken your naked, used body into account.

gojo carefully whisked you both back onto the couch with you sitting on his lap. “guess our fun’s over, huh?” he pouted, unbinding the rope that rubbed uncomfortably against your wrists. you weren’t exactly sure of who his rhetorical query was aimed to, and you would’ve spoken up had your throat not have been aching from the constant whining or even the pounding of a thick cock fucking bruises in the cavern.

geto was now situated behind the couch, leaning over the both of your figures.

“over? she’s spending the night.”

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — @valentinevampyr @oneofthesevensins @ryukatters @dabibreeder

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pucksandpower · 8 months

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Ties That Bind

Charles Leclerc x royal!Reader + Max Verstappen x sister!Reader

Summary: life as Princess of the Netherlands is pretty perfect but when health issues become a (literal) royal pain, you discover a familial connection that will change your life forever

Warnings: struggles with infertility, child abandonment, serious health issues, medical procedures and treatments

This is what happens when I’m insane enough to try juggling writing an 8k+ word fic with studying in medical school

The night was a cascade of ethereal snowflakes, each one glistening under the pale moonlight, landing gracefully upon the earth. The silver car glided along the road, its headlights illuminating the path through the thick curtain of snow, like two piercing eyes navigating through sorrow.

Inside, Prince Frederik of the Netherlands drove in silent contemplation, the weight of the day’s news pressing heavily on his heart. Beside him, Princess Marianne stared out of the frosted window, her reflection capturing swollen eyes that glistened with fresh tears. Her fingers trembled slightly, crumpling yet another now irrelevant medical report indicating one more failed IVF attempt.

“I thought this time would be different,” Marianne whispered, her voice quivering. “I truly believed it.”

Frederik’s grip on the wheel tightened. He turned to his wife, pain evident in his eyes. “I know, my love. I know.”

As they drove, Frederik’s eyes caught a glimpse of something unusual by the side of the road. “What’s that?” He murmured, slowing the car.

Marianne followed his gaze. “It looks like a bundle ... stop the car!”

Frederik brought the vehicle to a halt. They both jumped out and hurried over to the mysterious object. As they approached, Marianne gasped. “Oh my God, Frederik ... it’s a baby!”

She quickly bent down to scoop the tiny, shivering form into her arms. The baby’s skin was cold, blue lips barely parting for shallow breaths as the thin pink blanket wrapped around it did little to fight the chill. “Who could do such a thing?” Marianne cried, holding the child close for warmth.

Frederik’s face hardened. “We need to get her to a hospital. Now.”

Back in the car, Marianne cradled the baby, trying to transfer her warmth. “Stay with us,” she murmured, tears spilling. “Please, stay with us.”

As they sped towards the hospital, Frederik reached over and held Marianne’s free hand. “It'’s a sign,” he whispered. “After everything we’ve been through today ... finding her like this ... it’s fate.”

Marianne looked down at the baby, her fingers gently brushing the soft wisps of hair on the child’s head. “Our little miracle in the snow,” she whispered back.

Frederik smiled faintly, squeezing Marianne's hand. “Yes, our snow angel. We’ll take care of her and she’ll take care of us.”

***

“You know, every time it snows, it feels like the world is celebrating the day we found you,” your father, now King Frederik, remarks, gazing out of the vast palace windows at the flurries descending from the sky.

You smile, reaching for a delicate pastry from the breakfast spread laid out before you. “And every snowflake reminds me of the warmth of this family that saved me from the cold.”

Your mother, Queen Marianne, hair now threaded with silver, gives you a loving glance. “Our snow angel, right when we needed you most.”

“Speaking of snow,” you muse, “I’m thinking of wearing the ice-blue gown for tonight’s gala. Thoughts?”

Your father raises an eyebrow, “For the Children’s Foundation event? Perfect choice. It complements the theme and matches the tiara your mother has picked for you to wear.”

You grin, “Who knew you had such a fashion sense?”

Your mother chuckles, “It’s a king thing. But he’s right. And with your sapphire necklace, you will be the talk of the gala.”

You take a sip of your tea, thinking of the evening ahead. “I want to ensure my speech captures the essence of our foundation’s work. It’s more than just another royal event, this is about making a real difference.”

Your father nods, “It always is for you. That genuine desire to impact lives, it’s how I know you will be a great Queen one day.”

You blush slightly, “I learned from the best.”

Your mother, with a hint of mischief, remarks, “And speaking of learning, have you decided on a dance partner for the first waltz? There’s quite a line-up available.”

You laugh, “Oh, Mom! Let’s not start matchmaking before breakfast is over.”

Your father joins in the mirth, “Give her a break, Marianne. Our snow angel must not melt.”

***

The regal hallways echo with the gentle patter of your heeled footsteps. Lately, the palace, your lifelong sanctuary, feels more like a maze. A sudden wave of dizziness makes you pause, leaning against a gilded wall for support.

“You okay there?” a soft voice calls. It’s your mother, her face etched with worry.

“Just a bit dizzy,” you mumble, attempting a reassuring smile.

She hurries over, her gown flowing. “You’ve been looking pale these past few days.”

Before you can reply, a sharp sensation pricks your nose. Touching it, you’re shocked to see blood on your fingertips. “Oh no,” you whisper, panic creeping into your voice.

Your mother’s eyes widen. “We need to see a doctor.”

“But the gala—”

“Forget the gala!” She interrupts. “Your health comes first.”

***

Inside the royal clinic, the room is a tense silence. Your father paces while your mother sits beside you, holding your hand tightly.

The family physician finally arrives, his expression somber. “Your Highness, Your Majesties,” he begins, “we’ve run several tests.”

“And?” Your father demands, halting his restless walk.

You take a deep, shaky breath, bracing yourself.

The doctor hesitates for a split second. “You have aplastic anemia.”

The room seems to close in. The words hang heavily, turning the opulent clinic cold.

Your mother’s voice trembles, “What does that mean?”

“It’s a condition where the bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells. This leads to fatigue, higher risk of infections, and uncontrolled bleeding,” the doctor explains.

Your mind races. The symptoms make sense now — the fatigue, dizziness, the nosebleed.

Your father’s face hardens, searching for hope. “What’s the treatment?”

The doctor looks grim, “The most effective treatment at this severity is a bone marrow transplant. We will need to find a matching donor.”

Your mother’s grip tightens on your hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll find one. We have to.”

Your father nods. “We will move mountains if we have to.”

You muster a small smile, drawing strength from your parents. “One snowstorm at a time.”

***

“How long does it usually take to find a match?” Youu inquire, voice trembling ever so slightly.

Dr. Van der Meer, the lead hematologist on your case, sighs, “It varies, Your Highness. Some find a match within their family, others from the global database. It can take days or even months.”

Your mother breaks in desperately, “But surely, with our resources, we can expedite the process?”

Your father adds, “Every avenue, every connection we have at our disposal is yours to use, Doctor.”

Dr. Van der Meer nods, “I understand the urgency, Your Majesties. We’ve already started to search within the national database. Meanwhile, we advise immediate family to get tested first.”

You interject, a sense of realization dawning, “But I’m adopted. Our genetic makeup differs.”

Your father and mother exchange a heavy look, the weight of your situation pressing down on them.

“We still have a vast network, a whole nation even,” your father muses. “Surely someone out there is a match.”

Dr. Van der Meer hesitates then says, “Actually, there has already been a hit from the database. A potential match.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Who?”

“We maintain confidentiality, Your Highness,” he replies. “But once we confirm the match and receive their consent, you will be informed.”

Your mother’s voice is tinged with hope. “So there’s a chance? A real chance?”

You lean forward eagerly. “When will we know more?”

Dr. Van der Meer offers a comforting smile. “Soon, Your Highness. For now, patience is our ally.”

***

“It’s been weeks, Doctor. Why haven’t we heard from the potential donor?” The frustration is clear in your mother’s voice.

Dr. Van der Meer looks up, choosing his words carefully. “The potential donor ... has some reservations.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “Reservations? Isn’t saving a life more important?”

The doctor clears his throat, “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Your Majesty. The potential donor is someone you’re familiar with.”

You lean forward, your curiosity piqued. “Who is it?”

There’s a momentary pause, the silence thickening. “Max Verstappen.”

Shock ripples through the room. The name isn’t just any name. It’s a name known to every Dutch citizen, celebrated in every corner of the nation.

Your mother blinks in disbelief. “The Formula 1 racer? We’ve met him multiple times at the Grand Prix. But why would he have reservations?”

Dr. Van der Meer hesitates, “There’s more to it. We ran some further genetic tests, customary for close matches. The results were ... unexpected.”

Your father leans forward in anticipation. “Go on.”

The doctor takes a deep breath, “Max Verstappen is not just a match. He’s ... he’s your half-brother.”

The room goes still. The revelation hangs in the air, too staggering to fully comprehend.

You feel your world tilt. “That’s impossible.”

Your mother’s voice is a whisper, “How can that be?”

Dr. Van der Meer clears his throat. “The genetic markers were unmistakable. Given the rare degree of compatibility and the markers we found, there is no doubt.”

Your father runs a hand through his hair, trying to process the news. “So all these years, at every Grand Prix, we’ve been cheering for ... family?”

You chime in, a flurry of emotions whirling inside, “And he doesn’t know, does he?”

The doctor shakes his head, “No, not yet. That’s the reservation. Revealing this ... it changes everything for him too.”

Your mother is contemplative. “We’ve celebrated his victories, felt the pride of having him represent our country. And now, knowing he’s family ...”

You interject, “And now, we need him more than ever. Not as a driver, not as a national icon, but as family.”

Your father’s resolve strengthens. “We need to tell him. He deserves to know.”

***

“How do you even begin a conversation like this?” You wonder aloud, staring at the blank screen of your laptop.

Your father, deep in thought, answers, “Honestly, directly, and with sensitivity. It’s uncharted territory for all of us.”

Your mothers adds, “Perhaps start by expressing your genuine feelings, without the weight of our titles or his fame."

You nod slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Dear Max,” you repeat out loud as you begin typing, then pause. “Too formal?”

Your father shrugs, “It’s sincere. And that’s what matters.”

Taking a deep breath, you continue:

Dear Max,

This isn’t a typical letter and I struggle to find the right words. By now, you might have been informed by the medical team about our unexpected connection. I wanted to reach out personally, not as the Princess of Orange, but simply as ... family.

Your mother reads over your shoulder, “That’s a good start.”

I cannot imagine how jarring this news must be. It was for me too. All these years, our paths crossed, shared smiles exchanged, never knowing the deeper bond we shared.

“Maybe mention the Grand Prix, how it has been a tradition for us,” your father suggests.

Every year at the Dutch Grand Prix, my parents and I cheered for you, felt immense pride in your victories. The realization that those cheers were for family adds a layer of emotion I can’t quite put into words.

I understand if you need time to process this. But I want you to know that this revelation changes nothing about the respect and admiration I hold for you. However, it does add a depth of connection, a newfound kinship.

Your mother, her voice choked with emotion, suggests, “Maybe let him know why it’s important now, about your condition.”

The reason I am reaching out now is not just about our newfound connection but also because of a pressing health concern I am facing. I need a bone marrow transplant, and as it turns out, you are my best match.

“Reassure him,” your father adds. “It’s a big ask.”

I understand the weight of this request. There is no obligation, only hope. No matter your decision, I want you to know that discovering this bond, this link between us, is a gift in itself.

Please take all the time you need. Whatever you decide, I respect and cherish the connection we have discovered. Wishing you all the best on and off the track.

Sincerely,

Y/N

Your father, visibly moved, murmurs, “It’s perfect.”

Your mother nods in agreement, tears shimmering. “It’s from the heart. Now, we wait.”

***

The roaring engines on the racetrack outside fade as the door to the private lounge close behind you. Max Verstappen stands there, his usual confident demeanor replaced with apprehension. The weight of the recent revelations is thick in the air.

“You look different without the crown,” Max remarks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You chuckle softly, “And you without the helmet.”

The initial ice broken, the two of you sit. A beat of silence passes. Then Max, eyes searching yours, asks, “Why now?”

You take a deep breath. “I’ve always known I was adopted. Every snowy day, my parents would recount the tale of how they found their snow angel. I grew up surrounded by love and privilege, never lacking anything.” Your voice trembles slightly, “But there were nights ... nights I’d wonder about the person who left me there, in the snow. Why didn’t they want me? Why did they abandon me to the whims of a storm?”

Max’s expression softens, his own memories surfacing. “I grew up with my father’s strict guidance. Racing wasn’t just a passion, it was life. There was little room for anything else. I always thought I understood my family but this ...” He sighs, looking away. “It makes me question everything.”

You nod, shared uncertainty bringing you closer. “But through all this confusion, one thing is clear: we’re family. Blood, it seems, has a way of revealing itself.”

Max smiles ruefully, “You know, I have a sister, a full sister. Growing up, we were close but our paths divided. Racing consumed me. Now, discovering I have another sister, you, it’s ... overwhelming.”

You chuckle, “Two sisters. Lucky you.”

He grins, “Twice the protective instincts.”

The humor fades, replaced by raw emotion. “You know,” you whisper, tears brimming, “Despite everything, I’m grateful for our paths crossing like this. Even if it took a lifetime.”

Max reaches out, taking your hand. “Me too.”

The weight of the moment presses on both of you. You look at each other, eyes brimming with tears, souls bared.

In a sudden rush of emotion, you step forward, collapsing into Max’s embrace. He holds you tightly, as if trying to shield you from all the past hurts, regrets, and questions. The warmth of the hug contrasts sharply with the cold memory of that snowy night. In his embrace, the years of wondering, the pain of abandonment, seem to melt away.

Pulling back slightly, you look up into Max’s eyes. With a tearful smile, you whisper, “Brother.”

He grins back, “Sister. How would you feel about attending the next race, not as royalty but as my guest?”

You hesitate, the memories of previous races filled with formalities and protocols. “It will be different.”

Max wraps an arm around you shoulders, “Very. But I promise, you will see the world of racing like never before.”

***

The roar of the engines, the excitement of the crowd — it was all distantly familiar. Yet, standing beside Max, everything feels different.

As you walk through the paddock, Max’s pride is evident. “Guys,” he calls out to his mechanics, “Meet my sister.”

They look up, surprised, then smiles break out across their faces. “It’s an honor, Your Highness,” one of them greets.

Max nudges him, “Just call her by her name.”

You laugh in agreement, “It’s nice to meet you all without the formalities.”

Max continues his introductions, his enthusiasm infectious. When you reach Christian Horner, he looks pleasantly surprised. “It’s been a while,” he remarks, “Though our meetings were always, well, more formal.”

You nod, “It’s a different world from this side of the track.”

Max beams, “And she’s getting the full experience today.”

When the race starts, every moment feels magnified, more personal.

And then, the checkered flag waves for Max.

The Red Bull garage erupts in jubilation. During the celebration, Max, still in his car, locks eyes with you from across parc fermé. You can see the moisture, the emotion in his eyes. The moment he is out of his car, he races over, pulling you into a tight embrace.

“This win,” he whispers hoarsely, “it’s not just for me this time. It’s for us. For family.”

As the Dutch anthem plays during the podium ceremony, tears fill your eyes. The anthem, a proud symbol of your country and kingdom, now also symbolizes the new, ever-growing bond with your brother.

Max, standing tall on the podium, catches your eye and winks. And as the ceremony concludes, he suddenly turns, aiming his bottle of champagne right at you. The spray catches you off guard, laughter bubbling up as the cold liquid soaks you.

“You had to, didn’t you?” You laugh, wiping away the liquid before it can sting your eyes.

Max ruffles your hair, “It’s my new duty as your older brother!”

***

“Hey, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Max says, pulling you towards the thrumming heart of the afterparty.

The vibrant lights and chatter fill the room but everything seems to slow as you’re introduced to a lean figure with tousled hair and hypnotizing eyes. “This is Charles Leclerc,” Max grins, “One of the toughest guys I’ve raced against.”

Charles offers a charming smile, “Pleasure to meet you. Max speaks highly of you.”

You raise your glass in a mock toast to your brother. “Glad to hear that my bribe has been paying off.”

Charles laughs, “Well, considering today’s win, you might just be his favorite person.”

The two of you share a laugh, an effortless ease settling between you as you barely notice Max walking off with a wink shot your way.

“You’ve been to several races, haven’t you?” Charles asks, sipping his drink.

“In a more official capacity, yes. But today was ... different.”

He nods, his gaze intense, “Being family changes the perspective.”

Charles leans in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now that you’ve seen me on the track maybe I should show you some of my other talents?”

You raise an eyebrow, the thrill of the night’s excitement mixing with his words. “Oh? What other hidden skills do you possess?”

His voice drops to a sultry murmur. “Well, I make a mean pasta carbonara. Maybe I’ll whip it up for you someday.”

You laugh, the warmth of the moment spreading through you. “I’ll definitely hold you to that.”

Max, watching from a distance, nudges Carlos, “Look at them. Told you they’d hit it off.”

“You know, I’ve always been curious about the life of a princess,” Charles muses, a playful glint in his eye. “Is it all tiaras and tea parties?”

You smirk. “It’s more boring than you would think. But for a driver like you, every day’s a thrill, right? Speeding cars, roaring crowds, adoring fans?”

He grins, leaning closer, the proximity making your heart race. “Most days. But some nights, the thrill is ... elsewhere,” his gaze deepening, locked onto yours.

The two of you are drawn into a world of your own, the party’s noise fading into the background.

He brushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer. “Have you ever considered doing a hot lap? It’s quite the rush.”

You laugh, feeling the warmth of his touch. “I don’t know about getting in a race car but I can think of something else I’d love to ride right now.”

As the club’s pulsating music envelops you, Charles leans in, his voice husky over the beat, “Care for a dance?”

You accept, and as you both move to the rhythm, the world around seems to disappear. The close proximity, the electric energy on the dance floor, and the feeling of his body moving against yours is intoxicating.

“Right now,” Charles murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear to be heard above the music, “I feel like the winner tonight.”

You smile, your gaze locked onto his, “The night is still young. Let’s see where it takes us.”

***

“I’ve noticed you’re attending more races lately,” Max comments, a teasing glint in his eyes as you both walk through the paddock.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Well, I’ve developed quite an appreciation for the sport.”

Max chuckles, “Or for a certain Ferrari driver?”

Blushing, you retort, “Can’t it be both?”

Before Max can respond, Charles approaches, his smile brightening as he spots you. “Good to see you again,” he greets, though his eyes convey a warmth that words can’t.

“You too,” you reply in a voice softer than intended.

The three of you share some casual banter before Max excuses himself, leaving you alone with Charles.

“You know,” Charles starts, “it’s become the highlight of my race weekends, seeing you here.”

You smile, “I’ve come to realize that there’s more to F1 than just the thrill of the race. There are ... other attractions.”

Charles grins, “Is that so? Any attraction in particular?”

You playfully nudge him, “Don’t get too confident, Leclerc.”

Weekends spent at circuits become a regular fixture in your life. While you’re initially there for Max, the increasing time spent with Charles deepens your bond. The stolen glances during press conferences, the private moments away from the limelight, and the late-night conversations make the connection undeniable.

One evening, after a particularly intense race, Charles pulls you aside, his face flushed from the adrenaline. “Every time I cross the finish line and look towards the other garages, I hope to catch a glimpse of you.”

Your heart skips a beat. “And if you do?”

He smiles, “It either makes victory all the more sweet or the sting of defeat not quite as painful.”

***

“You’ve made the front page again,” Max remarks dryly, handing you a tabloid during breakfast.

You glance at the headline, The Princess and the Racer: F1’s Fairytale Romance accompanied by a candid shot of you and Charles out to dinner.

Charles groans, “They make it sound like a soap opera.”

You sigh, “It’s the price we pay, I guess.”

As weeks go by, the media scrutiny intensifies. Every public appearance and every minuscule gesture, is analyzed, often blown out of proportion. The weight of the world’s eyes strains the joy of your newfound relationship.

One evening, after a particularly invasive article speculating about a rushed engagement, Charles pulls you aside, his face drawn with concern. “I noticed you’ve been pale lately, more tired. Is it the stress from all this media attention?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. The truth is, it’s more than just the media. Your health has been deteriorating and you’ve been trying to hide it.

“It’s not just the media,” you admit.

His eyes are filled with worry. “What is it?”

Max, overhearing the conversation, interjects, “It’s her health. She didn't want to worry you.”

Charles looks at you in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You take a deep breath, “I didn’t want to add to the pressures of the season, to be another burden.”

He reaches out, holding you close, “You’re never a burden. We’re in this together.”

You take a shaky breath, drawing strength from his words. “I’ve been diagnosed with aplastic anemia. It’s a condition where my bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells.”

Charles pales, “That’s ... serious.”

You nod, “After this race, I’m starting chemotherapy to destroy the dysfunctional bone marrow in preparation for a transplant.”

Silence envelops the room. Charles processes the weight of the revelation, the enormity of the situation sinking in. “Why now?” He finally asks.

“Timing is crucial,” Max chimes in, “She’s been putting it off, not wanting to disrupt the season. But we can’t wait much longer.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just wish you had told me sooner.”

You reach out, touching his arm, “I didn’t know how. Everything was happening so fast — our relationship, the media attention. I didn’t want to add more stress.”

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his voice choked with emotion. “Promise me, no more secrets.”

You nod, tears streaming down your face, “I promise.”

***

“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” You ask Charles as you both sit in the sterile hospital room, awaiting the doctor who would be overseeing your chemotherapy treatments.

Charles takes your hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Every step of the way.”

The door opens and the doctor walks in, a gentle but serious look on her face. “Before we begin, there’s something important we need to discuss. The chemotherapy might affect your fertility. It’s not certain but there is a significant risk.”

You freeze. You had expected side effects, the potential hair loss, the fatigue. But this? This was unanticipated. This ripped your heart out of your chest.

Charles tightens his grip on your hand, his face pale. “Is there ... any way to mitigate that risk?”

The doctor nods, “We can retrieve and store your eggs. It’s a procedure done before chemotherapy in some cases. You will need hormone injections for about 10 to 12 days to stimulate the ovaries.”

You look at Charles, your eyes filled with tears, “It’s another delay.”

Charles brushes a tear from your cheek, “We face this together. I am here for you no matter what you decide.”

The days that follow are a whirlwind. Charles is by your side every step of the way, providing both emotional support and administering the daily injections.

Each evening, he carefully prepares the hormone shot. “Ready?” He asks, looking into your eyes.

You nod, trying to put on a brave face. But the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the emotional toll. Still, with Charles by your side, each day becomes bearable.

One evening, as he administers the injection, he whispers, “I’m so proud of you. Your strength amazes me every day.”

Tears spring to your eyes. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you. “You’ll never have to.”

***

“Are you sure about this?” Charles asks, his fingers brushing yours as you lay on the hospital bed.

You take a deep breath, meeting his gaze. “I am. It’s a step towards preserving a potential future, one I hope to share with you.”

His eyes soften. “Every step, I’m here.”

The medical staff move around in the background, preparing for the procedure. The hum of machines and the sterile environment contrast starkly with the intimate bubble you and Charles share.

As the procedure begins, Charles holds your hand, his thumb drawing comforting circles on your skin. “Remember our trip to Monaco?” He murmurs, attempting to distract you. “The sea, the laughter, the little café by the pier?”

A smile tugs at your lips, even as you nod for the OBGYN to proceed. “The one with the overly sweet pastries?”

Charles chuckles, “That’s the one. Imagine us there, a decade from now, two kids in tow, arguing over whether chocolate or vanilla is better.”

The image he paints eases your tension, providing a temporary escape from the clinical room. The retrieval is swift but the emotional weight lingers.

“You did great,” Charles murmurs, brushing a stray hair away from your face.

You smile weakly, “One hurdle crossed.”

The next phase comes swiftly the following day: chemotherapy. The treatment center is full of artificial warmth — the walls painted a deep yellow and the heater working overtime to keep patients as comfortable as possible — but it does nothing to counteract the chill of fear that has taken over your body.

When the nurse enters with the IV bag for your chemotherapy, Charles stands up, his stance protective. “How does this work?”

She explains the process, her voice soft, “The medication will enter her bloodstream and target the rapidly growing cells. There might be some side effects but we will monitor her closely.”

You feel a pinch as the needle is inserted and soon the clear liquid starts making its way into your veins. You blink rapidly, willing the tears away before Charles can see them.

Attempting to lighten the mood, he starts recounting some of his funniest moments from racing. You chuckle at his anecdotes, grateful for the distraction.

Hours pass. The room is filled with a mix of medical beeps and Charles’ voice, offering a counterbalance of cold reality and warm comfort.

As the IV bag nears empty, you feel a wave of fatigue. Charles notices. “Rest,” he urges softly, his thumb caressing your hand.

You nod, closing your eyes, “Thank you for being my anchor.”

He leans in, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Always, for every challenge, every step. Always.”

***

“I still can’t believe you made him go,” your mother murmurs from the chair next to you. The hum of machines and the sterile scent of the hospital room are in stark contrast to the roaring engines and burning rubber of the track that you can almost sense through the television screen.

You manage a weak smile. “He belongs on the track, Mom. This race is crucial for the championship.”

“He wanted to stay,” your father adds. “He’s racing with a heavy heart.”

“I know,” you whisper, a tear trickling down. “But he’s strong. And I want him to win, for both of us.”

The room falls silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the machines. You can feel the potent cocktail of drugs coursing through your veins, sapping your strength but a necessary step to fight the disease within.

The TV in the corner broadcasts the race. You hear the commentator’s voice, “... Charles Leclerc, giving it his all today. You have to wonder where he’s drawing this intensity from.”

You know the answer.

The laps go by. With each turn, each overtake Charles makes, you can sense his determination, his desire to win not just for the title but for something else … someone else.

“You should rest,” your father advises, noticing your drooping eyelids.

But you resist, wanting to witness Charles cross the finish line.

The final laps are intense. Charles battles fiercely, and as he takes the checkered flag, the room bursts into subdued cheers.

“He did it!” Your mother exclaims.

You feel a swell of pride. “For us,” you whisper, before fatigue takes over and you drift into a deep sleep.

As consciousness slowly returns not too long after, the first thing you notice is the gentle vibration of your phone on the bedside table. Groggily reaching for it, you see a new message notification from a group chat with Charles and Max.

It’s a photo of Charles and Max, still in their race suits, grinning ear to ear. Charles holds up his first-place trophy while Max proudly displays his second. They’re both covered in champagne, evidence of the post-race celebrations.

These are for you. For our champion.

With shaky fingers, you type back:

My heroes. Thank you for being my strength. So proud of you both. Can’t wait to see you again.

Your mother, noticing your reaction, peers over your shoulder. “Those boys,” she says with a fond smile, “they really adore you.”

You nod, wiping away a tear. “I’m so lucky.”

***

“Hey, sis,” Max’s voice is soft, tinged with a mix of worry and hope as he sits beside you in the pre-op room, “Ready to share a bit more than just DNA?”

You manage a small smile, despite the anxiety. “As long as you don’t start claiming we share driving skills.”

He chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Promise.”

The doctor enters, clipboard in hand. “Both of you understand the procedure, correct? Max, we will be extracting bone marrow from your pelvic bone. It’s a relatively straightforward process but you might feel some discomfort.”

Max nods resolutely. “Anything for her.”

You swallow hard, emotions swirling. “Thank you, Max. This ... it means everything.”

He looks at you, eyes filled with a brotherly love that’s grown exponentially over the past few months. “We’re family. We look out for each other.”

As Max is wheeled away for his extraction, he offers a brave smile. “See you on the other side.”

Hours later, as you sit by his bedside, watching him slowly come around post-procedure, you squeeze his hand. “You okay?”

He groans, “Feels like I’ve done a doubleheader race without any breaks. But it’s worth it.”

Then comes your turn. Max, despite his exhaustion, insists on being present. The stem cells he donated are infused into you through a central line. It’s a simple procedure but one filled with so much hope and emotion.

Max watches closely, gripping your hand. “You got this,” he murmurs as the life-saving cells flow into your body.

You try to show a convincing smile before closing your eyes and praying to whoever’s listening that this works.

***

The pale blue walls of the hospital room have become all too familiar, the rhythmic beep of machines a constant in the background. You’re reclined on the bed, an IV line dripping nutrients and much-needed blood transfusions into your system. As your body adjusts to the new bone marrow, these are crucial.

Max is seated beside you, a crossword puzzle in hand. The chairs aren’t particularly comfortable but he’s still rarely left your side.

Max taps his pen against the paper thoughtfully. “Alright, here’s one for you. Seven letters: someone who is always there, no matter what.”

You raise an eyebrow, pondering. “Is it brother?”

He grins, “You’re getting good at this.”

You chuckle, “Well, I can’t help it when the answer is so obvious …”

He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I snuck in some of those chocolates you like from that little shop in town.”

Your eyes widen in mock horror. “You rebel. We’ll be banished from the kingdom.”

He winks, producing a small box from his bag. “Worth it.”

As you both indulge in the illicit treat, you realize just how much these little moments, these shared smiles and inside jokes, make the ordeal bearable.

Max notices your contemplative expression. “Hey, what’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have a brother who sneaks chocolates into a hospital for me.”

He extends his pinky towards you, “Always. Until the end of the race.”

You intertwine your own pinky with his to immortalize the promise, “And beyond.”

Just as the two of you are finishing the last of the chocolates, the door swings open quietly. Charles steps in, his eyes immediately seeking you out. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand, their vibrant colors standing out against the sterile environment.

“You two conspiring without me?” Charles teases, setting the flowers on the bedside table.

Max smirks, “Just ensuring she gets her daily dose of chocolate, doctor’s orders.”

Charles moves to your side and presses a soft kiss on your forehead. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better now that my two favorite racers are here,” you reply with a smile.

Charles laughs, “I see. Well, the doctor outside told me your blood counts are improving. Seems the new bone marrow is getting to work.”

You nod hopefully. “One day at a time.”

Charles moves closer, taking your free hand. “Every day is a step closer to getting you out of here.”

Max, sensing the intimate moment, stands up, stretching. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. Need to grab a coffee and give that crossword another go.”

Charles smiles gratefully at him, and as Max exits the room, you’re left in a bubble of comfort and warmth with your boyfriend.

***

“Grant our daughter strength and good news,” your mother’s prayer weaves through the tense atmosphere of the room.

Charles’ grip on your hand tightens and he whispers, “Whatever the news, we face it together.”

“Guide the hands of the doctors, let their knowledge lead to healing.”

Max, on your other side, offers a comforting squeeze, his face betraying his own anxiety. “You’ve come so far already.”

“And bless our family with your grace and protection.”

The prayer lingers in the air just as the door opens.

“Grant her the strength, the health, the life she deserves ...”

The doctor steps in, a manila envelope in hand. Everyone’s gaze immediately fixes on him, the room heavy with bated breath.

He looks around the room, making eye contact with each one of you, then finally says, “The results are in.”

You feel Charles’ hand tremble slightly … Max’s grip tighten … your father barely breathing behind you … a silent prayer still on your mother’s lips.

“The bone marrow has taken exceptionally well. All indicators and markers are positive.” The doctor smiles. “You’re officially in remission. You’re cured.”

A tidal wave of emotion crashes over the room. Tears immediately spring to your eyes, happiness and relief mingling in each drop.

Your mother’s whispered prayer crescendos into a heartfelt “thank you,” choked with emotion.

Your father, the ever-composed king, has moisture in his eyes as he holds you close, “Our snow angel, our miracle.”

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace next, his voice a shaky whisper, “You did it.”

Max is grinning from ear to ear. “Told you, sis. Until the end of the race and beyond.”

***

“Look at them,” Max says, nudging you as the camera pans over the pit crews, each member prominently sporting a bright red ribbon. “All in solidarity.”

Charles beams, joining the conversation. “It was Max’s idea. The ribbons. Both teams were eager to join in.”

You’re touched, tears threatening to spill. “It’s incredible. Both of you, your teams ... I’m speechless.”

The commentator on the screen picks up on the theme. “For those just tuning in, both the Ferrari and Red Bull teams are wearing red ribbons today in support of aplastic anemia awareness, a personal cause for them given the recent battle of the Princess of Orange with the condition.”

Mid-race, Max’s voice crackles over the team radio, “This one’s for you, sis.”

Charles, not to be outdone, pushes his car to the limit, the red ribbon painted on his helmet clearly visible every time the camera focuses on him.

Later, as you walk back out through the paddock, fans approach, many sporting red ribbons of their own. One young girl looks at you with stars in her eyes, “I wear this for my mom. She’s fighting too, just like you did.”

You pull her into a gentle hug. “She’s got this. I know she does.”

***

As soon as the statement goes live on the official website of the Netherlands Royal Family, the internet erupts.

The Royal House of the Netherlands is pleased to announce that Her Royal Highness, Y/N the Princess of Orange, and Mr. Charles Leclerc are officially courting.

Your phone buzzes incessantly with notifications. Charles, seated beside you, chuckles, “Well, there’s no going back now.”

Your father enters the room, a smile playing on his lips. “The people seem to be taking the news ... enthusiastically.”

Your mother, scrolling through her own device, adds, “And overwhelmingly positively. Listen to this: We’ve seen them together. Their chemistry is undeniable. Wishing them all the best!”

You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. “I was so nervous about the reaction.”

Charles brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, “We’re in this together, remember?”

Max bursts into the room with his usual energy, “You two are trending. The fans are loving it!”

Screens across the nation flash images of you and Charles — at the racetrack, during hospital visits, candid moments captured by keen-eyed photographers. Talk shows and news channels dive deep into analyzing your relationship, piecing together any crumbs of insight they might have.

A popular racing pundit remarks on a live broadcast, “Their bond is evident, both on and off the track. Charles’ performance has been exceptional since they've been together. It’s clear that they draw strength from each other.”

The public’s fascination is insatiable. Magazines are splashed with titles like Love in the Fast Lane. But despite the media frenzy, what touches you most are the personal messages. Fans share artwork, write songs, and pen heartfelt letters, celebrating love and the winding path that brought you both to this moment.

One evening, as you and Charles sit on the palace balcony overlooking the city, he turns to you, “They’re acting like we’re some sort of fairytale.”

You lean into him, “Maybe we are. It’s our story and I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

***

“You know,” your father begins, a playful glint in his eye as he slices into his steak, “I had an amusing conversation with Prince Albert the other day.”

Charles, taking a sip of his wine, raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Your father chuckles, “He said Monaco might need to extend an invitation for our next state visit given that we seem to have shared interests now.”

The table erupts in laughter. Your mother adds, teasingly, “And here I thought we were simply bonding over diplomatic ties.”

“So,” Max leans forward eagerly. “Any embarrassing stories about Y/N? I have to make up for all of the childhood adventures I’ve missed.”

“Oh, there are plenty! Remember the time she tried to drive a lawnmower and ended up in the rose bushes?” Your father says, trying to look serious.

Marianne chuckles, “Don’t remind me! Those were my favorite roses.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “I was eight! And I thought it was a car!”

Charles grins, squeezing your hand under the table. “I can only imagine a mini version of you so determined behind the wheel.”

“And at her sixth birthday party,” your father recounts with a smirk, “she declared that she’d be ruling the kingdom by sundown and tried to hold a mock council meeting with her stuffed toys.”

Charles nudges you playfully, “Planning coups at six? Should I be worried?”

You swat him lightly, “It was a phase.”

As dessert is served, your mother turns contemplative. “You know, I’ve always believed in destiny. And seeing all of you here, witnessing the bonds and the love, it reaffirms that belief.”

Charles nods his agreement, “Life has a way of bringing the right people together.”

Your father raises his glass, “To family, in all its forms. To the journeys we embark on and the memories we create.”

The clinking of glasses has never sounded sweeter.

***

Charles, his face flushed with the victory of the 2025 World Championship, stands on the podium, trophy in hand. The cheering of the crowd is deafening but as he signals for a microphone, a hush descends.

“I’ve never done this before,” he starts emotionally, “naming my car, I mean. I watched Seb do it year after year and I always wondered what that felt like, to have such a connection.” He takes a deep breath, his gaze scanning the audience until it lands on you. “This season, I finally understood. My car, the one that just secured this championship, I named it after the most important person in my life.”

The crowd waits with bated breath.

“I named it,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly as he keeps his eyes locked on yours, “after you. After the woman who has been my anchor, my strength.”

You feel tears prickling your eyes as the sheer intensity of his words hits you.

Charles signals and you’re gently nudged forward, guided up to the podium. The world seems to blur, the noise, the people, everything fading until it’s just you and him.

“Every race, every lap, I had two goals: to win for the team and to make you proud,” he confesses, his eyes never leaving yours. “You are my world. And today, in front of everyone here, in front of the world, I want to ask you one thing.”

He gets down on one knee and your hands move of their own volition to cover your mouth. Producing a gorgeous ring, Charles looks up at you, his eyes shimmering. “Will you marry me?”

The world stops.

The deafening cheers of the crowd seem quiet compared to the beating of your heart.

Tears stream down your face as you nod. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

No sooner have the words left your mouth than Max and Lando, the other two podium finishers, gleefully seize the moment. With mischievous grins, they uncork their champagne bottles, dousing both you and Charles in a bubbly shower. The liquid gold sparkles in the sunlight, adding to the magic of the moment.

Charles pulls you close, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as you both get soaked.

***

The grand cathedral, bathed in the soft glow of a thousand candles, echoes with the hushed whispers of eagerly waiting guests. Roses, lilies, and orchids cascade down the pillars, their fragrance mingling with the scent of incense.

Behind the doors of the bridal suite, Max stands beside you, dressed impeccably in a classic tux. There’s a brotherly tenderness in his eyes as he reaches out, smoothing the delicate lace of your dress to ensure that every detail is perfect.

“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, the emotion of the day making his voice waver.

“You clean up pretty well yourself, Man of Honor,” you reply, squeezing his hand.

As the first strains of the bridal march begin, the doors open, revealing the grand aisle, lined with well-wishers from all corners of the globe. Your father steps up and offers you his arm, his eyes glassy with pride and a hint of melancholy. “Ready, my snow angel?”

You nod, tears of happiness already blurring your vision. The world narrows down to the altar, where Charles stands, back straight in his crisp full dress uniform. As you make your way down the aisle, your eyes lock with his and the universe contracts to that singular point of connection.

Charles’ normally composed features give way as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes, also glistening with tears, convey a depth of feeling that words could never capture. Love, gratitude, wonder — all interwoven in that magnetic gaze.

His voice breaks as he whispers just for you, “You are my dream, my reality, my forever.”

Your own voice is thick with emotion, “And you are my heart, my soul, my love.”

As vows are exchanged and promises made, the world bears witness to a love that defied odds, overcame challenges, and brought together not just two souls but two worlds.

And as you both seal your commitment with a kiss, there is not a single dry eye in the cathedral. Because love, true love, is a force to be reckoned with, and today, it reigns supreme.

***

The soft whimpers of a newborn fill the air of the private birthing suite. Nestled in your arms, wrapped in a royal blue blanket, the baby prince stirs, his tiny fingers curling around one of yours.

Charles, sitting beside you, gazes down at your son with sheer wonder. “He’s perfect,” he says in a teary whisper.

You nod, tears streaming down your face. “Our little miracle.” The journey, the IVF treatments with your frozen eggs , the hope, the fear — everything culminated in this singular, beautiful moment.

The door opens gently, revealing Max, his eyes wide as they take in the sight before him, and your parents, their faces a canvas of joy and pride.

Max approaches tentatively, his usual confidence replaced by an awe-inspired reverence. “May I?” He asks softly.

You nod, handing over the precious bundle. As Max holds the baby, a bond forms instantly. “Hey there, little one,” he coos, “Your godfather is here.”

Your mother, tears in her eyes, leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your son’s forehead. “Welcome to the world, our precious grandchild.”

Your father, hoarse with emotion, simply murmurs, “An angel for our snow angel.”

And you know what? You decide that the fans were right. Your life really is a fairytale.

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staypuffy · 9 months

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I'm sure someone has already made this observation, but the ball scene, you guys. Let's talk.

Specifically, about the apparel.

Obviously, Aziraphale worked a little bit of his angelic magic to make sure that romance was in the air so Nina and Maggie would fall for one another, but this magic also extends to the other party guests; Mrs. Sandwich not being able to say seamstress, everyone inexplicably knowing how to do the Country Dance, and, more to my point, their clothes.

Upon entering the party some people's change and others' don't, and there's a lot of symbolism there for each character based on whether or not their outfit changes.

The clothes are a direct reflection on the subconscious of that individual, magnified by Aziraphale's magic. They enter the party in the clothes they see themselves in, not necessarily what they were wearing before.

For those characters who are assured of themselves, and their fashion choices, (Aziraphale, Crowley and Nina) their appearance doesn't change at all. They're comfortable as themselves in any setting (It's important to note that Nina's clothes do change, but it's so slight that you barely notice). Fancy ball or not, they wear the same outfit they normally do because they present themselves how they see themselves. Nina even looks down at herself upon entering the shop and remarks, "I'm going mad," making her the only guest to actually acknowledge the fact that something odd is going on; she's acutely aware of herself and the world around her, so when her strong sense of self is being meddled with, she notices.

For the other characters, however, those whose outfits change, this reflects something deeper about their character which is manifesting itself in their style choices; Maggie's clothes change into something nicer than just a plain t-shirt and jeans because she wants to impress Nina, Mrs. Sandwich swaps her tracksuit for a glamorous blazer since she sees herself (as she should) as a proper businesswoman, and Ms. Cheng lets her hair down from the tight bun, signifying her "loosening up" at the party.

All this to say that Jim's Liberace get-up is even more hilarious when you think about it from this perspective.

#good omens #good omens 2 #gomens #neil gaiman #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #nina and maggie #ineffable bureaucracy #good omens 2 spoilers #good omens season 2 #good omens theory #aziraphale

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terry-perry · 20 days

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to help you practice your alastor writing, how about reader is one of carmila’s daughters and she introduces mom to her new boyfriend: alastor!

Headcanons or imagine, your choice!

Ooh, I like this concept!

You have known Alastor for some time now due to the Overlord meetings that happen now and again.

You found him to be quite handsome as well as funny.

You knew he was probably a little crazy, but it was all right if he was. What demon wasn't?

You would glance at him often during these meetings and cover up the giggles you'd have over his remarks.

It wasn't until one day he did a particular job putting Vox in his place, having you release an audible snort, and finally got Alastor to notice you.

He invited you to lunch, and you two had been going steady since then

You wished to keep it under wraps for as long as you could

Your mother was a protective woman, and although she was always neutral towards Alastor, seeing him as nothing more than a fellow Overlord, you weren't sure how she'd feel if he was your boyfriend.

So, you met in secret and went on dates that were more on the subtle side so it looked more like a casual outing between two work associates

Those who knew, for the time being, were your sisters and the residents of the Hazbin Hotel

Clara and Odette knew all about Carmilla's protective nature and were fine with covering for you. They were sure to tease you about the relationship, in the meantime.

As for everyone at the hotel, they were on board with helping to keep the relationship a secret as you two spent time alone there

Alastor may or may not have threatened a few of them just to ensure things

Charlie, in particular, was happy to help out in any way with this budding romance

All Husk could say was that he prayed that you knew what you were doing, getting with a demon like his boss

When you two weren't spending time together at the hotel, you were "bumping into" each other in the city where you'd then go on walks or have lunch together

Anyone who'd dare question these interactions would have to answer to Alastor

You were right in thinking that Alastor was no prince, seeing the way he threatened those who defied him or how he took delight in heinous things like blood and violence, but you didn't mind

In a way, he was still an old-fashioned gentleman who treated you well

Alastor himself found it beneficial to be courting the daughter of a powerful arms dealer

His genuinely liking you was just gravy!

Things were going well for the last several months until one night at dinner Odette let it slip that you had plans, the following day, with your boyfriend

"Boyfriend?" Carmilla questioned as she walked back to the table with her refilled drink. "How long has this been going on?"

You stammered, for a bit, slightly intimidated by your mother's stoic stare. "A few months now,"

"I see," she took a sip of her drink before speaking again. "Bring him over next week. I wish to meet him."

Cut to you and Alastor outside your home preparing to have tea with your mother

You fixed yourself and even him for what seemed to be a million times until Alastor placed his hands over yours to get you to stop fixing his bowtie once more

You grew more flustered than before as he pierced you with a teasing grin that carried a hint of reassurance

"This is nothing I can't handle. Not to worry, my dear!"

And yet you couldn't help but notice the small flinch he did when the door suddenly opened to welcome you in

You took each other's hand as you went in, your mother greeting you both right away

Turned out she knew already!

"You've been seen out with him for months, and his broadcasts have been full of more voices than normal. It's not rocket science."

"Told you she enjoyed my show!"

You were expecting her to have several questions for him, but that wasn't the case

Carmilla knew Alastor was respectful and had trusted associates such as Zestial who would vouch for him

She, too, believed the relationship could come with some benefits. He could be of some use to the family.

Plus she raised you well enough so that you could judge others for yourself and take care of yourself if need be

Alastor would be stupid to take advantage of a family who holds a large assortment of weapons that can kill both demons and exorcists

Like with many things, Carmilla approves, but within reason

#alastor x reader #alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin #radio demon #x reader #imagine #request #headcanons #headcanon #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #carmilla carmine #hazbin hotel carmilla #carmilla x reader #carmine!reader

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doumadono · 3 months

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Warnings: smut, rough p in v, fingering, some handjob, f!reader, spanking, semi-public sex Synopsis: you and Dabi snag an invite to a party Shigaraki's throwing. Realizing your wardrobe lacks the glam, you strong-arm your boyfriend Dabi into a shopping spree. Despite initial reluctance, he tackles things in his own, cocky style A/N: this little fic was written in honor of the birthday of my incredibly gifted mutual - @dabismoon - I hope you'll enjoy this petite one shot ♥

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

The heap of garments had amassed on the bed, growing steadily as you sifted through the wardrobe, discarding outfit after outfit. The frustration bubbled within you, reaching its peak as you bellowed to Dabi in the adjacent room.

"I can't find a single thing to wear for the party tonight!" you exclaimed, your voice carrying the tone of exasperation.

A mumbled response reached your ears, prompting you to traverse the distance and find Dabi, your villainous boyfriend, lounging indifferently with a beer in hand, fixated on the television screen. His nonchalant demeanor was evident as he puffed on a cigarette, seemingly uninterested in your sartorial predicament.

Without much enthusiasm, he nodded in acknowledgment of your complaint, casually remarking that he was sure you could surely find something suitable to adorn yourself for the fucking party Shigaraki had coerced every League member into attending.

Determined, you declared, "Ok. I've decided that you're taking me shopping... no arguments!"

Dabi attempted to dissuade you, gesturing towards the television where news about Endeavor played, as if it held greater significance. "Babe, seriously?"

Disregarding his protests, you seized his lengthy coat, your car keys, and his hand, urging him towards the door despite his low growls, not bothering yourself to turn the TV off.

"Doll, you've got a plethora of clothes, and you still claim to have nothing to choose from? That's utterly ridiculous," Dabi groaned, wresting his hand free, swiftly disposing of his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. With an unhappy grimace etched across his face, he begrudgingly adorned his coat. "I won't be dressing up like a fucking fool just to mingle with those lunatics," he grumbled, his discontent palpable.

After three hours of aimless meandering through a plethora of shops, the details of each one eluding your memory, you stumbled upon a dress that tickled your fancy. Amidst the sea of countless dresses tried on in pursuit of the perfect ensemble, you finally discovered one that resonated with your taste. Eager to see how it would adorn you, you headed for the changing rooms. En route to the fitting room, you deftly accumulated a selection of lingerie as well.

Thoughts of acquiring alluring lingerie danced in your mind, contemplating the ways you could model them for Dabi — whether in person or through the lens - to keep him company during those prolonged missions with the League. A stack of lingerie, featuring neon shades, delicate baby pinks, and enticing black lace, awaited your scrutiny.

As you boldly pulled back the curtain, Dabi made a move to follow you inside. A quick about-face, a dismissive shake of your head, and a pointed indication toward a chair stationed just beyond the dressing area thwarted his entry.

Dabi complained, "So I don't even get the fun bit of watching you change to brighten up this fucking unnecessary trip?"

However, it was futile - you insisted he wait over there. With the realization that he couldn't join in the fashion spectacle, you swiftly snapped pictures of each lingerie piece as you were trying them on. Seeking Dabi's discerning opinion, you bombarded him with inquiries regarding your sartorial choices. After the final snapshot found its way to your boyfriend's inbox, an air of suspense hung in the digital ether. Yet, as the seconds ticked away, there was no immediate response from Dabi, leaving you with a frown crossing your forehead.

As you cautiously peeked outside to ensure he hadn't ventured too far, the thick curtain was unceremoniously thrust aside. And there he stood – Dabi, eyeing you with a hunger akin to a starving predator, meticulously taking in the alluring contours of your body adorned in a provocative lingerie set. The fabric, a blend of black sheer lace with a hint of hot pink trimming, clung enticingly to your form.

The bra, designed with a daring split in the cups, left your nipples exposed, proudly making their presence known in response to the sight before you as they instantly stiffened. An instinctive reaction led you to subtly rub your thighs together, a silent attempt to quell the burgeoning heat within you. Your boyfriend, tall and commanding, exuding an air of nonchalance, leaned casually against the changing room wall, his gaze fixed on you.

Without uttering a single word, Dabi seized the moment, propelling you further into the confines of the changing room. With a deft motion, he drew the curtain close, creating an intimate space.

Dabi deftly took hold of your left nipple, his slender forefinger and thumb teasingly tweaking it.

The heat rapidly ascended along your neck, and your breaths quickened as he leaned in, delivering a fierce kiss and an ardent suck on your pulse point. Lowering his head, his warm mouth enveloped the other nipple with a determination, unleashing a sweet yet sharp sensation at its base. The overwhelming pleasure threatened to elicit sounds of ecstasy, but you fought to maintain composure as delicious waves of sensation cascaded over you. "Handsome," you whispered, barely moving your lips as you slipped one hand into his soft, black hair.

Dabi's free hand, not content with just teasing, boldly tugged aside the lacy panties you had on, inspecting how wet you were getting. His verdict: dripping wet. With a forceful motion, the elastic was yanked down your legs, severing all of his contact from your eager nipples as his attention fell on the panties. In one swift move, they were stripped from your hips and deftly retrieved from the floor.

As though it were the most ordinary sequence of events, Dabi casually unzipped the fly of his black, fitted jeans, revealing a semi-hardened cock. Nonchalantly, he wiped the pre-cum off its reddened tip with the lacy panties, and thrust the fabric into your partially opened mouth. The mingling taste of both yourself and him on the fabric elicited a lascivious moan that escaped your lips.

Dabi's gaze lingered on you for a moment before he smoothly retrieved his own phone, swiftly capturing an image of your aroused state. "Sorry, doll, but you look adorable, all fired up like a cheap whore you secretly are," he remarked, seamlessly sliding his phone back into the rear pocket of his pants. With a sly grin, he pulled the panties out of your mouth, raising them to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Mmmm, absolutely perfect," he growled, stashing the intoxicating garment into the same back pocket. "Guess we're gonna take 'em."

Dabi slipped his hand between your thighs, and you willingly parted them further in anticipation. A dark giggle escaped him at your eagerness. "Look at you, princess, so eager to help me touch that pretty little pussy. What? Is my doll all needy? Moments ago, you didn't want to let me watch you, but look at ya now, eager as never before."

Staring intensely into your captivating eyes, Dabi smoothly slid his long middle finger deep inside your slick pussy, eliciting an immediate moan and causing you to instinctively shut your eyes in response.

"No, no, princess, we ain't gonna play like that. Look at me, I want your eyes on me, now," he commanded, leaning forward to place a tender peck on your forehead.

Complying with his directive, you followed his lead, biting down on your lower lip with enough force to draw a bead of blood after opening your eyes again, looking into his turquoise ones.

For a span of a good minute or two, Dabi expertly fingered you, exploring every millimeter of your pussy until your spongy walls began to clench rhythmically around his finger, a clear indication of your impending climax.

"You ain't gonna get off so easily, doll," he declared, withdrawing his digit and lifting it to your lips. With a deliberate motion, he parted your lips with his thumb, prompting you to accept his finger into your mouth.

You sucked your own juices off his digit, moaning quietly without breaking the eye contact.

Dabi seized a generous handful of your supple ass, drawing you closer to him in a forceful manner, engaging in a passionate make-out session with you, pushing his pierced tongue down your throat.

Unabashedly, you dared to extend your hand, wrapping it around his now fully-erect cock, expertly jerking it while rising onto your tiptoes for a more comfortable angle.

Your actions proved successful as Dabi moaned into your mouth, punctuating the moment with a couple of spanks on your ass before tenderly squeezing the supple flesh, indulging in a thorough massage.

In the next instant, he decisively detached your hand from his throbbing cock and pivoted you around, urging you forward until you were facing a lengthy mirror.

Dabi positioned your hands high on either side of the mirror, granting you a comprehensive view of your entire form and his presence looming behind you in the reflective surface.

In a hushed tone, he murmured, "Now, we don't have much time, baby. You wasted too much time already wandering throughout all those stupid stores and teasing me like a bitch you are. I'm going to fuck you hard and cum deep inside you. Do you understand?"

Meeting his gaze in the mirror's reflection, you nodded in affirmation.

"Good," he declared, punctuating his words with another firm spank on your ass. His hand deftly secured your left cheek, spreading it as he gripped his throbbing member. With the tip of his cock, Dabi traced an enticing path up and down your exposed entrance, your juices already glistening and trickling down your thigh.

Without delay, he forced your cunt open with his rigid shaft, delivering a single, powerful thrust that brought him to the hilt inside you. "Fffuuuuccckkk," Dabi breathed out through gritted teeth.

Any potential scream was mercifully muffled by his hand wrapping around your neck, applying a tight squeeze that momentarily restricted your airflow. "Don't you dare moan like you do back home. Our neighbors are accustomed to your bitchy moans and whines, but here people are not, yeah? And the last thing I need today is getting caught with my dick stuffed in your tight cunt," he warned, nibbling your earlobe.

You were relentlessly slammed into, the force akin to a piston driving into your pussy again and again and again.

Dabi's hands greedily explored your soft flesh - your breasts, hips, belly, occasionally slipping between your thighs to playfully tease your swollen clitoris.

Little moans escaped your lips as you pressed your cheek against the cold glass, the surface already fogging up from the intensity of your heavy breathing.

Dabi, panting with an intensity akin to a dog in heat, delivered hard spanks to your ass and the back of your thighs. "You enjoy it when I take you rough like this, don't ya, doll? Hmm? Oh yeah, ya love it. You're quite the dirty whore," he chuckled into your ear. "Don't worry, daddy will fuck you the way you crave the most, princess."

Dabi intensified his rhythm, a firm grip on your hips as he relentlessly thrust into your slippery cunt.

The only sounds resonating within the confines of the changing room were a harmonious blend of your mixed gasps and moans, accompanied by the resonating slap of flesh against flesh, each time his weighty balls hit the curve of your supple ass.

"Dabi..." you whined, already breathless.

Smack, smack, smack! A sequence of forceful spanks landed on your ass. "Address me properly, princess, or I'll have to think of a punishment, and trust me, you won't want that," Dabi growled, sinking his teeth into the column of your neck.

"Daddy," you whispered, your mouth parched from moans and panting, the act of swallowing causing a sweet ache. "Harder," you pleaded. "Harder."

"Mmmm," Dabi slowed his thrusts, his cock reaching deep within you, the tip delicately grazing your cervix as he came to a complete stop. "I knew you had a wild side, little whore, but now you've surprised me. Daddy's going to fulfill your wish," he declared with a sultry promise.

And thus, it commenced. Without delay, he placed a hand on your head, pressing you more firmly against the mirror. The intensity escalated, his hips snapping with relentless determination.

"Oh my God," you managed to utter as you slid a hand between your legs, tracing delicate circles over your slick-covered folds.

Slap, slap, slap! Each thrust felt harder and deeper than the last. His strong hand seized a handful of your hair, pulling you further onto his pulsating dick as he forewarned, "Princess, I'm gonna cum. Daddy's going to coat your sweet cunt with his seed."

Bracing yourself, you endured a final series of sloppy thrusts as Dabi's grunts reverberated down your ear. Rising on your tiptoes, you attempted to accommodate the force emanating from his groin. "Cumming, cumming, fuck," Dabi aggressively grunted, and came deep inside of you, his warm, thick semen spurting from the slit of his tip, painting your spongy walls until they were all adorned in a coating of white.

After withdrawing, Dabi took a moment to appreciate his job, observing the mix of his cum and your juices as they dribbled from your well-used hole.

Depleted and breathless, you whimpered, "I need to drink something, my mouth's dry, Dabi…"

"I'll get you water," he responded casually, extracting panties from his back pocket to once again clean himself off. "You were such a filthy whore, doll. Just the way I like ya the most," he added, punctuating his words with a playful spank that made you yelp as he seemingly heated up his palm, leaving a vivid red mark on your ass cheek. "Get fucking dressed now, we only have an hour to get back home and get ready for that fucking party."

Dabi gathered a few bras and panties before leaving you in the changing room.

As you slid your knickers back on, you smeared the cream of your mixed fluids between your puffy cunt lips. You bit down on your knuckle to stifle a reaction to coldness brought forth by the slick wetness.

You haven't cum so hard such in a good two days, you thought to yourself.

Once dressed, you exited the fitting room only to spot Dabi at the checkout, purchasing every item you had tried on. A self-satisfied grin played on your lips, met with a nod from him. Ah, you already had a plan in mind for how you'd repay him.

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manykinsmen · 3 months

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i want to talk a little bit about why i think the way nico rosberg is maligned by the world of f1 has a great deal to do with gender, sexuality and queerness. this isn't to say that nico isn't heterosexual and cisgender. we have no reason not to take him at his word in this regard; he understands himself best. what it is to say is that nico rosberg's presence threatens the way in which gender and sexuality is constructed in the wider world of f1, which has ramifications for both individuals within f1 and f1 as an institution.

so we have to talk, therefore, about the "platonic ideal" if you will, of an f1 driver. we all know, that except the bubbles of f1blr and f1tiktok, which fall into more of a "fandom" concept, and are therefore necessarily the domain of women and queer people, motorsports as a whole is a hyper-masculine pursuit as both a participant and a spectator, as is the case with most sports. we might therefore, gravitate towards thinking of this platonic ideal as some kind of super-jacked mega-sports guy. we do have to alter this a little to account for the specifics of f1, which prefers a smaller build, though still muscular, to complement the car. f1 has also long cultivated an aura of elegance to set itself apart from other motorsports series like NASCAR. this is not a diesel-huffing crowd, this is a champagne on yachts crowd. our faves all come out somewhere on the classic hollywood leading man to meterosexual sliding scale. i would volunteer charles leclerc as the best example of this platonic ideal in recent memory. the evidence of this? the amount of "traditional" f1 fans (i.e. men who watch the races and do not engage in fandom) professing an obsession with him.

where does nico fit in in relation to this platonic ideal? on paper, he seems pretty damn close. he's also got a slighter, lither build and also has always carried around an aura of elegance. he was even born and raised in monaco, like charles, whatever his passport says. there's a whole sub-essay i could write on the way that, in so many ways, both within and outside fandom, charles has picked up nico's baton, occupies the space he vacated, but we'll save that post for another day. so if nico is so close to the platonic ideal, why then is he not more celebrated? why then is he regarded with such suspicion? well, we can't micro-analyse his physical features, or pinpoint the source of the feelings he generates in others. not only would this be an exercise in futility, it would also be remarkably close to an exercise in anti-queer eugenics. the answer is that, for whatever reason, the feelings he generates in the traditional, heterosexual, cisgender male audience and participants of f1 are different to the feelings that charles generates.

let's analyse. they're both openly acknowledged to be/have been beautiful, but what's the difference here? well, charles presents in a subtly more masculine way. his haircuts have, since he reached adulthood, typically been shorter and he usually sports some degree of facial hair. nico's hair is often best described as long, for a man, and he's always clean-shaven. charles is also much more gender-conforming in his fashion choices, and more conservative (even when he makes poor choices), whereas nico's fashion choices (especially since leaving f1) are typically much more considered, "put together", and he takes bigger risks with patterns, colours and cuts. he also often carries a bag, which is associated with femininity. it's subtle, but on some occasions we could even make an argument that nico is gender-nonconforming in his fashion choices, at least within a hypermasculine sphere.

why does the way in which they dress and groom themselves matter so much? it's a huge part of how we signal gender and sexuality. susan sontag's notes on "camp" explains this in great detail. camp fashion emerged during the time in which homosexuality was illegal and therefore couldn't be announced publicly. instead it had to be signified somehow. this was achieved through a combination of fashion and mannerisms. camp, then, is even when performed by cisgender heterosexuals, inextricably and viscerally linked to queerness, particularly the queerness of amab individuals. this is because, later, "butch", which achieved the same results by travelling the opposite direction was separated from camp as its own entity. it is therefore a deviation from expected masculinity, and proximate to femininity. in a hypermasculine sphere, the threshold at which camp emerges is much weaker. nico rosberg presents camp. charles leclerc manages to avoid doing so. (side note, since nico retired, lewis hamilton has become much more daring in his own choices and is also finding himself flaunting gender presentation norms in f1. interesting, wouldn't you say?)

but this isn't the only way that nico rosberg has developed an association with queerness. the second way is entirely out of his control - it's the uncomfortable attraction of other men to nico rosberg. again, lets compare nico and charles. whilst plenty of people, fans or those who work in f1, are happy to admit that charles is "handsome", or even "beautiful", the word "pretty" is reserved (again, excepting in fandom spheres) for nico. why is this important? well, charles represents a male fantasy. men want to /be/ charles. even when a few cis-het male fans go as far as to say they have a "man crush" on charles or would make an exception to their heterosexuality for him, it's not a real suggestion. why? well, when these cis-het men say they would sleep with charles, what they mean is that they have mentally attempted to put themselves in the shoes of someone who is attracted to men and then found what they believe to be the best example of a man. charles is the platonic ideal of an f1 driver, he is therefore maximally fuckable, assuming one is attracted to men. for these men, saying that they would fuck charles is the end result of a thought experiment. what they are really saying, in quite a masturbatory fashion, is that they would like to be charles and fuck people.

nico rosberg, however, brings uncomfortable tangibility to this thought experiment. we've already established that nico has an association with femininity and femaleness that charles simply does not. for a heterosexual man, a feminine person is the typical subject of their attractions. nico expresses himself, both in fashion and mannerism, in a similar way to the women that are the object of many heterosexual men's desires. "pretty" is a word that is reserved by heterosexual men for women, and yet, it is/was routinely used about nico rosberg. a small case study in this is jenson button. by his own admission, jenson button had a psychosexual fascination with britney spears. what nickname did he immediately pick up for nico rosberg? britney. (note, i am aware that mark webber is the origin of this nickname, but jenson really took the baton and ran with it out of a few options). not only does this double down on nico's proximity to femininity, it also highlights jenson button's attraction. he doesn't just give him the name of any woman, but the woman he, self-admittedly, desires the most. jenson might be the most flagrant example, but he's not the only one. giving rapid one-word responses to drivers, mark webber gives nico as "pretty". another nickname that emerges for nico is "princess" - again, associated with not only femininity but highly desirable femininity.

so then is it all a big gay panic? while that certainly doesn't help and causes fractious relationships on an individual level. it's actually not the only problem nico rosberg's gender expression poses. to understand the other problem, we have to talk about the entrenched misogyny of f1. the platonic ideal of an f1 driver is, always has been, and will likely continue to be for a very long time, a man. a particular kind of man, as we have understood, but nevertheless, a man who manages, despite the preference for a smaller build and elegance, to skirt around the edges of femininity without touching it. nico rosberg is too close to femininity and worst of all, he is a champion.

one of the most curious things about women in formula 1, is that they are perpetually forgotten. even long-time fans of the sport, are often surprised to discover that there have been five female f1 drivers. it's a truly stunning display of repressed memory. even then, women in the world of f1 are necessarily "butch", simply for their presence within it. with a very small pool of exceptions, to participate seriously in sport as a woman is to be masculinised, voluntarily or otherwise. this is to say nothing of the over-representation of women loving women or women who by personal preference present more butch in sport. even though f1 represses its women as a traumatic memory, when women enter its sphere, they are masculinised, the sport is not feminised, well at least as long as they remain minor players.

nico rosberg's championship immortalises him in the annals of f1. by the rules that they have put in place, he cannot be repressed in the same way that the memory of lella lombardi or maria teresa di fillipis or even mike beuttler (a driver revealed to be gay after his retirement who subsequently died during the AIDS epidemic) can be. the role of champion is meant to be fulfilled by the platonic ideal of an f1 driver (side note, we can read into charles's title of "il predestino" quite a bit here). if it isn't, then it necessarily shifts the platonic ideal and therefore the identity of f1. nico rosberg's championship win represents not just a crisis of sexuality, but a crisis of identity across the entire sport, all of which is tied up in gender presentation. when nico rosberg won, the sport got camper, and it hated that.

to make matters worse, by immediately announcing his retirement for the express purpose of spending time with his wife and then newborn daughter (since then, he has had a second daughter), rather than shrugging off his associations with femininity by leaning into having a title and taking off in pursuit of more, nico doubled down on this. proximity to children, especially day to day, is another thing that typically falls into the domain of femininity, although we are beginning to dismantle this a little bit in the 21st century. however, f1 remains a hyper-masculine space in which its participants are expected, or even demanded, to spend large quantities of time away from any children that they might have. there are no accommodations made for parents on the grid. despite nico's decision to retire, when we reflect upon it, being highly understandable, its associations with femininity add to the impulse to call the decision "cowardly". it is an emasculating decision, and therefore incomprehensible to the hyper-masculine world of f1.

following his retirement, nico's campness only increases. i might speculate here, that part of this is the lifting of pressure to present in a way that people surrounding him in f1 are more comfortable with - you can see that his outfits when he is doing punditry for sky, for example, are much more conservative. nico has been open about not liking who he was when he was putting in serious bids for the f1 championship, and pressures to behave in a more masculine fashion might have formed part of that. likewise, nico goes out of his way to emphasise his relationship and closeness to women and femininity, branding himself as a "girl dad" (we could compare here to kevin magnussen, who is also the father of two daughters whom he clearly cares about very deeply, but hasn't, to my knowledge, referred to himself as a "girl dad". when we consider nico's behaviours post-retirement to be "cringe" we might then want to interrogate which behaviours, exactly, we mean. "cringe" very frequently, is a disguise that misogyny and homophobia wears to be let back into he building.

how does the world of f1 react to this? by attempting to repress nico rosberg. mercedes fails to mention and credit their only other champion besides lewis hamilton, even in the same breath in which they claim closeness and proximity to michael schumacher. fans undermine the validity of his win by implying it was merely the culmination of lewis hamilton's bad luck with regards to car reliability, which not only undermines nico's achievement but so to lewis's (to be truly the best, one must triumph over greatness and skill, not untalented hacks, as many would you have believe). new fans of the sport are often shocked to discover that nico rosberg is in fact a world champion, even though only two drivers have won the title since him, and only one new driver. where nico can't be erased, he is cast in the role of the villain, the way disney villains almost always carry an association with camp and gender nonconformity.

what's the conclusion then? well, it's perhaps not the entire picture of why nico rosberg is so maligned, but gender identity and sexuality are definitely something to think about here. the way he challenges the very strict gender role an f1 driver, and especially a wold champion, is expected to perform is incredibly uncomfortable to both the institution of f1 and individuals operating within it (as fans, or as participants). and maybe, just maybe, we should interrogate the concept of "cringe", which is often used as a to beat those that challenge our expectations in these areas.

#nico rosberg #charles leclerc #f1 #queer theory #feminism #jenson button

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ayaboba · 5 months

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DAY 9: WE DON’T WANT YOU CATCHING A COLD, DO WE? ❅⋆⍋

summary: them giving you their jacket in the cold.

characters: childe, baizhu, wriothesley, xiao.

notes: 3rd time the charm? fluff, gn! reader, wc: 300ish each.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ dreamy december event masterlist

childe

Hailing from Snezhnaya, Childe was entirely aware of his resistance to chilly weather, the immunity was practically infused in his veins. The lifelong exposure to frigid winds and crystalline icicles had played a prominent role throughout his timeline, so it was only correct for him to possess such characteristics evolved through experience.

That being said, Childe was not unaware of his resilience in comparison to foreigners in his homeland; in fact, he buoyantly revelled in it. It was an advantage in his eyes, a quality that should be boisterously paraded for the unfortunate souls that could never delight in beholding such a divinely useful attribute. Childe was never ignorant, however, he never let the trailer of playfulness extend to the wrong audience, he had a particular selection of people he simply rejoiced in teasing, and you seemed to be one of the lucky few.

There are days when you have to sacrifice your health just a teensy bit, perhaps risking a cold for a perfectly coordinated outfit. He didn’t have to know, all Childe needs to do is compliment you on your remarkable taste in fashion.

But that’s not all Childe notices, his gaze catches the sequence of goosebumps, the subtle shivers and quivers in your voice, and he feels the thin strings of his heart tighten just a little bit. He’ll murmur the showers of compliments, but not after shoving you his jacket and tucking you neatly under his arm.

baizhu

It happens every year—an unceasing mountain of patients all suffering the same case—which is easily avoidable with the right precautions.

Yet Baizhu ensures to remind them all, gently and tenderly as they finish their checkups with the concocted medicine in hand. As he strongly believes, there is no point being stern when you can be soft-spoken and understanding. This way, as he has observed over the years, always proves more effective results and happier patients, and being a doctor, Baizhu knows the benefits stemming from a greater abundance of positive emotions.

Perhaps it was because of his nature, his eulogised nurturing manner responsible for his revered words and actions commended as significantly noble. Nevertheless, you admired it immensely. Taking care of the sick required many precise skills that demanded only someone who possessed a vast amount of goodwill and patience.

So, really, how else did you think he’d react when he saw what you were wearing in such weather?

Baizhu certainly commends it as a lovely choice of complimentary clothing and mentally applauds you for it, but he can’t help but extend his concern. It’s subtle, all he desires is for you to please take care of yourself, and if you particularly needed anything, just remember that he was always available; he’ll manage somehow, because it’s you.

There are some small exceptions, occurrences where you needn’t ask for him to know, but that doesn’t really matter right now. Just make sure to thank him for that jacket engulfing you most lusciously, because although he attempts to conceal it, those goosebumps lining his arm are just as visible as your smile.

wriothesley

Spending more and more time with Wriothesley has given the chance for you to perceive and confirm a myriad of assumptions and strange quirks about his personality.

In all honesty, you admit there were more pros than cons. The Duke of the Fortress of Meriopide seemed to exponentially bleed extravagance, which was truthfully a little stupid, because although he was a noteworthy figure throughout Fontaine, he sincerely wasn’t the type to feast in glamour or grandeur, or anything similar of the sort. Well, publicly, at least.

It’s a sweet surprise when Wriothesley most charmingly invites you for a night out. It’s not that he wants to hide your relationship (quite the contrary, actually), but he absolutely despises when people decide to inconveniently prowl into the specifics of someone’s private life, and being Fontaine, it would likely be scripted into a melodramatic love story featuring heart-wrenching betrayals and exaggerated standards in romance.

Being with Wriothesley elicits emotions that feel subjected to only him; he’s the exception. These new feelings are ravaging your mind in countless cycles, gifting you a dangerously addictive rush that spreads through your body like a wildfire. He likes to remind you that he does, in fact, notice your reaction to his looming presence, and he does it without an ounce of hesitation.

“You seem to shiver as soon as I get a little too close,” he states matter-of-factly as you browse the night stalls scattered throughout the city. “I assume it's only because you’re cold, right?”

That 'right' is said so excruciatingly slow, like he wants to let it reverberate through your bones, so that you get the message that he knows it, knows how to get you so deliciously feverish.

“Have my jacket, darling. We don’t want you catching a cold, do we?”

xiao

Was he really that interesting?

Although he spends an unhealthy amount of time ambling about his insecurities and his self-image, Xiao has never considered whether he could’ve been fascinating enough to have piqued someone’s curiosity. Someone who found him interesting probably was crippling from some mad sickness without a cure.

Your hopeful face is almost persuasive enough to let him say yes, almost.

Seriously, in what universe was he going to allow you to fight monsters with him? Yes, you were an admirable fighter equipped with a vast set of skills and stamina, but if you slipped for a mere split second, he could regret this decision for the rest of eternity.

Then comes the deal.

You explain that if you can’t go slaughter the monsters, then would Xiao approve of simply tagging along? If that doesn’t convince him, surely a genuine promise of being aware of the surroundings should sweeten the agreement, right?

It seems you have won the prize of an evening stroll accompanied by Xiao.

The first ten minutes are pleasant, bestowing a treasured memory for both, but as the sun sets and the winds begin to pick up, the temperature is getting a little too cool for liking. All you can do is try to retain your body heat by holding your body a little more tightly as you watch Xiao destroy a camp of hillichurls nearby.

“Xiao!” you call out to him once he’s finished decimating the site. “I’m going to head back now!”

With some magical precision of an adeptus, he teleports to where you’re standing, his face is strangely not confused but rather…stern?

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” he announces with the air of a strict mother. “I know you wouldn’t plead to accompany me just to return home after fifteen minutes. Here,” he nods, a woollen jacket displayed in his arms. “Put it on as we walk back.”

#genshin fanfic #genshin fluff #genshin x reader #childe x reader #baizhu x reader #wriothesley x reader #xiao x reader #childe fluff #baizhu fluff #wriothesley fluff #xiao fluff #anya writes ✧.*

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jqnehr · 6 days

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dr ratio x fem!reader. it is currently 1:13am so that explains the very poor quality of this drabble. thank you and good night.

Dr Veritas Ratio is an idiot.

Of course, he would rather fling himself off the highest floor of The Reverie Hotel than sooner admit the truth. And it’s even worse when that bozo is the one to point it out.

“Never would’ve thought you had a romantic bone in your body,” Aventurine remarked, that same signature, permanently flirtatious tone of his grating on the Doctor’s frayed nerves even more. The blond man casually flipped a gold coin in the air over and over and over, shooting his companion a devilish smirk. “Seems like a certain young woman has finally proven that theory wrong, huh, doc? Shall I call you an ‘idiot in lo—’”

A stick of chalk smacked into the wall mere millimetres away from the sly merchant’s forehead beside him—and the sheer force of the throw was evident. If it had his its mark—which was right between Aventurine’s eyes—he would be a very dead man.

Aventurine coolly glanced at the cracked, utterly splintered hole in the wall beside him where the piece of chalk only just stuck out of, and then set his unruffled gaze on his friend, lips curled up into a wily smirk. “Thank you for proving my point, buddy.”

“Leave,” Vertias ordered, voice low, almost a growl. “I won’t miss next time.”

Aventurine rolled his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring up at the doctor on the other side of the room over the top of his expensive shades. “Oh, you’re an idiot in love, alright. What’s keeping you, the oh-so-handsome-and-brilliant star scholar of the Intelligensia Guild from sweeping her off her feet and whisking her away, off into the sunset? Scared of a little rejection?”

Veritas had another piece of chalk ready to throw at Aventurine in his hand, but it had long crumbled to white dust within his taut, knuckled hold, veins bulging up along his strong forearm. Aventurine regarded the physical, silent reaction with a lifted brow. Dr Ratio threw a murderous glare over his shoulder at the man on the couch, sitting there like he owned the damn place, and unclenched his jaw to say, “I will drag you by the hair out if you don’t leave yourself.”

Aventurine shrugged, hands up in a surrendering fashion, his eyes closed and mouth up into a languid, knowing, and mock-innocent smile. “You never liked admitting to things, Vertias, have you? I wonder what you would do if I happened to tell a particular young lady that the Doctor of Idiots eagerly awaited her presence so late at night…”

“You will do no such thing! I swear to the Aeons, Aventurine, if you pull any kind of trick or tactic around that woman, so help me, I will—”

“Beat me into a pulp with your book—yes, yes.” He feigned a long suffering sigh. “But, really, Veritas—what do you expect to happen when neither of you will make a move? I’ve no choice but to act as your wingman and hitch you both up by proxy. Isn’t that what friends do?”

Ratio muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but Aventurine caught something along the lines of “no fool who gambles his day away is a friend of mine” before the doctor dumped the crushed chalk into a bin beside the sofa he had jumped up from in a rage. “Get off my back about it. She’s way out of my league, anyway. I am much too eccentric, intelligent, extraordinary and handsome for such a dull woman as her.”

Aventurine was silenced, merely staring at the mauve-haired man before him with a look of utter repugnance, unable to believe his ears. Then he went back to flipping his coin. “Ah, yes, because women just love vain men who always patronise and snub them. Because men making women feel inferior is the standard, isn’t it, Veritas?”

“Oh—don’t give me that. You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Right, because calling the woman you obviously love ‘dull’ is the key to sweeping her off her feet.”

“Would it kill you to quit being sarcastic for once, Aventurine?” Veritas was getting quite ready to dump a pillar on him. “If you’re going to continue to be a bother, get out! As if you know what you’re talking about. You’ve never been in love! All you care about is money, and women are just tools to you!”

Aventurine opened his mouth to protest, but Veritas was on a roll—and when he got yapping, he really got yapping. “At least I don’t consider her as an asset to use and discard at will! For she is—despite all her clear and rather mortifying faults—is a woman of valour and poise! Her company is much more edifying than the one of a greedy man who never stops flipping a damn coin! I just cannot believe—”

“There you have it, Veritas.” Satisfied, Aventurine finally stood to his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets, making his way to the door, giving his friend a finger gun on his way by. “Congrats. You’ve finally admitted it out loud. Just wife her up already.”

The door clicked shut. Veritas was left alone. Left alone with the harrowing realisation that he does want to marry you, for you’re the only one he has discovered he can suffer—and who can bear with him—and that he’s deeply, madly in love, and that’s not something even his precious alabaster mask can hide.

I am done for. With a groan, Veritas flopped onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling, pondering Aventurine’s words despite his distaste.

And when he saw you again the next day, sipping away peacefully at a cup of coffee, he was suddenly quite happy to admit to it.

Doctor Vertias Ratio was, well and truly, an idiot in love.

i have recently caught up w hsr and let me TELL you. the CHOKEHOLD this man has had me in since day 1 😭 he won’t leave me ALONE so here we are.

and aventurine <3

#dr ratio x you #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio x y/n #dr ratio #hsr dr ratio #dr ratio hsr #veritas ratio #honkai star rail #dr ratio honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #honkai star rail aventurine #star rail aventurine #aventurine hsr #i needed to get this off my chest dhmu #hsr drabbles #hsr

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luminetti · 6 months

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Dressed to Kill

༘⋆ Summary: In which, you, a professional cosplayer, mistake Bakugou’s hero outfit for a really good Halloween costume. ༘⋆ Pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader ༘⋆Warnings: n/a, reader is just the biggest dumbass (lovingly) also, i cannot stress this enough. they are NOT CHILDREN in this. they’re both at least the age of college seniors ༘⋆Notes: huge thanks to one of my biggest inspirations for writing in general: @andypantsx3 ! this fic is lightly inspired by—and lowkey a lovechild of—her pieces, baby are you playing tricks and unconventional, so if you somehow haven’t read those yet, i strongly recommend doing so! also now that i actually have more than one piece of writing, id love for some writer/fandom moots! im very new to tumblr and would love friends :’) ao3 release

Halloween was by far your favorite holiday.

As a child, you were always drawn to Halloween, not just for the candy, but for the extravagant costumes and house decorations. Nearly every year, you stayed up late with your father, hand-sewing various details onto your costume. Finally, for your eighteenth birthday, you were gifted your very own sewing machine which officially kickstarted your interest in cosplay.

Throughout your first couple years of college, you worked on your Twitter account, posting quick mirror selfies of your various cosplay projects. Only during senior year did you finally feel comfortable enough to go out in public for your first official photoshoot.

‘Comfortable’ was a bit of a stretch. Very seldom does one feel truly comfortable when posing in front of a grandiose fountain in the middle of a public garden, fully clad in foam armor. What made it significantly worse was when the aforementioned armor looked more like a metal bikini than an actual chest plate worn into battle.

Poor character design choices aside, you loved Halloween for that very reason. With everyone dressed up–or down, for some–there was no reason to feel self-conscious during your monthly photoshoots. Sure, there was the occasional snide remark, but the number of supportive comments from passersby was enough to quiet your uncertainty.

This year you had stayed up late for the past month putting the final touches on your purple staff, even attempting an LED system that allowed parts of it to glow. It had taken two weeks to get the prototype of the dress situated since you weren’t used to sewing such a large amount of detail into your fabrics. Unfortunately, this also meant it took significantly longer to finish the outfit than expected, leaving almost no time to do your wig. But, in true cosplayer fashion, you managed to whip something together with an older purple wig, just in time for tonight.

You did, however, only realize the character also had a sword occasionally, but there was no way you were going to make that in time so the staff would have to suffice.

The night had already been proving to be one of the best so far. Starting around eight in the evening, you and some of your closest friends had gotten together for a costume party, a series of shitty horror movies, and a plethora of even shittier cheap cocktails. Despite not being much of a drinker yourself, you always participated in the annual spooky-themed cocktail charcuterie. This year you weren’t holding back. Your pride and joy charcuterie consisted of nine drinks including, but not limited to ghost-themed Aperol Spiritz–nicknamed Spirit Spiritz, Bloody Marys, and your personal favorite, Bonejitos. They even had little skeleton dudes sitting on the rim of the glass.

Unfortunately, your friends weren’t very amused by your festive drinks, even going as far to say your ingenious Bonejitos were a stretch. So, clearly they didn’t see the vision. Eventually, the party events died down as the guests began to go home, allowing the night to evolve into just drinking.

“Did you get a photo of your costume yet?” Himari, your friend from freshman year, questioned.

You shook your head, absently watching as the rest of your friends downed your masterly made Bonejitos. Liars, all of them. “‘A stretch’ my ass,” you scoffed.

Himari dug around in her bag, retrieving her camera. “Halloween photoshoot? Your fit is cute and I’m getting bored here.”

You did like the idea of photography-major level photos with none of the price involved. “I love you, Mari.”

She stuffed your spear under her arm and with that, the two of you stepped out into the cold and crisp autumn air, the breeze running over your bare shoulders and thighs. You shivered lightly, pulling up your thigh-highs and hugging the excess fabric close to your body.

Himari glanced at you in concern. “Does the Raiden Shogun not wear a jacket?”

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t.” You chuckled, rubbing your arms. “You can’t be sexy and wear a jacket,” you joked.

She hummed in sympathy, looking around for a good place to set up. The park was a particularly popular spot during Halloween, specifically known for its comforting lighting and ambience.

“What about there?” Himari pointed to a small gazebo surrounded by violets, lit up by a string of fairy lights. There were a couple groups nearby, but otherwise it was pretty much empty.

You nodded, excited. “Good eye as always, Mari.”

She handed over your spear and offered an arm,helping you step up onto the platform and underneath the gazebo. While she adjusted the lights to her liking, you took a moment to adjust your skirt and sleeves.

“Do you think it’s too short?” you asked, tugging on the cloth. Thankfully the character wore a pair of shorts underneath, but the dress was barely miniskirt length.

Himari looked over briefly before turning back to the lights. “No, not really. Why? Are you uncomfortable?”

Before you could answer, a group of college-aged girls passed by the gazebo, clearly a bit drunk. As they left, one of the girls that was hanging onto her friend’s arm looked over. “Don’t be, girlie! You look hot as fuck!” she shouted out, words slightly slurred.

You flustered, blabbering out a quick thanks in surprise. There’s nothing like a friendly drunk girl to get your confidence up.

From behind the camera, Himari gave you a thumbs up. “Give me one of these.” She mimed leaning against the wooden banister. “Yeah like that, but with your leg more out.”

The shutter clicked several times as you did your best to recreate her gestures.

Himari proceeded to guide you through a series of poses, occasionally having you incorporate your staff or the gazebo. Eventually you got used to the flashing camera and allowed yourself to melt into the character, embodying her essence as best as you could.

Time flew and before you knew it, Himari was calling you down from the gazebo to look over the photos. You hovered over her shoulder as she flipped through each one, pausing at her favorites.

“I’ll import these onto my laptop and send them back edited sometime this week,” she told you, removing her glasses and wiping them off with her sleeve.

You nodded. “Thanks for doing this, you really didn’t have to.” You rummaged through your bag, hoping to find at least a little money for her efforts. Feeling a couple bills between your fingers, you held them out to her.

Himari’s eyes squinted and you realized she was staring over your shoulder. “I think that guy in costume was looking at you,” she said, still cleaning off the lenses.

You turned to see a tall man across the park, large grenade shaped gauntlets resting on both his arms. He quickly looked away once he saw your head turn. Looking closer, you realized he was dressed in a dark black sleeveless jumpsuit with orange and green straps along his body.

He was clearly a Dynamight cosplayer. And by the looks of it, a really talented one at that.

You were almost convinced that he had real hero equipment on. His armor pieces were strikingly accurate, and you made a mental note to look for more realistic prop materials.

“He probably spent a lot of time on that,” you mused to Himari, who had already gone back to inspecting the photos.

“You should go ask him about it.” she suggested, collecting the rest of her things and zipping her bag. “I’ve gotta catch an Uber soon.”

Maybe it was the lingering confidence gifted by the girl from earlier, but you managed to muster up enough self-assurance to wave goodbye to Himari and stride right up to the cosplayer.

As you got closer, you realized just how much work must have gone into all the details. The gauntlets–a very convincing metal–had several dents and scratches, giving it a worn down look, as if it had been used frequently.

His hair looked far too real to be a wig, likely just being his natural hair with lots of product in it. The most impressive detail by far was his physique. Had he trained specifically for this? The closer you got the more you noticed. If you were lucky, maybe he’d give you the name of his supplier.

“I love your outfit!” You smiled cheerily at him.

He turned to look at you, slightly taken aback. “Thanks?” he replied, folding his arms as he looked you over, eyes lingering on your cosplay.

You felt a twinge of anxiety as he inspected your outfit. He probably just didn’t recognize the character, you convinced yourself.

“I’m a cosplayer too,” you clarified, gesturing to your dress. “But clearly not as dedicated as you.”

You watched as his chest puffed lightly at the compliment, though he titled his head, a bit puzzled.

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you tried a different method. “How long did it take to make?”

He blinked at you and shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe a couple of months? I just told them what I wanted.”

Oh, you got it now. He’s just a model. It wasn’t uncommon for people to collaborate on cosplays, especially ones where one person either commissions or buys a cosplay from an artist, and then models it themself. Either way, he was still one of the best you’ve seen.

You nodded in understanding. “Do you have social media? I’d love to see what else you’ve done.” Pulling out your phone, you loaded up your Twitter, preparing to enter his tag.

“Dynamight Official. All one word,” he replied hesitantly, looking you up and down as if he was scanning for signs of sickness.

You chuckled faintly. He was really dedicated to his role. “Well, what's your name? I follow a lot of cosplayers already. Maybe I’ve seen you?” You pulled up your profile and turned the screen around to show him in case he recognized your tag.

His arms unfolded and his face slowly morphed from confused to exceptionally amused. “Bakugou Katsuki. I am Dynamight.”

Waving him off absently, you nodded as you scrolled through your followed accounts. You swear you’ve seen him online before. “Sorry, I’m not really good at roleplay. But you’re pretty convincing.”

He leaned against the cold metal lamppost, watching you sift through various Twitter accounts. You sneaked a glance to check his facial features again, but he was already staring straight back at you.

In such close capacity, his striking crimson eyes stood out to you. Even his contacts were high quality… Fighting back the warmth that threatened your cheeks and ears, you averted your gaze downwards.

Your eyes flicked to his waist. You hadn’t noticed it before, but a thick black bomber jacket was tied tightly around his torso, unlike the real hero’s costume. Well, you stand corrected. You certainly can be sexy with a jacket.

Speaking of jackets, you had been so caught up in conversation you hadn’t realized how cold it had gotten. The soft breeze from earlier had picked up into chilly wind, rustling the fabric of your dress as it blew by.

Bakufaux–haha–seemed to notice your interest in his jacket, untying it and tossing it over your shoulders. “Bit cold for you, Princess?” he drawled. “D’nno how you’ve managed in that outfit.” He gestured to your short dress and tall socks.

You couldn’t help but notice how his gaze lingered on you for a half second longer than normal. Not that you would’ve said anything. Thanks to his jacket, you were enveloped with warm and musky scents of charcoal and sandalwood. Though, being honest with yourself, you’ve been distracted ever since you walked over.

You snapped out of your trance when he pushed himself off the lamppost and leaned over you. It could’ve been twenty degrees out and you’d still swear you were overheating.

“Ever considered cosplaying in my costume?” He asked, watching your darkening cheeks closely.

Maybe it was the shit eating grin he wore proudly on his face, or the sneaking suspicion in your gut, but you had an inkling of a feeling he knew something you didn’t. In a surge of confidence and curiosity, or perhaps just pure adrenaline, you took a step forward.

“And if I have?”

Something snapped behind his eyes and you could’ve sworn his gaze dropped to your lips. He might’ve actually kissed you if you weren’t interrupted by the sound of glass shattering and the screams of customers inside a late night coffee shop.

You felt your heart rate increase as he swore under his breath, whatever smug expression he previously had was replaced by something far more intense and serious.

‘“I’m not leaving you out here alone, stay close to me,” he urged, taking one last look at you before turning and running towards the sound.

It took you a second to realize you were running behind him as fast as possible.

As the two of you neared the coffee shop, you noticed numerous shards of glass laid out on the concrete. On a second glance, you noticed some of the smaller shards were beginning to melt, turning the ground slightly slick.

You halted to a stop, almost crashing into your new friend. You felt a warm hand snake around your waist, lifting your body off the ground and onto a nearby bench.

“Don’t touch the ground, and stay right here,” he told you sternly, before turning and rushing straight into the cafe.

You watched, frozen in astonishment, only able to hear the horrific sounds of glass and… explosions? Occasionally you caught a glimpse of blonde hair, dropping off a poor customer caught in the crossfire, before dashing straight back inside. In what felt like seconds, he had already retrieved nearly every patron from the cafe, all while the villain was still inside.

Quickening footsteps approached from behind your place on the bench. You barely had a chance to comprehend the noises when a flash of red zipped past you, making a beeline straight for the cafe. Only after several trips in and out of the building did you finally recognize the eccentric costume of Pro-Hero Red Riot as he gathered the remainder of the victims outside.

Through the ringing in your ears you could only vaguely make out shouting between Red Riot and someone else still inside the building. It was all intelligible until he turned to you and the victims. The last words you heard was look away, or at least you assumed.

You weren’t interested in waiting around to find out so you shut your eyes tight and turned away from the scene as best as you could.

At first nothing happened. But after a beat, you felt your eyes burn behind your eyelids as a blistering wave of heat surrounded you. You think you screamed, but you weren’t entirely sure. Every muscle in your body tensed as the bench shook underneath you, threatening to break.

But as quickly as it came, it passed. You couldn’t tell how long you had been trapped in that position, clutching your knees to your chest with your eyes sealed shut. A warm hand shook you out of position, jostling your eyes open.

When your eyes finally adjusted, blocking your vision of the cafe was none other than a tall silhouette, and familiar red eyes.

“Hey, stay with me, Princess. You hurt?”

You felt calloused hands hastily press against your body, examining you for injury. He took a hold of your ankle, easing you into extending. “Anything?”

Shaking your head, you gripped onto him as he lifted you from the bench to your feet, steadying you with strong arms.

“Happy Halloween,” you managed to mutter meekly into his chest.

You felt him shudder beneath your head as he laughed, surprisingly heartily.

“Certainly one you’ll remember.” His low voice resonated in your brain, calming whatever nerves were remaining. “Let’s get you home, m’kay?”

You let him navigate you back to your apartment surprisingly deftly given your shaky directions, until finally you found yourself thanking him at your doorstep and shutting the door behind you.

Now that you were home and given a chance to breathe, you weren’t sure what was real. Everything mixed together in a blur and you couldn’t tell if it was all a dream or not.

As you groggily slumped against your bed, you felt something soft bundle against your back. Sitting up, you reached behind your back to feel the cool fabric of the black jacket you had been holding tightly against yourself. Embroidered on the sleeve were a pair of initials you hadn’t noticed before.

B.K.

With a strange pounding in your chest, you pulled out your phone.

Sure enough, you had one new notification.

@DynamightOfficial followed you back

The device buzzed in your hand with a second notification. A direct message request alongside an image. Swiping to your messages, you opened the text from your new follower.

Front and center was a quick photo of Bakugou’s hero costume, laid out neatly on his bed. Directly underneath the image were two small text bubbles.

u take commissions?

ive got something in mind for ya

#bakugou katsuki #mha #mha bakugou #bnha #bnha x reader #bnha bakugou #dynamight #mha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #dynamight x reader

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anglbby444 · 24 days

Text

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader smut.

Warnings; none, vanilla sex <3

After bidding your maid farewell for the night with a kiss on the cheek, you nestle yourself into the soft comforters of the bed, which is surrounded by a room that is beautifully decorated thanks to your family’s maids, you feel a familiar crater form next to you. With a grin, you turn over and look into the eyes of your husband, Anthony Bridgerton. “Hello dearest.” He says after placing a gentle kiss on your bare shoulder, you humming contently in response. “Did you have dinner yet, my love?” He questions between more kisses to your shoulder as he leans over your figure. You murmured out an “mhm” as you take in and attempt to memorize the feel of his lips on your skin. “Mm, good good, so did I…although I must admit, you look rather delectable tonight, for a lack of a better choice of words.” He mumbles against your skin, drawing a playful scoff from you. “Anthony! How scandalous..” A smile finds its way onto your face as you sit up and turn around to face your husband, connecting your lips with his.

His hands begin to wander, fingers tracing every inch of skin he can find. Starting from your shoulder, his nimble fingers leave a trail of goosebumps down your arms, chest, breasts, and tummy as his teeth gently latch on to your earlobe. Although most of the skin he’s touching is covered by a soft pink silk nightdress, that doesn’t stop the goosebumps his touch creates on the soft flesh. A moan threatens to escape from your throat as his fingers begin to move lower and lower, eventually hovering above your mound as you feel him chuckle against your skin. You can feel his smirk grow as his fingers find their way into your panties. “A-Anthony!” You cry out.

It is no secret that Anthony Bridgerton likes to make you beg for him to fuck you. No matter if he knows exactly how you want him to fuck you, take you how he pleases. However, as you'll soon find out, that dosen't stop him from wanting to hear it from your pretty litle mouth. "Is your pretty little pussy wet for me? Hm?" Anthonys voice is a devilish one at that, his hot breath tickling the outer shell of your ear. He continues to kiss down towards your neck, lips suctioning a soft portion of skin as he chuckles when he feels you try to buck your hips up. In true mean Anthony fashion, he firmly grips your hips and pushes them down with a growl. "I take that as a yes.."

You let out a sharp breath as his fingers curl into your skin, ever so slightly gliding against your cunt. As Anthony felt the pool of dampness on your heat, he groaned and let out a laugh. "I guess I was right, wasn't I?" He drawls, softly twirling his middle finger around your sensitive bud. You attempted to come up with some sort of sassy remark, but find yourself failing to collect your words. Instead, you let out an almost pathetic sounding whimper. "Anthonyyy...." You call out his name, running your fingers through his hair as you try to buck your hips up once more. This time, he dosen't dissapoint. His forehead presses against you as he shakes his head in playful disbelief. "Say my name like that again and I might just break.." And you took that as a challenge.

"Oh Anthonyyy..." You mewl out his name again, giggling softly as you see him tilt his head and give you a deviant smile. To your surprise, he rips the blanket off of you, exposing your body to him. Although you still have your nightdress on, you can't help but get a bit flustered whenever he sees you so vulnerable. "Well...I think its time to get this pesky dress off of you..." You nod in response and begin to climb out of bed and slowly lift up the dress covering your legs. You know he wanted you to put on a little show. And that you did. Your hair falls down over your shoulders as you let the sleeves of the silk dress slip down your arms. The cold chill that washed over you was a familiar feeling to your already hard nipples. Anthony licked his lips as you fully step out of the nightgown and sashay over to him with a cheeky grin on your face. You crawl onto the bed and look at him with pleading eyes, waiting for him to make the next move. "How do you want me, darling?" His voice became soft, the voice he knows make you feel the safest. Even when hes going to fuck your brains out, as he usually does at least five times a week. "I want you inside me, Anthony.."

Fuck, he CANNOT say no to that. "Guess its a good thing you aren't wearing any panties tonight...Seems like you already knew you wanted my cock tonight." You nod at him with a crooked smile. To your pleasant surprise, he firmly gripped your legs and pulled you closer to him. He let out a chuckle as he placed one of your legs onto his shoulders, spitting on his hand and stroking his already hard cock. Your chest heaves, biting your lip as you look up at him with an already cockdrunk gaze. He leans down and places a passionate kiss to your lips. The two of you exchanged a knowing look, giving him the ok to slip his hard cock into you.

He grabbed onto one of your legs as he gave you a few gentle thrusts, letting you get used to the preassure his cock created inside her. God, you felt like you were in heaven every time he fucked you. He rolled his hips, his tip hitting you in just the right spot. The sensation made your eyes roll back. That sight and your high pitched moans told him all he needed to know. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoded through the room as he started to speed up his movements, his hands finding their way up to your breasts. His large, gruff hands squeezed the pink and plump flesh.

{You’re pretty sure you came four times that night,,,}

#anglbby444 #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fic #bridgerton smut #jonathan bailey

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delusionalwriter02 · 3 months

Note

Hello! If you’re not to busy I was wondering if you could write for dazai, chuuya, fyodor, and sigma with a reader that wears like baggy clothing(kind of like skater style) but one day they’re at a special event and are dressed all elegantly😱

You should dress like that more often

Dazai, Chuuya, Fyodor, Sigma x GN Reader / Fluff / Headcanons

a/n : Thank you so much for your request !! I love the idea so let's goo, hope you like it. I kept the same "environment" but change the dialogues and interactions for them, I'm sorry if the beginning is the same, I didn't really know how to correctly do it.

Dazai :

The grand reception hall buzzed with an air of sophistication as the doors opened to welcome the distinguished guests. Dazai, draped in an all-black attire, strolled into the venue with an air of nonchalance. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the room, ever observant.

Amidst the sea of elegantly dressed peoples, Dazai's attention was captivated by a figure weaving through the crowd. You, typically adorned in loose-fitting clothing and a perpetually disgruntled expression, had undergone a remarkable transformation for the evening.

Dazai couldn't help but stop in his tracks, his eyes widening at the sight. The dark fabric accentuated your shoulders and narrow waist, revealing a side of you that had been carefully concealed beneath layers of baggy clothes.

He blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Well, well, what do we have here?" Dazai mused aloud, a mischievous smirk on his lips.

-"Don't act all surprised. Thought I'd try something different for the occasion."

Dazai's smirk widened. "Different is an understatement. I didn't know you had such a figure hiding under those oversized garments. Did you hire a personal stylist, or is this a secret talent of yours?"

You sighed, attempting to maintain composure. "I thought I'd make an effort, that's all. Is it really that surprising?"

Dazai chuckled, circling you as if inspecting the change. "Oh, it is surprising. I never thought I'd see the day when you embraced the concept of form-fitting clothing. It suits you, though."

A faint blush colored your cheeks, and Dazai couldn't help but enjoy the rare sight of you, his partner momentarily flustered. As you both continued into the reception, Dazai couldn't resist teasing you about this new fashion choice. Even if, secretly, he hopes that this won't be the last time you wear these clothes.

Chuuya :

The hall glittered with chandeliers as Chuuya made his entrance. His eyes scanned the room. Amidst the sea of formalwear, his attention was captivated by a figure he recognized immediately.

You, who typically favored loose, comfortable attire, had taken a bold step into the world of formal clothing for the evening. The midnight-blue fabric clung to your frame, accentuating curves and lines that were usually hidden beneath more relaxed clothing.

Chuuya raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. "Well, who are you and what have you done to my partner ?" he remarked, his voice carrying a tone of mild surprise. "Didn't think I'd see you strutting around like a runway model tonight."

You were caught off guard by Chuuya's observation, you shot him a playful glare. "I can dress up when I want to. Not every day I get to attend such fancy events."

Chuuya chuckled, his smirk growing. "I never said you couldn't. Just didn't expect you to go from baggy to body-hugging in one night."

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Thought I'd give the fashion police something to talk about. You know, keep them on their toes."

Chuuya laughed, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Well, you've certainly achieved that. I didn't know you had a hidden fashionista side. Maybe I've been underestimating you all this time."

You rolled yours eyes, but a smirk tugged at the corners of your lips. "Underestimating? Please, Chuuya, I can be full of surprises when I want to be."

"Clearly," Chuuya replied, still grinning. "You're stealing the spotlight tonight. Who knew you could turn heads ?"

The conversation continued at length but Chuuya had a hard time staying focused. One wonders why.

Fyodor :

The grand reception hall exuded an air of sophistication as Fyodor's gaze methodically surveyed the room, searching for you. Amidst the elegant crowd, his attention was drawn to a figure moving gracefully through the gathering.

You, typically draped in loose-fitting garments, had chosen to deviate from your usual style for the evening. The pretty clothes you wore accentuated your form in a way that intrigued Fyodor, in more way than one.

Fyodor maintained his composed demeanor as he went to talk to you, "A departure from the usual, I see. What inspired this sartorial change?"

You, meeting his gaze with a confident expression, replied, "Figured it was time for a subtle transformation. People tend to underestimate the power of appearances."

Fyodor nods, "A strategic choice, then. You understand the impact of perception."

You grinned, "Well, I thought I'd add a touch of intrigue to the evening. Keep things interesting."

Fyodor's lips curved into a faint smile. "An admirable goal. Complexity often begets fascination."

You laughed, “A little dance?” you said, holding out your hand. “I have a partner who will be jealous if they see me in such nice company.” Fyodor said, accepting your outstretched hand.

“You’re really stupid,” you replied, taking him further away, away from the people.

A fascinating evening, indeed.

Sigma :

Sigma in his dark attire entered the hall. Amidst the swirl of activity, his attention was drawn to somebody standing in one of the corner, alone.

You who usually favoring loose-fitting clothes, had opted for something different, very different.

Sigma approached with a genuine smile playing on his lips. "Someone's bringing a whole new vibe tonight. What's the story behind the stylish upgrade?"

You grinned, a spark of confidence in your eyes. "Just felt like trying something out of the ordinary. You know, adding a dash of flair to this boring and stupid party."

Sigma chuckled. "Flair, indeed. It suits you. And here I thought I was the only one allowed to make dramatic entrances."

You teased back, "Oh, there's room for more than one in the spotlight. Care to join me for a dance in the middle of it all?"

Sigma raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, I suppose I could be persuaded. Let's make tonight memorable, shall we?"

Sigma held out his hand, you took it. He lead you to the center of the room, ready to make this evening trully memorable.

Hey! I hope you liked it? I'm sorry for having kept a certain line for all the characters but I must admit that I lacked inspiration to bring about the different situations.

See you <3

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fafnir19 · 3 months

Text

Clothing is more than just fashion

Upon entering the bustling city of Milan, Luke had anticipated a week of unforgettable experiences, art, and culture. He had planned everything down to the smallest detail, intending to make the most of his time in the fashion capital of Italy. As he checked into the hotel, the anticipation of exploring the city's hidden gems filled his heart with thrill and excitement. However, fate had other plans in store for him. As he stood at the hotel's reception, the attendant delivered grave news: the hotel had been unintentionally overbooked. His room was not available, and the only solution was to share a room with another guest. "But it's Milan Fashion Week, there's not a single spare room in the city," the attendant had explained with a sympathetic look. Left with no other choice, Luke was led to the room where he was to spend his stay, his initial excitement now overshadowed by a sense of apprehension. Upon entering, he found a man already there, standing by the window, his sleek silhouette adorned in fashionable attire.

"Ah, you must be Luke," the man greeted him with a warm smile. "I'm Giovane. Looks like we're roommates for the week." Luke took in the sight before him, a bit taken aback by the situation. "Nice to meet you," he replied, offering a courteous smile, but inside, uncertainty gnawed at him like a persistent little mouse. In the hours that followed, though, he found himself surprisingly at ease with Giovane. They embarked on impromptu dinner and engaging in conversation that flowed effortlessly. Giovane shared tales of his business ventures, his passion for fashion, and the city's hidden gems. Luke, in turn, regaled him with accounts of his academic pursuits and his wanderlust. Their camaraderie bloomed, erasing Luke's initial doubts about the living arrangement.

Returning to the hotel after a day filled with architectural wonders and delectable cuisine, Luke felt the weariness seep into his bones. "I'm utterly exhausted," he sighed, collapsing onto the bed. Giovane, noticing his fatigue, offered to give him a massage, a gesture that surprised Luke at first. Hesitant, but ultimately swayed by the promise of relief from the day's strain, Luke consented. As Giovane's skilled hands worked their magic, Luke's weariness melted away, replaced by a sense of relaxation he had not experienced in ages. "You have a remarkable touch," Luke murmured, his voice laced with approval. Giovane, taking advantage of the moment, shared his frustration about an impending business meeting that had unexpectedly been canceled. Luke, eager to lift his newfound friend's spirits, suggested they use the free time to explore more of Milan's treasures. "But you need a jacket," Luke pointed out, eyeing the chilly weather outside. Giovane turned to Luke with a warm smile and asked for his help with attire. Luke's mind raced as he pondered which of his own jackets would suit Giovane. The task at hand, however, took an unexpected turn, sending Luke's world spiraling into an inexplicable realm of bewilderment. As Giovane's massages continued, Luke's utter shock was followed by desperate pleas as he found his body gradually, inexplicably transforming into an item of clothing—a vivid orange bomber jacket. Panic rose within him as his consciousness became entwined with the fabric, leaving only his head intact, protruding from the collar. "What… what's happening?" Luke sputtered in a voice laced with fear, his eyes wide with disbelief. Giovane wore a smirk as he quipped, "You agreed to help with the jacket, Luke." Before Luke could protest further, a hand was pressed firmly over his mouth, muffling any outcry. The world around him blurred as he fought the inexplicable, bizarre metamorphosis that had befallen him, and his heart pounded in a frantic rhythm. And so, in a deeply confusing turn of events, Luke found his head had been transformed into orange boxer shorts. His astonished self was now reduced to a mere garment, silently witnessing the surreal development of an inexplicable phenomenon.

The next morning dawned with Luke, being donned by Giovane. The fabric wrapped snugly around Giovane sculpted physique, emanating a warmth that was foreign and perplexing to Luca. "We shall go sightseeing today," Giovane declared, adjusting the jacket on his shoulders. "Please, Giovane, change me back," Luke's voice echoed within the confines of his new form, a hint of desperation tingeing his words. Giovane, however, paid it no heed, proceeding to prepare for the day's endeavors. "We shall visit the Duomo di Milano. Such occasions call for the utmost elegance and style," he remarked, his fingers smoothing down the orange fabric as if to accentuate Luke's purpose as an accessory rather than an individual with desires—seen but seldom heard.

Throughout the day, as they ventured through the city's treasures, Luke struggled to grapple with the perplexing reality of his existence. At times, he felt grievously encumbered by Giovane's cavalier disregard for his bewilderment and distress. Yet, as the day progressed, an unforeseen transformation began to surge within him, fostering acceptance of his newfound purpose. The musky fragrance of sandalwood that clung to Giovane's being, once an alien presence, gradually wrapped around Luke, its calming scent possessing an inexplicable allure. "You rest nicely against my skin," Giovane murmured, the corner of his lips curling into a smug smirk. Despite himself, Luke found a strange sense of solace in Giovane's reassurance, a feeling that grew stronger with every passing moment. As the day transitioned into evening, Luke's erstwhile anxiety slowly waned, replaced by an unexpected sense of contentment. "Giovane, I…" Luke began, hesitating to voice the bewildering realization that was encapsulating his very being. Giovane arched a brow inquisitively, his dark eyes fixed upon Luke's form.

"Yes, my dear accessory?" he prompted, a faint edge of amusement threading through his tone. "It's peculiar, but I find myself… oddly comforted by this," Luke admitted, his own admission startling him. "Your scent, the way the fabric envelops your frame—it's… relaxing." "You find yourself at ease playing your role, as you should be," Giovane remarked, a shadow of possessiveness underlying his words. The following day began much in the same vein, with Giovane reaching for the familiar orange bomber jacket and boxer shorts that was once Luke. However, as he extended a hand toward it, a pleading note woven into Luca's voice fell upon the air. "Giovane, I implore you, please release me from this form. I am not your accessory," Luke entreated, the urgency palpable in his words. An exasperated sigh escaped Giovane, his patience wearing thin.

"You are mistaken, my dear accessory," he chided gently, his fingers curling around the collar of the jacket. As his touch grazed the fabric, a curious thing occurred—the tense knots in Luke's consciousness seemingly unraveled, replaced by an inexplicable calm. "It's alright, Luke. Embrace your purpose," Giovane murmured, yet the undercurrents of his words held a weight that eclipsed mere reassurance. Luke's countenance relaxed, a sense of tranquility pervading his essence as though it were written into the very fibers that enshrouded him. "You're right," he uttered, a glimmer of newfound understanding lingering in his voice. "My purpose is to look good and to keep you warm." A subtle tremor of compliance reverberated through his being, one that left no room for dissent as the awareness of his purpose blanketed his being.

From that moment onward, Luke embraced his existence unquestioningly, a veil of docility shrouding his every thought and action. When the time came to bid farewell to the enigmatic garment that was once Luke, an unforeseen transformation eclipsed the moment. As Giovane peeled the fabric from his form, an astonishing development unfolded, revealing a strikingly attractive young man in the place of the once inanimate accessory—a figure who bore no semblance to Luke in any form.

"Luke?" Giovane's astonished query hung in the air, his gaze fixated upon the unfamiliar countenance. The young man offered a serene smile, one that bore no trace of the uncertainty that must have once permeated Luke's being. "My name is Luca, and my purpose is to look good and be your accessory," he proclaimed, a blend of assurance and adulation resonating within his tranquil voice. It was then that the revelation unfurled—Giovane's involvement in the fashion industry, his influence as the proprietor of a modeling agency, became evident. Luca became an integral part of Giovane's world, his existence intertwined with a role that transcended that of a mere confidant. As Milan Fashion Week drew near, Luca's metamorphosis was soon unveiled, and the runway beckoned as his new domain.

Adorned in the splendid attire that Giovane provided, Luca graced the catwalks with an ethereal elegance, embodying an allure that captivated each onlooker. His presence commanded attention, standing as a testament to the seamless union of fashion and beauty.

Some days later Luca's consciousness skyrocketed and memories of his time as Luke flooded back. He struggled with an inexplicable desire that eclipsed the boundaries of his previous existence. “Giovane, I must confess – there is an unspoken desire in my entire being,” Luca murmured. "I knew that my inexplicable transformation into boxers filled me with a newfound longing that draws me inexorably to you, for the intoxicating scent of your essence and the longing desire to find comfort between your legs and suck your fluids."

"Giovane, your scent turned me gay and I want to smell you," Luca's husky whisper hung in the air, laden with an unspoken hunger. Giovane's lips curved into a knowing smile, a glint of unabashed allure shimmering within his gaze. "Then come closer, Luca. Indulge in the intoxicating fragrance of sandalwood that envelops me," he beckoned, the rasp of his voice weaving a beguiling melody that stirred Luca's every fiber. As Luca inhaled the heady fragrance that encased Giovane's form, an enigmatic fervor surged within him, igniting a primal yearning that seared through his being. Mere moments later, he found himself sinking to his knees before Giovane, a simmering hunger blazing within the depths of his gaze. Giovane's hand threaded through Luca's blond locks, guiding him steadfastly toward the pinnacle of sensation that awaited. " You look exquisite between my legs, Luca," Giovane's voice teased, a whisper interwoven with a potent undercurrent of desire. Giovane, whose enigmatic gaze danced on Luca's sculpted form, smiled as Luca eagerly sucked his cock. “Your purpose is to keep me warm in the most intimate way possible.”

#male tf #male transformation #personality change #straight to gay #clothes #underwear tf #inanimate tf #inanimate transformation #clothes tf #clothing tf

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