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solxamber · 9 days ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: Accidentally Wooed the Crown Prince || Cater Diamond

You get isekai’d into a terrible rofan as the soon-to-be betrayed fiancée of the Fifth Prince—so you hijack the plot, swerve hard, and end up fake-engaged to his chaotic crown prince brother, Cater. Now you're stuck juggling palace scandals, dramatic in-laws, and your growing crush on your emotional support fake fiancé.

Series Masterlist

You're sitting at the bus stop because science has not yet invented teleportation, and you’ve already scrolled through every app on your phone twice, including the ones you don’t even use.

Boredom sets in and that’s when you remember that rofan novel. The one everyone’s been talking about with disturbingly high ratings and equally disturbing reviews, the one your best friend explicitly told you not to read unless you were looking to experience your first medically documented brain cramp.

Naturally, you buy it.

The premise is aggressively standard at first glance: the villainess is forced into a marriage with the Fifth Prince because his cousin-slash-girlfriend-slash-the-only-woman-he’s-ever-loved has fallen into a coma, or as the book calls it, “a cursed sleep,” which sounds fancier but is somehow infinitely more annoying.

The prince, who clearly failed the bare minimum fiancé course, immediately tells the villainess not to get attached. His exact words are, “Don’t fall in love with me. I’ll never look at you the way I looked at her.”

You pause. You have to pause. Because why would he say that on their engagement day? Why are fictional men like this? Why does this man, who looks like he bathes exclusively in misogyny, speak like he’s starring in a low-budget soap opera?

But you keep reading, partly because you're already in too deep, and partly because your bus still hasn’t shown up and you’ve reached the point of boredom where emotional damage is entertainment.

The villainess, bless her increasingly frayed nerves, does her best.

She nurses him through a full-on plague, the kind that required three rounds of antibiotics and a personal visit from a priest.

She saves him from assassination not once, not twice, but thrice, which frankly should earn her at least one “thank you” and possibly a vault of gold.

She endures dinners where he plans to read poetry to the comatose Female Lead.

Then one day, after she drags him out of yet another near-death experience involving a poisoned goblet and what may or may not have been an assassin goose, he looks at her with soft eyes and says, “You remind me of her now.”

You’re sitting on a public bench when you read that sentence, and somehow you go through all five stages of grief at once.

And then, just when you think you’ve survived the worst of it, the cursed cousin wakes up. The Fifth Prince practically drops his spoon, stares at her with the joy of a man who just found Wi-Fi in the woods, and immediately turns to the villainess—the woman who literally nursed him through death—and says, “Please step aside. Gracefully.”

You black out for a second.

When you come to, the sun has shifted. A squirrel is now sitting beside you like it wants to be part of the trauma. You glance at the time on your phone and realize something horrifying: you’ve been sitting here for four entire hours. You arrived before lunchtime. The sky is orange now.

There is no bus. There was never a bus. Public transportation has failed you in more ways than the Fifth Prince failed the very concept of decency.

You close the novel and for the first time in your life, you finally understand why villains snap.

That’s when a man takes the empty spot next to you on the bench.

At first, you think nothing of it. Maybe he's just another fellow victim of the transit system’s refusal to acknowledge the concept of time.

But then he starts chewing gum. Loudly. Aggressively. With the sort of dedication that suggests he’s in training for a competitive event.

The sounds coming out of his mouth are unholy—wet, deliberate, and frequent, like someone trying to recreate the noise of a boot sinking into mud using only their teeth. It’s a deeply unpleasant, full-volume chewing symphony with no intermission.

You glance at him. Nothing.

You shift away slightly. Still nothing.

You try the pointed sigh. Useless.

At this point, you’re convinced he was sent by the universe specifically to test your moral fiber. So you go for the full, soul-searing glare. The kind of look that, in any half-decent movie, would cause the other person to wither in shame and spontaneously reflect on their life choices.

He pops his gum.

You see red.

You rise from the bench, dignity frayed and inner peace in shambles. You could walk away calmly, but that would imply you’ve let this go. You haven’t. You are absolutely, one hundred percent, walking away while still making eye contact, backing up slowly.

You want him to feel judged. You want your disappointment to follow him home and whisper in his ear as he sleeps.

And then you disappear from view.

Because in your quest to deliver one final, devastating glare, you completely miss the open manhole behind you. There’s no warning or at least a comedic little wobble beforehand.

One moment you are radiating self-righteous rage, and the next, the sidewalk swallows you whole.

As you plummet into what you can only assume is the city’s least glamorous portal to the underworld, one single, blazing thought rises to the forefront of your mind—cutting through your embarrassment, your fear, your unfinished rofan-induced fury:

“I haven’t even deleted my browser history.”

And then—nothing but darkness, despair, and possibly a raccoon.

You wake up because someone is shaking your shoulder like they’re trying to wake the dead. Your eyelids are heavy, your brain is still booting up, and before you can form a single coherent thought, a voice says, “My lady, the Fifth Prince is requesting your presence.”

You stare at her. There are so many things wrong with that sentence you don’t even know where to begin. First of all: Fifth Prince? As in, the fifth one? Why are there so many? Second: who are you, and why are you the kind of person who gets summoned by royalty before breakfast?

Your brain tries to protest, but unfortunately your mouth has already made the executive decision to blurt, “What do you mean, Fifth Prince?” in a voice that does not sound like your own. It’s fancier. Slightly richer. Slightly someone-who-has-servants.

That’s when it hits you. This is not your bed. These are not your blankets. This is not your IKEA side table or your pile of laundry or your aggressively peeling poster of a K-pop idol who definitely didn’t marry you in real life no matter how many times you dreamed about it.

No, this is an enormous, silk-draped canopy monstrosity in a room that smells faintly of fresh flowers that you’d never be able to afford in this economy.

You swing your legs over the side and practically leap out of bed, racing to the mirror with the kind of desperation typically reserved for horror movie protagonists checking to see if the curse is real. And there it is.

There you are. Elegant nightgown. Flawless hair. Eyebrows done to architectural perfection. You are not you.

You are the villainess.

You stand there, frozen in front of the mirror, and burst into tears.

It’s the quiet, soul-crushed weeping as the person who read this exact novel and knows exactly what happens to the villainess by chapter twenty-three. Your maid watches helplessly, clearly wondering if she should fetch a physician, a priest, or possibly a large glass of brandy.

But then, something inside you snaps. You wipe your face with the sleeve of a nightgown that probably cost more than your monthly rent, and you take a deep, wobbly breath.

You’ve seen this plot before. You know what happens to women who sigh wistfully and “gracefully step aside.” You’re not doing that. Absolutely not.

You are not here to nurse some prince through a flu epidemic while he flirts with girls who call you cold over tea. You are not going to fall in love with some emotionally constipated royal just because he has a mildly tragic backstory and kinda sharp cheekbones.

“Tell the Fifth Prince,” you say, “that I am currently busy. Possibly forever.”

You begin to form a plan the way most people start building IKEA furniture: blindly, emotionally, and without a single correct tool in sight.

The goal is clear—escape.

You’re not sticking around to get emotionally trampled by a mediocre prince and his magically unconscious soulmate. You've read enough chapters to know exactly where this storyline is going, and you refuse to be another tragic footnote in someone else’s romance.

So you decide the only logical option is to run far, far away to the countryside, somewhere with many goats and no plot development.

You’ll start fresh. You’ll become a humble goat farmer, the kind who wears oversized cardigans and lives in a tiny cottage that smells like cinnamon and hay.

You’ll raise twelve raccoons on the side, not as pets, but as little mischief freelancers.

They'll work odd jobs, maybe steal from nobles. Maybe they unionize. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get out.

Unfortunately, before you can implement Operation Goat Haven, a very official-looking letter arrives on a silver tray, sealed with an actual wax emblem. You stare at it for a long time, hoping it’ll spontaneously combust, but it doesn’t.

Your maid, now permanently anxious from your recent breakdown and your insistence on storing bread rolls under your bed “for future survival,” just gives you a nervous look.

The summons is from the palace. The palace. You are to appear before the Fifth Prince. You consider faking an illness, but that’s probably how the original villainess got roped into nursing him through two plagues and a duel with tuberculosis.

So you go.

You get dressed. You try to look intimidating, in a “don’t talk to me unless you’re willing to get eviscerated” kind of way, but the dress they put you in has frills and your shoes sparkle when they catch the sun.

It’s not the vibe you were going for, but you move forward anyway, determined to stare down this prince and tell him, politely but firmly, that you want no part in his tragic romantic recycling program.

You will not be the placeholder while he waits for Sleeping Beauty to wake up and bless him with a slow-motion reunion.

The palace is even more ridiculous in person. Everything is gold or silk or marble that probably required three endangered animals just to polish. You’re trying not to panic. You’re about to meet the man who ruined the villainess’s entire life arc, and all you want to do is tell him to go emotionally damage someone else.

You're guided down a hallway so long it could legally be classified as its own kingdom. And just when you think things can't get worse, you round a corner and immediately crash into someone.

Full impact. You make a sound that is not dignified.

“Ugh—sorry,” you mutter, already annoyed because of course you’re running into people like a background extra in your own drama. But then you look up.

And he smiles.

Green eyes, soft freckles, warm grin. The kind of face that would ask if you were okay after knocking into him. Which he does. With real concern. You immediately recognize him from the book. This is not some random palace noble or a footman with great bone structure.

This is Crown Prince Cater Diamond.

And you are so distracted by how good he looks in brocade and how nice his hair is when the light hits it that you completely forget what you were supposed to say. You were going to be cold. You were going to be aloof. You were going to say, “I want no part of your political schemes or your tragic sleep-drama romance.”

But instead you just stand there, blinking up at him, as he says, “Whoa, you okay? That was totally my bad. You’re not, like, hurt or anything, right?”

And all you can manage is a confused, slightly strangled, “You’re… cuter than I expected.”

Great. Excellent. Wonderful.

You were supposed to reject a prince and disappear into the forest with raccoons. Instead, you’ve accidentally met the cute one.

You clear your throat and quickly apologize, stepping back before you do something irreversible, like smile at him or say “oh no, he’s hot” out loud again.

The plan was simple. Avoid entanglements. Avoid eye contact. Avoid anything with a jawline that could emotionally compromise you.

And yet here you are, cheeks warming, dangerously close to developing a crush while en route to end your fake romance arc.

You’re about to excuse yourself—maybe flee in the direction of the nearest tapestry and hide behind it for the rest of your natural life—when he gives you a slow once-over. Not rude, but definitely assessing. You brace yourself for some arrogant prince-level comment, but what comes out of his mouth is somehow worse.

“So,” he says, tone light, “are you my brother’s lover?”

You make a face so offended it should be framed. “Hopefully not for long,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.

Cater blinks. Then he laughs—genuine, soft, delighted. Not in a mocking way, more like you just said something unexpectedly entertaining at a party full of people who only speak in political metaphors. “Well, that’s… refreshingly honest,” he says, still smiling as if he hasn’t just completely upended your inner peace.

Then, before you can be shuffled off by your nervous maid and the knight leading you down the hallway, Cater casually waves a hand and says, “You guys can go. I’ll take her there myself.”

You immediately panic because no part of your plan accounted for being escorted personally by the Crown Prince, especially not one with a smile like that and a walk that suggests he is both curious and mildly entertained by your existence.

The knight hesitates, but bows, and your maid looks between the two of you like she wants to object, then sighs and nods, probably assuming this is just another event in your slow-motion mental breakdown.

So now it’s just the two of you, walking side by side down a corridor lined with unnecessarily dramatic curtains and gold-encrusted nonsense. You try to focus on anything that isn’t the person next to you, but it’s difficult when he keeps glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “You weren’t always like this,” he says. “The quiet little noble everyone ignored at parties. So what changed?”

You let out a slow breath. The chandeliers overhead gleam a little too brightly for your mood, and your dress feels heavier than it did an hour ago. “I’m done being passive,” you say, voice steady. “I’m not going to stand there like a background prop while other people use me to act out their melodramas. If I’m going to suffer, I’d at least like to do it with some agency.”

Cater doesn’t respond immediately. He hums softly, eyes on the floor ahead, expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nods once, slowly, like he’s filing something away in the back of his mind. “Fair,” he says. “That’s actually… fair.”

By the time you reach the grand double doors of the main hall, you’re already bracing yourself. Inside is the Emperor, the Fifth Prince, and a plotline you want absolutely nothing to do with. You square your shoulders, ready to announce your exit from this narrative with all the grace you can muster.

Cater pushes open the doors for you, and just before you step in, he leans closer and murmurs, “If you ever need help ghosting my brother, just let me know. I’m excellent at disappearing from awkward conversations.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. So you settle for a very dignified snort and walk into the room like someone who absolutely will become a goat farmer if this doesn’t go well.

The second you enter the grand hall, you know you’ve made a mistake. Something in the air is off. It’s heavy with the scent of expensive hair oil, and everyone’s looking at you like you’re the final act in a very unfunny play.

You’ve barely had time to catch your breath before the Empress, seated on a gold-plated throne that could probably buy a continent, smiles the way your mom might smile at a useful kitchen appliance.

“We’ve come to a decision,” she says, her voice smooth, like a threat wrapped in silk. “The marriage shall proceed. You will wed the Fifth Prince.”

You stand there, blinking slowly, absolutely certain that your brain has misheard. It’s the only explanation. Unfortunately, she’s already gesturing like this is a done deal, as if someone just announced the arrival of afternoon tea and not the complete derailment of your life.

Then the Fifth Prince himself, whose entire personality seems to be styled around dramatic sighs and the fashion sense of an obnoxious poet, opens his mouth and says, with full sincerity, “Yes. Who else would attend to me, if not you?”

You stare at him, trying very hard to resist the urge to scream. You’ve never wanted to throw a royal out a window more in your life. This man has done nothing except cause drama and recover from mild fevers while making you proofread the worst poetry written by a man. The idea that he believes he’s your burden to bear is so delusional it circles back to being impressive.

The Emperor, meanwhile, is off to the side barely pretending to exist. He hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t even blinked. He is currently locked in eye contact with his Prime Minister and giving him a look so hungry it’s bordering on scandalous.

It’s not just disinterest in the conversation—it’s visible yearning. You could declare war in this room and he wouldn’t look away from that man’s collarbone.

Behind you, Cater shifts slightly. He hasn’t said anything either, but you can feel him watching, like he’s witnessing a live production of a soap opera he didn’t pay to attend.

You are very aware that you’re probably the only fully(debatable) sane person in the room, which is never a good position to be in. Your brain tries to write a sentence in response to all this, something polite, something courtly, something that will not get you beheaded. But your mouth is quicker.

“I would rather die than marry the Fifth Prince.”

There is a sharp pause. Cater makes a sound behind you that might be a suppressed laugh or a full-body wheeze. You can’t tell.

The Empress’s expression collapses like a soufflé dropped from a third-story window. She looks personally insulted, as if you’d slapped her with a wet glove and then insulted her interior decorating.

The Emperor glances vaguely in your direction for the first time since you entered the room. His eyes skim over you like he's trying to remember if you were always there or if you’re part of the furniture. Then he just shrugs and goes back to staring at his minister with the intensity of a man imagining a very specific fantasy.

The Fifth Prince surges to his feet like he’s about to make a speech, but misjudges the length of his robes and nearly trips over them. He stumbles forward, tries to recover with a tragic expression, and starts walking toward you like he’s about to launch into an “I’m disappointed in you” monologue.

You take a step back. Then another. Then another. You’re rapidly approaching flight mode. Your back hits something solid.

It’s Cater.

You don’t turn, but you feel him shift slightly, just enough to step beside you. The Fifth Prince gets a little too close, and Cater’s voice cuts in—light, casual, but definitely not optional. “Hey. Step back.”

It sounds like a joke. It isn’t.

The Fifth Prince actually listens. He scowls and takes a reluctant step back, like a cat denied entry to a room it was never invited into.

Cater leans down slightly, voice low enough that only you can hear. “I’ll come talk to you later. For now, just go.”

You don’t need a second invitation.

You nod, gather your skirts in a death grip, and run. It’s a full sprint out of the palace like a raccoon fleeing a trash fire. You don’t stop to bow, don’t acknowledge the guards, don’t look back. You run like if you slow down, someone will announce you’ve been volunteered to organize the royal wedding yourself.

You run like the wind. You run like your future depends on it. You run like twelve raccoons are waiting for you in a cart outside the city.

You run like your goat farm dreams depend on it.

You spend the next few days holed up in your estate like a disgraced alchemist, refusing visitors, sunlight, and anything that might resemble a conversation about the royal family.

You’ve barricaded yourself in your study, surrounded by notes, potion ingredients, and increasingly incoherent diagrams of how curses are supposed to break. Half of them are just arrows pointing at drawings labeled “Sleeping Girl” and “Leave Me Alone.”

Unfortunately, the original story was written like the author got paid by the metaphor, so every ingredient is named something unhelpful like the “sigh of spring’s first heartbreak” or “moonlight aged in sorrow.”

You’ve already spent a small fortune hunting down a flower that only blooms when ignored, burned three pots trying to brew “the stillness of a lake untouched by regret,” and convinced a temple scribe to give you restricted scrolls in exchange for your entire stash of imported chocolate and a promise to never speak of this again.

Your maid has stopped pretending she’s not terrified. She thinks something’s gotten into you—possibly a vengeful spirit, possibly dark sorcery, possibly the devil himself—and you’ve given her absolutely no reason to think otherwise.

You’ve been muttering to yourself nonstop, surrounded by ingredients no sane person should combine indoors, and earlier today she found you trying to extract “resonance” from a candlestick.

This morning she stirred your tea with her finger while whispering what you’re fairly certain was a chant for an exorcism. You saw her slip a rosary under your pillow last night, along with a note that just said “please return my lady” in shaky handwriting.

But you’re determined. If waking up the Female Lead is what it takes to get the Fifth Prince off your back and back into his tragic romance arc, then you will do it. You will resuscitate that girl with the force of your spite alone. You are not here to be anyone’s emotional backup plan. You are not going to cry over a man who looks like he writes sad poetry on wet leaves.

You are going to wake up his comatose soulmate, shove her into his arms, and then disappear from the narrative like a ghost who’s finished its unfinished business.

He can go live out his tragic fated love story while you finally move to the countryside, grow out your hair, and raise goats that hate authority. You will open a raccoon sanctuary. You will never hear the word “betrothal” again.

Your maid has stopped entering the study altogether. You can hear her outside the door some nights, pacing, whispering things like “humming again” and “I think that was Latin.” It wasn't. You were just reciting a recipe. But you let her believe what she wants.

Maybe the rumors will keep people away. Maybe she’ll call a priest and you can pass off the whole sleeping-beauty-resurrection scheme as a brief religious episode.

You’re collecting petals that only bloom when insulted. You’ve milked a cactus. You’ve stolen a restricted book from the temple archives by pretending to be lost and emotionally unstable—which wasn’t even a lie. You’ve reached a level of magical competence driven entirely by the desperate need to stop being dragged into romantic tension you did not sign up for.

You have no noble intent. No selfless goals. This is not about justice or kindness. This is about getting your peace back.

Because if you have to sit through one more dramatic monologue about “the one who got away,” you’re going to climb onto the palace roof and start throwing fine china at people until they get the message.

So you light your seventh candle of the day, crush something that smells expensive under your heel, while muttering your way through a spell that might’ve originally been intended for agricultural blessings but now absolutely applies to the revival of sleeping girls.

Your maid peeks in, sees you smearing flower paste onto an ancient manuscript while laughing under your breath, and quietly backs out.

At this point, you think even the gods are rooting for you to succeed—mostly because they, too, are probably tired of the Fifth Prince's feelings.

Your maid has been standing outside your study door for the past twenty minutes, knocking gently at first, then more insistently, like she’s trying to charm her way through sheer repetition. You ignore her entirely, hunched over a desk covered in potion vials, wrinkled scrolls, and a single scribbled note that says “DO NOT DRINK THIS AGAIN – turned squirrel, lasted 3 hours.”

Finally, she breaks the silence. “My lady,” she calls, her voice laced with desperation and whatever patience she has left after hearing you try to catch resonance in a glass jar for the third day in a row. “Please. Just come outside for five minutes. It’s—” she hesitates, and you can hear her making it up—“It’s sunny. And pleasant. And I think the flowers miss you.”

You scoff without looking up. “That’s a lie. Flowers hate me. I sing near them and they wilt.”

There’s a long pause. And then, in the careful tone of someone offering a piece of cheese to a feral animal, she says, “The Crown Prince is here to see you.”

You stop mid-scribble. The ink on your quill bleeds into the parchment like it, too, is unsure how to feel.

“No he isn’t,” you say flatly, narrowing your eyes at the door. “That’s emotional manipulation. You tried this last week with ‘the raccoons miss you’ and one of them bit me.”

You continue, “You’re really gonna lie to me like that? The Crown Prince? What’s next? The Queen Mother wants to borrow my socks? The Royal Astrologer wants my star sign for tax purposes?”

“I’m serious,” she says, and she says it with that suspicious tone she gets when she’s trying to Jedi-mind-trick you into doing normal human things like bathing or socializing or not eating breakfast at 3 p.m.

You raise your voice, loud enough to be dramatic but not so loud the garden pigeons think you’re declaring war. “Tell the ‘Crown Prince’ that unless he’s here to deliver a goat and twelve emotionally supportive raccoons, I have nothing to say to him.”

And that’s when you hear it—faint, muffled, and unmistakably male: a short burst of laughter. It’s low and amused and carries the very specific timbre of a man who just heard something he wasn’t supposed to. Your blood goes cold. You turn, very slowly, toward the door like you’re in a horror novel and the ghost is inside the house.

You stare at the handle. You stare at your maid’s shadow beneath the door. You stare at your potion-stained hands and the notes scattered around you, including the one that says “do not weaponize the pink frogs” which you now realize is sitting right on top of a scroll titled “Ancient Methods of Divine Courtship.”

“Oh no,” you whisper, in full, paralyzed horror.

Because that was definitely the Crown Prince’s voice. Which means that not only is he actually here, but he’s also been standing outside your door long enough to hear you accuse your flowers of hating you and call his existence a lie.

You think about escaping out the window. You think about climbing up the chimney. You briefly consider faking unconsciousness, but you’re pretty sure your maid would throw holy water at you again.

You glance wildly around the room for a disguise, a smoke bomb, a sedative, anything that might prevent you from having to open that door and look the actual Crown Prince in the eyes after what just happened.

Instead, you just freeze, staring at the door like it might consume you out of mercy.

Behind it, you hear your maid whisper, “She’s just—studying. I think. Please don’t touch anything.” And then another laugh. Light, easy, undeniably Cater Diamond’s.

You eye the window.

It’s a long way down. But there are bushes. You weigh your options.

Maybe if you jump fast enough, you won’t have to explain anything.

Maybe if you hit the ground just right, you’ll wake up in a different, less emotionally exhausting universe.

Or maybe—and this is the worst possibility of all— you’ll survive the fall, he’ll still be there, and you’ll have to face him twice.

You consider drinking the squirrel potion. Just enough to scamper into the woods and start over as a woodland cryptid.

You do your best to fix your appearance, which mostly involves panic-splashing your face with water and praying the chaos under your eyes passes for “aristocratic melancholy” instead of “loser who hasn't slept in three days.”

You brush your hair until it stops resembling a nest abandoned mid-construction, throw on the most respectable outfit within reach (read: the one with the fewest mysterious food stains), and drag yourself to the living room like you’ve been condemned and are being marched to the gallows.

Crown Prince Cater Diamond is already sitting there with his legs crossed, looking like he came to watch a comedy but discovered a tragedy mid-act and decided to stay for the plot twist. He looks perfectly composed.

His clothes are perfect. His posture is perfect. His smile is the kind of amused, knowing thing that suggests he’s either enjoying himself immensely or mentally writing a play about your downfall.

You can't even look him in the eye. You're too busy trying to remember if you'd hallucinated the past few days or if this really was your new reality: accidentally isekai’d into the role of a politically doomed villainess, being pursued/harassed by a Fifth Prince with the emotional regulation of a wet paper towel, and now face-to-face with the Crown Prince, who looks like he just showed up for vibes and ended up involved in a divine comedy.

He lets the silence simmer, clearly savouring it, before finally saying, “Are you absolutely sure you want to throw away your engagement to the Fifth Prince? Because, you know, saying no to him means saying no to the Empress. And she doesn’t really strike me as the ‘live and let live’ type.”

“Yes,” you respond, because not only have you made peace with your decision but you would also like to personally challenge every deity in the sky to a duel if they try to make you walk it back. “I would rather wrestle a goose in mating season.”

He hums thoughtfully at that. “Okay, cool. Just checking.”

Then, entirely too cheerfully, he asks, “Wanna fake date me?”

You stop breathing.

There’s no lead-up. No buildup. No context. These five words hit you like a horse cart going downhill with no brakes and full momentum.

You stare at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “You do need protection. And I need to look inconveniently taken so the matchmaking vultures stop circling.”

You continue staring because the sentence “Wanna fake date me” is still doing cartwheels in your brain like an acrobat on fire.

“And,” he continues smoothly, “being associated with me means the Fifth Prince can’t approach you without half the court yelling ‘scandal,’ the Empress has to keep her claws sheathed for now, and the Emperor—well, he hasn’t paid attention to anything not wearing the Prime Minister’s robes since before you were born, so I think we’re good there.”

You stare at him like he’s sprouted a second head and that head is proposing civil war. “Why would you even offer this?”

He shrugs. “It’s either you or I get set up with Lady Valencia, who owns seventeen falcons and once stabbed her ex-fiancé for opening her mail.”

And honestly? You’ve got nothing to lose but your sanity, which already took a nosedive the moment you woke up in the villainess’s body. You agree—not because you trust him (you don’t), but because at this point, aligning yourself with the kingdom’s most unserious man is still less risky than letting the Fifth Prince so much as breathe in your direction.

Plus, you still have to figure out the stupid ingredients to undo the Female Lead’s curse, which you only vaguely remember from a side plot in Chapter 43 of that godforsaken novel. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll just wake up on her own, ending this mess before you start fake dating your way into a very real diplomatic incident.

There’s a beat of silence. Then you both shake hands. His is warm and steady. Yours is clammy with existential dread.

You both understand this is temporary. A means to an end. Just long enough for the Female Lead to wake up, the Fifth Prince to lose interest, and the Empress to redirect her wrath onto someone more deserving, like her latest jeweler or an unlucky duck.

Either way, you’re now in a fake relationship with the future ruler of this cursed empire.

Being fake-engaged to the Crown Prince sounds glamorous in theory—fancy clothes, protection, social immunity, a steady supply of expensive tea. But it also comes with some deeply unsexy consequences, like having to live in the palace, sleep in a bedroom that feels suspiciously haunted, and deal with the imperial family on a daily basis like you’re not one misstep away from tripping face-first into a scandal.

Case in point: it’s three in the morning, you’re in your nightgown, and the Fifth Prince has just kool-aid manned his way into your bedroom, tears streaming down his face.

He’s got puffy eyes, a dramatic silk robe thrown over his very not-silk pajamas, and an expression like he just watched the love of his life get vaporized in an anime finale. He stumbles into your room like a grief-stricken pigeon, knocking over a chair and not even acknowledging it.

“I had a dream,” he chokes out, hiccupping through snot and despair. “She—she WOKE UP. And she didn’t even—didn’t even remember me—”

He wails.

You, a person who is not a licensed mental health professional or a human-shaped tissue box, squint at him from your bed. You are in a nightgown. You are very much not awake enough for this.

“Why are you here,” you say in a voice so dry it could sand wood. “Why are you crying in my room. Why are you... holding a comb?”

He lurches forward, dropping to his knees like he’s re-enacting the final scene of a tragic period drama. “Please braid my hair,” he gasps. “It’s the only thing that calms me down.”

There are at least four things wrong with that sentence, and you would like to address none of them. Instead, you just stare. There’s nothing behind your eyes. Not rage. Not pity. Static.

“I am in a nightgown,” you say, slowly, as though the words might help him regain a single scrap of self-awareness. “Get. Out.”

But it’s too late. He’s already sitting cross-legged on the floor, pressing his royal head into your lap like this is normal, like this is a perfectly acceptable thing to do to your brother’s fake fiancée at three-freaking-a.m. in the imperial palace.

Fine. Fine. You braid. You braid while ypu silently pray for the Female Lead to wake up right now and take this mess with her.

And just when you think things can’t possibly get worse—they do.

The window creaks open.

Cater.

He climbs in like a cat burglar who forgot he owns the place. He has one shoe on, shirt slightly untucked, and radiating the kind of energy that men who say “trust me” before doing something stupid radiate. He pauses. Takes in the sight of you on the floor. Sees the Fifth Prince mid-braid.

And then.

He picks up a pillow.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” he says, and thorws the pillow at the Fifth Prince.

It slams into the Fifth Prince’s back. There’s a very undignified yelp. A second pillow follows. Cater’s got an arm like a minor deity. “GET OUT. OUT. YOU CAN HAVE NIGHTMARES IN YOUR OWN ROOM. WHY ARE YOU IN MY FIANCÉE’S ROOM? WHY IS YOUR HAIR HALF-BRAIDED?!”

The Fifth Prince shrieks like a banshee and runs, trailing your royal hairwork behind him like a tragic flag of shame. He nearly trips over the chair he knocked down earlier.

Cater shuts the door behind him and looks at you with the smuggest smile you've ever seen. “So,” he says, utterly useless, “fun night?”

You stare at him. He starts laughing. He laughs so hard he sits down on the floor. He wheezes. He slaps the carpet. He looks at you like your suffering is the funniest thing he’s ever seen and he is correct.

Once he can breathe again, he sticks his head out the door and calls for the staff. “Yeah hi, sorry, can someone install new locks on this door? Like, dungeon-grade. Maybe enchanted. Or cursed. Actually, cursed might be better.”

You say nothing. You flop back onto your bed like a tragic heroine, limbs splayed, spirit halfway to the astral plane. You are done. You are so far past done that you might be legally soup.

Cater walks over and pats your arm. “Sleep tight, bestie.”

You do not respond. You are already asleep. Or possibly dead. And if one more prince enters your room uninvited tonight, you’re committing treason.

It is a universal truth that while the villainess whose body you now occupy may have once been a sharp-tongued aristocrat with the literary prowess of a Pulitzer-winning poet, you, unfortunately, are not.

You, regrettably, are just some guy. A guy who once got a B- in Creative Writing and cried about it. A guy who thinks metaphors are when you say one thing is another thing, like “this situation is hell” because this situation? Is hell.

So when the Fifth Prince bursts dramatically into your sitting room, clutching his velvet heart like it's been bruised by love (it hasn't; he just woke up from another dream where the Female Lead didn't recognize him and he’s spiraling again), and demands that you help him write her a love letter, you are already spiritually checked out.

“She must understand the depths of my torment,” he says, flinging himself across your chaise. “Tell her my eyes are like… like…”

You blink at him, pen hovering midair. “Like what?”

He waves his hand, magnanimous. “You decide! You’re the author!”

You are not. You are barely functional. You are powered by panic and tea laced with holy water because your maid still thinks you’re possessed. But you try. You really do.

“Your eyes are like…” you begin, and pause. Then continue, defeated: “Two normal eyes that see things.”

Cater, who has developed an inhuman sixth sense for when you’re being tortured by the royal family, appears as if summoned by your suffering.

He peeks over your shoulder, reads the line, and makes a sound so ungodly that it might have come from a demon being exorcised. His whole body convulses in laughter. He grabs your wrist and whispers, “Please don’t change it. It’s art. I want to embroider this on a pillow.”

The Fifth Prince is pacing again. “No, no, this isn’t tragic enough! She must feel my longing! Make it rain. Or mention ghosts. Ghosts are romantic, right?”

You're halfway through writing My soul haunts the very air you breathe, like aggressive mildew, when he rips the paper away from you, skims it, and makes a strangled noise. “This is ghastly! Where’s the passion? Where’s the sorrow?”

Cater snorts. “Honestly, this is starting to feel more like your personal diary.”

That’s when the prince gets too close. Hands on the table, face leaned in, eyes wide with theatrical betrayal. “You don’t understand. She’s my destiny. My everything. My north, my south, my—”

“Okay, time’s up,” Cater announces cheerfully. He loops an arm around your waist like this is a heist and you’re the asset being extracted. “We’re done here. C’mon, future spouse. We’re leaving before I start stapling things to his forehead.”

The Fifth Prince squawks like a startled goose as Cater hauls you bodily out of the room with the smooth efficiency that tells you he's used to fleeing ridiculous scenes. Behind you, the prince yells, “YOU HAVEN’T EVEN WRITTEN ABOUT MY COLLARBONES YET!”

You don’t even look back. You’re too busy wheezing as Cater tugs you into the hallway, saying, “New rule. No more late-night poetry commissions from emotionally unstable royalty without me present.”

You nod, exhausted. “Agreed.”

The annual Spring Equinox Ball is a cursed tradition and you know it. The day begins with dread, blossoms into doom, and ends in foot pain and gossip-induced migraines. You’re already five steps deep into denial when Cater leans against your doorway in his glitter-trimmed formalwear and sighs, “Time to perform for the crowd.”

You groan. “Do we have to?”

He shrugs, adjusting his cufflinks. “Do you want to be the villainess who publicly breaks off her engagement at the Emperor’s most sacred social event of the year? In front of fourteen ambassadors, seven scheming nobles, and the court painter who documents scandals in real time with his watercolor set?”

You purse your lips. “Fine. But I’m not smiling unless someone trips and falls into the punch.”

You both arrive, faces looking like it's tax season. The ballroom is decked out like a dessert—frosted white tablecloths, golden sugar chandeliers, petals drifting from the ceiling like confetti nobody asked for.

The orchestra is playing something delicate and pretentious. You are pretending you can’t feel the pressure of thirty nobles watching your every move, dissecting your facial expressions for signs of romantic instability like it's a blood sport.

And yet, somehow, the entire affair is so deeply unserious.

The Emperor, who is allegedly a man of divine wisdom and celestial foresight, has spent the last ten minutes staring dreamily across the room at his Prime Minister. The man is leaning against a column like a swooning schoolgirl in a badly written novel, whispering to himself and clutching a wine glass like it's the Minister's hand.

The Minister, on the other hand, is aggressively facing the opposite direction. He hasn’t made eye contact all night. He’s pretending to be very interested in a tray of cheese wheels. You can see the stress in his jawline from here.

“I give them another week,” you mutter to Cater as you sip your drink.

“Two days,” he replies. “One if the Emperor gets tipsy and starts quoting love poetry again.”

The longer you stay, the funnier it gets. There’s a baron trying to impress a debutante by juggling wine goblets. Someone tripped over a train of pearls and caused a domino collapse involving three dukes and a harpist. One lady has been locked in a battle of social posturing with her own cousin for the better part of an hour, and it’s devolved into an eyebrow war.

You and Cater? You’re thriving. You’ve turned this parade of nobles into your own private comedy show. You’ve been exchanging commentary under your breath and trying not to laugh so hard that someone accuses you of mockery.

Then, midway through a particularly absurd waltz where a viscount and his poodle are twirling with uncanny grace, Cater turns to you and says, “We should dance.”

You blink. “What, now?”

“Obviously. We're engaged, remember?” he says with a wink that’s half teasing, half dare. “Let’s give them something to talk about. Like how ridiculously in love we are.”

You manage to laugh, but your brain is already short-circuiting. Still, you let him take your hand. The music shifts, something elegant and slow. You step onto the floor together and—

Oh. Oh no.

He’s close. One hand on your waist, the other holding yours just right, like he’s done this a hundred times but never like this. His voice near your ear is low, smooth, affectionate in a way that feels like a secret just for you.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. “Everyone’s buying it.”

You nod stiffly. Smile for the crowd. Ignore the way your heart stumbles.

His thumb brushes against your hand, and something inside you just—snaps.

When the song ends, you politely excuse yourself and power walk into the garden like you’re on a mission from God. You lean against the marble edge of a trickling water fountain and try not to scream.

You are absolutely not catching feelings. No. Absolutely not. That’s absurd. You are a practical person. You are committed to survival. You are—

“God, he’s kinda dreamy,” you whisper to yourself in horror.

The fountain gurgles sympathetically, as if to say, “Yeah. You're doomed.”

The Fifth Prince, having watched exactly one romance play in his life and taken it far too personally, corners you in the library at an ungodly hour with an urgent need for you to write another love letter to the comatose Female Lead. You're half-asleep, slumped over a desk with ink-stained fingers and several quills stabbed into your hair like makeshift hairpins. Your eyes are bloodshot. The candlelight is flickering. You are unwell..

Why would a man who once compared your handwriting to “a friendly centipede having a seizure” suddenly trust you to freewrite from the heart?

The Prince is draped across his fainting couch, barefoot for some reason, dramatically clutching a half-eaten plum and sighing like he’s in an operatic death scene. You are sitting three feet away with a quill, ink, parchment, three empty coffee cups, and the look of someone who has seen the future and chosen to ignore it.

“Begin,” he commands, as if this is a divine transmission and not him talking with a mouth full of fruit.

You suppress the instinct to hurl the inkpot at his head. “Shoot.”

He begins monologuing like he believes the volume of his voice directly correlates to romantic impact.

“To my beloved starbeam. My moonlit mango. My beautiful, brilliant, bashful belladonna—no, wait, scrap that. Use ‘divine cucumber.’”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s poetic."

He ignores you, already swirling around in circles like a confused Sim. “Write: ‘My soul bursts into flames at the mere scent of your passing. Each whisper of your voice is a lullaby to my ancient bones.’”

You blink. “You’re twenty-three.”

“Keep up!”

You scribble blindly, too far gone into caffeine withdrawal to question anything. You write, you re-write, you black out for a bit, and by the end of it all, your fingers are cramping, your nose is bleeding (unclear if from stress or paper cuts), and your brain is a single lint-covered raisin rattling around your skull.

You squint down at the parchment, hand shaking. “How do you spell dagger?”

Cater, who has absolutely no business being awake right now and yet is perched on the window ledge eating grapes like this is a cabaret show, mutters, “Probably not with a W.”

You grunt and keep writing. “Okay, okay, next line—”

“Wait,” the Prince gasps, gripping a nearby bust for dramatic support, “actually, write, ‘The shadows of the moon are jealous of your light.’ No—wait—‘My heart is the battlefield and your smile is the sword.’ NO—scratch that—make it sound more literary!”

You do not have the mental stamina to deal with similes right now.

“Just put whatever down,” the Prince insists, “you’re the author, make it sound romantic!”

You put something down. You’re too tired to remember what it was. All you know is that somewhere in the haze of heartbreak dictation and utter existential collapse, you addressed the letter to the wrong person.

And you go to sleep for four hours, dreaming of a simpler life. A life without monarchy. A life without similes. A life where people just text “u up?” and call it a day.

But Fate, that sadistic sitcom writer, was not done.

See, in your haze of fatigue and existential despair, you accidentally addressed the letter to the Prime Minister.

You'd accidentally written “From the moon, to my Prime Minister” instead of “To my moon, from the Fifth Prince”, and that one mistake is how this entire political institution crumbles.

The letter gets passed to a footman. The footman, also sleep-deprived and barely literate, sees the title and delivers it directly to the Prime Minister’s mail pile.

The Prime Minister, already stressed, tries to discreetly get rid of it. But the Emperor intercepts the page like a man possessed, reads “My moon, my unreachable dream, if I could but hold your cold, beautiful hand for a moment I would weep into eternity” and nearly collapses.

Cater finds him in the middle of the throne room at dawn. Alone. Knees folded like he’s in prayer. He looks up at Cater with the light of a thousand suns behind his eyes, whispering things like:

“He’s been in love with me all this time… The aloofness… the budgets… the way he refused to make eye contact unless strictly necessary… It was love. It was always love. Bureaucratic. Repressed. Tragic. Mine.”

And you, poor fool that you are, have just woken up and walked directly into Cater’s outstretched hand.

He looks at you. You look at him.

He holds up the discarded wax stamp the Emperor’s been carrying around like a love token.

“Question,” he says, “how fast can you pack a bag?”

“Fast enough,” you croak, already throwing random objects into your travel satchel.

“Do you want to fake a trip to the market and stay at an inn for like... a day?” Cater asks, very calmly, already pulling you by the wrist toward the nearest exit. “Maybe two days. Maybe forever. We can fake our deaths if needed.”

You nod silently and follow. Behind you, the sound of the Emperor whispering sweet nothings to his imagined beloved floats through the palace walls. Chaos is coming. You will not be present.

The day at the market is disturbingly wholesome. Suspiciously enjoyable. The kind of day that makes you wonder if the gods are buttering you up before drop-kicking you off a metaphorical cliff later. But you don’t say that out loud, because Cater has bought you both little flower crowns, and he looks so proud of himself that even your disaster-prone brain can’t ruin it.

He insists you wear yours immediately.

“You’re not gonna not match me, right?” he says, adjusting the tilt of your crown like a stylist.

You roll your eyes but let him, and before you know it, the two of you are wandering through crowded stalls looking like off-duty forest spirits on a very relaxed vacation. He buys a second set of matching things within ten minutes. You are now the joint owners of:

> Two frog-shaped coin purses

> One unnecessarily fluffy scarf that’s way too warm for this season

> Matching rings made out of what the vendor swore was “ethically sourced celestial metal” (it’s tin)

> And a wooden sign that says “Live, Laugh, Flee the Country” in calligraphy

You suggest putting it on the door of your new temporary safehouse.

You eat so much food that your bloodstream becomes 70% oil and joy. There’s no palace drama. It's just you, Cater, and an unreasonable amount of fried things on sticks. You try some sort of sparkling juice that makes your lips tingle, and Cater keeps saying “cheers” before every sip like it’s a ritual for good luck.

You both buy matching bracelets from a stall run by a pair of grandmas who won’t stop winking. Cater tells them you’re on a secret honeymoon. You choke on your dumpling. The grandmas giggle and give you a discount.

At one point, he drags you into a booth where a woman reads your fortunes with crystals and dramatic hand gestures. She closes her eyes, presses her fingers to your forehead, and says:

“You carry the burden of someone who’s been emotionally tazed by authority figures.”

You nod solemnly. Cater throws five gold coins at her and tells her she’s never been more correct.

The sun starts setting in that soft orange kind of way that makes the cobblestones glow and everyone’s hair look magical. You both sit at the edge of a fountain eating fruit tarts and watching a street performer juggle flaming torches while singing off-key.

Cater leans his head against your shoulder and hums a little tune that doesn’t match the background music at all.

“I’m not saying we should run away and open a flower shop,” he says, mouth full of pastry, “but like. If we did…”

“You’d spend the entire time arranging the bouquets by zodiac sign,” you say.

“And you’d insult at least three noble families by giving them thistle.”

“That’s a compliment where I come from.”

He laughs, the easy kind that shakes his shoulders but doesn’t force his face to work too hard. You realize he hasn’t checked a mirror or pulled out his compact all day. He hasn’t needed to. You haven’t thought about anything terrifying in hours.

You lean into him and think, Maybe this is what peace looks like. Maybe this is the part of the story that doesn’t get written down because it’s not dramatic enough—but it’s the best part anyway.

The innkeeper says it with absolutely no awareness of the havoc she has just unleashed inside your brain.

“Oh! Only one room left, darlings. One bed though—hope that’s alright?”

Cater just flashes his usual sunshine-and-sparkles smile and chirps, “No worries! We’ll make it work!”

We’ll make it work.

Like she didn’t just casually drop the single most dangerous sentence in the romantic tension playbook. Like you aren’t currently experiencing a full mental PowerPoint presentation of every single “there was only one bed” scenario in every single book, drama, anime, and fever dream you’ve ever consumed.

You, meanwhile, are staring at the innkeeper like you’ve just been told your arranged marriage to the Fifth Prince has been upgraded to a group project with the entire imperial council.

But it’s fine. It’s fine. You force your face into something neutral and non-panicked, casually pretend your brain hasn’t immediately started generating contingency plans involving couch cushions, the floor, and if necessary, death. You nod politely like you’re emotionally stable and follow Cater up the stairs to your doom.

He opens the door and you swear the bed is bigger than normal. Like it was specifically engineered by the gods of awkward romantic tension. There are two pillows. One blanket. Zero mercy.

Cater drops his bag and flops onto the bed like it owes him money. “Oh my god, this mattress is amazing,” he groans, stretching like a satisfied cat. “You gotta try this.”

You stand by the door trying to remember how to breathe like a regular person and not someone who just got hit in the face by a trope truck going 402 km/h.

“Are you good?” Cater asks, glancing over his shoulder with mild concern. “You look like that time you saw the Emperor holding hands with a puppet that looked like the Prime Minister.”

“I’m fine,” you say, which is a lie. You are not fine. You are five seconds away from asking him if he wants the left side or the right side and then immediately combusting.

You gingerly sit at the edge of the bed like it might detonate. Cater is already sprawled diagonally, looking like he’s never known anxiety in his life. He pats the spot next to him.

“C’mon, this thing is huge. We could both do cartwheels and still not touch.”

You lie down. With dignity, grace and approximately six inches of emotional panic sweating. You position yourself at the very edge, as if the rest of the mattress belongs to ghosts. Cater doesn't even notice. He just hums a little and starts fiddling with your shared frog coin purse.

“Y’know,” he says casually, “you’re super tense. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were nervous about something scandalous.”

“Ha,” you say. “Scandalous. Who? Me? Couldn’t be.”

“Mmhm,” he says, unconvinced but clearly entertained. “You know, if it really bothers you, I can take the floor. Or—”

“No!” you blurt, far too fast and loud and unhinged. “I mean. No. It’s totally fine. Very normal. Two people sharing a bed. Nothing weird about that. Ha ha ha ha.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“…Did you just nervous-laugh in triplets?” he asks, eyes narrowing in amusement.

You stare at the ceiling. The ceiling, at least, doesn’t judge. You’ve been in life-or-death situations that were less emotionally perilous than this.

But Cater doesn’t tease you further. He just lies back, still humming, and flicks the lamp off. The room sinks into a soft, peaceful silence. Eventually, you feel the bed shift as he scoots slightly closer. And maybe it’s the warmth, or maybe it’s the safety, or maybe it’s the fact that for once, there’s no palace intrigue, no love letter fiascos, no imperial misunderstandings. Just you and him, in a too-large bed, under one shared blanket.

…And okay, maybe you're still lowkey panicking. But you’re also kind of… happy.

You and Cater return to the palace after four peaceful, drama-free days in the countryside—days filled with too much sun, matching accessories you swore you’d never wear, and an unsettling number of overly friendly ferrets. You both come back relaxed, refreshed, and foolishly optimistic. Somewhere around the third hour of your carriage ride, you even remark—fools that you are—that maybe, just maybe, things at the palace will be calm for once.

You say it out loud. Like amateurs.

The second the grand doors open, that illusion dies a violent, screeching death.

There, in the very center of the hall like he’s been waiting for an audience, is the Emperor. The man is on his knees, clutching his robes like a widow in an opera, letting out a soul-piercing wail. His crown sits askew, his hair is disheveled, and he looks one emotional breakdown away from flinging himself into a decorative fountain.

Ten paces away, the Prime Minister stands like a man who’s had enough. Dignified. Stern. Furious. And holding four suitcases. Each one looks heavy, monogrammed, and packed with the kind of spite only politicians and betrayed lovers are capable of.

Hovering behind them, sipping her tea with the grace of a woman who has never been caught doing anything wrong in her life (and absolutely has), is the Empress. She smiles in that exact way kdrama villain-mothers do right after they say, “You’re not good enough for my son, so here’s a cheque. Leave before I have your past erased and your pet deported.” Her lipstick is perfect. Her posture says I’m winning..

You blink.

Cater blinks.

You turn to each other at the exact same time, horror and delight mixing together like two people realizing they’ve just walked into the finale of a reality show where the budget was too generous. He doesn’t even speak. He just grabs your hand and yanks you off to the side, ducking behind an expensive-looking tapestry like two gremlins on the run from common sense.

“You’re not about to make me talk to them,” Cater hisses, peeking through a crack in the curtain like a child watching their parents divorce through a keyhole.

“I wasn’t going to!” you hiss back. “I came back here for a nap and some chilled fruit. What the hell is this?”

“Royal implosion,” your maid says calmly, appearing behind you like a well-trained assassin. She hands you a plate of tiny, delicate pastries, as if that will somehow soften the psychological impact of what you’re witnessing.

And the worst part?

It kind of does.

You and Cater sit cross-legged behind the tapestry like overgrown children watching a puppet show designed by demons. The Emperor lets out another high-pitched cry—something between “come back” and “my heart is in pieces, take it with you.” The Prime Minister raises a single, judgmental eyebrow and continues walking. The Empress takes a slow sip of tea, then raises an eyebrow at you when she notices you watching.

Cater whispers, “If she pulls out a fan and starts fanning herself, I’m giving her a standing ovation.”

You shove a pastry in your mouth and mumble, “This is better than theatre.”

Another suitcase hits the ground with a thud that echoes across the marble floors like a war drum.

“Do you think we should help?” you ask, knowing full well you won’t.

Cater doesn’t even look away from the scene. “Absolutely not. I’d rather eat a cursed éclair than get involved.”

Your maid silently hands you another pastry. Cater leans in, stage-whispers, “Did you bring popcorn?”

“No, but I did steal a bottle of fancy wine from the Emperor’s cellar before we left.”

He reaches over, squeezes your shoulder, and says with the solemnity of a monk, “You’re the only person I’d commit palace treason with.”

You both turn back to the ongoing emotional bloodbath as a vase shatters somewhere off-screen. The Emperor screams something about betrayal. The Prime Minister counters with a scathing one-liner. The Empress just smiles wider, like she’s been waiting for this moment since her wedding day.

And you? You sit back, pop a tart into your mouth, and decide this is the best welcome home you’ve ever received.

Eventually, as the palace staff begin to sweep up metaphorical and emotional debris, you and Cater agree it’s bedtime. You’ve earned it. You make it halfway to your room before a messenger pops up to tell you the Fifth Prince has “a humble request.” You sigh. Of course he does.

That humble request? Climbing a thirty-foot tree to retrieve FL’s “favorite fruit,” because “she loves things with nostalgic significance!” And despite the glaring fact that you are not athletic, have not grown up in this world, and have the upper body strength of a mildly determined squirrel, the Fifth Prince somehow convinces you this is a task you need to personally undertake for the sake of “authenticity.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re halfway up the tree, wondering how much brain damage you’ve sustained by agreeing to this. Fifteen seconds after that, you miss a branch and come crashing down like a comet of regret and idiocy.

Your ankle twists the wrong way, your elbow scrapes, and you’re groaning dramatically on the ground when Cater comes around the corner. He spots you trying to get up, covered in leaves and bruises, and immediately drops the juice he’s been drinking.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, already rushing over. When he sees the Fifth Prince point to the tree and proudly announce, “She went up to get FL’s favorite fruit!” something inside Cater visibly snaps.

“Are you insane?!” he barks at the prince. “She could’ve broken her neck!”

The sheer fury in his voice stills the entire garden. You, your heart already racing from the fall, now have a second, stronger wave of confusion and fluster to deal with. Because Cater—usually breezy, cheerful, go-with-the-chaos Cater—is suddenly deadly serious, eyes sharp and jaw tight.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns, scoops you up bridal-style like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and starts striding toward the medical wing. You splutter, but he ignores you, muttering, “Fake engaged or not, nobody treats you like that. Absolutely not.”

And you just stare at him, dazed, your heart doing a whole tap routine in your chest because damn. This isn’t the teasing, matchmaking, accessory-buying Cater you’re used to. This is a furious, fiercely protective, surprisingly strong version of him, and you are not equipped for how attractive that is.

You are also not equipped for how warm his arms are or how carefully he holds you.

You may or may not have pretended you’re still dizzy from the fall just to stay in his arms a little longer.

The palace ballroom buzzes—anxious nobles pretending to sip wine while very obviously eavesdropping. The chandeliers glitter like judgmental eyes, and the tension hangs thicker than royal tax evasion documents. Rumors of a dramatic lovers’ spat in the royal family have somehow leaked to the public, and with zero context and all the curiosity in the world, the court erupts into chaos.

Of course, no one knows it’s the Emperor sobbing over a misdelivered love letter like he’s in the worst low-budget soap opera imaginable. And it needs to stay that way.

Which is why you’re now standing under an archway of imported cherry blossoms, glaring at Cater Diamond—your fake fiancé and unfortunately real emotional support gremlin—preparing to engage in a fake argument so realistic it’ll throw all suspicion off the Imperial clown show currently unfolding behind closed doors.

You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth.

“You know, if you frown any harder your face might get stuck that way,” Cater chirps cheerfully, folding his arms like he hasn’t just kicked off your joint plan with a one-liner that would absolutely get him slapped if this were a drama set in your home dimension.

“Do you take nothing seriously?” you snap, your voice rising perfectly for noble ears. “You think everything is a joke!”

“Because you are the joke!” he fires back, positively gleaming now. “You make the funniest faces when you’re annoyed—like this!” He proceeds to mimic your expression with such uncanny accuracy that someone on the balcony chokes on their champagne.

“Oh, you absolute menace,” you hiss, shoving him in the chest. “I hate you.”

“You do not,” he says without hesitation, grinning wide. “You love me. You’re just mad I’m right.”

And that—that—is where the line between acting and actual bickering shatters like porcelain.

“I hate that you always laugh when I’m upset!” you snap, your voice cracking with real irritation now, because wow, does this man think being chronically unserious is a personality trait. “You’re impossible to talk to about anything meaningful without you turning it into a circus!”

“I only laugh because if I didn’t, I’d be spiraling down the same anxiety pit as you and someone has to stay sane!” he fires back. “And also because it’s genuinely hilarious watching you try to smack your emotions into submission like they’re tiny emotional piñatas.”

“Oh my god, I am actually going to throw you into a fountain.”

“You’d have to catch me first!”

Somewhere in the back, a noblewoman whispers, “Oh my stars, it’s them. The tragic lovers.” Another sighs, “Such passion. Such fire.”

Meanwhile, you and Cater are standing chest-to-chest, barely breathing, practically vibrating with unresolved tension and mutual exasperation.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he says, absolutely looking at you like something.

And that’s when you do the only sensible thing left in your emotional arsenal: you turn sharply on your heel and storm off.

Cater doesn’t follow.

Not because he doesn’t want to—but because if he does, you’re very possibly going to either kiss him or scream into his face about emotional maturity, and honestly, he’s not ready for either option.

But the nobles?

Oh, they’re sold. Scandal pacified. Attention redirected. Crisis averted.

You just have to survive your own feelings now.

Which, unfortunately, is not covered by any royal protocol.

The palace is big enough that if you both try hard enough, you can go several days without speaking.

And so, you do.

There’s an unspoken agreement that neither of you will mention The Quarrel—an event now referred to in court circles with reverence typically seen for natural disasters or cursed love stories. Nobles still glance over hopefully during banquets, waiting for the next emotional explosion. You and Cater, however, are committed to pretending the entire thing was method acting and nothing more. You’re not sulking. He’s not avoiding your eye. Everything is normal.

Except it very clearly isn’t.

Because now every time Cater laughs, you flinch like it’s aimed at you. And every time you smile too long in his direction, he looks away like your face is a solar flare and he’s forgotten his sunglasses.

To make matters worse, the Fifth Prince has entered what can only be described as a dangerous renaissance period. By which you mean: he’s stopped sleeping, started painting abstract horrors, and has taken to narrating his breakfast with full theatrical flourishes and impromptu haikus.

He’s tried to climb the palace spire to “get a better view of the existential malaise of courtship,” and has recently begun wearing cloaks that trail three feet behind him, catching on absolutely everything.

Every time he says “I’ve done some thinking,” the imperial guards break into a cold sweat.

You simply can’t do it anymore.

So naturally, you fake an illness.

“Nothing too dramatic,” you tell Cater, who agrees to play nurse only after confirming you’re not trying to ghost him again in real life. “Just enough to get out of poetry readings and ‘existential viewings of the sky.’”

He takes to the role with suspicious ease.

“Soup,” he says now, carefully setting down a tray with what looks suspiciously like hand-peeled fruits and actual garnishes. “I tested the temperature on my wrist like I saw in the plays. I also fluffed the pillows. And dimmed the lights.”

“You don’t have to be this nice,” you mutter, squinting at the perfectly folded napkin on your bedside table. “It’s just pretend.”

Cater goes quiet.

“What if it wasn’t pretend?” he says, not looking at you.

You blink. “I’m not actually dying, Cater.”

“No.” His voice is soft. “I mean… us.”

The room is suddenly too warm. Or maybe that’s the soup. Or maybe it’s the fact that Cater—usually all jokes and sparkle and sarcasm—has dropped the mask just enough for you to see something underneath it. Something delicate and maybe sincere.

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, then closes uselessly.

And then, as though summoned by your complete inability to process a single normal emotion, the Fifth Prince crashes through your window.

“RATE MY NEW POEM!” he bellows, covered in red and possibly blood. “IT’S ABOUT A TREE WHO LOVES A WORM!”

Cater screams in pure domestic horror. “LEARN TO KNOCK!” he yells, hurling a pillow directly into the prince’s face. It makes a dull pomf noise and then slides to the floor.

You slowly lie back, pulling the blankets up to your chin.

“Are you asleep?” Cater hisses.

You don’t answer.

Because you’re not ready. Not to deal with this. Not to admit how much you’d actually liked the way he looked at you before you walked away. Not to think about how gentle he’s been today, or how earnest his voice had sounded.

So you pretend.

Just for a while longer.

You pretend to sleep, while the Fifth Prince recites terrible worm poetry, and Cater sits beside you quietly, like he’s not thinking about the exact same thing you are.

The performance begins at precisely 4 PM, unprompted and without warning. One moment you’re in the courtyard sipping lukewarm tea and discussing with Cater which of the Fifth Prince’s new nicknames for the FL is the least emotionally concerning (current contenders: “Moonbeam of My Madness” and “My Eternal Wound”), and the next moment there’s a loud yell from the rose garden—

—and the Fifth Prince bursts into view, already spinning.

You don’t know how he manages to get music playing without a single instrument in sight, but he does. The soundtrack? A harrowing mix of violin screeches and dissonant harp chords that sound like someone taught a raccoon to compose.

He calls it: “An Interpretive Expression of My Undying Devotion Through the Medium of Motion.”

And you are his test audience.

It lasts for more than two hours.

Two full hours of tortured pirouettes, body rolls that should frankly be illegal, and the most aggressive use of silk scarves you’ve ever witnessed outside an illegal circus. The Fifth Prince does a leap so committed he pulls something in his hip and has to limp the rest of the dance, which he claims is a “spontaneous embodiment of suffering.”

Cater, naturally, is thriving.

He’s sprawled on a chaise like a delighted Roman watching gladiators maul each other for sport. Every time the Fifth Prince makes a particularly horrifying interpretive gesture—like miming a heart being ripped from his chest and then gently kissed—Cater turns to you with bright eyes and goes, “He’s literally so real for this.”

You, on the other hand, haven’t blinked in twenty minutes. Your hands are clenched so tight around your teacup that the porcelain has cracked. You are one silk twirl away from snapping like a dry breadstick.

At hour two, minute eleven, something in you breaks.

“STOP!” you bellow, standing so fast you knock over the table. “Just—stop! This is INSANE! You’re insane! Everything is insane!”

You turn, mid-rant, to Cater, whose entire existence seems to radiate chaotic sparkle emojis. “And you! I know you think this is funny, I know you think this is your own personal comedy club, but I am DYING inside. I am actively decomposing. I love you and I can’t take this anymore!”

Cater goes dead still.

“Wait,” he says slowly, like his brain is buffering. “You love me?”

From the floor, where he’s now dramatically sprawled, the Fifth Prince moans, “DO NOT INTERRUPT THE ARTISTIC PROCESS.”

Neither of you care.

Then Cater lurches forward like he’s been struck by lightning. “Say it again,” he says, eyes wide, hands fluttering like he doesn’t know where to put them.

“I love you,” you say again, half-panicked, half-hysterical, full sincerity shouted into the absurdity of the afternoon. “I love you and I hate modern dance and I want to throw that man into a lake but most importantly I LOVE YOU.”

Cater lets out a sound that can only be described as a joy-gasp, grabs your face in both hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear mid-sentence, and beams. “I love you too! Oh my GOD, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to crack?!”

Cater kisses you mid-sob-wail #3. It’s a good kiss. Dramatic. Desperate. Perfectly punctuated by the sound of the Prince flinging himself to the ground like a sea lion performing heartbreak.

You and Cater are now shouting confessions of undying love over the sound of dramatic sob-dancing, and somewhere in the distance, a guard turns to another and mutters, “Should we, like, tell someone about this?”

The other guard says, “No. Let them have this. They’ve earned it.”

The realization doesn’t come gradually, or gently, or in a moment of introspective quiet. It descends upon you like divine punishment at two a.m., with the weight of a thousand poorly-written manhwa plotlines and the dramatic sting of an under-budget K-drama finale. You sit bolt upright in bed, gasping like you’ve just remembered that you left the stove on in another kingdom.

Because you did forget something. You forgot that you’re going to have in-laws. Not just any in-laws. Not normal, functioning, emotionally regulated human beings. No. You’re going to be tied by law and blood to them.

Let’s start from the top.

The Emperor, who still stares wistfully at moonlight filtering through bamboo blinds while mumbling the Prime Minister's name like it’s a prayer and a curse in one. The man who writes entire collections of poetry, published under a pen name so obvious it might as well be “DefinitelyNotTheEmperor,” and you once caught him sobbing into a handkerchief because someone brought up “unrequited love” at dinner.

Then there’s the Fifth Prince, Cater’s younger brother, who once tried to serenade the COMATOSE Female Lead with a lute he doesn’t know how to play and accidentally set a tapestry on fire. The same Fifth Prince who also told you, completely earnestly, that if you break up with Cater, he will wait “at the shrine for one hundred years” because his heart “only beats in your presence”—and also because you once told him his outfit is “fine.” You later learn this is the first compliment he’s ever received from someone outside the palace staff.

This is the same man who once asked you to edit his love poetry and then accused you of "censorship" when you point out that rhyming "death" with "breath" thirteen times doesn't make the poem good.

And let’s not forget the Empress, a woman who has perfected the art of glaring without blinking. She hasn’t smiled at you once. She looks at you like you’re the reason her favorite series got canceled before season two. She offered you a necklace the day after your engagement party. You found out later it’s enchanted to give you acne because you “rejected her darling son." Cater thought it’s hilarious. You do not.

You sit up in bed, eyes wide, heart pounding, and then—it hits you like a horse cart to the chest. You start sobbing. The loud, ugly kind where your nose immediately gets stuffed and you sound like a goose being exorcised.

Cater shoots up beside you like someone lit a fire under him. “What’s wrong?! Are you hurt?! Did you have a nightmare?!” His hands flail, hair a mess, face still soft with sleep but now absolutely consumed by panic.

You try to speak, but it comes out garbled between hiccups and snot. “I—I—YOUR FAMILY!!!”

“What?!”

“YOUR. FAMILY.” You grab his shoulders. “Your dad is in love with your prime minister, your brother wants me to name his interpretive dances, and your mother looks at me like I’m a roach who seduced her son!”

Cater blinks. “Oh,” he says, and to his credit, he tries very hard not to laugh. For about three seconds. Then he loses it, face crumpling into laughter that he tries to muffle in the blanket, shoulders shaking, entire torso leaning away from you like that’s going to spare him.

You smack his arm. “THIS IS SERIOUS!”

He tries. He really does. He claps a hand over his mouth and turns away, shoulders shaking violently. “Oh no—oh no no—wait—don’t cry, wait, please—” he gasps between suppressed laughter, “I’ll be normal in a minute—just give me like—two—two minutes, okay?”

You slap his arm. “I’m serious!”

“I know! I know!” he wheezes, trying to hold your face between his hands but failing because you're still throwing soft punches at his chest. “Babe, okay. Okay. Deep breath. Listen—if it’s that bad, I’ll abdicate. I’ll pass the crown to my sister. She’s smarter than me anyway. I’ll come with you to that other country as a diplomat. Or like, a live-in boyfriend. Or your court jester. You name it.”

That makes you cry harder. “Cater—”

He wipes your tears with the sleeve of his sleep robe. “Or I could become a hermit and you can visit me in my mountain hut once a year. Or we can fake our deaths and live as traveling circus performers. I’ll grow a mustache. You can do knife tricks. Think about it.”

You’re hiccuping again, but you’re laughing now too, forehead pressed against his shoulder as he keeps talking nonsense.

“I could pretend to be my own long-lost twin and marry you under a fake identity. No one would ever suspect a thing.”

“I love you,” you sob, pulling back to look at him. “You idiot, I love you.”

He softens completely, the laughter fading into something quiet and warm. “Yeah?”

You nod, wiping your own tears now. “Yeah. Let’s go to that country. Let’s be ambassadors or knife jugglers or whatever. Just—just not here. Please.”

Cater grins, that sleepy, dopey grin that still somehow manages to be charming. “Deal. But only if I get a cool hat. Like a diplomat hat. Or a juggler hat. Or both.”

You don’t know why that makes you cry again, but you throw yourself into his arms and he just holds you, murmuring ridiculous plans into your hair until you finally fall asleep again, dreamless and safe.

You fall asleep like that, snuggled into the arms of a man who might be royalty but is, more importantly, someone willing to commit to high-level escapism with you if it means a future together.

And that’s love. Or at least the deeply unhinged, slightly unwashed royal version of it.

The Female Lead, against all odds and medical predictions, continues her record-breaking performance as the nation’s most beautiful unconscious woman.

She lies there in the palace infirmary, immaculate as ever, bathed in soft golden light that somehow always finds her, with not a single hair out of place, and not even the smallest hint of drool at the corner of her mouth.

Every few weeks, someone stops by with a prophecy or a love confession or a bouquet of dream-roses, but she remains unmoved. Honestly, it’s either very touching or deeply suspicious.

At this point, you have no idea if she’s actually stuck in some eternal slumber thanks to your meddling with the timeline, or if she just cracked the code to evading all royal nonsense and decided to take an extended nap until the Fifth Prince gives up and finds someone else to inflict his poetry on.

Either way, you’ve made your peace with it. You even wave at her occasionally when you pass her room. No response, obviously. Still kind of polite.

In fact, your entire relationship with the original plot has become one long exercise in strategic detachment. The Fifth Prince is now the main character of whatever reality this is, and you’ve mentally rebranded your role as "supporting character with no further responsibilities."

Not your prophecy. Not your prince. Not your glass slipper. Not your enchanted sleep. You're simply a person trying to live their life in peace without being roped into another interpretive dance showcase.

And so, having reached peak burnout from palace politics, magical nonsense, and the ever-looming threat of accidental plot reinsertion, you and Cater finally decided it was time to cut your losses.

The Emperor, bless him, was barely lucid enough to notice. Still clearly in the throes of some dramatic, decades-old heartbreak over the Prime Minister (who is doing fine, by the way, and recently opened a vineyard).

You approached His Majesty with a request to be reassigned as ambassadors to the neighboring country after your upcoming wedding, hoping for approval or at the very least, distracted disinterest. He nodded once, murmured something like, “Tell him I still dream about the peonies,” and wandered off mid-conversation, leaving behind a signed royal seal and half a peach tart.

That’s how easy it was. No protest from the Empress either, though that might be because she now pretends you don’t exist, except when glaring at your general direction with the cold fury of a woman whose precious son got friendzoned by his political fiancée. T

he fact that you dared to fall in love with someone who isn't her little dramatic chaos goblin of a son only seems to inflame her sense of personal betrayal. She has, to date, compared you to a common turnip, a rootless weed, and once, alarmingly, a low-budget extra in a palace drama. You wear all of these titles with pride.

And Cater? He just grins through the chaos, a man cheerfully waving goodbye to his dysfunctional legacy. He’s packed half his wardrobe, three skincare containers, and two bags of very expensive hair product into labeled boxes marked “AMBASSADORIAL ESSENTIALS.”

So that’s your happily-ever-after, probably. It’s not a royal coronation or the culmination of a thousand-year prophecy. It’s just you and your fiancé—soon to be husband—riding away in a state-sponsored carriage with your names written in sparkly paint on the side, waving goodbye to a castle full of emotionally unstable nobles, unresolved love triangles, and one extremely determined sleeping beauty.

You're not sure what waits for you across the border, but it can’t possibly be worse than this. And even if it is, at least you’ll face it with Cater, a man who once promised to fight an actual dragon if it meant making you laugh.

Or at least distract it while you run for help.

Masterlist ; Series Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #cater diamond x reader #twst cater #cater x reader #cater diamond x you #cater diamond #cater #twst cater x reader

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ssa-dado · 6 months ago

Text

Cat Equals Sign Of Integration

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff, smut (implied) Summary: Aaron, ever the strategist, decides that a little wine might help soften the blow of figuring out with you how to tell the team you’re dating. A solid plan - except for one tiny flaw: wine makes him a whore. Warnings: +18, MINORS DNI Hotch is a touch starved whore, a few cuss words here and there, wine gets a bit into both of your heads. Word Count: 5k Dado's Corner: Did I hallucinate this while working on one of the many requests still on my to-do list, only to realize halfway through that it was completely derailing from the main plot - but too cute to abandon? Yes. Is this fun? You tell me (pretty please).

masterlist(s)

One of the many rules you and Aaron had in your relationship was that if you cooked for date night, he was the one doing the dishes.

His idea.

You had been opposed to it at first - not because you minded, of course. You were actually a huge fan of grown men handling household chores without whining like toddlers about how it might somehow demasculate their poor, fragile egos.

No, you were opposed because you didn’t want him doing it out of some sense of obligation.

It took you a while to accept that Aaron wasn’t doing this because he owed you - he was doing it because he wanted to.

Because that was just… Aaron.

Ever the caregiver, always looking for ways to make life easier for the people he loved. He could give you the world and still come to you like a wounded dog, begging for forgiveness because he thought he wasn’t enough.

It was infuriating - for all the deep psychological reasons you could analyze for hours, but also for a much pettier one: when it was his turn to cook, instead of letting you do the dishes like the so-called rule dictated, he just… did them anyway.

And thus, the noble Mr. Clean - brave warrior of dish duty, his arms submerged in treacherous, frothy depths - found himself utterly helpless against the sudden, most dreadful buzzing of his phone.

A cruel twist of fate, indeed!

Stranded, defenseless, bound by duty to his porcelain captors, he could do nothing but stand there, a tragic figure of great importance, cruelly denied his right to immediately bestow his undivided attention upon whatever poor soul dared summon him.

Oh, the agony! The injustice! How swiftly the mighty are humbled… by a sink full of bubbles.

That was because, logically, if even a single drop of water touched his phone, he would instantly lose all of the very important, highly classified FBI secrets stored inside. Of course, phones couldn't possibly be waterproof.

Ha, imagine?! What a concept.

“Who is it?” Aaron asked, still scrubbing at your wine glass like he was trying to erase its entire existence.

Which – by the way - was completely pointless, considering that in less than five minutes, he planned on refilling it with some more. A different wine, yes. But for God’s sake, you weren’t going to die if the last few drops of white mixed with the red.

…What a fussy man.

“Penelope,” you replied, admiring the view.

What a view, really. That man was all legs and no ass, and you were finally learning to appreciate it.

“Ignore it,” he said, not even turning around.

Unfortunately for him - and for the HR department still blissfully unaware that their most serious, by-the-book boss was fraternizing with a subordinate - you were a profiler.

The U.S. government literally paid your bills every single month because you were exceptionally good at reading people.

And the way he answered? Yeah, that wasn’t the tone of a man casually dismissing an unimportant text. No, that was the tone of a man caught red-handed, scrambling for plausible deniability.

Embarrassed. Secretive. Suspicious. Frankly, if you didn’t already know what he was hiding, you’d be halfway to slapping cuffs on him. Wouldn’t even be the first time.

And so you read it – out loud.

Penelope Garcia, 7:56 PM:

hotch sir hotch bossman sir, i am DYING please tell me if you found out who her mystery boyfriend is i am suffering!!!!!!!! i know you know. i know it in my heart. if you can’t say it just give me a hint. a tiny one. a cryptic riddle. a blink. i will take anything.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

By her, of course, she meant you - because despite a few months of keeping your relationship under wraps, you still hadn’t gotten around to telling the team. Your colleagues. Your friends. Your unwanted, overly nosy adopted children.

That their elusive "mystery boyfriend" was, in fact, your mutual boss.

You were going to tell them. Eventually.

Didn’t know when. But you would.

Then again, it wasn’t like you were surrounded by some of the best profilers in the country, trained to pick up on the slightest behavioral shift.

It’s not like the second two incredibly touch-starved people like you and Aaron started walking around with even a fraction of happiness, that wouldn’t immediately raise suspicions.

…Except, apparently, it hadn’t.

Because somehow, the team had only managed to land on half the conclusion: you were seeing someone.

But Aaron? Not even a blip on their radar.

It was almost impressive, really. The answer was so obvious that they had discarded it entirely, still wandering around in the dark, trying to piece together a puzzle that was sitting right in front of their faces.

Just like Penelope was doing now, so desperate for some reason that she was straight-up asking him outright - when not that long ago, she still thought twice before even making a dirty joke in his presence.

And so, you got up, walked over to Aaron, and held the phone directly under his nose. “What does this mean?”

He squinted at the screen, then at you. “Oh, honey, I don’t know. She always sends me that - I don’t understand what exactly equals the sign of integration”.

…What?

You were suddenly just as confused as he was.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, eyebrows raised in that utterly sincere, slightly bewildered way of his. “That sign before it,” he said, completely lost. “It looks Chinese. Thought you knew Chinese, sweetheart.”

…What?

Oh, for the love of God.

If this man hadn’t already seen the absolute worst horrors the world had to offer, you would fight for his innocence with your nails, your teeth, and - if absolutely necessary - one of the worst shooting records ever logged in the Bureau.

You looked at the screen again.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

Oh.

Oh, that’s what had confused him.

“Aaron,” you said gently, doing your absolute best not to kiss him right then and there, “that is a cat.”

You sighed, then pointed at the message again. “By the way, the ‘sign’ in the middle is in Korean, not Chinese.”

He looked at the screen again - then back at you. “…Cat equals sign of integration?”

“No, honey,” you said, barely suppressing your smile, tapping the little text emoji. “It’s just a cat.”

He studied it for another second. “Oh.”

There. That did it. You gave in. Leaned in and pressed a loud smooch to his cheek.

At least your dignity was still intact - he had no idea why you’d done it, just assumed it was one of those spontaneous bursts of affection that came with being hopelessly in love.

Honeymoon phase truly did work wonders.

“Do you think I can have the cat too?” he asked, grabbing the bottle of red and a corkscrew.

That was a trap.

Because Aaron Hotchner still signed every single text he sent.

And while it wasn’t an issue when he was sending something standard -

Lawyer, 6:17 PM:

They found a new body, we’re gathering at the precinct in 30.

A.H.

- it became a lot more unsettling when he sent the filthiest, most depraved things you’d ever read, only to end them with that stiff little A.H. like he was dictating official Bureau correspondence.

Lawyer, 11:51 PM:

Sweetheart, if only these stupid walls weren’t so thin, I’d have you right here with me, bent over, face pressed against this mattress, making you come so many times you’d forget your own name. At least three. Maybe four, if I’m feeling generous.

A.H.

So now, standing in his kitchen, watching him pour wine like he hadn’t just permanently scarred you with his painfully bureaucratic approach to sexting, you knew that if you admitted he could simply copy-paste that ‘cat equals integration sign,’ it would only be a matter of time before you were subjected to something truly traumatizing, like -

Lawyer, very-late-office-hour PM:

It’s your fault I’m getting distracted with the paperwork, because I’m still thinking about how good you tasted last night while sitting on my face. God, I can still feel your thighs shaking, you were so sweet for me, honey, so fucking perfect.

P.S. How many reports do you still have left? Because I’ve been thinking about having you on my tongue again before the night is over. I think I’ve got about an hour or so left but then I’m all yours.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

That man could not be trusted with the cat.

“Oh, honey,” you cooed, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder blades as your fingers brushed over his back. “I don’t think you can get it. She must have programmed it herself into her phone.”

You truly hoped you were as convincing as he was clueless about text etiquette.

“It’s a pity,” he sighed, both of your wine glasses in hand as he made his way to the couch. “I would have loved to send you the cat.”

…Of course he would. Smug ass.

But as the words left his mouth, something shifted in him - just barely. A pause that didn’t usually belong there... weird.

Still, you followed, watching as he settled in, patting the cushion beside him with a half-smile. “Come here, sweetheart.”

A misleading gesture, considering his legs were very much spread - a much clearer invitation. At least, that’s how you chose to interpret it.

Because you could swear - those legs spoke to you. Called to you. So you slid right into your rightful seat - his lap.

…Would have been rude not to answer.

“Back to Garcia,” he said, resting a hand on your thigh as he handed you your painstakingly polished wine glass - so clean, so immaculately spotless, that the red wine inside looked redder than red. A real masterpiece, Mr. Clean. “She doesn’t seem to be letting up about finding out who you’re dating… This is the fourth message this week.”

You raised a brow, taking a sip of your wine. “Well, she’s second only to you when it comes to being nosy about gossip.”

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head, that same small half-smile back on his lips.

That particular smile.

The one he used when he was trying to convince someone he was fine when, in reality, he was not - when he was trying to reassure everyone else while simultaneously refusing to admit, even to himself, that something was eating him alive.

Oh, now you knew what this was about.

He had definitely practiced this conversation in his head - refined it down to the perfect phrasing. Measured. Logical. Reassuring.

A version so well-rehearsed, so carefully constructed, that he’d convinced himself first before trying to convince you - that this didn’t scare him.

That this was just another rational step forward.

That it was fine.

Because if he could make it sound easy, maybe it would be.

Maybe it would give you something solid to lean on, because the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were standing on shaky ground with someone just as fractured as he was.

But in the end, even the best-laid words couldn’t withstand the weight of his emotions - whether he liked it or not, even rocks are meant to erode.

“I think it’s time we come clean to the team,” he admitted, completely veering off-script - though, of course, he still made sure to soften the blow with a kiss to your temple.

Not that it made much difference. You both knew this moment was inevitable, but somehow, you’d managed to delude yourselves into thinking that if you just kept putting it off, the perfect time would miraculously appear.

At first, you’d delayed it until things were official.

Then, because you needed to be sure this could work in the long run.

Then, because you wanted time to just enjoy each other.

Truthfully? If it were entirely up to the two of you, you’d probably keep postponing it indefinitely - at least until the day you were both retired, far away from any fraternization rules or painfully awkward team dynamics.

Unless, of course, your eyes had been deceiving you all along, or life decided to be cruel and rip this happiness away from you before you ever even got the chance. All you could do was hope not.

Aaron sighed, watching you carefully. “So, how do you want to do this?”

At least he could take comfort in the fact that his very specific plan of having wine while discussing this was still intact - especially since the very large sip you took the second he asked hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He huffed a laugh.

Yeah.

This was going to be fun.

“Are we sure we have to?” You groaned, tilting your head back against his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart. It’s the only way to keep them from getting the satisfaction of figuring it out first and do this our way…”

It was his turn to take a long sip now… he surely wasn’t thrilled about the lack of an actual game plan.

“…Still need to figure out what exactly we mean by ‘our way,’” he admitted. “But, you know… that’s what these are for.”

He tapped a finger against his temple, then against yours, clearly implying that your very skilled, highly trained profiler brains would surely work this out.

You, however, were placing your bets on your problem-solving skills drastically improving after a few more glasses of wine, because right now?

“We are so fucked,” you commented.

Aaron clinked his glass against yours, deadpan. “Completely.”

You both took long, slow sips of wine like it might somehow provide divine intervention.

It didn’t. You were indeed left pretty much alone in this.

You sighed, setting your glass down on the coffee table. “Well, you definitely have the face of someone who already has a plan...” You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “...a very handsome face.”

Cheesy. But deserved.

Aaron chuckled. “I believe…” He kissed you on the cheek – twice - before setting his own glass down too. “…We should tell them directly. Get ahead of it. Lay it out as matter-of-factly as possible.”

“Matter-of-factly?”

He nodded, all serious, like he hadn’t just suggested the worst possible approach.

“Sweetheart…” You pinched his cheek, making him scrunch his nose, hoping – more like praying - that it would snap him out of whatever fantasy land of logic, reason, and good intentions he was apparently living in.

“If we tell them directly, Penelope will throw an actual partypersonally design matching t-shirts, and have the entire team wear them.” You paused, leveling him with a look. “And you know it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I know.”

“Emily and Derek will immediately start making jokes like two middle schoolers who just learned what sex is and will not let us breathe.”

“I know.”

“JJ will be quiet but then ask all of a sudden, ‘So when’s the wedding?’ which will restart the chaos all over again.”

“I know.”

You turned to face him, deadly serious. “Spencer-”

“-Will hit us with a full statistical analysis of workplace relationships,” Aaron finished, exhaling sharply, already bracing himself.

Because there was only one team member left to account for - the worst of them all.

“And… oh God… Dave…”

And with that horrifying realization, he did the only logical thing a man in his position could do - he face-planted directly into your chest with a dramatic, muffled groan of pure defeat.

You blinked down at him, amused. “Honey…”

Why was he even so touch starved like that?

“All I ask,” came his muffled voice, still very much nestled between your breasts, “is five minutes of peace.”

You snorted. “You do realize this isn’t exactly discouraging me from making fun of you, right?”

He sighed again. “You do realize that if you keep laughing, you’re just shoving them further into my face?”

…Damn him and his irritating ability to state the obvious.

You sighed, fingers absentmindedly combing through his short spikes of hair. “…So we’re back to square one.”

Aaron exhaled, still very much face-first in his chosen safe haven. “Unfortunately.”

You hummed, “Okay, hypothetically, if we just… never tell them, how long do you think we could get away with it?”

That was so absurd that it actually made him lift his head. He blinked at you, utterly offended by the suggestion.

“I am not spending the next decade pretending I don’t stare at your ass every time you walk away.”

…Alright. That was definitely the wine talking.

In vino veritas, as the Romans said. Wine makes people say dumb shit: the truth.

“Wow. Didn’t know you were a poet, Hotchner.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t pretend you’re above it, because I catch you every time you drift off during briefings just to stare right at-”

“Alright, alright,” you cut him off, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could fully call you out... he was not happy about it. “We’re both shameless…"

You needed an exit strategy. Fast.

You reached for his wine glass over the coffee table. “Well, at least the bright side of telling them is that we won’t have to schedule our coffee breaks in advance anymore and pretend to look surprised when we see each other.”

And all of that was just for one single moment.

The fleeting brush of fingertips as you handed him the cup you always poured for him.

The way his hand was always warmer than yours, despite the fact that you were the one holding the scalding mug, as if basic thermodynamics simply did not apply to Aaron Hotchner.

And if it was one of those days, sometimes, there’d be a little extra something.

A longer touch.

Eye contact that lingered just a second too long.

A slow sip from his cup while still holding your gaze, and suddenly, it felt indecent - like something you definitely shouldn’t be doing in broad daylight, let alone in a federal building.

And now - here, in the comfort of his apartment, with nothing and no one to stop you - he reached for the wine glass you were offering, except… he wasn’t actually reaching for the glass.

He was just holding your hand.

Aaron chuckled, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles. “I think we’re holding onto this touch just a little too long,” he murmured, nuzzling into you, his breath warm against your ear. “Might start looking suspicious.”

Didn’t he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Oh, also some-” you started, or at least tried to, because as if everything else wasn’t enough, now he was kissing just behind your ear, his lips just brushing the sensitive skin there, warm, and slow, and wet and… God…

Okay. Okay.

Maybe it was the wine.

Maybe it was the fact that you were always kind of a little bit obsessed with him.

Either way, the result was the same: you really, really wanted him right now.

You sighed, tilting your head to grant him a little more access - but not too much, or you might actually end up using the full length of his three-seater couch instead of stubbornly remaining curled up in the same cramped two-foot space you’d unofficially claimed as your own. Ergo - going horizontal with him instead of just being seated on his lap.

“I thought we were having a serious discussion,” you murmured, though the breathy edge to your voice wasn’t exactly helping your case.

Aaron hummed in response, slowly dragging his lips from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw, pressing a kiss at the hinge. “We are.” Another kiss. “What were you starting to say, sweetheart?”

And another one.

You tried to think. Really, you did.

But it was getting increasingly difficult with his mouth still very much on your skin, moving towards places that were making it exponentially harder to form coherent thoughts.

You would’ve made a mental note to never wear anything that resembled a tank top around him again, if only you had the actual brain capacity to form any notes right now.

“Aaron-”

Aaron smirked against your skin. “You were saying?”

…Blank. Absolutely blank.

Your brain stalled for a solid three seconds before mercifully rebooting.

“I-” You licked your lips, cleared your throat. “Penelope.”

That, thankfully, was enough of a keyword to get him to back off - though, the second he did, you already desperately missed the warmth of his mouth on your skin.

He tilted his head, “Penelope?”

You swallowed. “She’s… gonna be beaming.”

Aaron blinked at you. “Beaming.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, because God, he was too cute when he was confused like this. “Her and Kevin have been desperate for another couple to go out with. Ever since JJ and Will stopped leaving the house because they’re too busy baby-proofing every square inch of their lives.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “And by ‘go out with,’ you mean double dates.”

You hummed, fingers grazing his cheek. “Mmm. Yeah. Double dates.”

Aaron didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, absolutely not.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “Wait, what?”

His face was resolute. “I’m not doing double dates.”

You squinted at him. “Okay, but why?”

And that’s how you learned that if there was one thing your boyfriend hated - more than messy paperwork, more than delayed flights, more than the Bureau’s budgeting meetings - it was double dates.

Not specifically with Penelope and Kevin. God, no. He was practically the puppet master of their relationship in the first place. Just… double dates in general.

“They’re impractical,” he said.

You snorted. “What do you mean?”

Aaron sighed. “They are a waste of time. You sit there, and for the first fifteen minutes, it’s fine. The usual small talk, polite conversation…”

You nodded, barely biting back a grin. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Honestly, this just sounded like some classic Aaron Hotchner being the most adorable introvert to ever exist.

He shot you a look, deadly serious. “It’s a trap.” You nearly cooed. Adorable. “Because at some point, you end up talking one-on-one with someone from the other couple. And right when the conversation is actually getting interesting-”

He suddenly paused.

His hand started at your shoulder, innocent enough - until it wasn’t, until it drifted lower, fingertips skimming down until they found your thigh, before sliding inward, squeezing your soft flesh there.

“See?” Aaron murmured, voice deceptively casual. “It starts off innocently. A hand on the shoulder…”He angled his fingers just a notch further up your upper thigh. “…Then the thigh. Then-”

He leaned in, kissing you just at the corner of your mouth.

"A little kiss here," he murmured, lips barely brushing your skin.

Then another - softer, lingering just at the very edge of your lips.

"A little peck there."

Okay.

Ahem.

For a man who hated double dates, he was making a very strong case for them.

This was clearly foreplay.

Had to be foreplay.

You chose to interpret it as foreplay.

So, naturally, just as you were about to pull him in properly - to finally taste the wine on his lips – he pulled back.

Mixed signals whore.

“And then,” he continued, and you swore his voice had gotten even lower - sluttier, if you were being honest - "it escalates.”

...Wine-induced yapper. "Because one couple decides a little peck isn’t enough, so they turn and start devouring each other’s faces… in public.”

The wine that was in your system, instead, suggested you should have him biblically, right here, right now, on his couch.

“Care to demonstrate this part too?” You licked your lips, tilting your head.

Aaron sighed “Honey.” You knew you were in trouble the moment he smirked. “You’re demonstrating my point…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…You want more.” Aaron tutted, shaking his head, feigning disappointment. “Of course you want more. A chaste kiss isn’t enough. How could it be, sweetheart?”

Hell yes you wanted more.

Badly.

You might have even nodded without meaning to.

“But imagine if this was happening in public. In front of two other people. What about them?” he murmured, tilting his head, voice dropping into something dark, silky, dangerous. “In front of two other people.”

You swallowed, very much not thinking about them right now.

“Because at that point, they only have two choices: they either sit there - third-wheeling, watching - or…” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide over your bare waist, gripping, pulling you that much closer. "… they start doing it too."

Your breath hitched. “Aaron-”

"With just a kiss, it creates an environment," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear, "where both couples get competitive. Where they start copying each other - but making it more…"

He dragged his nose along the curve of your jaw, the ghost of his lips tracing just behind it. "Passionate."

A teeth-grazing kiss against your pulse.

A slow drag of his lips down the column of your throat, before he made his way back up, tilting your chin up with his fingers just so, forcing you to look at him.

And God, that look.

"More tongue," he continued, letting you see it first - his own darting out, wetting his lips just before he brushed them over yours.

Not kissing.

Not yet.

“More biting.” Aaron caught your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just enough to confirm what you already knew -

He tasted like red wine.

Rich. Dark. Addictive.

And so did you.

“More touching.” His hand drifted, fingertips just skimming over your ribs, teasing along the underside of your breast - so close, so close, before he let it trail lower again, just as his lips ghosted over your ear.

"More sounds."

You barely bit back the breathy, desperate little moan clawing its way up your throat because -

Aaron shoved you off his lap.

In one fluid motion, he shifted, pressing you back into the couch, caging you in beneath him, his arms bracketing either side of your head.

His knee slotted between your thighs, pressing up just slightly - just enough to make you gasp, make your hips twitch without thinking.

You were pretty sure now that this was, in fact, foreplay.

“At that point,” he murmured, lowering himself, pressing his body against yours, pinning you down with nothing but his weight, “if you’re already getting ideas…”

Aaron rolled his hips against you, his knee shifting just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath. “…it’s better off just staying home. Because at least then,” he whispered, “we can do this.”

And then he kissed you. Properly.

Deep and hungry, pressing you down into the cushions until you moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer as one of his hands slipped under your shirt.

“You-” you swallowed, trying to find words, but he stole them from you, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “You expect me to believe this is why you hate double dates?”

“I expect you to understand,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of your neck, “that if I ever go on one…” he nipped at your pulse, making you gasp. “…I’ll be thinking about this the entire time.”

Then - click.

The sound of the button of your pants being undone, followed shortly by the hiss of your zipper. You felt the warmth of his fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, resting over your hip bone.

Well, fuck.

“You’ll be sitting across from me,” he continued, voice so unfairly composed, so infuriatingly smooth, “pretending to listen to whatever they’re taking about.”

He tilted his head, kissing along your collarbone, then much lower. You made a mental note to always wear anything resembling a tank top in his presence from now on.

“And the entire time…” his fingers dipped just slightly beneath the elastic of your underwear.

You shuddered. “Aaron.”

He hummed, pleased - so deeply pleased - before finally sliding lower, his fingers finally brushing right where you needed him most.

You whimpered.

“I’ll be remembering,” he murmured, “exactly how you sound right now.”

Your back arched into his touch, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as his fingers moved.

“And how you look,” he added, his lips brushing the curve of your breast, “when you fall apart for me.”

Your breath hitched-

And then.

Then-

He stopped.

Just - stopped.

His hands left you completely as he leaned back, settling onto his knees above you, looking far too pleased with himself.

You gaped at him, betrayed. “Are you kidding me?”

Aaron just smirked, gaze flicking over you, taking in your flushed cheeks, your uneven breathing, the way your body was still desperately aching for him.

“See?” he shrugged, voice so damn smug. “This is why I hate double dates.”

How funny would it be if these ended up being his last words?

You huffed, adjusting yourself on the couch, crossing your arms like you weren’t still ridiculously turned on and very annoyed about it. “Alright, you know what? Fine. No need to suffer through a double date if we just… conveniently wait to tell the team about us until after JJ and Will start going back out with Penelope and Kevin.”

Aaron smirked.

At least you’d both come to an agreement - the exact same procrastination tactic you’d been using, just with a new and improved excuse attached.

“…Smart girl.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, still breathing heavily, still so deeply unsatisfied, as Aaron pressed a kiss to your temple, then stood, stretching his arms.

“I’ll clean the wine glasses,” he mused, already heading toward the kitchen. “And then I’ll be back to you.”

You stared at him.

He paused, glancing at you over his shoulder, smirking.

You huffed, sarcastic, “glad we could work this out.”

You were not glad. Not at all. Especially because not even a full minute later, your phone buzzed with a text.

From him.

From Mr. Clean himself, who was currently just a couple rooms away from you.

Lawyer, 8:43 PM:

Sweetheart, I hope you're ready, because I’m going to spread you out on that couch and fuck you so deep, you’ll still feel me when you sit at your desk tomorrow.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

"Garcia just told me how to get the cat," came his voice from the kitchen - so damn smug you could hear the smirk in it, followed the sound of his footsteps getting closer.

Before you could turn, before you could say anything, he was there - leaning in from behind the couch, arms sliding around you, caging you in, whispering into your ear -

"It was just a simple copy-paste."

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe2

#dado 400 #aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader smut

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emmyrosee · 7 months ago

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The sheer jolt that wakes you up is enough to shake the bed, but not nearly enough to stir the sleeping man next to you. Kiyoomi’s always slept like a pile of bricks, tonight seemingly is no exception.

You turn to your side to look at the clock, groaning softly at the early morning time, far too early to be trembling in fear about your dream.

But it’s one where Kiyoomi, the love of your life, the one you’d sell your soul to, the one you planned to marry, does the absolute unspeakable.

The mere idea makes your stomach churn. And with someone he’d sworn, assured, promised he had no mere interest in, someone he could dispose of easily if it meant keeping you.

But in your dream, he’d shown absolutely none of that care or desire to dispose of them.

Grabbing your pillow, you grip the corners in your hands hard enough where your knuckles lighten. You look over at your boyfriend, who breathes deeply and rhythmically, cozy in his slumber as he’s burrowed under the covers.

You raise your pillow and smack him with it.

Now it’s Kiyoomi’s turn to jump a foot in the air. He yelps and immediately sits up, looking around wildly to try and find the source of his terrifying awakening.

“What! What’s wrong! Babe!”

You don’t say anything. You simply raise your pillow again, and smack him with it, this time more intention in your swing. He groans, hands instinctively coming up to protect himself, words of confusion spilling out from his lips- unlike the defeat he held in his dream.

Smack after smack, you feel the tears biting your waterline, stinging ferociously, and you screw your eyes shut as your shoulders tremble at the concept of his portrayal. The hot tears make their way down your cheeks, and your lip wobbles as your mind replays his betrayal over and over again.

“Ow! What did I do! Ow! STOP!” His hands make a reach for your pillow before you can bring it back down to his head. “God, you keep rocks in here or something?” He whines, bringing the pillow down, being met with some fighting from you and your desire to keep whacking him. You opt instead to shove his chest and shoulders, and he continues to squirm and bat you away.

“Are you out of your mind!” He scolds, once he’s finally able to still your hands. But the second he sees your face, he softens. “Oh… what’s wrong? You okay?”

“No,” you sob. He makes a move for his hand to touch your cheek, but you flinch slightly. “You’re cheating on me.”

“WHAT?”

“Kiyoomi, tell me it isn’t true,” you choke, burying your face in your hands. “Tell me it’s not true, it’s not true, you’d never-“

“I would never,” he says firmly. He grabs your hands and gently guides you to look at him. His fingers grip your chin softly, making you keep eye contact with his sleepy, but still serious gaze, “do you understand? Never.”

“But… but you… but-“

“Never,” he repeats, fingers gently squeezing your cheeks, pursing your lips out. Your tears roll over his fingers, and he winces, “fuck, this one got you good, didn’t it?”

“You cheated on me,” you wail. “With them, Kiyoomi. And you didn’t even care, you promised me they were gone and you were cheating on me- everything I was terrified for, it felt so real. Fuck, what were you thinking?”

“Clearly, in your dream, I wasn’t,” he says softly. Then, he sits in thought, and you sniffle and look at him, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. He clicks his tongue, “let’s kill him.”

“Who?”

“Dream me.”

That, finally, makes you snort. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, laughter mixing with cries in the palm of your hand. You shake your head and let out a shaky cry, shoulders heaving as you try to contain your nose that desperately wants to run. He says nothing, but a shaky hand lays on your back. You jolt, but inevitably melt into the familiar touch you fell in love with. You slowly lay your head to rest on his shoulder, body exhausted from the ordeal and whirlwind of emotions coursing through you.

“Do you remember when we first met, and I was so enthralled with you, I spilt my scalding hot coffee on myself?”

You snicker again, around your whimpers. You nod against him, and you feel his head lay on yours.

“You know atsumu still teases me for that? Asshole. He can’t score a date to save his life, yet I manage to gain the courage to ask out the most amazing person, have them somehow say yes, and yet I’m the one who should be embarrassed? He’s an embarrassment to his bloodline.”

“Don’t bully atsumu,” you offer a watery laugh. “He’s a sweetie pie when he’s not being the worst.”

“Which is when?”

You laugh again. You feel long, slender fingers gently try to interlock with yours, and you gently lace them all together. He brings up your bundle of hands to kiss the back of yours, “but you know what?”

“Hm.”

“If it means keeping you for the rest of my life, I’ll never bully him again. I’ll wear a paper bag on my head. I’ll let you fuse with me and live in my skin. I’ll let you tickle me awake when we’re late for brunch with your friends. I’ll let you pick my nose for whatever reason your brain decides to. I’ll let you do anything you want to me, because I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.”

Your free hand comes up to cover your mouth to cry into, eyes screwing shut and shoulders heaving at his words. Fat tears roll over your fingers, hot and leaving sticky tracks in their wake.

“I only pick your nose when you’re giving me the silent treatment,” you choke.

“When was the last time I gave you the silent treatment?”

“Well-“

“And when was the last time you picked my nose?”

You crumble into a fit of giggles as you remember the last time, where your head had been resting on his chest and your finger slowly creeped up his body. He’d gripped your hand to stop it with a knowing smirk.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love him more with every time.

“Can I see your phone?” You manage.

Without a second to spare, he lets you go to grab his phone on his nightstand, “you know the password?”

“Hinata’s birthday.”

“That’s right,” he chuckles.

And to your relief, there’s no trace of them. Not a single remnant of their presence, as if they never existed, as if they never met him. You even checked his recent messages to see if they were disguised as someone’s name- thankfully, it was just the usuals and nothing was out of the ordinary.

You pass the device back to him and burrow into his side, holding him tightly. “I love you.”

“I love you so much,” he whispered back. “You are everything to me. I’d be a fool to even think about jeopardizing what we’ve got going, baby.”

You nod and close your exhausted eyes, letting his gentle fingertips tickling up and down your arms lull you into a state of peace. Every few minutes, you feel lips press to your head, and while you’re not sure exactly when you finally succumbed to sleep, you know it’s in his arms with your drool soaking into his shirt.

Not that you’d have it any other way.

——-

@wolffmaiden @lees-chaotic-brain HEHEHEHEHE

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elmushterri · 14 days ago

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The Failed Star Jupiter Planets and their star, Sol. If you don’t know, FSJ is a lil concept musical about Jupiter trying to overthrow the Sun with the help of/manipulation of the devious Pluto. It’s planetary politics! (Way more fun and fantastical than real ones…) Other star systems and stars get involved, asteroids, moons— Some support the Sun, some support Jupiter. Most Stars are biased, and don’t believe planets can run Star Systems. Jupiter’s always been disgraced— they were meant to be a star but never quite got powerful enough. This disgrace and shame followed them all their life, impacting their self-image— and that’s how you make a planet that is bitter enough to plan to overthrow their oldest friend and beloved star.

Also if you’re wondering “why are the planets the wrong colours?” I take different images from different famous, techy telescopes (Ultraviolet, Infrared, etc).

Then there are their Dance of the Planets outfits! That’s a grand gala, like it says, that is hosted by a different Star every millennium. Coincidentally, this turn is Sol’s! How willll the Solar System navigate this amidst the huuuuge political scandal going on? Also yes, you CAN draw your moonsona at the Dance of the Planets, ofcccccccc! Jupiter and Sol definitely have to dance at some point.

Finally, rarely seen and used, the casual outfits! They bareeeely wear these. Also Neptune is in a silly little sailing outfit. They love the water so much.

If you’re wondering, LOOSELY! Mars is based off of Japanese culture, Uranus is based off of Indian culture, Venus = Philippines, Earth/Terra = Ghana, Saturn = Kuwaiti.

Their personalities I’ll get into later but in short, they are as their planets represent in Astrology like I’ve shown.

Pluto: Devious, manipulative but very very smooth, power hungry, chic. She’s the main villain. Jupiter will realise they’ve been manipulated into overthrowing the Sun FOR Pluto’s revenge plot.

Mercury: He’s logical, communicative and intelligent. He’s always there to listen. And always running around.

Jupiter: The main character. They basically had gifted kid syndrome and didn’t live up to it (aka, failed to become a star to rule alongside Sol). They’re all about luck but feel so unlucky. But they still represent expansion and that is what they intend to do to their power.

Mars: Aggressive, loves fights, easily swayed by emotional arguments unlike Mercury. They’re very excited for this competition (figurative) between Sol and Jupiter.

Venus: A total sweetheart, can get a biiit jealous, very artistic. She remembers when Jupiter and Sol, a young planet and protostar, loved each other more— or at all.

Terra/Earth: She’s the Apple of the Milky Way Galaxy’s eye. She has life on her! She supports the Sun because OF COURSE SHE DOES! She knows well that her people need Sol and prefers stability.

Neptune: Our sea child (by child I mean like billions of years old adult who’s a bit eccentric.) She’s very very dreamy, a bit unaware, but powerful. She’s neutral on the rebellion.

Uranus: Problem stirrer. He LOVES rebellion, any rebellion! Just make something interesting happen! He supports Jupiter entirely to be a problem and everyone expected it.

Saturn: He keeps the order in the entire Galaxy, he’s a powerhouse cause of his ring. Jupiter’s kind of jealous— Saturn’s physical power is second biggest and yet they’re more admired for their ring! Anyway Saturn’s always drained, exhausted, done with everyone (bit of an exaggeration— he’s a working dad type). He’s done bad things to keep the system safe and Jupiter now knows. Blackmailing Saturn is the only reason Jupiter even CAN overthrow the Sun. Stars can’t be easily beaten. You need soooo much power, yours and your friends’!

Sol: The star behind, well, the SOLar System! They used to be intimately involved with their system. When they and Jupiter, who I’m gonna refer to as their real life nickname Jove, we’re young, they assumed “We’ll be a Binary Star System (2 stars like usual), but Jove failed and Sol bears the load. Since, they’re rarely seen and Jupiter only grows more bitter because THEYRE practical doing the Sun’s work! Why is Sol such a hermit! They never intended to hurt Jupiter.

——

So do I want to make this musical? Yes! Am I making it right now,, yeah! Slowllly. I’m working on a main song: Overthrow The Sun. Ofc, that one’s all Jupiter! I doubt I’ll get voice actors and I don’t mind doing it all myself ofc. But if you’d like to help, talking about and tagging Failed Star Jupiter ofcccc would help! No obligations, though. Thank you for 60K subscribers 🧡✨

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iamgonnagetyouback · 5 months ago

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𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

― you kneel with a ring and a racing heart. he short-circuits mid-equation. marriage was never this statistically likely.

🧷 spencer reid x fem!reader, fem pronouns, no use of y/n, mutual pining finally combusts, proposal chaos™, soft!reader bold!reader? maybe, spencer is absolutely glitching, fluff, he says yes (eventually), love languages in every form, proofread, word count: 2,524

꒰🧺꒱ — gif by @lightningcrashes | divider by @/lavendergalactic

The first time Spencer surprised you, it wasn’t with some grand romantic gesture or an intricately thought-out plan—it was with a single sentence, delivered so casually you almost missed it.

You were at the BAU, perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, absently flipping through a book he’d left open while he and Derek were mid-conversation about something you weren’t entirely following. The buzz of the bullpen droned around you, keys clacking, phones ringing—nothing unusual. You had half a mind to start daydreaming when you caught the tail end of Spencer’s words, his tone as effortless as if he were reciting a grocery list.

“—kind of like the 1972 edition of The Last Unicorn, you know, the one with the misprint where the dedication is in the wrong place. That’s her favorite edition. She mentioned it once, so if you ever see a copy, let me know.”

You blinked.

Your favorite edition? The one with the misprint? The edition you had rambled about once—once—over takeout months ago? The conversation had been a passing thought, a fleeting mention between bites of lo mein, something you’d figured was lost to the ether.

But no. Of course, Spencer remembered.

Derek smirked, a slow, knowing expression creeping across his face as he shifted his gaze to you. “Damn, pretty boy. You writing a dissertation on your girl or something?”

Heat surged up your neck so quickly it was a miracle you didn’t combust on the spot. “Spencer—”

“What?” Spencer blinked at you, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. “You said it was important to you. Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Because I said it once. Months ago. In passing.”

He frowned, as if the very concept of forgetting something you loved was utterly foreign to him. “You love it. That makes it important.”

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You weren’t sure what to do with the way he looked at you, all soft certainty and quiet devotion, as if remembering the smallest details of your happiness was second nature to him.

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”

Spencer barely acknowledged him, tilting his head at you. “Did I say something wrong?”

You exhaled a laugh, light and breathless. “No, Spence. Not at all.”

You were still flustered. Still shocked. But more than anything, you were his. And that made all the difference.

The second time Spencer surprised you was at the carnival. The lights flickered like a thousand fireflies overhead, washing the fairgrounds in a kaleidoscope of color. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and fried dough. You were walking past a row of game booths with Penelope, your fingers wrapped around a half-melted cotton candy, when your eyes landed on it.

A stuffed bear, slightly lopsided but endearingly so, with soft brown fur and a tiny pink bow.

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said absentmindedly, taking another bite of your sugary treat.

The game itself was one of those—the kind designed to be unwinnable. A cluster of milk bottles, stacked in a pyramid, just heavy enough and just angled enough that knocking them over with a weighted ball was statistically improbable, if not impossible.

Penelope gave you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, sugarplum, but those are rigged to hell and back. The guy running the booth said no one’s won that all night.”

You sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. “Figures.”

With that, you let it go, continuing forward with Penelope while Spencer lingered behind. You didn’t think much of it—he probably got distracted by something, as he often did.

It wasn’t until you were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel that you felt something tap your shoulder.

You turned, and there stood Spencer, glasses slightly askew, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, holding the stuffed bear against his chest like it was some sort of peace offering.

Your mouth parted in shock. “Spence. No.”

Spencer, looking far too pleased with himself, simply shrugged. “Yes.”

You blinked. “How—?”

“It’s all physics.” He adjusted his glasses with one hand, shifting the bear to his other arm. “The way the bottles are stacked, they create a deceptive center of gravity. Most people aim for the middle, but if you hit the base bottle at the exact right angle—”

“You’re telling me you mathed the carnival?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Technically, I scienced it.”

Penelope let out an outrageously loud gasp. “Boy Wonder, did you just hack the universe for love?”

Spencer, deadpan, said, “Would you rather I hacked it for evil?”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you were still too busy gaping at him. The keeper had said the game was impossible, and yet, here he was, holding the proof in his hands.

Spencer held the bear out toward you with a small, shy smile. “You liked it.”

You took it, warmth blooming in your chest so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, voice full of wonder, “you are ridiculous.”

His expression faltered. “But in a good way?”

You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Yes,” you mumbled against his shoulder. “In the best way.”

And as if he hadn’t already ruined you completely, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and murmured, “Good.”

It started as a habit you barely noticed—something instinctive, something you never really thought about. When emotions ran too high, whether in frustration, excitement, or joy, you’d slip into your native language. A muttered curse when you stubbed your toe, rapid-fire exclamations when you got good news, whispered endearments when Spencer did something particularly sweet.

And Spencer, for all his genius, would just stare at you, brow furrowed, lips pressed together in frustration.

“I hate not knowing what you’re saying,” he admitted once, after you’d spent two minutes ranting under your breath about something someone had said. “It’s like…watching the best scene in a movie, but without subtitles.”

You had laughed, ruffled his hair, and moved on.

You didn’t think he’d actually do anything about it.

But, of course, this was Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t until months later, in the middle of a particularly heated argument over whose turn it was to do laundry, that you realized something had changed.

“Spencer,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “I literally did it last week, and I swear to God—”

You stopped mid-sentence, your frustration boiling over into a string of words in your native tongue, too sharp and fast for him to possibly understand.

Or so you thought.

Because instead of his usual confused frown, Spencer just…sighed. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, voice annoyingly soft. “You feel like you’re always the one keeping things in order, and it’s frustrating when I get caught up in my work and don’t notice.”

You froze.

Your brain froze.

Your soul left your body.

“Did you just—?”

Spencer shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets like he hadn’t just rocked your entire world. “I learned.”

“You learned?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just casually admitted to learning an entire language for you. “You use it when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re really happy. When you’re really upset. I wanted to be able to—” He hesitated, then sighed. “I wanted to understand you. All of you.”

You were reeling.

Your Spencer, the man who got overwhelmed by new foods and wore mismatched socks on purpose, had sat down and taught himself a whole language just to keep up with you.

The worst part? He wasn’t even bragging about it.

He was just looking at you with those big, earnest eyes, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Say something else,” you breathed, stepping closer, heart hammering in your chest.

Spencer’s lips quirked. He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, and murmured something in your language—something soft, warm, achingly tender.

You didn’t need a translation. You felt it.

And that was the moment you realized that if this man ever proposed, you wouldn’t even need a ring to say yes.

The BAU wasn’t exactly known for throwing extravagant parties, but every once in a while—when the cases weren’t weighing too heavy, when the team needed to breathe—someone would organize a gathering. Tonight, it was at a cozy, dimly lit bar, where laughter hummed in the air, and glasses clinked together in celebration of nothing and everything all at once.

You were nursing a drink, swaying absently in your seat to the upbeat music thrumming through the speakers, when a hand ghosted over yours.

Spencer.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you teased, raising a brow.

“I don’t,” he said. “Or, well—I told you I don’t.”

Before you could question him, he was tugging you to your feet, guiding you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room.

“Spencer,” you laughed, trying to plant your feet. “What are you—?”

And then he spun you.

Spun you.

Not clumsily, not awkwardly—gracefully, like he’d been doing this for years, like he’d memorized the movements as easily as he memorized case files. His fingers found yours effortlessly, his other hand resting lightly on your waist, pulling you close in a way that sent warmth flooding through you.

Your breath caught.

“You lied,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Spencer had the audacity to smirk. “I omitted.”

You wanted to be annoyed—really, you did—but it was impossible when he was guiding you so effortlessly, his steps steady and sure, his touch sending sparks along your skin. The rest of the room faded, the music folding around the two of you like something made for this moment.

And then, over the music, someone yelled—loud, clear, amused.

"Put a ring on her, Reid!"

The team laughed, Penelope whooped, and Spencer—adorably, unbelievably—went scarlet.

But you?

You just smiled, pressing closer to him, because the thought had already taken root in your mind.

And if he kept surprising you like this, you had a feeling it wasn’t going anywhere.

You should’ve known things wouldn’t go exactly to plan.

But in your defense, you did the math.

And for a while, everything was going perfectly.

The entire BAU was in on it—except Hotch, who you had strategically placed on Spencer distraction duty. You needed someone with a natural air of authority to make sure Spencer didn’t suddenly wander back early, and Hotch, bless him, had agreed with only a single, unimpressed sigh.

Now, with Spencer successfully occupied, you had an entire team of federal agents setting up the most intricate, heartfelt surprise proposal the world had ever seen.

“Derek, the ribbons don’t loop like that,” you huffed, pointing accusingly at the offensive display of tulle bows on the ceiling. “They’re supposed to be elegant and flowy, not—” you gestured wildly at the mess he’d made, “—that.”

Derek scoffed. “Princess, I think we’re getting a little dramatic over some bows.”

“You’re dramatic over football games,” you shot back. “Let me have this.”

JJ and Emily were arranging candles while Penelope fussed over the lights, making sure everything had the perfect warm, golden glow. Even Rossi was involved, setting up the champagne and shaking his head fondly at your borderline-manic attention to detail.

Everything was falling into place.

Everything was perfect.

And then, the door opened.

At first, no one reacted. You were too busy adjusting the placement of the table centerpiece to notice. But then the silence hit you—thick, unnatural, the kind that only meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And that’s when you turned.

And saw Spencer.

Standing in the doorway.

Everyone. Froze.

Your heart plummeted.

“NO, NO, NO—” You lurched forward, waving your arms as if that would physically undo the moment. “YOU CAN’T BE HERE YET! YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE UNTIL 7:05, I DID THE MATH. IT WOULD TAKE YOU APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR TO GET HERE AND THREE MINUTES TO COLLECT YOUR THINGS FROM THE CA—”

Spencer blinked. “You… did math?”

“That’s not the point!”

Spencer looked around, taking in the flickering candles, the flowers, the absolute chaos of the team caught mid-action like deer in headlights.

“Hotch was supposed to distract you,” you accused, glaring at the universe itself.

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, after about ten minutes of his ‘So, Reid, how’s work lately?’ routine, I figured I should leave him alone.”

You groaned. “Dammit.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You had planned this for weeks, accounted for everything, down to the minute, and yet here you were—standing in the middle of a half-finished proposal setup, Spencer staring at you like you were an anomaly he couldn’t quite solve.

But then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Curious.

And you realized—it didn’t matter.

The plan had never mattered. Only he did.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Okay, well, this wasn’t supposed to go like this, but—” You turned, grabbed the velvet box from the table, and without any further hesitation, dropped to one knee.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“Oh.”

And suddenly, words were spilling out of you, tumbling past your lips faster than your brain could catch up.

“Spencer, I have never met anyone like you,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “You remember every little thing I say, even if I say it once. You math carnivals just because I looked at a stuffed animal. You learned a whole language just to understand me better. You do all of these things not because you have to, but because that’s just who you are. You love me so much that it’s written into every detail of your life, and I—I just—”

Your voice broke.

Your vision blurred.

Tears streamed freely down your face, and you knew you were a mess—sniffling, shaking, soaked in emotions that should’ve been poetic but were just loud.

“There’s a reason girls don’t do this,” you hiccuped, rubbing at your eyes, utterly failing at keeping yourself together.

Spencer let out a soft, breathless laugh.

You swallowed, gripping the ring box so tight your knuckles went white. “But I figured you’d appreciate an unexpected variable for once.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then Spencer dropped to his knees too, hands framing your face with a reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and you were about to apologize, about to start rambling again, when he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “And I love you so much it terrifies me.”

Your breath caught.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, deep, sure. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Somewhere in the background, you dimly registered Penelope sobbing, Derek muttering, “Damn, pretty boy really does have it bad,” and Rossi popping open the champagne with a satisfied sigh.

But none of it mattered.

"Will you marry me, Spencer Reid?"

Spencer pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Of course, yes,” and you knew—down to your bones—that this was the best equation you had ever solved.

a/n. my first 4 + 1 fic for spencer, and i had to make it disgustingly sweet. this man was made for the softest love. i wrote this with heart eyes the entire time. hope you love it as much as i do ‹𝟹

#🧸 ― ( storytime )#spencer reid #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #criminalminds #spencer reid x self insert

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babyarmywrites · 16 days ago

Text

homecoming - bang chan

Synopsys: Chan comes home to you from tour.

Takes part of this universe, but I guess you can read this separately as well.

Word count: 1,5k

Genre: fluff

Enjoy!

He didn’t tell you what time his flight was landing.

Not intentionally, of course. Well—maybe a little. He knew you’d drag yourself out of bed at some ungodly hour just to meet him at the airport with sleep still clinging to your lashes and your favorite cardigan thrown over your pajamas.

(And honestly, he missed that cardigan more than he missed his own bed.)

By the time the door clicked open, the sun was just starting to rise, painting the walls in soft streaks of gold. His suitcase bumped softly over the hardwood as he stepped inside, and the familiar hush of your shared space wrapped around him like a blanket.

Home.

He didn’t bother unpacking. Didn’t look twice at the pile of paperwork on the coffee table or the half-eaten takeout on the counter. His body was heavy with jet lag, but his heart beat a little faster as he spotted you—

Curled up on the couch.

Wrapped in that cardigan, of course. Legs tangled under a blanket. Laptop open in front of you, concept board edits splayed across the cushions. You’d clearly fallen asleep mid-work, a red pen still tucked behind your ear, lips parted just slightly.

He stood there for a second. Just… looked at you.

God, he missed you.

Not just your voice or your smile or the way you’d send him reminders to eat in the middle of chaos. But you. The you that never treated him like a leader or a producer or anything more than just Chris. Just your Chris.

He dropped his bag quietly and knelt beside the couch, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek.

You stirred.

“Chan…?”

“Hey.” His voice was soft and rough at the edges, the kind of voice people only get when they’re looking at the one thing they’ve missed more than sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open, slow and dazed—and then widened when you saw him.

“You’re home—!” you breathed, launching forward without hesitation.

He caught you easily, arms wrapping around your waist, nose burying into the spot between your neck and shoulder like he could inhale every second he’d missed. Contrary to the Asian/Australian/LATAM leg of the tour, you were not allowed to join them in the US and Europe. Their highly anticipated comeback has been approaching, and fans have started to become excited and slightly impatient, which led to management pulling everyone to stay back in Korea to finish the last touches, including you. Chan was devastated when he found out. Thankfully, he already made plans for his family to follow him across the two legs of the tour, which eased his mind slightly, but nonetheless, the last couple of months away from you have been hard on him. You still talked constantly, and you flew out to LA for a couple of days with some board members to have non-stop meetings about the last touches for the album. However, your trip wasn't about seeing your Channie, but about having meetings with Bang Chan, the leader, and management.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your skin.

“You didn’t call,” you grumbled, pulling back just enough to smack his chest lightly. “I was gonna meet you—”

“I know.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “But I didn’t want an airport meeting, with disguises and formal meetings. I wanted you. Like this. Just you.”

You blinked at him, a little disarmed, a little teary. “That’s dumb.”

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “But I’m your dumb.”

You kissed him before he could say anything else, warm and slow, like time was finally giving you both a break. And when he pulled you down onto the couch with him, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, your fingers slipping through his hair, he breathed out for the first time in weeks.

Tour was amazing.

But this? This was the part he looked forward to the most.

It wasn’t long ago—only hours, really— since he got home and cuddled up to you on the couch, a blanket tucked around your legs, Chan halfway draped over you like a weighted heating pad. You could feel his body gradually giving out, his words slowing down between yawns, his fingers growing still on your arm.

He kept mumbling about sore legs and jet lag and “just five more minutes,” his breath warm against your collarbone.

“Channie,” you murmured, shifting underneath him, “you’re going to pass out right here and then complain for three days about your back.”

He groaned in protest. “But I'm so comfy…”

“You won’t say that tomorrow when you’re limping around like a grandpa.”

He nuzzled deeper into your neck. “I’m not moving. I live here now.”

You rolled your eyes, but softened at the sight of him—home again, safe, and finally at ease.

“Fine,” you teased. “I’ll leave you here and take the bed. And the blanket.”

At that, he shot up dramatically. “No!”

Before you could react, he scooped you up into his arms bridal-style and staggered to his feet with a determined grunt.

“Christopher—!”

“Must not lose sleep!” he declared, half-jogging toward the bedroom like a man on a mission. “Sleep is precious. I’ve trained too hard for this moment!”

You shrieked and clung to him as he carried you down the hallway, nearly tripping on his own sock along the way. You were both laughing by the time he threw you gently onto the bed, collapsing beside you with a loud sigh of triumph. It doesn't take long for both of you to drift off to dreamland. It's always easy when you're curled up into one another.

You wake up to lips pressed against your cheek and the weight of Chan’s arm slung over your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to the mattress—and maybe, a little, to you too.

He’s already awake. Has been, you realize, judging by how his fingers are tracing invisible shapes along your hip.

You groan into the pillow. “You’re staring at me.”

“I missed staring at you,” he says, not even pretending to be sorry.

You roll over just enough to squint at him, and he looks so pleased with himself it’s offensive. Messy curls flopping into his eyes, that adorable crinkle at the corners, Fendi chain dangling over his toned chest, making him look effortlessly delicious. Sometimes, you thank all the gods above that he likes sleeping without a shirt on.

He’s glowing. In that annoying way people do when they’re happy and well-rested and too in love.

“Let me see it,” he whispers like he’s asking for state secrets.

You blink. “See what?”

“The final KARMA concept board,” he grins. “Come on—I know it got approved while I was away. I can feel it.”

“Chan.”

“I won’t say anything! Just a peek! A teeny tiny glimpse—like, just one slide.”

You sigh and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “You’ve been home for eight hours.”

“Exactly! Eight whole hours without work. I’m practically a civilian now.”

You turn to face him again. “You have three days off. You begged your managers for them. You almost cried.”

“I did cry,” he mutters. “And it was totally worth it. But now I’m home and I’m full of ideas and I need to channel them, baby—this energy is rare. I’m inspired!”

You shove a finger into his chest, not unkindly. “Christopher Chahn Bahng. No work talk. That was the deal.”

“But you’re the Creative Director! We work together, we ought to touch on some work-related topics during pillow talk.” he whines, and you playfully smack him in the face with the giant Wolf Chan plushie that has been his stand-in cuddle bug while he was touring across the US and Europe.

“And right now, I’m your girlfriend,” you say, settling back into your pillow with a smug little smile. “So. Shut up, cuddle me, and watch some trash TV like a normal man in his pajamas.”

He groans dramatically and buries his face into your neck. “You’re evil. You’re literally withholding joy from me.”

You giggle, stroking his hair. “That’s part of my job too.”

He huffs. “This is emotional warfare.”

“This is boundaries.”

There’s a beat of silence before he mumbles, “...can I at least know if Soccer Star Hannie made the cut?”

You flick his forehead.

“OW—okay, okay! Cuddling! We’re cuddling!”

You pull the blanket higher over both of you as he sighs and melts against you, limbs tangled, hearts aligned. Eventually, he quiets down, hand slipping under the hem of your shirt in that comforting, lazy way he does when he’s about to fall asleep again.

And just when you think he’s finally drifted off—

“…I just know that token concept with the yin-yang poker chips hit. I feel it in my bones.”

“Channie.”

“Okay shutting up now I swear.”

(He does not, in fact, shut up.)

#stray kids #skz #bang chan x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan x y/n #bang chan fluff #bang chan angst #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz fluff #stray kids fluff

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archrafayel · 1 month ago

Text

ೕ ׄ HOW I GOT INTO TWO COLLEGES WITH SHITTY CIRCUMSTANCES ྀ . ݁ ˖

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ this is a success story i had last year, but i decided to share it to motivate you guys and especially those who are manifesting getting into their dream college but think "they can't" because of this or that (because they got really low grades or whatever reason). i'm here to prove you wrong ;)

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ in 2023 adult life hit and i had to decide what career i wanted cause being unemployed and poor wasn't an option at the time lmaooo. i chose tech cause i always found it easy and was already learning programming to help my family since it pays really well. researched areas that paid well and fell in love with software engineering. decided i'd go to college and become a software engineer.

but, things didn't go as planned...

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ i'm brazilian and here if you're broke and went to public school, the government pays for college through prouni. but you gotta take the ENEM test and get good grades to pass. i had just finished high school and unlike most people, never took prep courses cause i couldn't afford it so i studied alone with whatever time i had (which was basically nothing lol). first try i got decent grades (620/1000 if memory serves) but not enough for software engineering, so i ended up in systems analysis at some mid university 💀. at that time i didn't wanna be without college so i assumed i'd pass that one (pretty sure i used subliminals/methods back then cause i thought it depended on that stuff) and actually got first place even though i didn't want to study there. first college i got into cause i manifested it - i started studying there but always hoped i'd get into what i actually wanted.

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ everything was "fine" until life decided to be messy: toxic job that fucked up my head, my little brother got hospitalized near death (thank hekate & freyja he's okay now), and my mental health was in the gutter so i had to drop out.

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ recovered/got my shit together and decided to try again for the college i wanted (you can try prouni twice a year). this time i did something different - i just assumed i already passed software engineering. that's it. whenever i thought about college i'd tell myself "i'm already a software engineering student" and even told people close to me.

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ obviously doubts came up like "will i actually make it?" cause i didn't have the grades the first time and i was scared. but i always went back to assuming i already had it. registration day came and there was literally ONE spot available for software engineering in my city. i was scared but signed up anyway. next day when pre-selected candidates were announced: MY NAME WAS THERE IN FIRST PLACE. i was shook cause it's not easy to pass, that was the only spot available, and it was exactly the university i wanted??? after that i just calmly waited for the final results cause i already knew i passed. and when they finally came out (pretend to be surprised) MY NAME WAS THERE AND I HAD MADE ITTTT!!! 😱 i was in shock cause my score was the lowest there, many candidates had higher scores than mine and i passed for the only spot in the city.

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ i used to think i needed to do a million things to manifest but now i'm living proof that NOTHING MATTERS!!! i had terrible circumstances, shitty self concept, etc. and still got into my dream college. if i can do it you can fucking do it too!! didn't do anything fancy or complicated - just assumed it was mine and moved on with my life.

𔓕ㅤ۪ㅤ۫ just be the person who already has what you want. there's no process, nothing to try to get when you ALREADY HAVE IT. the moment you assume something, it's already yours. nothing more to be done.

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bunnywithablog · 8 months ago

Note

Hi! I saw that requests were open, so I wonder... can I request an imagine or headcanons (whatever you're more comfortable doing) about Legosi falling for a carnivore s/o and struggling with that after being so sure to be attracted to herbivores only please??

my writing chops are a bit rusty so please excuse me if this feels a bit off 😭 i had lots of fun writing it though!! if anyone is interested in a part 2, please let me know! i think it's a cool concept to explore and would love to do more with this >:) thank's for requesting and i hope you enjoy!

requests | rules | masterlist

pairing: Beastars - legoshi x carnivore!gn!reader - feeling conflicted over falling for a carnivore hc’s

warnings: internalized ...species-phobia??, brief locker-room talk from bill, implied love triangle if you squint

- now this just threw him for an absolute loop

- i mean, sure legoshi has always been more than capable of recognizing when a carnivore would be considered conventionally attractive

- but to actually FEEL attracted to them himself???

- manages to convince himself that maybe he just really likes you,,,,as a fellow peer?

- why else would he feel so strongly towards you?

- it had to be some pack-mentality science! yeah, definitely! 🤔

- but it's hard to ignore the way his ears perk at the sound of your voice during class

- or the slight wag of his tail when he catches your scent in the hallways

- or how his heart seems to stop whenever you look in his direction,,,, 💗

- it's like you were sent into his life specifically to shake him up, it's so confusing!

- so his best solution to this? avoiding you entirely.

- outta sight outta mind 🫡

- sitting extremely far away from your spot in classes, changing which hallway routes he takes, getting to and leaving the cafeteria way before/after you

- it's a perfect plan, really!

- except you don't leave his mind

- no matter where he is or what he's doing, images and questions about you creep into his thoughts

- 'what do they like to do in their free time? they have a really pretty smile, i bet it attracts a lot of people... are they interested in dating right now? would they even be interested in a grey wolf, for that matter? how do they keep their fur looking so soft?'

- he even makes more time to hang around with haru to try reinforce his established attraction to just herbivores

- the only thing this really achieves is sending him into a spiral about how he's attracted to two different people now

- and when you get scouted into the drama club as one of the dancers, it's even harder to keep you out of his sight

- starts making slip-ups with angling the lighting correctly since his focus can't help but shift to you during rehearsals

- the others in the backstage crew actually start asking if he's alright because he never makes this many mistakes

- he thinks every movement you make is so graceful, controlled and confident,,,

- it's a testament to the way you own your strengths and effortlessly channel them into your skills; it makes it undeniably alluring to watch the way you move

- wait! no! it's normal for most carnivores to be good at the physical arts so it's not attraction, just admiration for how good you are!

- denial is a river in egypt,,,,

- this cycle goes on for quite some time until the first dress rehearsal

- "oh man, did you see how good [name] looks out there in their costume? what a hot bod, especially doing all those poses and bends during the dance routine! heh, what i'd do to get a piece of that... huh? hey, legoshi, what's got you all wound-up?"

- hearing bill talk about you like that and subsequently having to hold back from hurtling a mean punch his way, legoshi finally accepted that this was a feeling he had to address 💀

- despite the borderline obsessive pull toward you, he realizes he doesn't actually know you beyond being classmates and drama club members together

- eventually concludes the best course of action is to formally introduce himself and hopefully spend some time together

- figures it's also a good way to see if these feelings grow or fade the more he gets to know you, maybe it really is just some carnivore pack-mentality thing!

- best-case scenario is that he just really wanted to be friends with you so he can continue pursuing haru without worry, but only time will tell now...

enjoy what i write? consider helping with my transition! 💕

#beastars #beastars x reader #beastars x gn reader #beastars legoshi x reader #beastars legoshi x gn reader #legoshi x reader #legoshi x gn reader #x gn reader #x carnivore reader #romantic #strangers to friends #strangers to lovers #implied love triangle

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distuff · 2 months ago

Note

Not sure if you’re still taking requests if not that’s totally fine and understandable.

I was wondering if we could get headcanons on what cuddling and or napping with the Saja Boys is like?

That all the time you need, no rush! Thank you!

Answer: I know that you've asked wAAy before I had a proper system, lol, but AYE! I do ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ And oh...my...KAMI - OF COURSE YA CAN!! When I saw this idea I was like "Oh boi that's perfect!". I hope you'll enjoy yourself then~

📍Requests: Please check HERE

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

Demon Boys' And Snuggles

Featuring: Jinu Saja, Abs Saja, Romance Saja, Mystery Saja, Baby Saja Reader: Gender neutral

Jinu Saja

🐦‍⬛ Cuddling? Jinu had almost forgotten such a concept even existed. Not because it was rare - if not outright unheard of - for demons to indulge in it, but simply because he’d never had the time to consider it in the first place.

🐦‍⬛ Between keeping the guys in check so they didn’t “accidentally” expose what they were - coughRomancecough - and having to constantly churn out songs capable of swaying both humans and Hunter/X fans alike, Jinu didn’t exactly stop to daydream about cuddling.

🐦‍⬛ He wasn’t much for naps, either. He didn’t need sleep. And though he did enjoy the attention you gave him when you thought he was off in dreamland, pretending to sleep took more effort than it was worth most days.

🐦‍⬛ The bed in his room? It only saw use when you were around for him to keep up appearances. Occasionally, one of the guys would flop down on their own to kill time. But not him. Jinu had no trouble finding other ways to pass the hours when you weren’t there - or when everything else was already taken care of.

Like nothing. There was nothing left for Jinu to do now that everything was in place. The plan had been set, the threads laid out, and now all they could do was wait for one of the HUNTER/X to knock over the first domino. After that, it would all be about keeping up the momentum, following the ripple. And so, Jinu lay slouched on the couch, head tilted back until he was staring blankly at the white ceiling. The lights were dimmed so he wouldn’t also go blind from the glare, feeling as his ears were already ringing. The others were too absorbed in their latest addition to the ever-growing collection of human “stuff” to notice, anyway. That, or they’d gone already deaf and were just rolling with it. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, sighing. How did it come to this? It all started when Abby had accidentally purchased what was apparently called a “gaming console.” According to the description, it could transform their television - previously used to watch humans act in poorly-written dramas or survive in the wild while filming animals - into a new kind of screen that could interact with them through something called a “game.” All this because Abby was trying to figure out how the smaller TV with the attached keyboard - something labelled a laptop - worked. Which, frankly, was ridiculous, because Jinu had tried placing it on his lap and the damn thing wouldn’t stop shifting around when he trying pressing buttons on it. Another one of those misleading marketing names, he supposed. Several frustrating hours passed as they tried to get the TV and gaming setup to get to know one another so they could fuse. They failed. Miserably. When Mystery offered very helpfully - to “look into it,” Jinu immediately decided it was time to call you instead. If Mystery got his hands on it, there’d be no TV, no console, no game - just spare parts that would be useless to them, and Mystery demanding to have a new Tv. With your help, and a heavy dose of guilt-tripping - you somehow believed they’d simply missed out on childhood because of strict parents and intense trainee schedule - the setup was finally functioning. Technically, they weren’t lying. Syncing their movements, perfecting transformations, surviving Gwi-ma’s hellish "parenting"... none of that exactly left room for game nights. Now, Abby, you, Baby, and Romance were completely zeroed in on some high-speed racing game, taking turns battling each other with the two “controllers” as you’d called them. Whoever lost handed theirs off, and the cycle continued with far more competitiveness than necessary. Jinu sighed and turned his head slightly, eyes settling on Mystery. The older demon sat rigid, unmoving, but his aura practically buzzed with the need to get up and start poking at everything. Jinu could feel it - the deep, gnawing urge in Mystery to understand how the whole setup worked. Separately, together, inside-out. And no doubt, destroy it in the process. Which was precisely why Jinu had been stationed there. To make sure he didn’t.

Although Jinu’s aura was still weaker than Mystery’s, his senior openly respected him now that they were in the human world. Jinu was the one with a deeper knowledge of human culture, allowing him to be on equal grounds with his brother in rank. He winced slightly, head leaning back as if trying to physically escape the dull, buzzing ache pressing behind his eyes. That was when he tensed - he felt someone settle beside him, close enough to disturb his aura’s edge. Jinu didn’t expect physical contact from the others unless they were in front of “fans” and playing a part. Which meant... Of course, it was you. You, who didn’t adhere to the strict demon sense of hierarchy as a human. Who simply eased in beside him with a content look on your face and nuzzled into his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your arm slipped around his - still crossed tightly over his chest. That can’t be comfortable, he thought absentmindedly. His skin prickled where your body pressed against his. Your soul, once bright blue, had settled into a muted shade of violet. Uncertain. Caught between two allegiances, yet attached enough now that Jinu could touch you without triggering the painful burn from the Huntress's protection. Still, this close… your soul’s quiet hum was undeniable. There was no harm in indulging a little, he decided. If you were comfortable around him, if your soul leaned closer to crimson - even briefly - then maybe… Jinu relaxed his arms, unfolding them slowly before wrapping one around your shoulders. When your grip softened in response, he gently guided you against his chest, holding you there securely. This felt… like something. It wasn’t bad. His body did welcome the way your shy energy tried tangling with his own dulled aura, where for a second, a flare of crimson sharpened your wave. Then, it faded back into your soft violet. And yet, the phantom feeling of his soul stirred in response. He couldn’t quite decide if this was about you growing more attached to him, or if he was the one selfishly clinging to the feeling. The feeling of being seen, of having something warm press against the hollow flame inside him that never quite managed to consume enough to be satisfied. You startled him back to the moment with a soft chuckle, burying your grin into his chest. A faint smile crept onto his lips, tugged down by the remnants of his earlier thoughts. He leaned down, giving your shoulder a light squeeze as he spoke, voice low and teasing, “And what are you laughing at down there?” He felt a bit amused as he watched you angle your face up, sly smile playing across your lips. It softened as your hand reached up, gently massaging the wrinkle between his brows - one he hadn’t even noticed was there. “How you can’t stop being a workaholic. Even when you do have a day off,” you said, matching his low tone like it was a secret just for the two of you. Ironic, really - if the others hadn’t been so preoccupied, they’d have heard every word. Some of them would’ve shamelessly joined in just to tease him further. Jinu felt the contentment in your line, but he also sensed hesitation. A mild concern threading through your wavelength. He sighed quietly, then reached for your wrist, gently drawing your hand away from his forehead. He placed your palm against his mouth, letting his lips press to it softly before giving you a look - affectionate, and just a little playful.

You stared back, cheeks flushed. Jinu’s smirk deepened ever so slightly as he opened his mouth to speak- Only for your bubble of peace to be shattered. “Mystery, fuck off!” came Baby’s sharp voice. Closely followed by Romance’s more melodic, panicked lilt, “Oh my… TV-ya doesn’t seem to be feeling all that well…” Jinu’s lips pressed together, his expression flat as he slowly turned his head. Yeah. Mystery was gone. His eyes snapped to the front of the room where the others were gathered - and where the chaos was now in full swing. Your expression mirrored his, both of you paling at the sight. Mystery had begun dismantling the front layer of the television. Smoke drifted out from the cracked screen, sparks fizzing around Abby, who was clutching the console like a wounded animal, completely ignoring the dangerously tangled cables. Baby was trying to stop Mystery from literally peeling the screen off. Romance stood behind them, hands fluttering uselessly while trying to shield himself from the inevitable fallout. And then - right on cue - the blaring fire alarms kicked in. Sprinklers activated overhead, water pouring down. A robotic female voice rang out above them, cheerfully announcing that the staff had been alerted and their manager contacted. Oh, for the love of - ! Jinu acted instantly, pushing you down as he moved to shield you with his body - not from the water, but from the visual chaos unfolding around you. Parts of the others’ demonic features had already begun to slip through, distorted by the water washing off their glamours. They scrambled to cover themselves - hoods, pillows, whatever was nearby. He glanced over his shoulder. They looked to him. Jinu gave a sharp nod: go. He watched as they nodded back and quickly made their way to their respective rooms. Jinu kept a close eye on them- Then his brow furrowed. Abby was holding the console over his head like an umbrella with the thing now smoking. Jinu shot him a look. Abby blinked back, utterly unbothered, before continuing towards his room like he wasn’t carrying a fire hazard over his head. He sighed, pressing his face briefly into your back. The absurdity of it all settling in like a wet blanket. Your laughter rang out a second later - unrestrained, bright, and unbothered by the alarm still screeching above before it slowly turned off. J inu smiled faintly. At least you seem to be enjoying yourself. Now all he had to do was dry off, hide the emerging demon traits, and deal with the disaster before the staff arrived. And maybe fish his phone out of his room - where it was no doubt vibrating violently with the manager’s number lighting up the screen.

<><><>

Abs Saja

💪 Abby hadn’t slept once since arriving in the human world. He didn’t see the point - why waste time lying still when he could be out exploring everything this strange new world had to offer?

💪 He didn’t need sleep, so he simply didn’t bother. Besides, it took a considerable amount of energy for a demon to truly fall asleep - energy Abby had no intention of wasting just to lie there doing nothing, unlike Mystery and Romance.

💪 That was, until he met you. Suddenly, napping became a weapon - something he learned to wield just as skillfully as his demonic abilities.

💪 Hands-on experience, diving straight in. Quite literally.

Abby didn’t remember - even if you’d told him - why exactly you couldn’t stay in his shared apartment for more than two hours today. Mostly because Abby didn’t care. Why should he care about something that was only a possibility, not a certainty? So, while the two of you were out on the balcony, chatting about how he and the others had visited a nearby park two days ago - dragged there by Romance, who wouldn’t shut up about the wild deer you could feed, the colourful trees, and the “aesthetic vibes” - Abby had stared blankly at his senior, already prepared to vote no. He’d hoped someone else would be the deciding vote, but no such luck. All four had turned to him and said, “Just pick what you want already!” And when Abby was told to choose what he wanted, well - there was no reason not to listen. Unfortunately, that was right when Romance draped himself over Abby, patting his chest and purring something about newly installed, “hidden” exercise equipment deep in the park. Baby and Mystery, who had both voted no, immediately paled. Too bad. Abby’s eyes lit up. He voted yes before Romance could even finish his sentence, utterly ignoring the smug look Romance threw at the other two demons. Baby groaned dramatically, and Mystery’s demonic aura pulsed with visible irritation, though thankfully still suppressed. Abby had always wondered why his senior didn’t use that aura to control them into staying… or at least so he could stay behind. Oh well. The trip went great - as far as Abby was concerned. From what he heard later from Jinu, however, Romance had almost gotten them banned after picking a bunch of endangered flowers. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for the fact that Baby tried feeding those same flowers to the deer. Which, apparently, were poisonous to the innocent creatures. It had taken Jinu promising through a demonic oath that Mystery never had to attend one of these outings again unless it was for a mission. Only then did the older demon calm the situation by using the honmoon waves of nearby bystanders and the guards to warp the memory into some cute little accident. Why couldn’t they just say they were Saja? Was his question later. Well, Abby had only gotten flat looks when he asked that, so… he supposed it was obvious. Still, for him at least? Totally worth the trip. He was just about to tell you what Jinu did as punishment for Baby and Romance when something started blaring in the background. You were quick to reach for it, just as Abby winced at the volume, his ears ringing. “Ah! Apologies, Abby! It’s time for me to go,” you said sheepishly, already stepping forward. “But we’ll finish this conversation - I can only imagine what Jinu did to them. They still looked half-dead when I arrived.” You rose up on your tiptoes and reached for him to kiss his cheek. Without hesitation, Abby leaned down, tilting his head slightly so you could reach with ease.

As you leaned away - no doubt about to offer another unnecessary goodbye - Abby took full advantage of your proximity. With a bored expression, he effortlessly hoisted you over his broad shoulder. You yelped, completely caught off guard. "Abs!" you scolded, smacking his back as he started walking off. "Put me down this instant! I'm not joking, Abby, I really need to go! It’s-" You launched into an explanation, but Abby only half-listened, nodding absently while his grip tightened around your waist - just enough to keep you from slipping and cracking your neck in your very ineffective escape attempt. As he strolled through the living room toward the stairs of their large apartment, Baby paused mid-suck on his lollipop. He raised a brow at the scene, then sighed and turned back toward the notebook in Jinu's lap. Jinu, for his part, looked completely scandalised - mouth agape, pen frozen mid-air like it might drop from his hand at any second. Baby lazily took the pen from him and jotted something down himself. Probably working on a new song, Abby mused absentmindedly, offering a cheeky salute to his 'leader' as he ascended the stairs - your squirming slowing into what looked suspiciously like resignation. Smart human. Abby beamed, his steps noticeably lighter. But he was a smarter demon. You could play nice all you wanted, pretend you were just going along with it - but your soul betrayed you. That beautifully loud crimson wave of yours was misbehaving, easily tearing itself from the honmoon barrier and swishing with mischief. No longer attached to the huntresses but to them - him. Which was why, when Abby finally dropped you onto the bed in his room, he was ready. Predictably, you tried to bolt. Equally predictably, Abby caught you with one steady arm, tugging you flush against his chest as he dropped down onto the plush mattress. He all but covered you with his body like a bear claiming something it saw as precious. Having done this many times now, Abby had learned to ease up some of his weight, allowing just enough room for you to breathe. Not like the first time, when you'd had to pinch him to let him know he was accidentally suffocating you. ...Oops? Now comfortably adjusted, Abby nuzzled into the crook of your neck with a contented smile. His arms coiled tightly around your form as he absorbed the comforting heat of your mixed emotions - your annoyance sparking lightly at the edges, but underneath it, a familiar jolt of happiness pulsed steadily from your soul. He took it all in greedily. The void inside him - vast, hollow, and starving - drank it down without hesitation. And just as Abby had grown used to this routine, so had you. Your resistance faded with a long, deep sigh, and your body softened against his. You knew from experience that the only way he’d move was if one of the others intervened, if they felt gracious enough hearing your pleas - or if you were actually dying of thirst, hunger, or some other critical need. As Abby began to relax, he tried to push aside Gwi-ma’s ever-present whispering in the back of his head, letting your presence drown it out. Your wave's warmth helped quiet his mind, letting his body slip into that strange drowsiness demons could settle on. Not real sleep. More of a dormant, hyper-aware resting state that helped preserve power. Abby had too much energy most of the time, but he’d learned to dim it by allowing your fragile human soul-thread to wrap around his aura like silk. He could devour it so easily if he just- Not yet, he thought with a faint smile, breath slowing. And then your fingers began to play with his hair lazily, half-heartedly annoyed. Your wave swatted at his aura in a teasing manner, and though there was a low grumble of resistance in its flick, the underlying emotion was unmistakable. You were content. And so was he.

<><><>

Romance Saja

🌹 You want to cuddle with him? Ahahahahaha - ! That rich, disbelieving laugh rang out in his mind before abruptly cutting off. Wait... you're not joking?

🌹 Gwi-ma, no. If you thought Romance was the cuddly type - think again. He refuses to touch you, or for the record, let you touch him, especially if there's even a chance of sweat being exchanged.

🌹 In the summer? Forget it. You'd sooner shake hands with a ghost than get him hold your hand.

🌹 Does he let you nap with him? Gwi-ma shield him - absolutely not. What do you think he is, your own personal, fancy, free sweat pillow?

🌹 Romance might make you look like the prettiest thing walking. He’ll dote on you with makeup, dress you up in outfits that steal the spotlight, and make you forget how to breathe with just his lips...

🌹 But cuddle? Nap with you?

🌹 No. Just - no.

It could’ve been a peaceful day. Could have been. Romance had planned to spend it doing anything other than pretending to care about the unpolished ducklings he was obliged - by Jinu - to call “fans.” He’d looked forward to resting, basking in his well-earned magnificence, and avoiding being scolded yet again by people who knew how to use the magical box called a phone. Apparently, posting whatever he felt, replying to those notes in cryptic nonsense and gibberish - despite all the hearts he received for those - was still not the right approach. Who knew? So, when Jinu announced they had a day off, Romance had beamed with unfiltered joy while the others simply sighed, relieved to finally drop their human facades. Naturally, Romance wasted no time. The moment the words “day off” had left Jinu’s lips, he had declared he would call you over for a well-earned spa day, before standing up dramatically. The chorus of groans and complaints from the others didn’t faze him in the slightest. He felt the shift in their demonic auras the moment he stood - begrudging as it was, they all slipped back into their human forms as he was already dialing your number. Yes, today had promise. He had a vision. A plan. A lovely bonding day with you. So you really couldn’t blame him for feeling thoroughly exasperated when it turned into... this. “Romance. You can’t be serious right now.” You stood over him, arms crossed, brow furrowed, disbelief practically dripping from your voice. Romance, sitting on the edge of the bed, sighed through his nose. For what had to be the thousandth time today, he reminded himself: breathe. Looking up at you with something caught between confusion and irritation, he tried to keep his voice level. “As I said before, darling... I do not wish to cuddle with you simply because—” “—I'm sweaty to you.” You finished flatly, and rather sharply. Your tone made him sigh again, deeper this time. “No, darling. Unfortunately, both you and I produce sweat. And I find the idea of our bodily fluids mixing…” He shuddered for emphasis. “Repulsive.” “Oh. Because that makes so much sense,” you muttered sarcastically, rolling your eyes with a hollow laugh. You shifted your weight, clearly pouting now, turning your gaze away from him. Romance suppressed yet another sigh. He just wanted to do his and your hair. Why did it have to turn into this emotional wrestling match? Honestly, he couldn’t even remember how the conversation started. One moment you were picking a nail polish colour, and the next you were - trying to - climb into his lap.

He, of course, gracefully dodged. Which brings you to the unforeseen presence. Sigh. “Love, please. Can we just set this aside and focus on more important matters?” he tried, hopeful. You stared him down with such heat it scorched whatever flicker of hope he had left. “No? Really? This is ridiculous, Romance. I get it in the summer, alright? But it’s autumn. The windows are closed. The heater’s off. Indoors! Can you even feel yourself sweat?” Romance opened his mouth to answer, but you threw a hand up, eyes narrowed. “That was rhetorical.” He groaned, tossing his head back, shoulders sagging dramatically. “Dear~, what do you want me to do about it? I’ve told you, I find it revolting. Just because you feel like cuddling doesn’t make it my problem now, does it?” Wrong thing to say. Your glare could have flayed a lesser demon. Romance felt his own irritation boil over. He rose smoothly, towering over you, and threw his hands into the air. “What exactly do you want me to do? Wrap us in sleeping bags? Dress us in-” He froze mid-sentence. His eyes widened, a familiar demonic flame flickering to life above his head. That perfect spark of inspiration. You blinked at his sudden stop, clearly uncertain, your brows inching up. “Romance?” you said slowly. His mouth curled into a grin - a wide, wicked thing full of dangerous creativity. “You’re a genius,” he whispered. You glanced away, expression uncertain. “Thanks?” He waved your words off like speck of dust. “Oh, no no no, Love. Not you. I’m the genius here.” He pinched your cheek lightly with a teasing smirk. “You’re just stubborn and refuse to take no for an answer~.” Before you could swat his hand away, he’d already turned on his heel and crossed the room, flinging open his closet with a flourish. With a gleam in his eye, he strode inside like a "man" on a mission.

His genius plan had ended with the two of you wearing body-hugging turtlenecks - matching, of course. And yes, he had willingly parted with one of his own so you could wear it too. It's yours now, you're welcome. Though a little baggy on you, he decided it looked fashionably oversized. Stylish, really. And since his opinion was the only one that mattered, the verdict was final. Now, the two of you sat side by side on the edge of the bed - Romance beaming, you looking thoroughly unimpressed, arms crossed. Still, you weren’t glaring anymore, and to him that was undeniable progress. A step towards the peaceful, luxurious day he had envisioned. Ignoring the very pointed side-eye you gave him, Romance draped his clothed arm over your equally clothed shoulders, tugging you closer until your head rested in the crook of his neck - well, the covered crook of his neck. He kept smiling, even though he could faintly feel the shudder in your wave - irritated, unimpressed, maybe even a little amused. Still, a win was a win, and Romance would take it. That said, he much preferred when your honmoon wave wasn’t so... stiff. But using his demonic aura to soothe it would only aggravate you further. And unfortunately, you were still very much loyal to the huntresses so touching it would just burn him. That left him with some... human emotional regulation, he guessed. Which he was not the greatest with. Especially not when it came in the form of “I want comfort from you, but also want to fight you.” So, drawing on his very limited inspiration, he copied something he’d once seen in one of those absurd dramas Mystery seemed to be obsessed with lately. Still smiling, cheek barely brushing the top of your head, Romance raised a hand and - robotically, awkwardly - began patting you. Straightforward. Repetitive. Like someone trying to calm a growling cat. His eyes remained fixed ahead, blank and unmoving as he continued the awkward patting. But then - you shifted, your chin moving so you could peer up at him. He felt your line sharpening in subtle judgment, then wavering in confused hesitation before softening entirely. You snorted, and amusement rippled through your bright blue wave, smoothing it into something far more pleasant. Romance nearly sighed in relief as your wave mellowed into something teasing, easing the air in the room. But then- You moved. Before he could blink, your arms wrapped around his waist. He only had a split second to glance down, confusion flitting across his face- -and then you yanked. Or tried to. You may have forgotten for a moment that Romance was a demon with otherworldly strength. Your sudden tug only succeeded in dragging yourself down, latching onto him like a determined koala. Now you were curled around his side on the bed, arms locked around his waist, face hidden somewhere in his back. Romance sat there, one hand still awkwardly raised in the air, blinking down at your tangled limbs with a look of mild amusement. Your wave spoke of shy contentment now, but the deep blush dusting your ears was louder than any line in the honmoon barrier could ever be. “Don’t.. Say.. Anything. Just lie down,” came your muffled demand. Romance blinked. Then his smile returned. Your arms squeezed tighter in warning. Gracefully, he lowered himself beside you, pausing just long enough for you to make room before lying down fully. You adjusted with a soft shuffle, repositioning so you could still cling to him while the two of you properly shared the mattress. Now lying face to face, your gaze hovered somewhere near his chin, very pointedly not meeting his eyes. He didn’t mind. He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips deliberately tickled the shell of it. “So demanding~” he teased with a purr. Your foot shot out and kicked his ankle. He yelped.

<><><>

Mystery Saja

🐶 If you want a cuddle or a nap buddy, Mystery is your demon.

🐶 He’ll quite happily lie still and do absolutely nothing while you get your much-needed human rest - and in return, he gets a few blissful hours of peace away from the chaos that constantly brews behind his bedroom door. It’s a win-win, really.

🐶 You get the physical comfort you crave, and he gets to exist in rare, undisturbed silence - where everything feels like it’s on standby.

🐶 But truthfully, it wasn’t just the quiet that made Mystery agree so quickly. Maybe, if you weren’t so enamoured by him, you’d have noticed it by now.

🐶 He liked to believe humans were at least somewhat clever. After all, despite the fact their innovations had rotted a good portion of their cognitive processing, they had still created a kind of dark magic - technology - using only the earth’s resources. That, in itself, was impressive. Fascinating, even.

🐶 Needless to say, the second you fell asleep, Mystery made full use of the time.

🐶 He observed you. Meticulously. He studied every strand of hair, noting exactly where each one grew from your scalp and how it could have developed. Your skin - every pore, every faint freckle, every hidden beauty mark, whether visible or shyly tucked out of sight. He traced the structure of your ears, curious about the small bumps and folds. Your jawline. The slope of your nose. Your eyelashes. The delicate shape of your collarbone. Everything.

🐶 Mystery used this time to understand the changes - the slow, intricate evolution of the human body since the era he remembered being one himself.

Mystery noted how human skin had become a bit rougher over the centuries. Though, perhaps that was more to do with how you weren’t treated like you were made of the finest porcelain - unlike how he had once been. He also noticed how the human frame had grown slightly smaller. Not by much, but enough. Your hands were smaller, your fingers shorter. Mystery had been considered slim and short in his era, yet beside you, he felt taller. Broader. Perhaps it’s the lack of external threats, he mused absently, his clawed hand gently tracing a path down the centre of your throat to the top of your chest. It was a path he’d explored countless times, yet it remained full of undiscovered possibilities. His eyes, hidden beneath his fringe, sharpened in focus as your soul stirred beneath the surface - responding to his touch. That once-scorching blue hue had long since melted into a warm, soothing crimson - finally allowing him, and others, to be more physical with you without burning for it. Mystery tilted his head slightly, fringe parting to reveal a glint of glowing gold. His eyes, slitted and bright, widened just a bit. He slowly leaned forward, one hand hovering still above the warm pulse of your soul while the other supported his weight. You lay peacefully beneath him, the soft sound of your snores the only thing cutting through the silence of the room. He exhaled quietly as the soul’s glow reflected faintly on his demonic features that had begun to seep through his glamour. It was… enticing. That heat. The faint sweetness. The savoury tang your soul left on his tongue. Not yet... He reminded himself, jaw tightening faintly. He’d never had the chance to properly examine this particular change when he was hunting. He hadn’t even known it was possible to weaken the honmoon barrier like this. I’ll have to praise Jinu for that. Ask him how he figured it out… the thought trailed off, distracted, as he raised the hovering clawed hand and made a subtle pulling motion - purely to test a theory. His curious gaze tracked the way your soul followed, lifting just slightly, your breath hitching as if it tugged at your lungs. Your chest rose with it, straining like your soul was dragging your very body upwards. He held it for only a second longer before releasing it, opening his palm. Your chest fell along with the soul, dimming back into its dormant state. You were heaving softly now, face scrunching in discomfort - clearly on the verge of waking. Mystery couldn’t allow that. Not yet. With gentler fingers, he shifted his clawed hand a little higher, turning his palm until he felt it - your familiar line. No longer part of the protective barrier. Softer now. More whimsical. Without hesitation, Mystery caught the strand with the tip of his claw and tugged - carefully. The crimson flared again, just for a moment, before he let go and traced the length of it with a fingertip. You shuddered, your body reacting instinctively, then melted back into a deep, undisturbed slumber. Turning slightly, you pressed yourself closer to him.

How fascinating… The thought echoed once more as he let you steal his warmth, his golden gaze watching your form from beneath his fringe. The line of your soul stubbornly kept to his hand, trying to cling like ivy. Mystery ignored it - for now. Instead, he shifted you slightly, careful not to wake you, and rested his clawed hand against your chest once more. The moment he made contact, dark markings began to seep into the grey of his skin, your soul reacting instinctively to him. A sharp grin tugged at the corners of his lips. Thanks to you, Mystery had learned just how vast a demon of his rank could stretch their influence when granted the full devotion of a human soul - one that willingly intertwined itself with demonic energy. Over the years, he’d found that fewer and fewer souls appealed to him. Most had grown dull - bland in flavour, muted in depth. Pollution? Dark magic? Or just the plague of human ignorance, he mused, noting how rare it had become to find a soul still brimming with colour. Wonder. Emotion. But you… You still held onto that brilliance. That raw feeling. Your emotions never diluted - when you cried, when you laughed, when stress took hold or joy overtook you, your soul responded with such intensity it made it harder and harder for Mystery to restrain himself. To not corner you. To not devour what he’d long since claimed as his. He knew his human illusion had fallen. Could feel it in the pressure of his upper tusks, the shadow cast by his fully realised form now looming over your sleeping figure. You remained unaware. Untroubled. Relaxed. Soon… The thought purred through his mind as a low rumble escaped his chest. He leaned down, letting his face nuzzle into your cheek, then traced his nose downward - along the curve of your ear, the slope of your neck. Finally, he let his head rest there, basking in the steady warmth your soul poured into him. His grin deepened. The rumble in his chest swelled into something far more content.

<><><>

Baby Saja

🍼 If you wanted to touch him, you’d have to wait until he initiated it first. Especially when it came to cuddling - which was already rare enough as it was.

🍼 Baby didn’t nap either. It took more mental effort than simply staying awake and staring off into nothing.

🍼 So, any chance of physical attention from Baby was slim. Not impossible, but unlikely - unless it involved him using you as an armrest or a pillow, or tossing himself across your lap just to bother you. Anything soft or genuinely affectionate? That would almost never happen unless he initiated it himself.

🍼 If you ever tried to initiate cuddling or suggest a nap, Baby would just step back and give you a strange look - like you’d eaten something strange.

But there were still times when Gwi-ma’s voice drilled into his skull - a buzzing, crackling noise like fire. Baby had long since recognised it as his King’s laughter, joined by other voices he couldn’t name. They stirred something in him, made his muscles tense and his jaw lock. He'd either want to slam his head against the sharpest surface to ease the pressure or tear into something, preferably something that could bleed. Gwi-ma’s voice, ever persistent, would start asking the usual questions - WHEre aRE thEy? HOw loNg? HoW MAny? = as though Baby had the answers, as if he was supposed to track down one of his seniors when even he had no clue where they’d gone. When he couldn’t respond, or what he said wasn’t enough, the King would push further, flooding Baby’s head with those damn voices that made his teeth clench. He'd asked once - how do you deal with it? Abby had said he just blasts music through the cool human mufflers until his eardrums feel like they’ll burst. Romance claimed sorting through his clothes helped him tune out Gwi-ma. Jinu said Tiger and Magpie did most of the deflecting. And Mystery? Temples, apparently. “They work wonders.”

Baby had tried all of it. Abby’s method left his ears ringing for a full week - but he was proud he could still perform through it. Sorting through his wardrobe only made him stare blankly at shirts he didn’t even remember owning. Tiger and Magpie helped quiet the voices, but not enough. Gwi-ma still got through. And stepping onto temple grounds? He didn’t even make it past the front gate before nausea hit like a sledgehammer. Lightheaded, sick, and disoriented, he stumbled back to the apartment. So why - why did it all work for them but not for him? He’d finally asked Mystery one night, catching him in what felt like a good mood. Baby had wanted to know - do the others hear Gwi-ma the way he does? That loud? That constant? Mystery had stared at him for a long while. Even without seeing his eyes, Baby could tell the elder demon was evaluating him. Then came a simple, “No.” That was it. No explanation, no elaboration. Just no. It left Baby stunned. No? ...No?! Frustrated, voice rising in spite of himself, he’d snapped - tired of the constant headaches, tired of the pressure, the cackling, the voices crawling under his skin every single time. But Mystery only asked one thing. Something simple. Too simple. “What was your contract?” The words had stopped him cold. Asking another demon about their contract was personal. Intrusive. And yet, it struck something deep inside Baby that he hadn’t wanted to dig up. Now, with that same memory dragging itself to the front of his mind, Baby groaned and pushed his head shamelessly into your neck, trying to block everything out. Shut up, shut up... He repeated the words in his head as Gwi-ma’s voice rose, dragging others with it - familiar but faceless, pressing into his temples until he felt feverish and cold all at once. He rolled his tongue along the inside of his mouth, looking for anything grounding, but there was nothing. Just his own breath and the heat of it. Then - your hand. Hesitant, but there. Gentle fingers pushed through his tangled hair. Baby shuddered. Pressed closer. “Yeah...” he exhaled, the word more breath than voice. He needed more. You understood. Your fingers dug a little deeper, massaging his scalp with growing confidence. His body twitched under your warm touch, instinctively recoiling from contact - but he forced himself to stay still. His mind felt quieter with you touching him like this. So he shifted you further down onto the couch, ignoring the tangle of your wave still tightly woven through the honmoon barrier, scorching and embarrassed but quietly pleased. He nuzzled into your neck as your other hand moved to his shoulder, kneading gently. Baby melted under the care, tension leaving him little by little. He focused on the sensation of you. Not the voices. Not the heat behind his eyes. Just your hands, grounding him. He didn’t care if you pushed him away, or snapped his neck, or left him vulnerable. None of that mattered. What mattered was the stillness you brought - how your presence made his thoughts slow, his breathing steady, his body begin to relax. One breath. Then another. For now, this was what mattered.

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berryzoey · 1 month ago

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THE FACE REVEAL

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 : mystery

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : you had never fully seen your boyfriends face before, but when he came home after work one day; all was changed.

𝐚/𝐧 : based off of mystery’s concept sketches! specifically the one in the purple cardigan. he’s so handsome, please enjoy! :)

There was one feature about your boyfriend that kept the Saja Boy’s fans guessing; his hair. Silver locks poured over the top portion of his face, covering the eyes whose appearance was unknown even to you. The feature did certainly work for the demon's idol persona; the mysterious, quiet member. While those obvious traits were true to his character, he had a side that was sweet as honey.

Mystery was a gentle, caring, and understanding partner in your relationship. He always made sure that you ate in the mornings, went to bed at a reasonable time, and stayed hydrated during the day. Whether it be by text or FaceTime when he couldn’t be with you, or in person laying beside you, he ensured you that he cared. It was silly to you that he was like a lovesick puppy when in your presence, but a man of few words with his fans.

Though, his fans weren’t wrong in their curiosity of what he truly looked like. If anything, you were equally if not more curious as to what kept your boyfriend so mysterious. Of course you loved him as is, but there was always that gnawing curiosity at the back of your mind. You wouldn’t force him to reveal it to you, the mere thought already felt too intrusive. He needed to be the one to feel open enough to show that part of himself.

You would wait forever if you had to.

But, he wouldn’t keep you waiting for that long.

Your whole day had been spent relaxing on the couch, buried in a pile of blankets and pillows with an array of your favorite snacks laying on the coffee table, favorite warm drink in hand. The couch was cold, while your blankets kept you warm; the perfect combination for a cozy day off work while you sat and binge watched your favorite shows. Or new shows, whichever tickled your fancy in the moment. The only missing piece to your perfect relaxation was your boyfriend, who still had to wake up early and head to work.

He didn’t disclose what exactly his day entailed, but you had a feeling it was new choreography or a new set of lyrics Jinu had came up with.

It had been a few hours since then, now you were patiently waiting for him to come through your front door and settle down on the couch with you.

He, however, had different plans.

From your place on the couch, you could hear the sound of a jingling key ring outside your apartment door. You didn’t much mind to it, focusing your attention back on the tv, humming along with the theme song of the show as the opening credits played. Still, your boyfriend quietly entered the room, softly closing the door behind him as he approached the backside of the couch.

He gently rested his elbow on the back of the couch, just behind your head, as he whispered to you sweetly. “Hello, [Name].”

With a quick press of a button on your remote, you paused your show and turned to face him with an excited grin on your face. However, you were met with something even better than him finally coming home, causing your mouth to open with awe.

His silver hair wasn’t combed down to cover his eyes, a half of it remained to cover one, but the other revealed an onyx eye accompanied by sharp eyeliner and light magenta eyeshadow. A soft pink gloss painted his lips curled up lips, making him look twice as kissable than normal. But, oh, his eyes. They stared at you expectantly, brushed with the softness of a man in love. And oh, was he ever with the lovestruck expression you were giving him.

You nearly didn’t recognize him, but he was still the most beautiful person you had ever laid eyes on.

A gasp left your lips as a light blush began to rise to your face. “Mystery?” You whispered, almost hesitant to believe you had bagged someone as handsome as a fairy tale prince.

A soft smirk spread across his face, “Do you like it?”

Without missing a beat, you eagerly shook your head yes. He shyly chuckled, placing a hand against his cheek to hide the warmth on his cheeks. As he did so, he began twirling a piece of his hair with his fingers with his other to distract himself, mumbling, “The hairstylist said they wanted to try a new look on me for the promo of my new solo album. I think they did a nice job, all things considered.” Mystery could be bold, yes, but he was always a demon who folded from the love of his partner.

And you would absolutely fold in return.

A cold hand was suddenly placed against the hand that covered his cheek, replacing it with your own. Then, a gentle kiss was pressed against his lips, lightly smudging the pink gloss brushed upon his lips just hours before. Then another, and another. Before long, his face was covered with his own lip gloss in the form of his lover's lips as his blush became as red as a tomato. “You’re so gorgeous! Look at those eyes.” You squealed, giggling as your boyfriend gave you a wobbly smile.

A soft kiss was then placed on his nose, “My pretty boy.” You praised as he stood there, relishing in all the affection you had given to him. If this was the reaction he got from you just by switching the style of his hair, then he would do it every day.

Mystery laid his forehead against yours, simply staring into your eyes as you admired his beauty. It made him feel like he was bathing in sunlight, if there was such a thing. The warmth from your love made his demonic heart burn so much brighter, and he was going to love you til it burnt out. “You look so cute already, but please style your hair more like this!” You whined, brushing a loose strand of his hair out of his face.

He lifted his hands to hold your own, then pressed a kiss on the crown of your head. “Anything for you…”

“Anything?”

“Of course.” He whispered as you pressed one last kiss on the corner of his lips.

A mischievous look now appeared in your eyes, “Then, would you show me your cute demon fangs next?”

Mystery released a warm chuckle once again, “Soon, my love.”

@𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐳𝐨𝐞𝐲 °❀.ೃ࿔ - please do not translate or plagiarize my works.

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sematarygirls · 10 months ago

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EX-CONVICT!BABYDADDY!RAFE x FEM!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ unprotected p in v, breeding kink if you squint, heavyyyy angst, rafe being an asshole (as per usual), brief mentions of guns/police raid and drugs

NOTES .ᐟ guys, i need him so bad, like actually. based on this concept from my silly little brain. dad!rafe stays in my mind 24/7, but this is me we're talking about, so of course, i had to put a lil spin on it. also this turned out way longer than i meant it to, woah

After almost four years, you were finally starting to feel like you were getting your shit together. You were living in a nice house in a nice neighborhood where everyone knew everyone—the kind of place where people literally asked their neighbors for cups of sugar. You had a stable job that allowed you to live comfortably and provide for yourself and your daughter, and you had a big St. Bernard, lovingly named Moonshine after you'd watched one too many episodes of Moonshiners, that provided a sense of safety and security when the nights were cold and the paranoia started to creep into your mind.

Being a single mom was not easy, and it definitely hadn't been a part of your life plan, but then, you met Rafe Cameron—the ever charming, sweet talking man that he was. He swept you up and made you feel like the only girl in the world, like nothing else mattered as long as you were by his side, so when you found out you were pregnant, you were over the moon at the idea of starting a family with him.

But Rafe Cameron was a liar. He was selfish and manipulative, and he turned your life right on it's head.

You could still remember the day the police kicked in the door of your apartment, bursting in with guns drawn, pointed directly at you. You were eight months pregnant and having a gun pointed at you—at your baby—made you physically ill.

They had raided the apartment and found copious amounts of drugs. Your heart dropped, and you immediately felt like an idiot. How had you not known? You knew he made more money than he realistically should have, but the thought never even crossed your mind that this could be the reason. You were heartbroken and angry. Angry that he had lied. Angry that he put you in this position. And, angry that he was leaving you.

Rafe was arrested, and eventually charged with possession with intent to distribute due to the amount of drugs they found, which resulted in a five year sentence. You were sad and angry, not only because you were losing the man you always thought was the love of your life, but also because now, you were alone, and your daughter wouldn't know her father for the first five years of her life.

This anger and resentment festered, mixing with longing and a deep, aching sadness. You couldn't bring yourself to answer his calls or letters, let alone visit him. You didn't know who he was anymore. The man that you saw sporting handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit at his trial was not the same man you fell in love with, and you wouldn't pretend like he was.

You had known Rafe's release date was approaching, but you were under the impression that you still had a little over a year to plan on what you were going to do when it finally came. That's why you were so unsuspecting when you went to answer the harsh knock at your door.

It was a Thursday night, and you were cuddled up on the couch with Moonshine, who was practically the size of you. A horror movie was playing on the TV before you, one you'd seen practically a million times, and every few minutes, your gaze would flicker to the baby monitor on the coffee table that displayed the feedback from a camera in your daughter, Rhiannon's, room.

You jumped a little at the harsh sound of a knock on your front door, the horror movie already having you on edge. You could be paranoid sometimes, especially being a single mom, so realistically, you knew you shouldn't have been watching it so late at night, but they were your guilty pleasures that you couldn't indulge in the light of day because of your toddler.

Moonshine immediately jumped up, a low growl escaping his throat as his hair stood on end. Your brows furrowed at his odd behavior, pausing the movie and unfurling yourself from your comfortable position. Your steps were soft on the hardwood, your socks cushioning the sound as you padded over to the front door, patting the dog's head comfortingly as you unlocked the door, completely unaware with what would greet you on the other side.

As you opened the door, the cool night air hit you, carrying with it the faint scent of cigarette smoke. You blinked in surprise, expecting to see a neighbor, but instead, you found yourself face to face with Rafe Cameron.

Your eyes widened, the air knocked from your lungs as you took him in. He was changed, broader and more imposing, his muscles flexing under his tight black t-shirt as he crossed his arms. His hair was buzzed, his chiseled jawline sporting stubble that made him look older, more mature.

He looked so different, but still, somehow, the same. You were hit by a wave of emotions—longing, love, sadness, but most presently, anger. Who did he think he was showing up unannounced in the middle of the night after all these years, especially looking so unapologetic and devastatingly handsome.

His piercing blue eyes bore into yours, captivating and dangerous like a wave pulling you under when you least expected it. "Hey, baby," he greeted, his voice low and smooth, like honey dripping off his tongue. The term of endearment fell from his lips without any semblance of warmth as he stared at you with an intensity that made you want to shrink in on yourself.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, your jaw clenching and grip on the door's edge tightening. You shivered a little as the cold air bit at your bare skin, barely registering the low growls of Moonshine behind you due to your tunnel vision on the man standing before you.

He smirked confidently, knowing the effect he had on you—the effect he always had on you. His eyebrow arched as he took in your appearance, his eyes lingering on your bare thighs, courtesy of your pajama shorts. "Aren't you going to invite me in, sweetheart? It's been a long time." He took a step forward, his broad frame filling the doorway intimidatingly.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to step back and let him intimidate you into getting what he wanted. You craned your neck to look up at him, his close proximity looming over you, making him seem even taller and more imposing than he already was. "And whose fault is that?" You managed to say, despite the pit in your stomach—a mix of dread, anxiety, and strangely, desire.

Rafe's gaze sharpened, his eyes glinting dangerously. He uncrossed his arms and braced one hand on the doorframe beside your head, leaning in closer. It made your breath catch in your throat, but you held firm. You couldn't let him see that he was getting to you. "Let me in," he clenched his jaw. His anger at you for abandoning him in there had been bubbling up, and your defiance was bringing it to the surface.

A light flickering on in the house across the street caught your eye. Old lady Flanigan had a habit of making everyone else's business, her business, and she was a nasty gossip. Unless you wanted people talking, you either had to let him in or get him to leave, and one of those would be a nearly impossible feat. "Rafe, you can't be here. You can't just barge back into my life after all this time," you told him firmly, your own eyes blazing with a fiery intensity.

"And why not?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. His body was practically vibrating with pent-up anger, his muscles taut as he leaned in closer, his breath fanning across your face. "Did you ever think about me? Did you ever think about what you did to us?"

"What I did?" You scoffed, anger bubbling up inside you at his accusation, blaming you as if he wasn't the one that went to prison and left you alone. "Are you fucking kidding me?" The old woman across the street was now shamelessly watching through her window, and you knew you had no choice but to let him in before her nosey ass called the cops on the strange, clearly out of place man lurking in the neighborhood.

He followed your eyes, looking over his shoulder to the nosy neighbor, his expression darkening. Without another word, he pushed past you, entering the house and forcing you to step back.

Your jaw clenched at his blatant disregard or respect for your wishes as you gently closed the door behind you. Moonshine barked, baring his teeth at the intruder, clearly sensing the tension and jumping into action to protect his family. "Moonshine, stop," you told him firmly. You were proud of him, but you didn't want his barking to wake Rhiannon. The last thing you could deal with right now was Rafe and a crying toddler. You could only focus on one temper tantrum at a time.

Rafe's eyes narrowed as he watched you control your dog, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His gaze then swept the interior of your home, taking in every detail as if memorizing it. "Nice place," he commented flatly, turning back to face you. "Where's my kid?"

You took a deep breath, your gaze hard at him calling your daughter his kid, like he had any right. He didn't even know her name or that she was a girl. "She's asleep," you told him, crossing your arms over your chest.

His piercing eyes bore into yours, unyielding. "Her name." he demanded gruffly.

"Rhiannon," you informed him hesitantly, your gaze darting to the monitor on the coffee table, making sure she was still asleep.

His expression flickered briefly, a flash of something softer, almost vulnerable, in his eyes before it was quickly concealed. He nodded once. "I want to see her." It wasn't a request. His posture remained tense and coiled, ready to react to your response.

You huffed, running a hand through your hair and heading to the kitchen with him hot on your heels. Maybe you wanted to busy yourself. Maybe you wanted an excuse not to have to look at him. Maybe you just wanted to walk away from him, to assert some kind of power. Either way, your next words were spoken with your back to him. "I told you. She's asleep. It's the middle of the fucking night, Rafe, what did you expect?"

He followed you into the kitchen, his presence overwhelming in the small space. The air felt charged, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. "I don't give a fuck what time it is," he growled, his voice low and intense. "I've missed four years of her life already."

You rounded the kitchen island, planting your hands on it as you turned to face him, feeling more comfortable with the counter between you. Not because you were scared of him but because, despite yourself and despite your anger, you longed to touch him and have him touch you. "And whose fucking fault is that, huh?" You asked angrily, echoing your earlier words that he had ignored.

Rafe's expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he stared back at you. The muscle in his jaw clenched as he ground his teeth together, trying to rein in his anger. "Yours," he bit out. "You left me in there," he accused.

"You left me out here!" Your voice raised slightly before you caught yourself, letting out a hard breath. The only way you could keep yourself from getting sad, from crying over the loss of the only man you'd ever truly loved, was getting angry at him.

"You think I wanted to go to prison?" He hissed, rounding the island and backing you against the counter. "You think I had a fucking choice?"

"You did have a choice," you said sharply, bracing your hands on the counter behind you as you stared up at him. "You chose to deal drugs, and you chose to keep dealing even after you found out I was pregnant. Prison was just the consequence of all your shitty choices."

His hand came up, slamming on the cabinet beside your head, the sound making you jump slightly. "And what about you?" He seethed, his chest heaving as his breath came in short, angry bursts. "What about your choices, huh? You could've waited for me."

"I did what I had to do," you said, glaring at him. You weren't quite sure what else to say. You had to protect yourself, your own feelings, and your child. You couldn't have stayed in touch, sick with worry every night while you soothed a colicky baby all by yourself. You had to forget him; it was better that way, easier.

"What you had to do," he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm and the faintest hint of hurt. "You moved on pretty quick, didn't you? Found some new dick to warm your bed, is that it?"

"Fuck you," you spat, the words stabbing you like a knife to the heart. You hadn't been able to bring yourself to even look at another man since he went away. You told yourself it was just because of Rhiannon, that you were focusing on raising her and being the best mother you could be, but deep down, you knew it was because your heart would always belong to Rafe.

"Is that it?" he repeated, his face inches from yours. His voice was low, his eyes searching yours for something. "You found some other man to replace me?"

"Maybe I have," you said stubbornly. You knew you were being petty, wanting him to hurt like you hurt, but you also knew you were a shit liar, so there was no way in hell he would actually believe you. "Maybe I have moved on."

His other hand shot out, gripping your chin roughly as he forced you to look at him. "Bullshit," he growled, looking down at you, his blue eyes darkened. "I can see it in your eyes. You haven't moved on to shit."

You stared up at him defiantly, your chest heaving with anger, which only intensified when you felt the wetness between your thighs. Even after all this time, all it took was a look and a simple touch to get you so wet, and as much as you hated it, you couldn't deny that something about his post-prison appearance—how rugged and large he was—made your knees week.

His hand tightened on your chin as he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a brutal, demanding kiss. It was clear he was angry, punishing you for the words you'd spoken, and you knew you should've pushed him away—yelled at him and told him to get the fuck out of your house—but you didn't.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as you kissed him with an intensity that matched the war going on within you—the jumbled mess of love and hate that he had brought up within you.

He groaned into the kiss, his hands gripping your face roughly as he devoured your mouth. He pushed you further back against the counter that was now digging into your lower back, his body pinning you in place. You could feel his anger, his frustration, his desperation, and it only fueled your own emotions.

The kiss was raw and charged with a passionate mix of need, longing, and pure, unbridled anger, both of you trying to show the other that this wasn't a surrender of power or giving into the other and accepting blame. The kiss itself was an argument, a fight all of its own that didn't require words.

He hands went to your hips, lifting you onto the counter and stepping between your parted legs. Tearing his mouth from yours, he began kissing along your jawline and down the column of your throat. His lips were hot and insistent, his teeth nipping at your skin as he continued to mark you.

You panted, your chest heaving for an entirely different reason now as you let out soft gasps and breathy sounds of approval, your head falling back against the cabinet behind your head. You had forgotten how good he was with his mouth, always knowing exactly how to drive you wild.

He took advantage of the exposed column of your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the counter. You let out a low moan, your nails raking against his buzzed scalp. As sexy as he looked with a buzzcut, you wished you could run your fingers through his hair, tugging on it slightly everytime he touched you just right.

"Mmm," he hummed against your skin, his voice a low vibration that seemed to go straight to your core. He kissed his way back up to your mouth, his hips pushing forward to press his hardness against your core. "Did you forget how good I am, baby?"

You internally rolled your eyes at his cocky tone, like he had won. "God, do you ever shut up?" You asked, sounding less annoyed and effective since you were still breathless from his kisses.

His hips thrust forward again, making an involuntary whine fall from your lips at the feeling. "Not when I'm right." He smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His smirk was as frustratingly handsome as it had always been, and it made you want to smack him and kiss him all at once. "And I am."

"Don't be a dickhead," you glared at him, his arrogance and your own unyielding need for him only heightening your frustration. You were desperate and aching for him, but you refused to give in and beg him like you wanted to.

"Then quit acting like you're not soaking wet for me." His grip on your thighs tightened, calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh. "I bet if I slipped my hand into your shorts, I'd find you drenched and ready for me, wouldn't I?"

His smug tone infuriated you and turned you on all at once. "Shut up, Rafe," you demanded, balling your fist into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer, so you could press your lips to his, forcing him to shut up and quit pissing you off.

Your grip on his shirt loosened, hand sliding down his hard, muscular chest to his waistband. You had always seen the trope of guys working out their frustrations in prison movies, but you didn't know that was actually a thing. Your fingers fumbled with his belt as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, sliding it along yours in a way that had you moaning against his lips

He groaned low in his throat as you finally worked the belt buckle open, sliding the leather through the loops and dropping it to the floor with a clank. His hands immediately slid up your thighs, hooking into the waistband of your shorts and pulling them down your legs—with the help of you awkwardly shifting to lift your ass enough to do so.

He discarded the garments to the floor with his belt, his palms running along your bare thighs as he parted your legs wider, opening you to him. His calloused fingertips brushed against your center, feeling your slick folds, making you gasp into his mouth. "Told you," he grinned against your lips, finding it in himself to be a complete dick, even when he was about to be inside you.

"Asshole," you mumbled, fingers deftly popping open the button of his jeans and unzipping them. You hooked your fingers in his waistband, shoving his pants and underwear down as he had done to you.

He kicked his pants and boxers off the rest of the way, stepping between your thighs again. His hard cock was flushed, the tip glistening with precum. He gripped himself at the base, rubbing the head through your slick folds teasingly. "What was that, baby?"

Your breath caught in your throat. "Just put your dick inside me before I kill you," you threatened him, though you both knew you wouldn't do anything, not really.

He chuckled lowly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "You want it so bad, don't you?" He teased, his tip nudging against your entrance but not pushing inside. "Beg for it, baby. Let me hear how much you need my cock." He didn't need to be angry when he could punish you like this. He knew begging was the last thing you wanted to do, but he also knew that you'd do it.

"Don't piss me off right now, Rafe," you gritted your teeth, the feeling of him against your entrance making you dizzy with desire.

"Or what, baby? You'll what?" He pressed against you again, the tip of his cock pushing inside just slightly before pulling back out. "Tell me what you'll do if I don't give you what you want." He was pushing your buttons, knowing exactly how to make you snap.

You practically whimpered at the feeling of him pulling out. "Fuck- fine, please, Rafe," you panted, furious with yourself and him that you were giving into him. "Please just fuck me already."

The confident, victorious smirk that instantly appeared on his face had you wanting to slap him. "Now was that so hard?" He condescend. Your annoyed retort died in your throat as he finally pushed into you, making you moan, your head falling back against the cupboard at the feeling of him inside you after so long.

He groaned as your tight heat enveloped him, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he started to move. His body tensed, using every ounce of his self control not to cum on the spot. Four years of fucking himself in his hand was nothing compared to the way you were squeezing him right now.

One hand moved up to your mouth, muffling your growing moans and whines. "Shh," he cooed. You were thankful for it. You knew you had to be quiet, but the way he was pounding into you made it nearly impossible.

"Did you miss me, baby?" He leaned down, breathing hotly against your neck as he nipped at your throat. "Did you lay awake at night thinking about me stretching you like this?" He flexed his hips, driving deep inside you.

You nodded, letting out a muffled "mhm" against his palm as your back arched into him. He felt so good, better than you'd remembered, and you hadn't had sex in four years, so you were so worked up.

"Good," he purred, his teeth scraping against your skin as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. "Because I missed you too, baby. Missed this tight little cunt wrapped around my dick." The hand on your thigh dipped down between your legs, his calloused thumb rubbing circles on your clit.

You gasped against his palm, your eyes rolling back at the mix of sensations. You were already so pathetically close, feeling that familiar aching deep within you.

He could feel your weepy cunt starting to flutter around him, and he was more than glad that you were so close so quickly because he didn't know how much longer he could hold back. "Gonna cum inside this pretty little pussy, baby. Gonna get you pregnant again, and this time I'm not gonna miss a damn thing"

His words turned you on more than they should have, snapping that coil inside you and sending you over the edge. You tensed around his dick, feeling your orgasm wash over you as you cried out his name.

"Shit, baby," he groaned, burying his face into your neck, his facial hair tickling your skin as he pushed himself deep inside you, painting your insides white with his release. His breath was hot against your already heated skin, a thin layer of sweat coating both your bodies as he slowly softened inside you.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you tried to catch your breath, his hand falling from your mouth to brace himself on the counter. You couldn't believe that after all these years of promising yourself you wouldn't let him back into your life, you had so easily opened your legs and even let him cum inside you—because clearly that worked out so well for you last time.

He stayed buried inside you for a moment, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of finally being home where he belonged. He eventually pulled out, his softening dick slipping from your tender cunt.

You had to tell him that he couldn't stay, that it would confuse Rhiannon to wake up to a strange man in the house, but you didn't know how, not after what just happened.

He stepped back, allowing you to get down from the counter. A silence fell over both of you as you got dressed, neither one knowing what happens now. He finished buttoning up his jeans, his eyes flicking up to you as he ran a hand over his buzzed head. "So... what now?" He asked gruffly, breaking the silence.

"You can't- you have to go," you told him, pulling your shorts back up and crossing your arms. It seemed unfair to say such a thing after sharing such an intimate moment, but you needed to think of your daughter. She didn't even know who Rafe was.

"You're kicking me out?" He echoed, as if he couldn't believe it. "After... that?" He gestured vaguely, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, both of you finding yourselves right back where you started. "You cant just... be here. Rhiannon doesn't even know who you are." The words seemed cruel as soon as they left your lips, but they were true. You wished they weren't, but they were.

"I know. Fuck, I know that. Don't you think I know that?" He was frustrated, your words like a slap to the face. "But goddamn it, I want to know her. I want to be a part of her life."

"I'm not saying you can't be, but... she's four, Rafe. She's old enough that you can't just walk in and call yourself her father," you told him firmly. "It's going to take time. I don't want to overwhelm her."

"Time?" He asked incredulously. Deep down, he knew you were right, that you were doing what was best, but he was so angry at himself, and instead of facing that anger and acknowledging that this was his own doing, he was taking it out on you. "I've already missed four fucking years. First steps, first words, first everythings."

"I can't keep going in circles with you, Rafe," you ran your hand through your hair, utterly exhausted. "You do this my way, or you don't do this at all." It hurt you to be so cold. You wanted Rhiannon to know her father, but she was just a kid. She wouldn't understand why her dad just showed up out of the blue, and you didn't know how to explain it to her.

He stared at you, his face unreadable. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then, he spoke, his voice low. "Alright. Fine. Your way. But you better not shut me out again. I'm not gonna miss anymore. Understand?"

You nodded, thankful that he was going to stop fighting you on this. "Do you have a-a number or something?" You asked, unsure how long he'd been out, if he got his phone back and was able to pay the bill or if he bought a burner. You didn't even know where he was staying.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's the same as my old one," he said gruffly, clearly annoyed by your previous ultimatum.

"Right, okay," you nodded, your fingers drumming against your upper arm. You two stood in silence for a long moment. Rafe didn't want to leave, and you didn't want to tell him to.

Rafe's gaze fell to the floor, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. "Can I see her before I go?" He asked softly. "Just... just to see her."

There was a shift in his demeanor, a vulnerability about him that told you he really did care about Rhiannon, even if he'd never met her. "Yeah," you found yourself nodding, turning to lead him to her room. As you entered the living room, you could've sworn Moonshine was giving a disapproving side eye. "Don't judge me," you mumbled.

He followed you down the hallway, his heavy boots thudding on the floor. He paused in the doorway of Rhiannon's room, looking in on her sleeping form. She was curled up on her side in a princess toddler bed, her little arms wrapped around a stuffed cat. Rafe's expression softened as he took her in.

His eyes swept over the room, the nightlight plugged into the wall illuminating the space. The walls were painted a light shade of pink, toys strewn about. A small bookshelf sat tucked in the corner, various children's books inside, some sitting on the floor in front of it.

He stepped into the room, moving closer to the bed. He crouched down, his eyes fixed on Rhiannon's sleeping face as he reached out, his large hand gentle as he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "She's so little," he murmured softly, almost reverently.

You leaned on the doorway, a small, sad smile pulling at your lips as you watched the exchange. You found yourself wondering what life would have been like if Rafe never got locked up, your heart aching as you thought about sharing all of Rhiannon's firsts with someone, bickering over whether she would've said mommy or daddy first. The wobbly first steps, the soothing and band-aid applications after she scraped her knees. What would it have been like to share those moments with him?

Rafe's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "She's beautiful." He turned his head to look at you, and you saw the sheen of moisture in his eyes. He blinked it away quickly, clearing his throat as he stood, masking his emotions as he always had. "I should go."

You hesitated, for a moment wanting to throw everything you'd said out the window and tell him to stay, but you knew you couldn't. You just nodded, letting him push past you. You didn't move from your spot, even after you heard the front door open and shut. You simply closed your eyes, leaning your head against the doorframe as a few tears rolled down your cheeks.

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chilling-seavey · 5 months ago

Text

First Title, Second Blessing (gr63)

The Way It Goes Masterlist

↳ A/N Oooh boy, this one was a long time coming. Thank you to this anon who was the one who finally triggered me to go all out and write this...in detail. You wanted breeding kink? Well you came to the right place. I hope you all enjoy 😶‍🌫️

↳ Pairings: Husband!Dad!George Russell x Wife!Mom!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 13.4k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, trying for a baby!!, breeding kink!!, hints of patriarchy kink ('my pretty little wife' vibes), George is such a bossy pleasure dom, dirty talk, begging, nipple play, grinding, brief oral sex (f receiving), restraining with hands/trapping her under his weight, spanking, some biting/spitting, choking, finger sucking, use of a vibrator, crying from pleasure, he gets so deep that it hurts and she likes it, pushing down on her belly, multiple orgasms, it gets messyyy and it gets louddd, sloppy seconds, mentions of queefs and body hair and similiar realistic concepts, unprotected sex and creampie(s) (duh).

Late November

George Russell won his first Championship at the same circuit at which, years earlier, he won his first race. He stood on the top step of the podium, a win to solidify the greatest win of all, and held his trophy aloft as tears poured down his flushed cheeks. He could hardly see the crowd cheering his name through the tears and the spray of champagne, the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears and echoing through his head. This was a lifetime accomplishment. His biggest dream, reality.

You had wiped his tears later that afternoon in his driver’s room, kissing them away as you clung onto him. He was still damp from the podium, champagne and drying sweat plastering his hair over his head after his 1st Place Pirelli cap was knocked to the floor in the rush of your embrace. You were just as in disbelief as he was, just as buzzing, praising him over and over in your momentary privacy between post-race responsibilities. When he lifted you up off the ground just a bit, you squealed gleefully into his neck.

There was no better feeling than watching the one you love achieve their greatest dream.

The night after the race was a blur; moving between bars and clubs in the ritziest areas of São Paulo with half the grid and most of the Mercedes team in tow. Flashing lights, loud music, sweaty bodies…George didn’t leave your side for the majority of the night, always keeping you within arms reach. You didn’t return to your hotel room until daybreak, donning last-night's clothes and the lingering scent of other people’s sweat and spilled alcohol.

On the chartered private jet that morning, sharing the cabin with a few of the other drivers who doubled as George’s friends, everyone was uncharacteristically quiet. Lando was curled up against the window, his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes and hoodie nearly swallowing him, groaning outwardly about his mega hangover. Charles, across from him, who at least had the smarts to be drinking water, couldn’t have rolled his eyes farther back if he tried. Oscar and Alex were already fast asleep beside them.

Across the aisle, you and George were curled up together like honeymooners. On the seats across from you, his commemorative bottle of champagne sat in its protective wooden box. Despite the raging hangovers that your friends were facing from the partying the night before, you and George were delightfully calm—albeit exhausted.

You had been surprised that no one realized both you and he had been avoiding alcohol all night, apart from one celebratory glass of champagne and one group shot of tequila near the beginning. Surprisingly, the night was still just as wonderful sober…perhaps it was the adrenaline still coursing through the both of you that allowed you to feel just as drunk as the rest of your group. It all felt a little scandalous to have been avoiding alcohol in bars all night but you had a plan and you were set on sticking to it. Besides, not being hungover for a twelve-hour flight was a bonus.

You and George slept most of the flight, cuddled up and leaning on each other in as comfortable a position as you could manage on an airplane. With a stopover in Nice to drop off your Monaco-residing friends, the private jet then took the two of you home to London.

It was mid-morning when you landed in England and after retrieving George’s car from the valet, you headed towards your town. It was a stunning autumn day, surprisingly sunny with sprawling blue skies over multi-coloured trees and harvested fields. The countryside of England always revealed its true beauty under all the dreariness that often took up the landscape.

It felt good to be home. Normal. Normal amidst the fact that everything was different now; George was the newest World Champion and, soon, his name would be on the trophy and displayed alongside other greats in the hall of fame. Compared to the excitement that burned within you, Cambridgeshire felt so calm.

You stopped for lunch in town at some family restaurant that you and George always liked. While you ate and shared ramblings and recaps of the race and the season (that both of you were already immensely familiar with) together, a few fans came past your table to politely ask for photos or autographs. George, beaming, happily complied. You played your role of photographer where you could.

George’s family, of course, wanted to celebrate his big win with him, but they also understood that after a grueling race weekend and a long-haul flight, an immediate visit might not be feasible. You were grateful for their patience—and even more so for the fact that his parents were still looking after your son, just as they had all week while you both were in Brazil. Besides, the little boy would never complain about one more night with his grandparents.

With your toddler away, your house was strangely quiet when you finally stepped over the threshold after nearly twenty-four hours of travel. George let out a relieved sigh as he set his suitcase down against the wall of the foyer as if he had just returned from half a year abroad.

“Wow,” said George, simply, “Home.”

You turned to face him, taking in the way he stood there, hands on his hips, looking around the familiar space as if seeing it anew. The weight of everything—the season, the victory, the sheer exhaustion of travel—hung between you for a moment. So much had changed in the span of a year or even just a few months.

You curled your arms around his middle and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth with a sweet, “Welcome home, World Champion.”

His eyes met yours fondly, his shoulders relaxing slightly at the familiar sight of you, and he slid his arms around you as you melted against his chest in a tender embrace. His movements were unhurried, calm, relaxed, finally able to take it slow after a season of fast paced adrenaline, finding refuge in your presence.

“Thank you, my love.”

He gave you a quick kiss to your lips. The silence of the large farmhouse after the ear-piercing excitement and noise of the last week was a stark comparison; equal parts strange and relaxing.

After a moment to adjust to your arrival home, you led the way upstairs with the large wooden box containing the bottle of champagne in your arms, George trailing after you with your modest suitcases. The silence of the large farmhouse after the ear-piercing excitement and noise of the last week was a stark comparison; equal parts strange and relaxing.

Once in your shared bedroom, you rested the box on the dresser and George sat the suitcases down on the floor. Just like he always did as soon as he returned home, he knelt down and unzipped his suitcase right away and started to pull out the dirty laundry to put away.

“I don’t think it’s settled in yet, you know?” he said to you over his shoulder as he gathered his laundry and carried it into the walk-in closet to toss it in the hamper, “It feels so surreal; winning it. Almost like, ‘now what?’.”

In reply came your casual hummed “mhm” of acknowledgement.

When he stepped back into the bedroom, the sight of you in only your bra and thong and kneeling in the centre of your neatly made king size bed as if waiting patiently had him halting in his tracks in surprise. You nibbled at your bottom lip at his stunned expression, trying to hide the bashful smile that was creeping its way across your face.

His eyes trailed down your body as if unable to take his eyes off you, wanting to take in every inch, before he mumbled out a breathy, “Jesus, love…”

You giggled softly, “What?”

He continued to stare at you, “You can't just show up on the bed in nothing but a bra and panties…”

“Why not?” you asked cheekily,

“Because…” George faded out with an exasperated sigh despite the obvious smile on his face and he set his hands on his hips. In reality, he had no excuse, no reason. You had a way of short-circuiting his brain in moments like this and especially when it was a complete surprise and the last thing he expected the moment they got home.

Filling in the momentary silence, you cocked your head to the side in a sweet manner, asking in a voice that was almost a purr, “Wanna come put a baby in me?”

Your simple request had his eyelashes fluttering through his deep inhale, as if letting your words wash over him entirely.

George knew—very well, thank you—that you had agreed to start trying for another baby after the season ended or when he won the Title, whichever came first. Now, back home in your empty house after his Championship winning race, both of you having forgone alcohol the night before regardless of how hard everyone was partying just for the sake of a successful future conception, there was a very obvious intent in the air.

You watched as he took a step towards the bed, his eyes never leaving your body, his voice a low, teasing, “Are you really that impatient? Couldn’t even let us unpack first?”

“Mhm,” you answered plainly with a sweethearted smile, “Peak ovulation is tomorrow so we gotta get a move on.”

George, now standing at the side of the bed, placed a knee on the edge of the mattress to draw himself closer to you, his eyes roaming over your body once more, “Naughty little minx.”

You licked your lips as he knelt in front of you in the middle of your shared bed, protesting despite your smile, “It’s not naughty.”

“Ripping all your clothes off and demanding me to put a baby in you is pretty naughty to me,” George countered, his hands falling to your bare waist and gave you a squeeze.

Your nose brushed against his ever so slightly, taunting him with a gentle, “Well, are you still up for it, Champion?”

George’s chuckle was low, tilting his face just enough to exchange the bump of your noses for a graze of your lips, the simple action shooting a spark of heat through you. He left the faintest kiss to your lips, barely there, taunting, before muttering, “Of course, I definitely think I want to celebrate properly.”

Your face naturally turned towards his as he drew closer, your eyes all over his familiar features and your hands sliding up his chest and to his shoulders. He leaned in to kiss you deeply, lips pressed to yours in a kiss backed with passion and need, as if he had been holding himself back for days. With the Championship on the line, it had been hard to focus on anything else but, now, with that out of the way, everything that once felt secondary came rushing back.

You couldn’t deny the need that had been growing within you since the middle of that weekend. Perhaps it was the fact that the race weekend aligned all too perfectly with your ovulation, or perhaps it was the fact that seeing your husband finally achieve his childhood dream, standing on the top of the world, dedicating his win to your family, stirred something raw and wanting within you. George was your everything, your little family was everything, and you would give him the world if you could.

His large hands groped the doughy flesh over your hips a little tighter as if trying to pull you closer, his lips smacking wetly with yours as your kisses grew more desperate. Kneeling in front of each other in the middle of your bed, it almost felt as though you were about to partake in a faceoff, arms wrapping around each other until there was virtually no space left between you. With him still fully dressed and you mostly naked, your perfectly quiet house welcomed the sound of your sloppy kisses.

“Mm,” George hummed lowly as he broke away from your lips and trailed heated kisses down your neck, “I’ve been thinking about getting you naked all day…and all last night.”

“I’m offering myself up to you now,” you purred.

“Yeah, you are,” he praised, hands sliding down to grab your ass and pull you impossibly closer, just enough so you could feel the tightness over the front of his slacks, “Such a good girl for me.”

You let out a pretty moan at his tug, your arms still wrapped around his shoulders and fingers curling into the material of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed and teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Neither of you had showered after your lengthy flight or had a proper sleep outside of the luxury private jet seats but nothing of the sort mattered at that moment. Instead, husband and wife, all too comfortable with each other after years of devotion and infatuation, you wanted each other just as strongly as ever. It couldn’t wait.

George’s hands groped your ass and one pulled back to give you a small spank, the sharp sound echoing through your quiet bedroom. You gasped tightly and arched into him as his hands slid up your back and blindly found the clasp of your bra as he kissed and nipped at your neck.

“Give me this, now…” he mumbled against your skin, with that rich addicting lust to his voice that always had your panties soaked.

His fingers worked nimbly at the clasp of your bra as if he needed it gone as soon as possible. Ever the expert at taking off your bra, he had it unclasped in a second and you moved your arms off his shoulders to help him get it off you entirely. He tossed it to the floor without a second look and slung an arm around your waist as he dipped down to take one of your nipples in his mouth.

Your head dropped back with a pleasured gasp and your fingers tangled in the back of his hair to keep his mouth on your chest. George’s strong arm tugged harder around your waist, keeping you flush against him with your hips against his as he bent down to suck on your breasts. With his tongue swirling around one of your nipples, his free hand tended to the other with purposeful tugs and rolls between thumb and forefinger, getting them nice and hard and already causing your insides to stir with arousal. It was almost embarrassingly easy for you to get turned on when you were ovulating and George always made the most of that fact over the years, using it to his advantage just to see how much you could take until you were nearly sobbing for it.

George pulled away from your breast to tend to the other, dragging his tongue over your nipple first before taking it in his mouth with a greedy suck, framing it with his large hand around the expanse of your skin. He squeezed and showered you in tongue-led kisses and possessive suckles that left blushing red marks across your chest. Your fingers locked in the roots of his hair and the slight tug had him groaning against your breast and pulling away with a wet pop.

His lips were back on yours in an instant, swallowing you up in a fierce kiss that ripped the air from your lungs. Even after your years together, he still knew how to kiss you breathless. You couldn’t help but tug at the back of his shirt over his shoulders as he kissed you, pulling at the fabric until a sliver of his back was exposed to the room. George took the hint and broke away from your kiss just long enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the floor, leaving him in just his slacks that were already tenting across the front. Sparks crackled between you as his hands grabbed your hips and he leaned in to kiss you again, nearly bending you backwards a little with how insistent he was with it. Your arms slung around his now bare shoulders and your tongue pushed against his as if wanting to taste just how much he craved you.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” George groaned into your mouth between sloppy kisses, his hands roaming all over your bare body as if mapping the familiar expanse of your skin, “and all mine.”

“All yours,” you echoed dreamily.

His lips ghosted across your cheek, his hot breath against your neck and his voice almost slurred with lust, “All fucking mine.”

George’s hands slid down to the backs of your thighs and he heaved you up off your knees so you fell backwards onto the mattress and decorative throw pillows with a surprised squeal. The two of you shared light laughter as he situated himself over top of you and dipped down to kiss you some more, your hands raising to the side of his face to hold his lips on yours. Your giggles faded into the focus of your passionate kisses, heat pouring through your veins with him positioned over top of you like that, so easily able to take you over.

Instinctively, your legs had parted to allow him to settle between them and he blindly dropped a hand down to pull one of your legs tight around his waist. You moaned softly into his mouth, body arching underneath him to try and get situated into that perfect angle that would have your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. George’s hand took advantage of your momentary arch, sliding his arm under the small of your back to tug you into place so his thighs were trapping yours outwards, holding you in place.

Your fingers tangled in the roots of his hair as he rolled his body against yours so you could feel the bulge in the front of his pants pressing right up between your legs, his bare chest aligned with yours, lips locked in a fiery kiss. George licked the soft moan from your mouth and when he pulled away for a moment, his teeth sunk into your bottom lip.

His eyes found yours in your close proximity—only centimeters apart—both of you already a little breathless, staring into each other’s lust-filled gaze. The gorgeous blue of his irises was almost entirely diluted to black from his pupils from just one look at you and a little taste of your lips. When he looked at you like that, in moments such as those, any possible doubt of his love for you was wiped from your mind. No one had ever looked at you like that before him, and no one would after him. There was only him.

“George…” you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist and linking your ankles together behind his back while your thumb grazed over his kiss-swollen bottom lip.

He spoke your name in reply, just as soft and tender before pressing a slow kiss to the pad of your thumb. Framed by his forearms on either side of you, you were pleasantly trapped by him and cradled by the decorative pillows of your marital bed.

George closed the miniscule distance between you, gently pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. One…and then two, and then a third; slow, soft, gentle, still staring into each other’s eyes under heavy eyelids. You squirmed a little, arms snaking behind his biceps to rest against his shoulders and your legs tightening around his waist to lock him against you as the anticipation was driving you mad. He gave you one more tender kiss before dipping down towards your neck, attaching his lips just under your jaw in a manner that felt a hell of a lot more intense than the kisses he had just sweetened you up with.

Your mouth fell open with a silent gasp, clinging onto his shoulders tighter as your head arched back a little to give him room. George trailed down your neck in wet open-mouthed kisses, teasing your most sensitive spots with his tongue and making you shiver with soft breaths across the damp skin. But it was the sudden roll of his hips against yours that pulled an audible gasp from your chest, your fingers pressing into his muscular back at the same time, taunted by what you wanted most.

George was already so hard and you could feel him through his slacks, tenting the fabric over his straining erection, proof that he had been wanting this all weekend just as urgently as you. It was growing uncomfortable, how wet you were getting, and you pushed your hips up against his to chase some more of that friction. He moaned against your neck at your needy action, grinding a little harder down against you to keep you pinned underneath him.

“You sure you're ready for this?” he asked huskily against your ear, his body rutting strongly against yours.

“Yeah,” you exhaled as you tightened your ankles around him to pull him impossibly closer, hands splaying over his exposed back, miles of muscle under your possessive palms. He ground against you stronger, more insistently, pulling another whining gasp from your throat, “I need it so bad. Need you to knock me up.”

“You need it, huh?” he taunted, his voice dripping with need before he nipped at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin, “You want me to put a baby in you, right here and now?”

“Ugh,” you withered, eyelids fluttering at his words and body squirming underneath him, “Please, George.”

George pried your legs away from his waist so he could sit back on his knees and then he gave your thigh a little tap with a soft, “Hang on, let me push down the covers.”

You frowned reluctantly up at him, already comfortable where you were and already falling into that blissed out mindset. The last thing you wanted to do was move.

He smiled at your pout—not even needing to hear your protest to know what you were thinking—and reminded you with a cock of his head to get you to comply, “Come on. We’re not going to want to have to wash the duvet after.”

Of course he was right, so you shifted to help him pull back the covers to the foot of the bed so you were draped out on the fitted sheet and, then, rightfully back in your cozy spot amongst the decorative pillows.

George didn’t miss a beat as he eased you back into the comfort of his touch by trailing wet kisses down your body, starting from your neck. He kissed over your collarbones and your breasts and sucked on your nipples a little more just to make you writhe and moan under his touch before moving down your stomach. He pushed your thighs towards your chest and dragged his nose between your legs over the damp fabric of your panties. You could hear him inhale, breathing in the scent of your arousal. All because of him.

Your hand carded through his hair as he settled between your legs and his long eyelashes rested on his flushed cheeks as he pressed a slow open mouthed kiss over your clothed clit. It barely felt like anything but was still just enough that you flinched in anticipation, whining to the ceiling with need for more. You tugged a little at his hair, urging him to leave another slow kiss to the apex of your thighs, right over the spot where the fabric of your thong was hugged by your lips.

“You’re teasing…” you warned in a breath.

George smiled cheekily against you, raising his eyes to yours with his face still hidden between your legs and his arms wrapped around your thighs as he kissed your pussy again. You were so wet that despite your underwear, when he pulled away, a faint string of your arousal connected his lips to you.

George exhaled shakily and slid his fingers down over the fabric of your panties, almost able to see how you throbbed underneath them. He leaned in for another kiss, leading with his tongue for a teasing taste, still taunting you behind the protection of your underwear. When he pulled away again, he pressed the pad of his thumb down over your clothed clit. His voice was a low rumble, “Can’t believe how soaked you are already…Jesus.”

You laughed softly, raking your fingers through his hair as he turned his head to kiss your inner thigh and you answered him softly, “Don’t you love when I’m—”

“Ovulating? Yeah.” he answered for you, words muffled between his kisses along the supple skin of your inner thigh, trailing back towards your cunt. His firm hands kept you legs out of the way as he nuzzled his face closer and inhaled deeply before he let it out with a hungry moan and a muttered, “Fuck, you smell so good, too.”

“God, that’s so fucking hot, baby…” you exhaled, hips naturally trying to push up against his face.

George lifted himself up from between your legs just enough to press his hands into the mattress on either side of your body and he nipped at the soft flesh of your hip before sucking a little hickey into the skin. The perfectly made bed sheets wrinkled under the two of you as George sat back on his knees between your spread legs and he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your thong, tugging on it slowly, “Let’s get these off you.”

You lifted your hips for him as he started to pull your underwear down over your hips. The damp fabric clung to your pussy as he peeled them away and you shivered as the cool air of the air conditioned bedroom grazed over your bare skin. George’s eyes were trained in on your dripping cunt even as he guided your thong down your bent legs and off your ankles with a habitual lick to his lips, dropping the soiled fabric to the bed beside you without a second glance.

He kept his eyes on you as he started to unbutton his slacks, positioned on his knees between your spread legs, taking in your naked body splayed out before him. The need that had been growing within you had your hand reaching down to touch yourself, trying to ease some of the immense ache that was starting to feel rather unbearable. You were so wet that you both could hear it as you slid your fingers between your legs and gathered up some of that delicious wetness to rub over your clit.

George shifted to get out of his slacks and he dropped them off the end of the bed, leaving him in only his boxers that did a very poor job at concealing his very obvious erection. Otherwise naked apart from the ring on his left hand, George situated himself between your spread legs and his hand joined yours over your pussy, nudging you aside so he could have full reign of you, smearing your growing wetness around a little more himself. Your hands wrapped around his biceps as you stared adoringly up at him as he touched you.

With your legs parted wide for him, the utmost trust shared between you, you sank your teeth into your bottom lip as you stared up at his face, watching his lust-filled expression as he watched how his careful fingertips caressed your pussy. George pulled his hand back for a second to take the tips of his three middle fingers into his mouth to moisten them up a little more before dropping them back down to continue where he left off. Little, gentle swirls over your clit…down to your leaky pussy…back up.

Your toes curled at the sensations, how gentle and precise he was being, knowing just how to touch you. You let out a little pleasant hum, squirming a little beneath him. When your grip tightened around his bicep, he tore his eyes away from your cunt to meet your gaze.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” George said lowly, “Dripping all over my hand already and I’ve barely even touched you.”

He tilted his hand to rub the full length of his fingers along your pussy, hearing the slick wet sound of just how wet you were. You whined and squirmed a little, spreading your legs wider to welcome more of his touch.

“Fuck, look at you,” George exhaled, pulling his fingers back to see how they were still attached to your messy cunt in thick strings of wetness. He rubbed his fingertips together and then brought them to his mouth to lick off, some of it dripping down his forearm in the process. With a quick suck of the tips of his three fingers, he dropped them back down to rub at your clit in firm, precise circles, purring out a low, “My messy girl.”

You reached your hands down to curl your fingers in the waistband of his underwear in an attempt to remove the last article of clothing between you. But, in an instant, George’s fingers were wrapping around your wrists to stop you and he leaned over you to pin them down beside your head.

“Be a good girl and let me do what I want with you,” he spoke firmly with that unmissable lust in his voice.

With his hands still pinning your wrists down, George shuffled a little closer so your thighs were held back by his, allowing him to push his hips down against yours once more. You stared up into his eyes as he settled, your mouth falling open with a mute gasp at the feeling of his hard cock pushed right up against your naked cunt, only separated by his boxers. He was so fucking hard and your eyes fluttered at the feeling, choking out a small sound as he rolled his hips against yours.

It felt so insanely good, heat coursing through your veins, every touching feeling like fire thanks to how needy and sensitive you were due to that time of your cycle. Your natural urge to reproduce skyrocketed during ovulation and the fact that you were finally going to be able to lean into that humanistic desire without holding back made it all the more intense and thrilling.

“Fuck, darling—” you whimpered out, back arching off the bed a little to meet his grinds.

“Mm, that’s it…” George exhaled heavily. His hands tightened around your wrists and he rutted against you a little harder until the tent at the front of his boxers was fitting between your swollen lips, rocking against you with every few words, “Show me how much you want me…soak me…that’s it.”

Your eyes screwed shut and your head tilted back with a broken whine, hands bunching into fists where he held them down on either side of your head as the overwhelm so quickly took you over. You pulled your legs back by your own free will, desperate to feel more of him, unable to control the pathetic whines that were tumbling from your lips even as your teeth sunk into your bottom one.

Heaving your head up to look between you at the limited to no space between your chests, you could already feel yourself getting breathless, spurred on by the friction of him rutting against you. You could hardly lay still as the feeling grew and your legs wrapped around his waist to tug him harder down on top of you. George grunted faintly, shifting his hands off your wrists to, instead, intertwine his fingers with yours to hold your hands, still pinning them to the pillows beside your head.

“Kiss me,” you pleaded desperately, “Please, baby, kiss me.”

George didn’t need to be asked twice and he dipped down to capture your lips with his in a steamy kiss. The two of you shared hungry groans into each other’s mouths, made ungraceful by the way he was rutting against you. Your hands clutched onto his tightly, grounding yourself in his touch, while your legs around his waist encouraged you to try and meet his motions, the desperation that coursed through you making you writhe needily against his body and the bed.

But then he was pulling away again; letting go of your hands and sitting back on his knees. Before you had a chance to complain about the loss of contact, you were distracted by the large wet stain smeared over his clothed erection thanks to the way he had been grinding against you and, almost immediately, he was shoving down his briefs. The sight of his impressively hard cock had your mouth watering like it so often did, staring shamelessly at it and the way it bobbed in the air as he shuffled to get his underwear off completely.

When you reached down to try and touch him, he nudged your hand aside with a simple, “Roll over. Hands and knees.”

You giggled sweetly and the implication of what was coming had your stomach filling with eager butterflies, helping you float yourself from your back onto your stomach. On your knees and flat hands in the centre of your shared bed, you presented yourself to him with a little wiggle of your hips, luring him in. As if he needed any luring.

George’s hand came down hard against one of your cheeks in a sharp spank, forcing your body to tense in momentary surprise, pulling in a gasp, before relaxing. Another giggle fell from your lips as you glanced back at him over your shoulder, flinging your hair out of the way in the process. Another spank.

“There you go,” George praised you warmly, shuffling up closer on his knees until he could drag the head of his cock between your lips, “my pretty girl. My pretty wife.”

“Put it in,” you whined, trying to push back on him to do it yourself.

George’s breath shuddered at your blunt request, only letting the tip of his dick prod at the sopping entrance of your pussy as his hand came across your ass again in an echoing spank. He rubbed his hand over your flesh that had started to blossom in a pretty shade of light pink from his strikes, warning you in soft reprimand, “Is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“Please,” you tried again, “please, George, I need you so fucking bad, darling—”

He held your hip with one hand while his other kept himself steady to slowly sink inside you and, when he was in halfway, he had a two-handed grip on your hips to slowly pull you deeper onto him. Your eyes fluttered shut with a soft, quivering whine at the stretch, fingers curling into the fitted sheet beneath you.

“There ya go,” George purred, slowly starting to thrust into you in lazy motions, “does that feel good, darling? Getting nice and full and stretched out on my cock? That’s what you wanted?”

“Yeah…” you withered.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re so big,” you spoke dreamily, arching your back a little more to take him deeper, “Feels so fucking good.”

George let out a little pleasant hum of acknowledgement, keeping his large hands on your hips as he found a steady pace. His fingers pressed a little tighter into the flesh of your doughy hips, made fuller after birthing your son and one of George’s most favourite parts of you. So feminine, so maternal, so his.

“Delicious fucking body,” he moaned under his breath, starting to shove into you a little faster, “Just perfect to bear my children.”

“Yeah…” you whimpered, gasping out at his increase in pace, “wanna have your babies.”

“Oh, I know you do, sweet girl,” George cooed, countering his silky sweet voice with a sharp spank across your ass.

He took hold of your hips again, almost pulling you into his every thrust by his firm grip as he started to ram into you harder. You squealed as he hit deeper, harder, giving you every single inch until your eyes were rolling shut and your head dropped downwards with overwhelm.

“Fuck!” you shrieked, just louder than the clap of skin on skin that nearly echoed through the bedroom.

George moaned heartily from behind you, keeping his relentless pace going with his hands grabbing your hips so hard that there was certainly going to be fingerprints left behind. Without faltering, he moved his right hand underneath you and his hand splayed over your stomach, equally holding you together and feeling the way your body bounced in time with his every hard thrust. He panted handsomely behind you, laced in with soft moans that only heightened your senses tenfold. You loved that he could make you feel good, but it was even better knowing that you could make him feel good simultaneously.

His hand glided a little lower to get his fingertips on your clit and he rubbed messy circles right over that spot while he kept fucking you from behind. You cried out his name at the sudden stimulation, one hand flying forward to slam against the wall above the headboard for support, swearing you were seeing stars.

“Pull my hair,” you groaned pleadingly as if desperate to feel him absolutely everywhere you could, “Pull my hair and tell me you’ll knock me up.”

With his right hand still messily tending to your clit as he fucked you, George reached up with his other hand to grab a handful of your hair and he yanked it back, forcing your head up. You moaned loudly as the simple action tore electricity through you and you pushed yourself back into his thrusts until the lewd sound of your bodies colliding only filled the room more.

“You want that?” George taunted from behind you, his hand tightening in your hair, “Want to hear just how much I want to put a fucking baby in you right now?”

“Oh fuck…please!” you groaned.

“Please, what?” he asked hungrily from behind you, taking his hand from your clit to grab your shoulder as he picked up the pace a little more until the bed was creaking beneath you.

“Ahh!” you shrieked at his change in pace and angle, “Please come in me!”

George had a smirk to his voice—you could hear it despite the pleasure that overtook the both of you, binding you together—with his hands still firmly on your shoulders and almost yanking you back into his rough thrusts as he replied between breaths, “Yeah? You want me…to come in your pussy, baby? Keep this up…all night long?”

“Yeah, fuck, fill me up all night.” you withered, the words just pouring out of your mouth without thought, “Keep coming in me until it just leaks out—”

Just as you were falling into that dizzy cloud of pleasure-drunk euphoria, he stopped completely, fully inside you, letting out a strangled groan and a strained, “Fuck, okay, wait…”

You panted to try and catch your breath, trying to get your senses back with how fucking out of your mind you had been mere milliseconds earlier, “What?”

George exhaled strongly through pursed lips, his breathlessness just as apparent as yours, confessing, “I almost just fucking came…I need a second…”

“So what?” you countered, pushing your ass back on him to lazily and impatiently fuck yourself on his cock, “I want it.”

George took a hand back to give your ass a small smack through slightly slurred words, “Yeah, and I want to give you as much of me as possible, not three fuckin’ strokes.”

You chuckled softly, using that brief moment to catch your breath as he pulled out of you entirely. The sudden emptiness had you letting out a slight wince at the change and you moved yourself to be flat onto your stomach instead, draped diagonally across the bed and wrapping your arms around one of the pillows that were still somehow in place. George leaned over you and pulled open the bedside table drawer to find something, his warm skin pressing tacky against yours.

In your slight impatience, you glanced over at his hand buried in the drawer with a small sigh but you didn’t even have a chance to ask what he was looking for before he emerged with your favourite vibrator. You smiled as he passed it into your hand and pressed a kiss to your temple before he was situating himself behind you again. Adjusting yourself underneath him, now flat on your stomach, you pushed your ass up just enough to help him get his cock angled properly and for you to fit your hand under your body.

“Good?” you asked over your shoulder, feeling the way he dragged the head of his dick through the creamy mess of you.

“Mhm,” George set one hand down on the bed beside you as he leaned over you a little more and started to press inside you, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you couldn’t keep the smile out of your voice.

Your husband sank into you slowly just so you could savour the feeling of him stretching you out again, not to mention the low handsome moan he let out as he sheathed himself inside you as deep as he could go. You took a deep breath, pushing your hips up a little until you could feel the skin of his pelvis against your ass, eyelids fluttering at the fullness. George leaned down to kiss your shoulder blade before easing back and then pushing into you again.

“Wow, can’t believe a World Champion is fucking me right now,” you giggled teasingly, voice a little tight from pleasure, “I’m such a lucky lady.”

“Shut up,” George laughed breathily.

“Mmm,” you let your eyes flutter shut to focus on the feeling of his long deep strokes and, beneath your body, your hand pressed and held the power button on your vibrator until the soft buzzing sound filled the room. The touch of it against your sensitive clit had you gasping slightly, one arm still wrapped around the pillow under your head and your fingers pressed into the fabric a little tighter.

George moved down onto his forearms on either side of your head so his chest was almost entirely pressed against your back, his hips shoving a little harder against yours, jiggling the flesh of your ass with every thrust. You could feel his hot breath against your ear, even through your mess of hair that tumbled around your head, and when he reached a hand up to brush your hair over your shoulder so he could see your face, you couldn’t help the dreamy smile that came to your lips.

“There we go,” George panted, “Such a good girl for me.”

You adjusted the vibrator between your legs until it reached just the right spot, and, when it did, it rendered you speechless for a moment. The tumble of moans that fell from your lips were nearly fucked out of you from the way George was fucking you so deliciously, sharp precise thrusts that only helped to have your eyes fluttering closed and your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. His strong arms framed your head on either side of you, trapping you underneath him with almost all of his body weight on top of you. Regardless, you still tried to keep your hips lifted up enough to present yourself to him.

“Fuck, yeah, just like that—” you breathed out shakily

“Gonna make you come first,” George spoke lowly against your temple, “I want you…nice and open and relaxed…to take every last drop.”

“Please,” you gasped out.

The combination of the way he fucked you and the added sensations of the vibrator had you seeing stars, nearly drooling into the pillow beneath your head with the pleasured moans that tumbled from your lips. It was all so intense that your body must have started to flatten out to try and get away from it that George had to slide an arm under your hips to pull them back up just enough to keep you at the perfect position for him to take. You squealed into the pillow, struggling to keep holding your vibrator on your clit with how strong it was feeling, the warmth stirring hot in your belly and stretching through your veins.

“Come on,” he panted, hips snapping relentlessly against yours, “I’m not going to give you what you want until you come for me.”

You couldn’t help the broken cry that fell from your chest, eyes rolling shut, and you tried to smother your sounds into the pillow with your free hand clutching desperately at it. It ramped up fast, the feeling of your orgasm washing over you strong enough to make your limbs tremble and jerk beneath him. George groaned tightly at the feeling of you squeezing around him like a vice, making it harder to keep fucking you through it, but he kept it going.

“Good girl,” he praised strongly, slowing down just a little to give you a second to catch your breath as you gasped and groaned out of it.

You heaved your head from the pillow with a blissed out expression and heavy eyelids, lips swollen from biting them so hard with how tightly wound that had got you. You pulled your hand out from underneath you and turned off your vibrator, the silicone shimmering slightly from how wet you were and how you had leaked all over it. The toy was discarded aimlessly across the mattress, giving you both hands free to wrap back around the pillow as George adjusted himself on top of you again.

He set his forearms down on either side of you, sliding one under your collarbones and the other around your head, caging you in his loving arms. As he started to thrust into you a little harder and a little faster again, he let out a pretty grunt against your ear. With your cheek against the mattress, your mouth fell open with a soft gasp of pleasure, still drunk off the orgasm he had just given you and still feeling the aftershocks making your cunt pulse around his every thrust.

“Fuck,” George groaned thickly, “Jesus Christ, you’re so wet—”

“All for you,” you purred, all too aware, yourself, to the sounds of your sopping cunt taking his every thrust, harmonized by the creak of the bed beneath his efforts. Your hands moved to grasp his biceps, digging your nails into his muscle, grounding yourself in him, even as you tried to lift your ass up a little to meet his motions.

He was taking it a little harder now, shoving into you in firm thrusts with his entire body on top of you, the headboard starting to hit the wall in a steady rhythm. You swore he was as deep as he could go, feeling like you could feel every fucking inch of him plowing into you in quick succession, blurring the line between pleasure and pain until your nails were digging into his biceps.

“Fuck, you’re so deep, George—” you withered, eyes rolling shut, “Fuck, it hurts so fucking good. Please don’t stop!”

"Yeah, you like that, huh?" he mumbled against your temple, his tone full of smug satisfaction, "You like it when it hurts a little bit, don’t you?"

A string of words tumbled nonsensically from your lips, “Yeah, yeah, fuck, please—”

George’s breath fell hot against your cheek, his voice thick with lust and the exertion, his skin slick with sweat pressed right against yours until you couldn’t quite tell where you ended and he began. The filthy words were spoken right against your ear, felt through every nerve ending in your body, “You’re just my sweet obedient little wife, aren’t you? Just meant to be knocked up…just meant to be held down and fucking filled.”

You took one hand from his bicep to grab the edge of the mattress, feeling your body writhing beneath his weight as he fucked you face down into the bed, his strong arms caging you in. The sounds poured from your lips almost completely involuntarily, feeling entirely taken over by him, filled with this desire for him to just take you how he wanted. It had never felt so intensely primal before—even when you were trying for your son—so raw and real, like you felt like you might have actually died if he didn’t get you pregnant.

“Please,” you choked out again, eyes brimming with tears, fingers clawing at the sheets and his bicep, “Please, I need it…need you to come inside me…please—”

“Oh, my girl, you want my babies that badly?” he purred against your ear, breath hot, “How many y'gonna give me? Two? Three? A whole squad, yeah?”

“Whatever you want…however many you want…please, sir, please—” you sobbed over the sound of the headboard hitting the wall.

“Fuck, listen to you beg…so fucking pretty,” George groaned through his teeth.

He moved a hand to wrap his slender fingers around your throat, pulling your head out of the pillow so you were gaping towards the wall with the dumbest expression of pleasure on your flushed face. It felt like a nearly out of body experience it was so good, your entire body tingling with need and still immensely sensitive from your orgasm, making his every hard thrust feel like perfection. You barely acknowledged his two fingers pressing their way into your mouth, accepting them without complaint with your lips wrapping around them with a pleasured whine.

George’s breath was panted hot against your skin, laced in with the odd moan, parted and swollen lips grazing your cheek. He ploughed into you at that same relentless pace but as the seconds passed, it started to get a little sloppier, a little more desperate.

“Shit, I’m gonna come—” he grunted, voice thick.

You could hardly mutter another pathetic “please” around his fingers, trying to lift your hips up to invite him deeper, even if he had you entirely pinned under his weight and was as deep as he could go. In only a few more seconds, his body shuddered on top of you, head dropping forward onto your shoulder, and he gave you one more sharp thrust as deep as he possibly could. With a handsome gasping moan from your husband, you could feel the thick warmth spurting inside you as he ground into you in small pleasured spasms.

“Ooh, my God…” you withered, toes curling at the sensation and fingers tightening around the fitted sheet and pillows beneath you. You swore you were literally salivating, a blissed out smile coming to your lips as he gave you what you wanted.

“Can you feel that?” George panted from on top of you, his pelvis pressed tightly against your ass, giving you every inch to feel the way his cock twitched dully inside you, throbbing against your tight muscles and spilling more right at your cervix, “It’s still coming.”

“Yeah, keep it in there,” you breathed, reaching a hand back to grab his thigh to keep him from pulling out.

“I know, baby,” George’s hand stroked over your frazzled hair, his voice warm and thick, “That’s all for you.”

When he finally finished coming, the two of you stayed where you were for a moment longer, catching your breaths. George leaned down to trail some kisses along your neck, loosening his arms from around you to give you a bit of space.

“Jesus…” he whispered, his voice ragged and rough as his senses started to come back to him, “That was...that was intense.”

You giggled blissfully and, with him still inside you and now motionless, you ground your ass back on him a little to make sure you got every last drop.

“Ugh, honey,” George groaned tightly, leaning back from you a little more to press a hand on the small of your back to hold you still, “Don’t do that.”

“Why?” you bit back a coy smile.

“Because it’s too much,” he exhaled, his body still trembling from the aftershocks and even though you could feel him softening a little inside you, his cock still twitched ever so faintly. “I’m too sensitive right now.”

George slowly pulled out and you cautiously rolled over so you were on your back, sprawled out on your bed, and propped up on your elbows with your legs spread lazily. Beneath you, your fitted sheet now had an impressive wet splotch on it and George grasped your ankles in one hand to guide your legs towards your chest, letting his other press against the soiled fabric.

“I think you actually soaked it through to the mattress,” George chuckled lightly.

“That wasn’t entirely my fault,” you protested playfully, blinking dreamily up at him.

As if interrupting your moment, your body let out a little squeak of air, made almost bubbly from how filled by him you were. Both caught by surprise, you met each other’s gaze and then burst into soft laughter together. George let go of your ankles and, instead, set his hands on the backs of your thighs to keep your legs back, staring down at your sopping pussy and what a mess you were right down to the trimmed hair that was matted with various fluids. Your body forced out another queef.

“God, you’re a fucking goddess,” George exhaled. He dropped a hand down to gently prod at your pussy with the pad of his thumb and almost right away, a thick glob of white dripped out of you and down between your cheeks and onto the ruined sheets below.

You hummed at the feeling, splayed out in front of him and still propped up on your elbows, watching him watch you, and after just a second, George leaned in towards you and you shared a few sloppy kisses. You moved one hand to grasp the back of his neck as you took what you wanted from his lips, your heart racing in your chest and your kisses made a little ungraceful from your shared smiles. After only a few seconds, George broke away from your lips and looked back down between your spread legs, moving his hand to grasp the shaft of his cock and then slide the tip along your slick pussy just as more of his cum leaked out of you. He gathered it back up that way and pressed it back inside you as if not wanting to waste a single drop.

With only the tip inside you, he asked in a voice slightly, “Can you take more?”

“Uh huh,” you nodded, staring up at him with blown wide eyes, your hand still at the back of his neck giving him a little tug to try and get his lips back onto yours.

“Yeah, of course you can,” he chuckled—as if he should have already suspected the answer—just before he pressed his lips to yours and then sunk farther inside you.

With your hand on the back of his neck, you pulled him down after you as you laid flat on your back on the bed, making sure he wouldn’t stop kissing you even as you shifted. He followed after you expertly, resting on his flat hands on either side of you and bent down just enough to continue your sloppy kisses as his hips pushed themselves flush against yours. Despite having been absolutely railed by him only seconds earlier, your body still stretched around him to accommodate his every inch once more, allowing that warm tingling pressure to spread between your legs and over your hips and deep inside you. Your fingers tangled in the roots of his hair and you groaned into his mouth at the feeling.

“Mmm, stretchin’ me out so good.” you mumbled against his lips.

“You’re so tight and perfect for me, my love,” he murmured, breaking your kiss just far enough to stare down into your eyes, his expression dark with desire, “You were made just for me, weren’t you?”

“Yeah…” you breathed in reply.

You didn’t put up an argument as he guided your legs up so your calves were resting on his shoulders as he knelt before you and he slowly started to move in languid, delicious motions, back and forth, thrusting into you in a dizzying rhythm. Your eyes fluttered as you stared up at him, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth and your hands absentmindedly grasping onto the fitted sheet beneath you. All you could think about as you stared up at him like that, his handsome face bathed in a light flush that carried down his chest and his caramel skin glistening in a thin sheen of sweat, was watching him on the top step of the podium that weekend, fresh out of the car, the newest World Champion. Your champion. Fuck.

The reminder had you writhing, trying to push your hips up to encourage him on, fisting the fitted sheet. George hushed you as he set one large hand on your lower abdomen, keeping you down on the bed as he continued to roll his hips into yours nice and deep. He pressed his palm down nice and firmly, adding a bit of a squeeze to where he was nestled inside you and undoubtedly feeling every thrust of his cock. That very same spot where he rested his hand was where you had carried your son and where, you would hope, you would have the privilege to carry another little blessing. Almost out of instinct, you dropped a hand down to rest over his on your abdomen.

“Want to make a baby in you…right here—” he whispered lowly as he stared down into your eyes, hand still pressing firmly in place.

“Please,” you withered, feeling his words ignite your every nerve ending through your body.

“Ugh, fuck, darling,” George grunted sweetly, “when you clench like that it makes me wanna fuck you deeper.”

“Do it. Do it, please—” you begged pitchily and moved your hand from his to grab his wrist, almost willing to do anything for him to give you more.

George leaned farther down over top of you so his hands were on either side of your head and your legs were trapped over his shoulders, nearly having you bent in half. He could get incredibly deep that way, giving you every fucking inch, and almost right away he was picking up the pace at the same time. You shrieked at the change, fingers pressing into his biceps.

“There you go,” he purred, wrapping one hand around your throat in a firm squeeze, just how you liked it, “that’s it.”

You were rendered speechless for a moment, gaping up at him as he pounded into you harder and held you down by his hand around your throat. The bed was creaking faintly underneath you again and, as if he liked it loud, George shifted his position just a little so that every purposeful thrust also had the headboard starting to hit the wall. You cried out to the ceiling, head arching back against the mattress, hands splaying over the sheets to fist them in your white-knuckled grip.

“You’re gonna look so fucking gorgeous pregnant…carrying our baby…” he panted thickly, “My perfect wife making me a whole little brood.”

“Yeah, please, come in me,” you stumbled out, trying to force your eyes to stay open and locked on his.

“You want more, hm?” he taunted, “Already came so much that it’s leaking out of you and you want to be filled more? It’s gonna be dipping out of you for days.”

You could feel your eyes rolling shut at his words and his gorgeous threat and how they sounded behind the very obvious squelch of his cock plowing into your sloppy cunt over and over and over. He could move so easily with how soaked you were, streaking his cum over your thighs and ass and his pelvis and the length of his dick, making everything so ridiculously messy. All you could think about was how good it felt as he had you lingering on that precipice between pain and pleasure again, his hand tight around your throat and his thick cock so deep inside you that it was nearly kissing your cervix with every thrust.

With one hand still fisting the sheets, your other habitually dropped between your bodies to rub furiously at your clit, fingers slipping over it easily with how soaked everything was. You choked over your breath at the startling sensations, sobbing out a broken, “Fuck! I’m gonna come!”

“Yeah, baby?” George taunted, his voice thick with need, “You gonna come on my cock? Gonna make a mess all over me?”

All you could reply with was a pitchy and uncontrollable chant of, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”, in time with the creak of the bed and the dizzying clap of wet skin on skin.

George groaned, his body responding to every sound you made, the chorus of sights and sounds and smells taking him over as it did you. This voice was tight as he kept his hand firmly around your throat, squeezing the sides just under your jaw, encouraging you with a low, “That’s it, baby. Come for me.”

Your legs were nearly vibrating over his shoulders as your impending orgasm built and built inside you, filling your veins with intense warmth and coiling tightly in the pit of your stomach. You knew you were making noise—and a lot of it—but details were so hazy as the intensity overtook you and left you almost feeling like you were in some dream-like experience. The moment you came around him, your muscles clenching up tight around him, his name fell from your lips with a wet sob and you writhed against the bed, struggling under the way he held you down by your throat.

“Fuck! Good girl!” George praised loudly, still thrusting insistently into you even as you tensed right up around him.

“Oh my God!” you gasped out of it, hands flying to grab onto any part of him you could, “Yes! Shit!”

George moved with ease as he grabbed your arms and immediately pinned your wrists down to the mattress on either side of your head without missing a beat. He rammed into you harder, rougher, faster, taking you as he wanted until your oversensitive body was nearly vibrating and the room was a myriad of lewd sounds and surely filling the whole house. You were so fucking soaked by then that it was almost impressive how loud his skin clapped against yours with every thrust, just adding to the intensity of the moment.

“Please, George, please!” you shrieked, pleasured tears burning your eyes even as they screwed shut with overwhelm, “Come inside me! Put a baby in me! Fuck, I need it so bad, darling, please. Please…please, I wanna make you a daddy again.”

“Yeah, you will, my sweet girl,” George groaned through his sloppy thrusts, “Gonna be such a good little wife…and carry another perfect little angel for me, aren't you?”

“Yeah, gimme it, please!” you let the words tumble from your lips without thought, “Every drop…inside me…please…please…”

You could already feel him throbbing inside you despite the intensity with which he fucked you, taking you right into the mattress like he owned you, your legs still secure over his shoulders. The two of you were for sure quite the erotic sight; bodies entangled in such an intense position as he held you down and prepared to come inside you for the second consecutive time, your panted breaths mingling and pleasured sounds harmonizing with the slam of the headboard against the wall.

“Gonna come so fucking deep inside your perfect little cunt…” George said through his teeth, his voice thick with pleasure, “right at your cervix…make sure it takes…make sure you’re properly knocked up…”

You didn’t even have a chance to voice any more begging before his face was screwing up in over-sensitive pleasure and he gave you one particularly deep thrust. At the feeling of the first spurt, your hands tore from his and flew down to grab at his ass and his waist, nails digging into his flesh and holding him inside you as deep as he could go as you stared up into his eyes and watched the orgasm tear through his expression. You withered at the sight and the feel of it, not to mention the way your cunt fluttered around him at the feeling of him throbbing inside you as if to pull everything out of him.

“Fuck, George…” you breathed dreamily.

“Mmph…” he moaned tightly, grinding his hips against yours a little more before easing down onto forearms on either side of your head and your legs dropped from his shoulders, “Jesus Christ…”

Your hands slid up his sides and took his face in your palms to guide his lips to yours, both of you breathless and spent and barely able to kiss with how you heaved for air. Your husband’s pretty eyes could hardly stay open as he tried to catch his bearings and he settled right down on top of you and tucked his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling a little from the remanence of the aftershocks. He was utterly spent and boneless, and almost looked like he didn’t want to or more rather couldn’t move ever again.

You laughed ever so softly at his sudden exhaustion after all that excitement and you ran your hands up and down his toned back, sharing in his moment to just breathe. His weight on top of you was comforting and familiar and helped to calm you down, your eyes falling shut to bask in the moment as you stayed entangled as one for a little longer.

“I love you,” you breathed as your finger trailed down the vertebrae of his spine.

“Mm, I love you,” George echoed, planting a kiss to the apex of your neck and your shoulder. He then took a deep, shaky breath and lifted his head up to meet your gaze, “That was…something.”

You giggled softly and rubbed his broad shoulders, “I think we’re done.”

He chuckled breathily and rested his forehead against yours, “Yeah, we’re definitely done. I don't think I can move ever again.”

“You put in work all weekend…and still managed to perform the grand finale tonight,” you played along.

George lifted his head back to look you in the eye again with a playful, “I can’t tell if I’m offended that you think this outshone my championship or if I’m in agreement.”

The two of you shared breathy laughter and a few tender kisses before he was slowly pulling out of you and laying beside you on the bed. Despite the damp fitted sheet beneath you, neither of you minded in that moment, too focused on each other and coming down from those intense blissful highs you shared. George’s arm wrapped around you as you snuggled into his side, tangled up against the pillows that were half falling off the bed, nothing but the laboured sound of your breathing filling the once noisy room.

George’s cheek rested against your head as you laid on his chest, feeling the rapid thudding of his heartbeat under your palm and the smoothness of his toned pecs. He turned his face towards yours to leave a kiss to your forehead and then he let out a tired exhale, draping his free arm above his head. You looked up at him from your spot, taking a second to admire the angles of his jaw and the messiness of his hair and the flush that still lingered down his neck and over his collarbones.

“I’m so proud of you.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, at least not out loud, but it was the truth. George glanced at you in return, a calm smile on his face, and his hand gave your shoulder a squeeze, his lips pressing to your temple.

“Thank you, my love,” he breathed, “Couldn’t have done it without you though.”

“Don’t say that,” you tutted, “You’ve been working for this far longer than you’ve known me.”

“And yet it didn’t happen until I knew you…until you were my wife…the mother of my child…”

You smiled as you stared back into his eyes, correcting him with a soft, “Children.”

George shared in your smile, his expression melting, “Yes, hopefully.”

You both leaned in for a kiss or two or three until you were interrupted by a squeak of air being pushed from your cunt. George broke away from your lips with a breathy chuckle and he dropped his hand down your body to help himself between your thighs, fingertips gliding over your pussy to collect the creamy globs of cum that had leaked out of you and he pushed it back in with two fingers.

“I tried to clench,” you laughed lightly.

“You did great,” George smiled against your temple.

He left another kiss there before he was rolling away to grab a tissue from the box on the bedside table to come back to your side and start to clean you up. Propped up on his arm beside you, he wiped up the mess between your legs with the tissue and you took that moment to just stare at him some more and how he took care of you. Oh, you were so in love with him.

“Wanna push any more out?” he asked.

“It’s okay,” you said, “I’ll just go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

George gave you one more wipe and folded the soiled tissue in a clean one as you cautiously moved to sit up. More little queefs slipped out as you moved positions and started to stand up and with a proud fucking smirk, he reached to take your arm to make sure you were stable on your feet. Once you were steady on your still-slightly-trembling legs, you took the tissue from him to take to the bathroom with you to dispose of.

You took your time in the ensuite to use the toilet and clean yourself up at the sink with a damp cloth, having to hold yourself steady on the side of the vanity. When you emerged back into the bedroom, George was remaking the bed with fresh sheets, the soiled ones in a heap by the door in desperate need to be washed. He was in a fresh pair of boxers but otherwise naked, hair still sticking up in ridiculous directions and his body looking absolutely gorgeous in the fading light of the late afternoon. There was a clean pair of underwear and a pyjama set folded for you on the dresser.

“You take such good care of me,” you gushed sweetly as you started to pull on the clothes to keep yourself from catching a chill.

George glanced over at you as he pulled the duvet back on the bed, “Of course, it’s the least I can do for my wonderful wife.”

Once the bed was made, you climbed into your side despite it being barely evening, and you collapsed back against the pillows and headboard with a content sigh.

“Feeling alright?” George asked as he finished fluffing his pillows.

You lolled your head to the side to look at him with an adoring smile, “Yeah. Just fucking tired out.”

“Me too, not to mention that horribly long flight we had,” he set a knee on the mattress to lean towards you and gave your lips a brief kiss as his hand gave your abdomen a little caress over the duvet around your hips. The implication of his action was not lost on you. He stood up again, “Should we order something special for dinner and then get some sleep, you reckon? We’ll have to be up in good time tomorrow to pick up the little guy.”

“That sounds great, love,” you replied softly, and then, before he could ask what you wanted for dinner, you said, “Whatever my World Champion wants to eat sounds good to me.”

Mid-December

The season ended around three weeks later, allowing Formula 1’s newest World Champion to travel home to you for winter break. As much as you enjoyed seeing George race during the year, watching him doing what he loved, there was something about winter break that made your unconventional relationship feel comfortingly normal.

You and your son picked him up from the airport, the toddler donning a ‘Welcome Home’ balloon tied loosely around his wrist, and it went flying in all directions as he ran across the linoleum floor of the ‘Arrivals’ gate once George emerged from within. Beaming, George dropped his backpack and crouched down to welcome his son into his arms and as soon as the little boy was in his grasp, he stood up and lifted up high into the air to send the toddler giggling. Then, snuggling him close to his chest, George peppered his chubby cheeks in kisses.

The toddler pointed to the balloon floating above them, “B’oon, Daddy,”

“Yes, I see the balloon!” George said with a smile, “Is that for me?”

The little boy nodded with a grin, earning him another proud kiss from his father and a pet of his hair. You joined the little reunion and received a kiss of your own from George and you shared a whispered greeting between smiles.

The drive home was calm through the English countryside and your son chatted away happily from his carseat in the back of George’s Mercedes, little sticky fingers pressing against the window and light-up sneakers kicking against the seat in front of him. But the two of you in the front seat were unbothered by your son’s restlessness; with George’s hand on your thigh as he drove your little family safely home. It felt like peace had been restored once George was home and knowing he was all yours for a few weeks made it even better. Despite this, you fiddled with his hand on your lap, absentmindedly spinning his wedding ring around his finger.

He glanced over at you, “You okay, love?”

You looked at him in return with a small smile, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

In reality, in the five days that George had been away, you had started feeling a little unlike yourself; mainly incredibly fatigued to the point that you actually had started napping when your son napped and going to bed at his bedtime too. You knew the last time you had experienced such intense fatigue was when you were pregnant with him and that reminder had your mind swirling. It had only been three weeks of actively trying to conceive and you had partially convinced yourself that it wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been with your son; perhaps that was just beginner’s luck. But, here you were, nearly falling asleep in the passenger seat of George’s car at barely noon.

Once home, it was about time for your son’s nap but he was far too zazzed to even think about sleeping. George ended up carrying him up and down the second floor hallway, rubbing his back, letting him talk himself to sleep in the long-awaited comfort of his father’s arms. It always seemed to do the trick. The toddler was then tucked into bed and George quietly closed his bedroom door behind him.

George had assumed you would be bringing his suitcase upstairs while he took care of the kid but when he stepped into your shared bedroom, there was no sign of you or the suitcase. It wasn’t until he walked back downstairs that he found you, sitting on the bottom step, draped over the top of his suitcase, and fast asleep. With a fond smile, George descended the rest of the staircase and joined you on the bottom step, gently moving you to lean against him instead. You stirred a little.

“Alright there, sleeping beauty?” he teased against your temple.

You lifted your head up to flutter your eyes open to meet his gaze, “M’okay.”

“Do you want to go for a nap too?” he tucked some of your hair behind your ear.

You spoke an unrelated reply in a voice barely over a breath, “I took a pregnancy test on Thursday.”

George’s eyebrows raised and you could feel his arm around you tighten, “And?”

“Couldn’t tell what it was,” you confessed, “It’s upstairs…you can look at it…thought I’d wait a few more days and try again and then maybe you could be with me.”

“Yeah, of course,” George smiled, his voice so light and warm, and although he was trying to be caring, you could hear the hint of impatience in his words, “Are you up to that right now?”

“Based on how fucking exhausted I’ve been feeling and how tender my boobs are, I’m, like, 99% sure I know the answer but…I want to know for sure.” you said definitively.

So you and George ended up in your ensuite bathroom, you on the toilet with a fresh pregnancy test between your legs and him at the vanity squinting at the one you took four days earlier. If you really looked, you could see a faint second line but you also had started to tell yourself that maybe you were just imagining what you wanted to see.

“I dunno, I definitely think there are two lines, love,” George stated, turning the pregnancy test into the light a little more.

“Really?” you replied before holding out the newest one to him to take.

He turned to take it from you and he capped it and set it on the counter while you finished up on the toilet and flushed. You washed your hands beside him at the vanity, watching how he set a three minute timer on his phone and then went back to staring at the old test.

“Yeah, seems so,” he set it down on the counter alongside the new one as you began your three-minute wait for the results.

“I was just thinking that it feels a little crazy to get pregnant so quickly,” you explained, snaking your arms around his middle and he pulled you into him, “Like, it was fast with our first but…having that happen again? Doesn’t it take most people a few months of trying?”

George shrugged, “Maybe we’re just extra fertile.”

You snorted lightly.

“And we’ve been trying pretty consistently,” he reminded you, keeping your gaze through the mirror, “After Brazil and then almost every second day since…”

“Maybe you just have speedy sperm too,” you played along.

George dropped his head back with a small groaning laugh, his arm around you instinctively pulling you closer. You rested your head against his and stared at your reflection in the mirror, how the two of you looked together, how the warmth of his body felt against yours. He was familiar, he was home.

Between your exhaustion and George’s tiredness after his flight, neither of you spoke much as you waited there in the bathroom for the timer to go off. You appreciated the comfort of each other’s presence in the face of this slightly nerve-wracking moment. Of course you hoped for a positive but you knew that if it were negative, you had only just started trying anyway. There was always going to be time.

When George’s phone alarm went off, he shut it off and then gave you a squeeze, “Ready?”

“Think so,” you smiled at him through the mirror.

“You’re trembling,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“I’m nervous,” you giggled softly and reached with a shaky hand to pick up the new test.

It was still face down and you lingered there for a moment. George glanced at you as if wanting to tell you to hurry up but he didn’t push you, letting you take a breath before, finally, turning it over in your hand. You both leaned in to see the result.

Compared to the one taken four days earlier, this second line was unmistakable, staring back at you in a fierce shade of dark pink.

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