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sapphire-writes · 11 months ago

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the winner takes it all

Art x Reader x Tashi

summary: winners deserve rewards, and Tashi is more than happy to spoil her star athlete with the help of her ever-dutiful husband.

word count: 2.7k

rating: mature/explicit/18+

warnings: porn no plot (deep breath) m/f/f dynamic, threesome, dom!Tashi, switch!Art, sub!Reader, p in v, creampie, overstim, hair pulling, titty play, use of toys, praise, teasing, spanking, orgasm denial, oral (fem receiving), oral (reader giving fem), face sitting

note: hope you enjoy! my first non-HOTD related fic!

link to other stories from me!

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Your match had taken place several hours ago. You’d been anxious the entire time, but ended up winning, much to you and your coach’s pleasure. The ride back to the hotel was torturous, as well as the following mandatory ice bath, sauna, shower, and footage review. It was the routine you’d followed ever since Tashi began coaching you.

She was nothing if not thorough.

After tying up several loose ends, including Tashi grilling you for every point you missed, every fault she could see when she paused the footage, you now found yourself in a more pleasurable position.

Art held your legs open as he continued his even thrusts, cock sliding against the walls of your pussy at a torturous pace. Tashi sat beside you, clad only in a silk robe and lace panties, brushing some hair from your face that was sticking to your forehead with perspiration.

You had the suite to yourself for the night. Tashi and Art’s little girl was safely tucked away with her grandmother in another elegant suite on the other side of the hotel. Another part of the routine.

“Tash….”

“You did well out there today,” she interrupts, reaching beside her to the end table drawer and pulling out her Hitachi wand. It buzzes to life as she turns it on and a strangled whine leaves your throat as she presses it to your clit, “See what happens when you put in the extra time? That backhand of yours is a lethal weapon now.”

“Fuck!” is the only response you’re able to give as Art moans at the vibrations as he continues to pound into you.

She likes you best like this, fucked dumb on Art’s cock, mindlessly agreeing to her plans for future matches, eyes rolling back in your head. Different moves she’ll have you practice. How hard she plans to work you on the court the following morning.

“Come on, come for me,” Tashi insists, hand trailing over your breasts, “What’s my girl need to come, hm? Need these pretty tits attended to?” She pinches your nipple for emphasis and your jaw slacks, a pleasurable current in your gut winding tighter and tighter with the continuous stimulation.

Art slings your left leg over his shoulder, pressing a tender kiss to your calf as he does so.

The new angle sends him deeper inside of you and you clench, mouth falling open with an uncontrollable moan.

“That’s it,” Tashi murmurs, eyes never leaving your face, “Feels so good doesn’t it? Art knows how to treat his girl, huh? Don’t you baby?”

“Yes,” he hissed between clenched teeth, beads of sweat forming on his brow, “Fucking perfect pussy, god—”

Tashi removes her hand from your breast, taking hold of your chin.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes water with pleasurable tears but you do as she asks, always keen to follow her instructions. The tennis court, the bedroom, it was all the same playing field in the end.

“Come on baby,” she murmurs, leaning down and pressing a kiss against your lips, “Come for me, you’ve been such a good girl, you deserve it.”

“Fuck!” Art courses as your pussy tightens around him, “Oh uhhh—”

“I’m cumming,” you helplessly whimper, the words nearly a sob, “Tashi…..fuck….Art fuck feels so—-“ your abdominal muscles tense as your reach your peak, white-hot ecstasy flooding your body as a shudder rolls through you.

Tashi smiles as you come, fingers dancing down your neck. Art fucks you through it, leaning forward to pound into you at a harder rhythm, chasing his imminent release. It’s only then Tashi glances at him, her smile dropping slightly.

“Don’t cum.”

Art’s hips stutter as your walls continue to flutter around his thick length, his jaw slacks, eyes watering as he looks at his wife.

“Tash—”

“I said no,” she insists, shutting off the vibrator and throwing it to the side. Leaning forward, she captures your lips in a kiss. She sits up, a smile on her face as she kisses Art as well. He whimpers against her lips, hard and pulsating inside you still. But Tashi never changes her mind.

“You want to come, you should try winning.”

“Tash please,” Art’s voice was strained, Adam’s apple bobbing, his expression pained, “please let me come.”

“Yeah?” She taunts moving up to kiss him. She brings her lips close to his, his eyes fluttering shut as she barely brushes the soft pout of her mouth against his. His lips part, head tilting to chase her.

You watch from below them, still trying to slow your breathing. You like watching them dance, this push and pull they have. It’s hypnotizing, the effect she has on him. On you. Tashi pushes his chest and his eyes flutter open.

“Sit.”

Tashi nods to the chair in the corner of the room. Art hesitates and she raises a brow when he doesn’t move quickly enough. Teeth clenched, Art unsheathes his aching cock from your warmth, hissing as he pulls completely out. Your breath hitches at the loss of him, and you gaze up at Tashi waiting for her next instruction.

Fully naked, Art walks to the chair, cock hard and swinging between his legs as though he’s nothing more than a scolded pup.

Tashi stands walking over to him, and Art tilts his chin to meet her eyes. Slowly, she lets the silk robe fall from her shoulders, and she takes her time removing it and placing it on his lap. You can see his erection through the soft purple fabric.

“Hold that for me, would you?” she asks, turning back to face you.

You can’t help it as your gaze falls to her breasts; supple and mouth-watering, dark nipples taunting you. The dip of flesh between her abdominal muscles, a spot you’ve run your tongue along countless times now. Tashi rejoins you on the bed, lying next to you, looping her thumbs in the waistband of her lace panties.

“You want a taste, baby?” she asks, smiling slightly at you.

You nod eagerly as she beckons you with a tilt of her chin. Scrambling into a kneeling position you slot yourself between Tashi’s toned legs, replacing her fingers and gently pulling off her lace panties, tossing them to the side and revealing her glistening sex.

Two things turn Tashi on. Telling you and Art what to do, and tennis.

Tashi brings her hand down her front tracing down her toned stomach until she reaches the soft curls that frame her pussy. She takes two fingers and spreads herself before you.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs, her voice low and seductive, “Eat up.”

She’s an enchantress, you swear, using some sort of siren song to pull you in. Even here between her legs, she’s in charge; it’s you who’s helpless. You lower your face toward her pussy, already drunk on the scent of her even before your tongue reaches her warm slit.

You couldn’t hold in your moan of pleasured relief even if you tried as your tongue dipped lower, parting her lips and dipping inside her right entrance. There’s something about her, how she feels, how she tastes. You’ll never get enough of it. You nuzzle closer to her, nose bumping against her clit and she rewards you with a breathy sigh.

“Art,” she calls as you eagerly continue lavishing her pussy with attention, “How’s the view?”

“Fucking breathtaking,” he answered, his voice strangled, “Tashi please….”

“She’s so good,” Tashi praises, nails taking against your scalp sending pleasurable tingles down your spine, “Put that pretty mouth of yours where it counts. Show me how badly you want it.”

Your tummy flutters with excitement and you suction your lips around Tashi’s clit, sucking the sensitive button as you hear Art stand up.

“Put that ass up,” Tashi instructs you, her voice airy, nearly breathless. You arch your back, leaning forward into her as Art’s hands cup the front of your thighs.

You wiggle as he kneels behind you, his breath on your pussy before his lips meet your pussy. You moan against Tashi’s cunt as Art trails his hands up your thighs, spreading your cheeks wider as he feasts on you, tongue dipping inside of you and then up to circle your clit.

“I’ll make you a deal baby,” Tashi purrs, back arching off the bed slightly as your tongue circles her pearl, “If you make her finish before I do, I’ll let you come.”

Art groans against you, finishing with a frustrated whine as Tashi chuckles. You glance up at her, drinking in the blissed-out expression on her face, that sly smirk that reaches her eyes.

“Deal?”

Art doesn’t hesitate, he simply redoubles his efforts, tongue entering you with desperate precision. Your lips falter, the pleasure messing with your coordination as Art ups the ante. You feel him pull away from you, and hear the wet pop of his fingers entering his mouth and leaving just as quickly. Then he’s breaching you, fingers slipping inside you with ease from the continued attention following your first orgasm.

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as Art fingers you. He sets a rough pace, placing his opposite hand on your asscheek and squeezing the soft flesh.

The two fingers he has plunged inside you to the knuckle curl perfectly against your spongy walls, hitting that sweet spot inside you every time he curls his fingers.

“Come on,” Art murmurs, slapping your ass, “I know you want to come again.”

“Yes she does,” Tashi agrees, unable to help herself.

“Greedy girl, never satisfied with just one, huh?” Art teases and Tashi chuckles at his efforts. Art never speaks to her like that, only you. Tashi prefers the more dominant role over both you and her husband.

Still eager to please her you sloppily continue eating her out, lost in the sensation of Art's fingers in your pussy, Tashi’s fingers in your hair—

“Come on baby,” Art encourages, though there’s a hint of desperation in his tone. He wants to come just as badly as you do.

“Such a messy girl,” Tashi coos, propping herself on her elbows, “Oh but so so good. I’m getting close…”

Art slaps your ass again, curling his fingers against your g-spot, and it’s no use. Your jaw slacks and your head lolls against the softness of Tashi’s inner thigh as your walls clench around Art’s fingers, your release barreling through you like a freight train. It knocks the air from your lungs, a desperate cry leaving you as Art makes a noise of triumph.

“So you are capable of winning,” Tashi snaps, a little too cold to be simply a bedroom taunt. Art stares at her, before she sits up, “I haven’t come yet.”

“Let me,” you murmur, looking up at her, still lying on her thigh. She smiles down at you, stroking your cheek.

“You’re a sweet girl,” she praises, “But Art won. I think he deserves to finish in that sweet little pussy of yours. Would you like that?”

“Tash…I can’t,” you whimper, still sensitive and tingly from your previous orgasms, “I can’t come again.”

Her smile fades back to that familiar smirk. She glances at Art, nodding at the bed. Cock still standing at attention Art joins you both, lying on his back. Tashi’s hand winds its way in your hair, tugging you not so gently from your resting place. You follow her lead like a puppet on a string.

“Don’t be ungrateful,” she accuses, pushing you towards Art’s lap, “This is a reward. You deserve this.”

Art’s cock pokes at the soft plush of your inner thighs as you straddle him. His hands move automatically towards your hips, rough thumbs brushing against you leaving goosebumps in their wake.

He looks at you with wide, watery eyes, blonde hair a tousled mess.

“One more?” he asks, and you know at that moment if you tapped out, he’d respect it. Art was never one to make you feel uncomfortable in any way, shape, or form.

He rubs your hips again, a soothing motion, and you lean into his touch. Something deep inside you tightens with want. You need him. You need her. You inhale a shaky breath and lift your hips, lining the swollen head of his cock with your entrance. Sinking onto him slowly like this is something else. The way he stretches your insides as you come to rest against him is a feeling you’ll never get used to.

“Good girl.”

Art’s head falls back against the pillows and then Tashi pulls them from underneath him. Her husband knows immediately what she’s after and tilts his head back as she climbs onto his face.

Tashi sits on her husband’s face as though it’s her throne. As though he was made for her and no one else.

She pulls you closer as you lazily begin to ride Art. Lips crashing against yours she kisses you passionately, rolling her hips at the pace you began. Soon you find your rhythm, moving in sync together as Art moans beneath you, happy to pleasure both his girls at once. Tashi’s hand finds your hair again and she tugs your head back, latching her lips against your neck.

She’s fond of leaving marks. Art is hers through their marriage, but she likes to remind you that you belong to her as well.

Art bucks his hips up into you, the head of his cock nudging perfectly against your sweet spot, just as his fingers had moments before. A whine leaves your lips and Tashi laughs against your neck.

“He’s good at that, yeah?” she murmurs, placing soft kisses up your neck and returning to your lips, “Good with his cock, good with his…his tongue.” Her eyes squeeze shut in ecstasy as Art does something you can only imagine.

He moans again, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he decides the pace you’ve set simply isn’t enough. Art’s hands dip below the curve of your ass right where it meets your thighs, lifting you with ease up and down on his cock. He meets you halfway, thrusting up into you as he slams you up and down.

Your whines increase in volume, turning into elongated moans swallowed by Tashi’s kiss. You can feel her nipples pressing against your own and you reach out to caress them. Tashi gyrates her hips on Art’s face and his pace becomes more frantic as he plants both feet on the mattress fucking up into you harder, faster, deeper.

“I—”

Words are lost to you as your mind goes fuzzy; that familiar pressure in your gut builds, a wave of pleasure cresting deep within you. Tashi’s mouth captures yours once more as she snakes a hand down your front, nimble fingers circling your clit giving you just what you need to reach your end. Again.

With that the rubber band in your belly snaps and you come with a startled cry, pleasured tears leaking from the corner of your eyes as you clench around Art’s thick cock. His hips falter only for a moment as he chases his own release, and soon you feel his cock twitch within your warm walls, his spend blooming inside of you.

Tashi smiles proudly as you and Art ride out your highs, the pair of you moaning, limbs jerking from the exertion. Everything’s a game to her. And she always wins.

“Just like that,” she murmurs, hips still swirling around Art’s face, “Oh god I’m—”

You watch as her thighs tense, her head dips and her eyes squeeze shut as her orgasm crashes over her at last.

Carefully you ease Art’s softening cock from within you and lay between the both of them. Tashi on your left, Art on your right. You’re facing Tashi, watching as she comes down from her high, feeling Art’s chest press against your back.

It’s quiet for a moment, the soft sound of a kiss being pressed to your shoulder the only noise in the room. Art snakes a hand around your waist, fingers brushing the soft skin of your tummy. You giggle slightly at the ticklish sensation which causes him to bite down gently on your shoulder. Tashi simply watches, wetting her lips.

“On the courts at five tomorrow,” she says, before standing, “I’ll run us a bath.”

Art sighs and you can’t help but agree with his subtle frustration. Back to business.

“Whatever you say, coach.”

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moongirlcleo · 21 days ago

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Dutybound

❤︎ tags and content: arranged marriage, two dicks, double penetration, overstimulation, aftercare, rough and messy, raf is a smug bastard ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo

Married to a god of the deep, you expect duty. You don’t expect desire.

Rafayel is patient, indulgent—dangerous in the way he watches, waits, toys with you. He lets you pretend this is an obligation, that you don’t want him.But when you finally ask—when you offer yourself to him—he makes sure you understand: This was never just duty.You were always meant to be his.

You had never met your husband.

That was the first thing people always wanted to know. "What’s he like?" they'd ask, eyes gleaming with the kind of curiosity that thrived on scandal. And you would laugh, awkward and forced, because how did you even begin to explain that your own husband was a stranger to you?

"He’s... mysterious," you’d say, which wasn’t a lie. He had to be, considering you knew next to nothing about him. Your marriage existed on paper, a set of meticulously drawn signatures binding your life to his in a way no real emotion ever had.

A political arrangement, they called it. A necessity. An alliance between two worlds that had once been at odds, the threads of old wounds still raw between the lines of diplomacy. You, a human with nothing particularly extraordinary about you, were now tied to Rafayel—the Lemurian prince, the so-called God of Tides, a man whose very name carried the weight of tides and tragedies you had no part in.

And yet, in the eyes of the world, you belonged to him.

It was an absurdity you had never fully wrapped your head around. One day, you had been yourself—just yourself. And the next, you were a wife to someone you had never spoken to, never touched, never seen outside of fragmented images and whispered rumors.

He was beautiful, or so they said. Ethereal in the way all Lemurians were, a creature woven from the sea itself. Dusky violet hair, bi-colored eyes like a shifting current. Taller than most men. A smile that either charmed or threatened, depending on his mood.

You had spent nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he thought of all this. Did he resent it? Did he scoff at the idea of being bound to a human he had never met? Or was he indifferent, viewing you as nothing more than another burden to bear?

Tomorrow, those questions felt heavier than usual. Because after months of silence, of letters exchanged only through intermediaries, of a wedding that had been sealed without so much as a glance between you—

You were finally getting the chance to meet Rafayel in person.

You wake up before dawn, the weight of reality settling into your chest before your mind fully catches up. Today is the day. The day you finally meet your husband.

The morning air is crisp against your skin as you dress, each movement meticulous, measured. You’d spent far too long the night before debating what to wear—something regal enough to match his station, but not so extravagant that it felt like an act. In the end, you settled for something simple yet elegant, the kind of thing that whispered confidence instead of shouting it.

Your hands are steady as you adjust the fabric, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming beneath your skin like the distant crash of waves.

You’d been prepared for this moment in theory. Advisors had coached you on the proper way to address him, on the history of Lemuria, on the subtle nuances of a culture long thought lost beneath the tides. But none of their words had prepared you for the reality of it—that in mere moments, you would stand before a man who was as much legend as he was flesh and blood.

And then, the summons comes.

A quiet knock at the door. A low-voiced attendant informing you that he has arrived.

Your breath catches. With a final glance at your reflection, you step forward to meet the mysterious man that, to the rest of the world, had stolen your heart.

The room is grand—of course it is. Every inch of this place is designed to remind you of the weight of history pressing down upon your shoulders. Dark wood panels stretch along the walls, and high arched windows spill the morning light across polished floors. It smells of salt and something faintly metallic, like the remnants of a storm at sea.

And yet, the man waiting for you is not the one you expected.

He stands near the center of the room, hands neatly folded in front of him, posture straight but not stiff. His suit is pristine, the deep navy fabric tailored to perfection, but there’s something about the way he holds himself that feels unshakable—a man who has long since mastered the art of control.

“Lady y/n,” he greets, his voice smooth and measured. “A pleasure.”

You blink, your carefully rehearsed introductions crumbling under the sheer weight of confusion. “I—thank you.” A pause. “I was told I’d be meeting my husband?”

Something flickers across his face—just for a moment, just enough for you to catch it before his expression smooths back into polite indifference. “Lord Rafayel has been... delayed.”

Delayed.

Your stomach tightens. You are standing here, in a place you do not know, bound to a man you have never met, and he—what? Couldn’t be bothered to show up?

Thomas seems to sense the shift in your mood because he exhales, a soft, barely-there thing. “It is not a slight, I assure you,” he continues, his voice dipping into something quieter. Smoother. “Lord Rafayel is... particular about how he does things.”

You don’t know why, but the phrasing makes something bristle in you. “And meeting his wife isn’t one of them?”

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Thomas’s mouth, gone before it fully forms. “On the contrary. He has been very interested in meeting you.”

You don’t miss the deliberate wording. You fold your arms, tilting your head just slightly. “Then why isn’t he here?”

Thomas hesitates. Just for a second.

And that second tells you more than any explanation could.

“He prefers a certain... grandeur to introductions,” Thomas finally admits, and for the first time, the carefully placed neutrality in his tone wavers, like he knows exactly how ridiculous that sounds. “He will arrive soon. In the meantime, he has requested that I keep you company.”

You narrow your eyes. “To distract me?”

“To prepare you.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

You don’t know what you expected from this meeting, but something about the way Thomas says it makes your pulse slow, deliberate.

“Prepare me for what, exactly?” you ask.

The man finally allows himself a real smile, small but undeniably knowing. “For him.”

Thomas is efficient, moving through the room with the kind of practiced grace that suggests he has been in service far longer than his youthful features let on. A man trained to anticipate needs before they are spoken. He gestures for you to sit near a low table, where a tray of refreshments has already been arranged—an assortment of delicate pastries, rich tea, and something that gleams darkly in a crystal glass. Wine, perhaps. Or something stronger.

You sit, smoothing your hands over your lap, not missing the way Thomas studies you with the quiet precision of a man taking careful notes.

"You don't seem particularly nervous," he remarks as he pours your tea.

You arch a brow. "Should I be?"

Thomas lets out a soft, amused hum. "That depends." He passes you the cup, waiting until you've taken your first sip before continuing. "Most find Rafayel... overwhelming at first."

The way he says it—light, unassuming, but with a thread of warning—makes something stir uneasily in your chest. "And you? What do you think of him?"

Thomas considers you for a moment before answering. "I think he is not easily understood."

Not a good man. Not a bad one. Just... not easily understood.

Something about that unsettles you more than an outright warning would have.

You set your cup down, tilting your head slightly. "And why do I get the feeling you're trying to understand me?"

This time, Thomas doesn't bother hiding his smirk. "Because I am." He leans back slightly, his gaze assessing, sharp without being unkind. "I have been by Rafayel’s side for a long time. I am very familiar with how he operates. And so I am curious—what kind of woman agrees to marry a man she has never met?"

The question lands softly, without judgment, but still, you feel the weight of it settle in your ribs.

You glance down at the ring on your finger, at the delicate band that binds you to someone you should know, but don’t.

"My reasons are my own," you say finally, keeping your voice even. "Just as I imagine his are."

Thomas hums again, something like approval glinting in his eyes. "A diplomatic answer. You’ll need that."

Before you can ask what that means, the candlelight flickers. Just a whisper of movement in the farthest shadow of the room. A disturbance so slight that most wouldn’t notice it.

But you are not most.

The air shifts, the faintest rustle of fabric reaching your ears.

You are not alone.

And somehow, you never were.

Thomas, still composed, still pouring himself a glass of wine, does not turn his head as he speaks again. But his next words are different, heavier, threaded with something almost... knowing.

"Tell me," he muses, swirling the wine in his glass. "Do you prefer your introductions grand... or intimate?"

You don’t answer Thomas right away. Instead, your gaze flickers toward the far end of the room, toward the deep pockets of shadow that seem too thick to be natural.

The sensation of being watched drapes over you like silk and iron, both weightless and unyielding. It shouldn’t unnerve you as much as it does—this place is unfamiliar, its corners vast and unknown. It makes sense that you would feel small beneath its walls.

But this is something else.

Something pointed.

And Thomas—well. Thomas seems amused.

He watches you with the sharp patience of a man who already knows the game being played but is far too entertained to warn you of the rules. He swirls his wine again, watching the deep red liquid coat the glass before finally breaking the silence.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Your spine stiffens, and you force yourself to focus on him. “What question?”

Thomas tilts his head slightly, as if you’ve just confirmed something he already suspected. “How you prefer your introductions,” he reminds you, voice smooth as the wine he sips. “Grand or intimate?”

The way he says it—intimate—is deliberate. A brush of velvet over steel, a thread of implication woven just faintly enough that if you called him out on it, he could feign innocence.

You shift in your seat. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you’re suddenly hyper aware of your own posture. The space you take up. The way your breathing has slowed just a fraction too much.

Thomas notices. Of course, he does.

And, somewhere in the shadows, so does your husband.

There’s a reason Rafayel has not revealed himself yet. He is watching, studying, waiting for something only he will recognize.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself, forcing your voice into something composed. “Does it matter?”

Thomas smiles. A small, knowing thing. “To him? Oh, absolutely.”

The weight of unseen eyes presses heavier now, the air shifting in a way that makes the candlelight tremble. A flicker of movement—too swift to catch—somewhere just beyond your periphery.

Your heart picks up, but Thomas is merciless in his curiosity. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the arm of his chair, gaze never leaving yours.

“I wonder,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking only to himself. “Do you fear him?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because you don’t know the answer—you do. But because you feel the shift. Something in the air tightens. A ripple, a tension pulling. And suddenly, you are very sure that whoever watches you from the shadows is no longer just watching.

He is listening. Waiting for your answer.

You wet your lips again, pulse thrumming against the delicate line of your throat.

Do you fear him? Or does something else coil in your stomach at the thought of meeting him?

Your lips part, the answer forming before you can second-guess it.

“No.”

The word settles between you and Thomas, clear, steady. A statement, not a question. Not a doubt.

For a moment, there is silence. A low, amused hum from the darkness shortly after. Slow. Drawn-out, ike someone savoring the taste of your answer.

“Interesting.”

The air in the room shifts.

The shadows stir, peeling away from the far wall like they are no longer satisfied with merely lurking. There is no grand reveal, no sudden burst of movement. Just a presence unfolding—fluid, effortless—as though he had been part of the very architecture, waiting for the right moment to detach himself from it.

There he is. Your husband.

Rafayel moves like a man who has never needed to rush a day in his life. His presence fills the space effortlessly, as if he had already claimed it long before he arrived. Tall, lean, otherworldly.

His dusky purple waves frame sharp, striking features—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut, and eyes that are wrong in all the right ways. Blue and pink, flickering with something unreadable, something depthless.

He is dressed in dark silks that shift with every movement, the deep purples and blues of his coat nearly indistinguishable from the abyss he just stepped out of. And yet, despite his ominous introduction—despite the way your body knows he is dangerous—

He smiles at you. Not the smirk you expect, not the wolfish grin of a man who enjoys his power. But something softer. Playful. Amused. You don’t know what you were expecting from the Lemurian prince, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t the easy, almost lazy confidence in the way he watches you. It wasn’t the way his head tilts slightly, like he’s indulging in the sight of you, rather than staking a claim.

And it certainly wasn’t the first thing he says.

“You’re lovely.”

The words are too casual. Too intimate for a first meeting, as if he has known you for much longer than the last few seconds. You blink. Open your mouth. Close it. Thomas—damn him—looks supremely entertained. Rafayel’s smile lingers, his gaze flickering over you like he’s committing something to memory. Then, with a graceful dip of his head, he speaks again.

“I suppose introductions are overdue. Though I feel as if I already know you.” His voice is smooth, rich—like deep water lapping at the shore.

Then, his lips curve just slightly at the corners, teasing.

“You did say you weren’t afraid of me. I think I’m flattered.”

His tone is unreadable—mocking? Delighted? Genuinely intrigued? You can’t tell.

You should say something. You need to say something.

But your mouth has forgotten how to form words, and Rafayel—your husband—knows it. The way he watches you is almost lazy, eyes lidded in amusement, like he is waiting for you to catch up. As if he already expected this reaction. As if your flustered silence is exactly what he wanted. And Thomas—ever the opportunist—seizes the moment with all the grace of a man who lives for entertainment.

“Well,” he hums, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I’d say my job here is done.”

You snap out of your daze just enough to flick a sharp glance his way. “Wait, you’re leaving?”

Thomas gives you a look that is all polite indifference, save for the glint of humor in his eyes. “You are married, my lady.” He gestures vaguely between you and Rafayel. “It’s only right that I allow the happy couple some time alone.”

The words send a fresh wave of awareness through you—because he’s right. You are married. To this man. To this prince. To this God of Tides whose presence alone feels like it has swallowed the entire room whole.

Before you can form a protest, Thomas inclines his head in a short bow. “I’ll take my leave, my lord.”

Rafayel, still entirely at ease, flicks his fingers in a lazy dismissal. “Thank you, Thomas.”

He doesn’t even look at him. His gaze remains on you as the door clicks and the two of you are alone. The silence stretches. You swallow, your fingers twitching slightly against your lap before you decide to busy yourself with the teacup Thomas left behind. You reach for it carefully, only to realize too late that your hands are not nearly as steady as you’d like.

Rafayel notices. He watches the way you hesitate, the way your fingers tighten minutely around the porcelain before you manage to lift it to your lips.

He smirks.

“You’re nervous,” he observes, tone far too amused for your liking.

You lower the cup, glaring at him over the rim. “I am not.”

Rafayel makes a low, thoughtful hum. “No?”

And then, before you can react, he leans forward just slightly—not enough to be invasive, but enough to make you feel it. The shift in proximity, the awareness prickling along your skin like the tide creeping up on unsuspecting shores.

His voice drops, low and measured. “Your hands tremble when you lie.”

Your breath catches. Heat prickles up your spine—traitorous, unbidden.

You pull back, willing your pulse to slow. “Maybe I’m just cold.”

His smirk deepens. “Are you?” You don’t answer. You can’t answer, which only seems to amuse him even more. Then, as if deciding to take mercy on you, Rafayel shifts back, allowing just enough space for you to breathe properly again. He watches you over the rim of his own glass as he takes a slow sip, considering.

“Would you like to ask me something, wife?”

The title lands heavier than it should. Not mocking, not teasing. Just… a fact. You grip your teacup a little tighter. There are a hundred things you could ask him. A hundred different paths this conversation could take. But what comes out of your mouth instead is—

“…Why did you watch me before revealing yourself?”

Rafayel pauses. Then, a slow smile unfurls across his lips, like the tide dragging back just before a wave crashes.

“I wanted to see if you were afraid of me,” he admits.

You blink. “And?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “I haven’t decided yet if I believe you.”

A shiver curls through you—one you hope he doesn’t notice. You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. “That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it?”

You glare at him, but he only grins. He sets his glass aside, propping his chin against his palm as if you’ve just become his new favorite curiosity.

“Ask me another,” he offers.

You hesitate this time, choosing your words more carefully. “What do you want from this marriage?”

Rafayel doesn’t answer right away.

He watches you instead, gaze dipping lower—not improper, but assessing. A slow, deliberate once-over, like he is measuring something unseen.

Then, finally— “Everything.”

Your breath stutters. All Rafayel gives is a smile. The way he says everything lingers in the air between you, heavier than it should be. It coils around your ribs, presses against the delicate skin of your throat, and sinks.

You swallow, pulse fluttering where it shouldn’t. “That’s—” Your voice catches, and you hate that it does. “That’s not very specific.”

Rafayel tilts his head, watching you with the slow patience of a tide creeping forward, his gaze shifting between blue and pink in a way that makes him unreadable. There’s a calm deliberation in his expression, as if he’s already considered every possible response you might give and is simply waiting for you to stumble into the most interesting one.

“It is not,” he agrees, amusement curling at the edges of his voice.

Your fingers tighten against your cup. “Would you care to elaborate?”

His lips curve, slow and deliberate, before he leans forward again—closer this time, enough that the warmth of his presence seeps into your space. He doesn’t touch, but he doesn’t need to. The sheer weight of his attention is enough to make you forget how to breathe properly.

“You wish to know what I expect of you?” he asks, voice as smooth as silk, laced with something you can’t quite name. “As my wife?”

There’s no mistaking the intent behind the way he says it, the possessiveness woven into the words, not spoken as a mere formality but as an undeniable claim. You hate the way heat pricks at your skin in response, creeping up the back of your neck despite your best efforts to ignore it.

You clear your throat, willing your pulse to slow. “That would be helpful, yes.”

Rafayel hums, watching you for a moment longer before settling back into his seat with a deliberate, unhurried ease, as if indulging you. His posture is all relaxed grace, yet something about the way he moves suggests he is always in control.

“In Lemurian tradition, a royal union is not truly sealed until it has been properly consummated.”

The words drop into the space between you like a stone into deep water.

You knew this. It had been mentioned in your endless briefings, an unavoidable detail buried among the many customs and expectations you were expected to uphold. But hearing it spoken by him, in this setting, while he watches you like that—like he’s already imagining what fulfilling that particular duty will look like—has your grip tightening around the delicate porcelain in your hands.

Rafayel notices.

His smirk deepens.

“I see you remember.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to maintain your composure. “That’s not—” Exhaling slowly, you fight to keep your expression neutral. “That’s not exactly an immediate concern, is it?”

His gaze remains steady, unwavering, and entirely too entertained by your reaction. Slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His voice drops just slightly, as if drawing out the moment for his own amusement.

“No,” he murmurs, taking his time with the word. “But it will be.”

Heat floods through you before you can stop it, spreading from the base of your spine up to your cheeks, and damn him for the way he seems to take pleasure in every second of it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lean in again, but the weight of his presence feels closer than ever, as if he is already closing in, testing your reactions, measuring your every breath.

You force yourself to focus on something else—anything else—and grasp onto the shift in conversation when he finally moves on.

“Beyond that, there are formalities,” he continues, finally offering some distance, though the lingering amusement in his voice tells you he isn’t finished toying with you. “Public appearances. Celebrations in your honor. You are to be presented as the Princess of Lemuria, and with that comes expectation.”

You latch onto the new topic like a lifeline, willing yourself to regain some semblance of control. “What sort of expectation?”

Rafayel doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you in that careful, assessing way of his, gaze dipping over you as if weighing something unseen. The pause stretches just long enough to make your stomach tighten, anticipation curling in the space between heartbeats.

“You are mine now,” he says, as if it is the simplest truth in the world, and it is not a metaphor. “And I intend for the world to see that.”

Your fingers press into your lap, grip tightening on the fabric of your dress. The certainty in his voice leaves no room for question, no space for doubt. It is not a boast or a threat—simply a fact, one that he expects you to understand as well as he does.

“There will be gatherings, ceremonies, and opportunities for you to become accustomed to your role,” he continues, tone lighter now, as if this is all perfectly reasonable.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the lingering heat in your cheeks. “And what, exactly, does that role entail?”

Something shifts in his expression, not quite a smirk but something close, something knowing. He studies you for another moment, stretching out the silence just enough to keep you on edge.

“You will find out soon enough.”

The deliberate vagueness sends another shiver down your spine, and you hate the way he seems to enjoy the way you react to his words.

Your breath hitches, and for the first time since he entered the room, you realize—

This isn’t just a conversation to him. It’s a game.

And you, whether you like it or not, are playing it.

His gaze flickers over you one last time, that same unreadable look settling into his features before his lips curve into something slower, something deeper.

The silence stretches, thick and charged, his words lingering between you like something palpable. You will find out soon enough. There is no teasing lilt to his voice this time, no smirk playing at his lips. Just certainty. A weight that settles over you, pressing against your ribs, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your fingers tighten in your lap as you force yourself to focus. You knew this moment would come eventually—that there would be expectations between you beyond the political union, beyond the public ceremonies and carefully curated appearances. There is another duty that marriage demands. A truth you’ve known from the moment you signed your name on the documents binding you to him.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “About the consummation.”

Rafayel’s expression doesn’t change, but there is something new in his gaze, a flicker of interest as if he had been waiting for you to bring it up. He shifts slightly in his seat, his posture still relaxed, but there’s a weight to it now, an attentiveness that wasn’t there before.

“Oh?” His voice dips, smooth as the tide lapping against the shore. “You wish to discuss it now?”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you hold your ground, refusing to let him unnerve you any further. “I think it’s something that should be addressed sooner rather than later. It’s a requirement of the union, isn’t it?”

His lips curl—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, just something slow and considering. “It is.”

You nod, exhaling softly. “Then we should establish expectations.”

Rafayel watches you, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair, his eyes flickering over your face as if he’s searching for something. The slow rise and fall of your breath, the way your shoulders are set with careful determination, the way you refuse to look away despite the heat pressing against your skin.

Finally, he moves.

Not much—just a small shift forward, a subtle lean of his body, but it feels as though the very air around you changes. He does not reach for you, does not bridge the space between you completely, but his presence alone is enough to remind you exactly who you are speaking to.

“You say that as if this is a contract negotiation,” he murmurs, his voice just above a whisper, something dark and amused threaded through it. “Tell me, wife, how do you propose we handle this particular expectation?”

Your pulse stumbles, and his gaze sharpens, catching the flicker of hesitation before you manage to smooth it over. You steel yourself, swallowing past the dryness in your throat. “I think it would be best if we approached it with a clear understanding. No surprises.”

Rafayel’s expression flickers, a shadow of something unreadable passing through his features before he settles back again. “No surprises,” he echoes, as if tasting the words, rolling them over in his mind. “How very... diplomatic.”

Your fingers press against your lap, resisting the urge to fidget. “I only mean that we should agree on—”

“On what, exactly?” His voice is softer now, but no less intense. “On how it will happen? When?” He pauses, and the way he tilts his head, the way his lips part just slightly as if savoring the thought, sends something warm curling in the pit of your stomach. “Or are you looking for reassurances?”

The words settle over your skin like a slow tide creeping in, dragging you under inch by inch. There is no outright mockery in his tone, no cruel edge, but there is something deliberate in the way he speaks, in the way he waits for your reaction, drinking in every little shift in your demeanor like he’s memorizing them.

Your throat tightens, but you refuse to look away. “I think it’s important that we both know where we stand.”

Rafayel considers you, his gaze sweeping over your face, lingering at your lips before meeting your eyes once more. “You’re tense,” he observes, and there is something far too knowing in his voice, something that makes your breath stutter despite your best efforts to remain composed.

“I’m being practical.”

His lips curve, slow and unhurried. “Are you?”

Your fingers twitch, curling slightly against your lap as heat prickles beneath your skin. You don’t trust yourself to answer, and he seems to know that too, because he shifts again, this time just slightly closer, his presence wrapping around you like the pull of deep water.

“You don’t need to worry,” he murmurs, and for the first time, there is something almost gentle beneath the amusement. “I have no intention of taking anything from you that you do not wish to give.”

Your breath catches at the quiet promise beneath his words, at the certainty in his tone that does not feel like a concession, but a truth.

And yet, something in the way he looks at you—the steady weight of his gaze, the quiet intensity simmering beneath the surface—tells you he does not believe this will remain an issue for long.

Because despite his patience, despite his willingness to let you set the pace, Rafayel is a prince. A man who has spent his life taking what he wants, bending the world to his will.

And right now, that sharp, unreadable gaze tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

He will wait. He will give you space.

But when you do come to him—and he seems certain that you will—there will be no mistaking that it was your choice.

The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through your veins, and as you quickly reach for your tea, desperate for something to focus on, Rafayel just watches.

The silence stretches long enough that your own thoughts begin to betray you. The weight of his gaze, the certainty in his expression—it’s too much, too overwhelming, pressing against your skin like the tide creeping in, swallowing every last inch of sand.

Your pulse stumbles, breath too shallow, and you hate that he can probably hear it. That he can see every tell in your body, every shift in your posture that betrays the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

It would be easier if he were cruel. If he taunted, if he smirked with the satisfaction of making you squirm. But this—the quiet patience, the way he looks at you like he already knows exactly what you’re going to do before you do it—is far worse.

You need control. You need to take control before it slips completely from your grasp.

The words are out before you can think them through. “We should just do it now.”

The air changes.

Stillness settles over the room like the deep ocean before a storm, thick and weighted, suffocating in its quiet. You hear the faintest shift of fabric as Rafayel straightens slightly in his seat, but he does not speak immediately. He just watches.

And then—his lips part, voice smooth, steady. “Now?”

Your throat is tight, but you force yourself to nod. “Yes.”

His gaze flickers over you, trailing from your eyes to your lips, lower still before returning, a slow drag of attention that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. “Because you want to?” The words are soft, deliberate, but you hear the unspoken question beneath them.

You know that’s what he means. And you know he’s right.

You lift your chin, pushing past the dryness in your throat. “Because it’s expected.”

Something glints in his expression, something sharp and unreadable, and for the first time since he stepped into this room, the air between you shifts. The teasing lilt in his voice fades, the lingering amusement dulling into something deeper, something darker.

“You truly wish to do this now,” he muses, voice slow and thoughtful, as if weighing something unseen. “To get it over with.”

The way he says it makes your stomach tighten, and you hate how clinical it sounds when spoken aloud. You clench your fingers slightly, willing yourself to stay steady. “I just think prolonging it will only make things... more difficult.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, he moves.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He stands from his chair with an ease that feels far too controlled, like a predator shifting from rest into motion. His steps are unhurried as he crosses the space between you, silent save for the soft rustle of fabric, until he stands before you, close enough that the faint scent of salt and something darker curls around your senses.

Rafayel lowers himself into a crouch before you, resting one arm on the side of your chair, his other hand reaching out—not touching, but there, hovering near your wrist, close enough that you feel the warmth of his skin.

“If we do this now,” he murmurs, voice like the deep pull of the ocean, “it will not be because it is expected.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers ghost up your forearm, barely grazing over fabric, not quite a touch, just a whisper of presence.

“It will not be to ease your nerves,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, unwavering. “It will not be because you are uncertain, or because you think it will be easier to have it done and forgotten.” His voice drops, the syllables dragging over your skin like velvet and tidewater. “If we do this now, it will be because you are asking me to take you.”

The words send something molten sinking low in your stomach, twisting tight.

Your throat is dry, your fingers curling against your lap as his hand finally closes the distance, fingertips grazing lightly over your wrist. Just enough to feel. Just enough to make you aware of every inch of your own skin.

“Is that what you want?” His question is quiet, but not hesitant. Never hesitant. His touch is warm, his breath feathering against your skin as he speaks, but he does not push. He does not take. He waits.

For you. For your answer.

Because he meant what he said. If you say no, if you pull away, he will not press. But if you don’t—if you let him continue, if you let him show you what it means to be his—there will be no half-measures.

You will know what it means to be taken by Rafayel of Lemuria. And he will make certain that you never forget it.

Your pulse pounds against your ribs, every breath a battle between reason and the undeniable pull of him. You should hesitate. You should take a moment to think, to untangle the mess of nerves and desire twisting in your stomach. But the moment he touches you—just barely, just a whisper of warmth against your skin—it becomes impossible to deny the truth.

You do want this.

You want him.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your lap, your throat dry, but you force yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes are steady, impossibly deep, waiting for your answer with patience that feels far more dangerous than if he had pressed for it.

You could lie to yourself, pretend this is just about duty, about obligation. But you know, and he knows, that would be a lie.

Your lips part, and when the word finally comes, it is softer than you mean for it to be.

“…Yes.”

His gaze sharpens, that flicker of something dark and satisfied flaring beneath the pink and blue of his eyes. But he does not move, not yet. He waits.

You inhale slowly, pressing forward, trying to steel yourself. “I want it.”

A breath. A single moment where the weight of your words settles between you.

And then, Rafayel moves.

The shift is slow but deliberate, his fingers sliding higher along your arm, just barely trailing the fabric of your sleeve before settling at the crook of your elbow. His other hand rises, brushing a knuckle over your jaw—light, teasing, a feather-soft touch that makes your skin prickle beneath it.

“Say it again.”

His voice is low, a command wrapped in silk, coaxing you toward the edge of something you aren’t sure you’re ready to fall into.

Your breath shudders, but you do not look away.

“I want you.”

It’s barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. Because the second the words leave your lips, Rafayel decides. His fingers tilt your chin higher, his touch still gentle but firm, leaving no room for retreat. His gaze flickers lower, to your lips, lingering there for a single, agonizing heartbeat. And then, he closes the distance.

The first brush of his lips is light—testing, deliberate—but it is not hesitant. He wants you to feel it, to know exactly what you have asked for, what you have invited. But when you don’t pull away—when your fingers twitch slightly, your breath catching in a way that betrays you completely—he presses.

The kiss deepens, slow and devouring, his fingers sliding down to your waist, drawing you closer in a way that makes it impossible to think of anything but him. He kisses like a man who has already decided that you belong to him, that you will know the weight of his claim, that this is no longer just about duty but something far more dangerous.

And when he pulls back just slightly, breath fanning against your lips, his voice is dark with satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods through you so fast it makes your head spin, your stomach tightening at the way he says it, at the way it feels earned, at the undeniable truth beneath it—

You are his.

The kiss lingers even as he pulls away, leaving your lips tingling, your breath uneven. He watches you for a moment, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark with satisfaction, before his fingers slide lower, just barely grazing the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t need to comment on how fast it’s beating—he knows. He feels it beneath his touch, beneath the way your body shivers when he moves.

He exhales, soft and warm against your skin. "Come."

It is not a request.

He takes your hand, fingers lacing through yours with a casual intimacy that makes your stomach tighten, and rises fluidly to his feet. When he guides you forward, you follow—because what else is there to do now but go with him?

The halls are quiet as he leads you through them, the air thick with unspoken promises, with the knowledge of what’s coming next. Your heart pounds with every step, nerves and anticipation curling in your stomach, but Rafayel doesn’t rush. He walks as if he has all the time in the world, never looking back, knowing without question that you are with him.

And then, you are in his chambers. Your chambers.

The room is vast, but not in an overwhelming way. It is warm, dimly lit with the golden glow of candles reflecting off dark wood and deep blue silks. The scent of salt and something richer lingers in the air, something undeniably him. But your attention is drawn to the center of the room—the massive bed draped in fabrics the color of the ocean at midnight, waiting.

Waiting for you.

Your breath catches, and Rafayel turns to face you, fingers still wrapped around your wrist. He lifts your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, slow and deliberate, before trailing them lower, dragging warmth in the wake of his breath.

“There is no need to be nervous,” he murmurs, voice smooth, steady, but knowing. “I will give you everything.”

Your pulse stutters, heat licking at your skin despite your best efforts to stay composed. He can see it, feel the way your fingers twitch slightly in his grip. He hums, pleased, before guiding your hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat against the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You are mine now,” he continues, his other hand sliding along the curve of your waist, up to your shoulder, lingering at the clasp of your clothing. “And I intend to make sure you feel it.”

There is no hesitation as his fingers begin their work, unfastening the first piece of fabric, the cool air kissing your skin where the barrier once was. His touch is slow, agonizingly so, taking his time with each clasp, each ribbon, each delicate fold.

He doesn’t strip you—he undresses you.

With reverence. With purpose.

His fingers skim over the newly exposed skin, not grabbing, not claiming yet, just learning, just feeling the warmth of you beneath his fingertips. His breath is even, controlled, but his eyes burn with something deeper, something dangerous as each new inch of you is revealed.

You shift under his gaze, heat spreading in a slow, consuming wave over your skin. You should feel self-conscious, should feel exposed, but Rafayel does not let you. He does not let you shrink. His touch is steady, reassuring, making it clear that this is not just for him. This is for you, too.

A soft hum leaves him as his fingers finally slide the last piece of fabric from your shoulders, letting it slip down your arms, pooling at your feet. You are bare before him, and yet, he does not move immediately.

Instead, he looks.

His gaze drags over you, taking in every inch, every detail, like he is committing you to memory. Not with hunger—but with something deeper.

Possession. Devotion. And then, with slow, deliberate intent, he lifts his hand to your cheek, cradling your face in his palm as his thumb brushes over the heat of your skin. His lips curve, the barest hint of a smile, but his voice is low, heavy with something unreadable.

“Perfect.”

The word sends a shiver through you, your breath catching as his thumb drags lower, tracing the curve of your jaw, the column of your throat.

He leans in, lips barely a breath away from yours, and murmurs, “Lie down for me.”

The air between you is thick, weighted with something inescapable. Anticipation coils in your stomach, your skin prickling under his gaze as you lower yourself onto the bed. The sheets are soft against your bare skin, cool in contrast to the heat burning beneath your flesh. But the moment you settle, the moment you look up at him, everything else fades.

Rafayel stands at the edge of the bed, watching you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. His hands move to the fastenings of his clothing, undoing them with a slow, practiced ease, shedding layers of dark fabric one by one. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, but his eyes remain locked onto yours, drinking in every reaction, every shift in your breathing, every quiver of expectation running through you.

When the last of his clothing falls away, your breath stutters.

Because he is not just a man.

You knew this already—of course, you knew. But knowing and seeing are two entirely different things.

His body is sculpted, all lean muscle and power, his dusky purple waves of hair falling over his shoulders, framing the sharp angles of his face. But below—where flesh meets something more, where the remnants of his oceanic lineage remain—his body shifts into something distinctly not human.

Two thick cocks spring from his lower half, soft pink, ridged and powerful. Dark veins tracing along their edges like the glow of some deep-sea creature lurking beneath the waves.

Your lips part, something tightening in your stomach at the sight of them.

At the implication of them.

Rafayel sees the way your breath catches, the way your thighs press together just slightly, and he smirks.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk, thick with amusement.

Heat blooms in your cheeks, but you don’t look away. Can’t.

“What…” Your voice falters, your throat suddenly dry. “What do they feel like?”

Rafayel exhales a soft chuckle, and in one slow, fluid movement, he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His arms cage around you, steadying him as he moves over you, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“Why don’t you find out?” His voice is a murmur against your ear, his breath warm, teasing. One of them sits lightly against your thigh—not enough to do anything, just enough for you to feel.

A shudder runs through you. The skin is smooth but firm, powerful, the ridges adding the slightest texture against your bare flesh. The touch is exploratory, almost gentle, as if waiting to see how you react.

You exhale sharply, your body responding before your mind can catch up, your hips shifting just slightly toward him.

Rafayel notices.

“Eager,” he muses, fingers trailing down the length of your side, slow and reverent, while he shifts his own hips to drag them up your thigh, skimming over sensitive skin, teasing, testing. “Good.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours again, stealing whatever thought you might have had, devouring you with the same slow, deliberate hunger. His kiss is deep, claiming, but controlled—he is savoring this, savoring you, taking his time unraveling you beneath him.

He pushes closer. The sensation is overwhelming, not just because of what he is, but the fact he remains controlled, patient, intentional.

You gasp, your fingers gripping at the sheets, your body arching beneath him, seeking more. Rafayel smiles.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your throat, his lips dragging lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck. “I wonder…” His voice is thoughtful, teasing, dangerous. “How much you can take.”

And then, with slow, agonizing intent, he pushes both cocks inside.

The stretch is unlike anything you’ve felt before—the firm, thick heat filling you, the ridges dragging against your walls, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core. The other slides into your ass as he holds you steady, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

A soft, broken sound escapes your lips, your body tightening around him, and Rafayel groans, the sound reverberating through his chest, vibrating against your skin.

“You feel—” He exhales sharply, his grip tightening at your waist, holding you still as he gives you more. “Perfect.”

Your head tilts back, pleasure rippling through you as he moves, slow and deep, every inch of him dragging against your walls, every ridge pressing in ways that make your toes curl. Your fingers scramble for something to hold onto, nails pressing into his shoulders, his back, needing something to ground you.

Rafayel’s breath is heavy against your skin, his lips brushing against your jaw, your cheek, your mouth, stealing every gasping moan that escapes you.

“You are mine,” he murmurs, his pace steady, unyielding, each slow thrust pulling another whimper from your lips. “And I will make sure you know it.”

His grip tightens, his cocks pushing, pressing, claiming, and the pleasure surges higher, drowning you, pulling you under, until there is nothing left but him.

Nothing left but the way he takes you—slow, deep, thorough—and the way you surrender to him completely.

Because you do.

You give yourself to him, to the weight of his body, the strength of his touch, the inescapable truth that you are no longer just yourself.

The pleasure coils in your stomach, winding tighter with every slow, deliberate thrust of his cocks inside you. Rafayel moves with intention, with precision, his pace measured, his control absolute. The firm ridges drag along your walls, each movement sending another wave of heat pulsing through your core, yet he does not rush.

He is holding back and you can feel it.

It’s in the way his fingers grip your waist, strong but restrained. It’s in the way his breath comes in slow, controlled exhales against your skin. It’s in the way his body trembles ever so slightly, like a storm waiting to break.

You need him to break.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, your fingers tightening against his shoulders, your nails digging into the smooth, firm muscle beneath his skin. His pace falters for the first time, a flicker of hesitation, as if waiting for something.

You swallow hard, tilting your head up just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes burn, a shifting mix of blue and pink, the light within them flickering wildly, barely restrained.

“I’m ready,” you whisper, voice trembling with something more than just need—trust.

And that—that—is what shatters him.

A growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin, a primal, possessive sound that sends a shiver down your spine as he moves.

His grip tightens, spreading you open, locking you beneath him as he slams into you. The force of it knocks the air from your lungs, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave.

A sharp cry leaves your lips, and Rafayel devours it, his mouth capturing yours in a searing, claiming kiss as he sets a relentless pace. There is no hesitation now, no careful control—only need, raw and overwhelming, as he takes you the way he’s wanted to since the moment you walked into his life.

The ridges of his member drag against your walls, pressing against every sensitive place inside you with devastating precision. The second one, the one buried in your ass, throbs as you see stars. Your whole body shakes.

“You take me so well,” Rafayel growls against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your throat, his pace brutal and perfect. “As if you were made for me.”

Another deep thrust. Another broken moan spilling from your lips.

His voice drops lower, rougher, sending a shudder through your already trembling form. “Say it.”

You barely register the words, too lost in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, owning you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your fingers curling against his back, desperate for anything to hold onto as he continues his relentless claiming.

“Say it,” he demands, his thrusts growing rougher, sharper, pushing you higher, forcing you toward the edge. “Say that you’re mine.”

The pleasure builds too fast, too intense, threatening to consume you whole. You barely manage to choke out the words between gasps, your voice breaking under the weight of it.

“I— I’m yours,” you whisper, then louder, more desperate as he slams into you again. “I’m yours, Rafayel.”

His grip tightens, and his whole body shudders at the sound of it.

“Good girl,” he groans, his pace turning frantic, his breath hot against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder, threatening to mark. His fingers sneak between the both of you, pressing hard against your swollen nerves, sending sharp pleasure rocketing through you.

You don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm crashes over you like a violent tide, dragging you under, stealing your breath, making your whole body tighten around him. A cry rips from your lips, pleasure consuming everything, and Rafayel follows you into it, his movements turning erratic, wild, as he buries himself inside you, his own release shuddering through him.

His lips find yours again, a deep, lingering kiss, as if sealing something unspoken between you. His appendages slowly unravel, his hands smoothing over your trembling body, grounding you, holding you close even as the aftershocks pulse through you.

For a long moment, neither of you speak, the only sound in the room the slow, heavy breaths of two souls tangled together, bound now in a way that cannot be undone.

And then, softly, his lips brush against your ear, his voice a quiet, satisfied whisper.

“You were perfect, wife.”

The room is quiet now, save for the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing, still uneven but slowing as the aftershocks pulse gently through your limbs. Your body feels wrecked, boneless and sated in a way you’ve never known before, heat still lingering in your skin where Rafayel’s touch has claimed it.

You expect him to pull away, to put some distance between you now that the act is over, but instead, he stays.

His arms remain around you, strong and steady, his warmth sinking into your skin as if he isn’t ready to let go just yet. His breath is slow against your hair, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along the curve of your back, grounding, soothing.

It’s almost tender.

You shift slightly, and immediately, Rafayel tightens his grip, pulling you closer, pressing you fully against his chest. A soft, pleased hum vibrates through him, low and content, and you feel the ghost of a smile against your temple.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is rough from exertion but still carries that teasing lilt, that ever-present amusement as if he is entirely responsible for the state you’re in.

You huff, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest. “Nowhere. You’re holding me.”

He chuckles, the sound low and pleased. “Of course I am.” His fingers continue their slow path over your back, tracing every ridge of your spine as if memorizing you all over again. “Would you rather I let go?”

You hesitate. You should say yes. Should remind him that this marriage was not something you entered with romance in mind, that this was meant to be duty, obligation. But after everything, with his body wrapped around yours, his hands so gentle despite everything he’s done to you, the words don’t come.

“…No,” you admit softly.

His arms tighten just a little, as if rewarding you for your honesty. “Good,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You listen to his heartbeat, feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, and let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

And then, softly, Rafayel speaks again.

“You were perfect.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you make a quiet sound of protest, burying your face deeper against his chest. His chuckle rumbles through you, amused and knowing.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, his fingers tilting your chin slightly so you have no choice but to look up at him. His eyes, still flickering between blue and pink, are softer now, the intensity subdued into something quieter. “You are mine, and I will take care of you. Always.”

Something warm settles deep in your chest at the quiet certainty in his words.

He means it. Despite all his teasing, despite the way he enjoys watching you fluster under his gaze, there is nothing uncertain about this. He has claimed you, not just in body, but in a way that feels far more permanent.

And, perhaps most surprising of all—

You don’t mind it.

The thought should scare you, should send panic curling in your chest, but it doesn’t. Instead, it settles comfortably, as if some part of you already knew this was inevitable.

As if you were always meant to belong to him.

Rafayel watches you, his gaze flickering over your face, taking in your silence with something unreadable in his expression. Then, after a moment, his lips curl slightly. “You’re thinking very hard, wife.”

You roll your eyes, shifting against him. “I’m thinking that maybe this marriage isn’t going to be as awful as I thought.”

His grin is slow, satisfied, and utterly self-assured. “Of course it isn’t,” he murmurs, brushing another kiss to your jaw, trailing lower, as if he’s already thinking about pulling you under again. “I plan to make sure of it.”

Your breath catches, warmth flaring through your body all over again as your hips softly grind against him, eliciting a growl from the prince.

Maybe married life wouldn’t be so bad.

#love and deepspace smut #lads #lnds #lads rafayel #lnds rafayel #lads smut #lnds smut #rafayel x reader #qi yu #moongirlcleo

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fairytale-poll · 1 year ago

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ROUND 2A, MATCH 6 OUT OF 8!

Propaganda Under the Cut:

Queen Cinderella Charming:

She's kind, she's funny, she learns to use a sword, and she's related to Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, and Red Riding Hood. She helps the protagonists any chance she gets and even hosts their mother and step-father's wedding. She never gives up and never lets her fear stop her. Absolute queen (literally) <3

While she isn't hugely relevant in the story itself, she is always down to help out the protagonists where she can. When they need one of her slippers, she sneaks it into their bag without them noticing. She calls them family. She loves her daughter too, and is a badass mom.

When the main characters need her glass slipper for a spell, she snuggled it into their bag, and she has a daughter named Hope <3

I think she’s a minor character in the first book, but she’d really nice and stuff!

Because I LOVE HER!! also she has a daughter called Hope who got kidnapped by rumplestiltskin at one point but that is besides the point. She is a strong independent woman and we love those she was NOT about to sit around doing nothing and i love her for that

Vote Land of Stories Cinderella because she's the best!!!

Elegance "Ella" Coach:

Ella fights for labor reform! I just reread the book intentionally so I could make propaganda for her but now my head is empty only LOVE FOR ELLA. She has two (gay) fairy godfathers, she worked in a sweatshop where her mother died, she has a well-developed with her prince, Dash Charming. The glass slippers are a very important motif even though she doesn’t actually get a pair herself because she was a secret fairy godparent case because the fairy godparent organization had become corrupt and wasn’t helping needy children, only the rich. It’s a sequel to Grounded which is a Rapunzel story, but Disenchanted stands alone in the same world and it’s my most favorite of the two!! She’s so kind and helps institute kingdom wide labor reform and ahhhhhhhh

Former child laborer who wants to use her family's newfound privilege to fight for workers' rights. Brave, smart, and compassionate, although she can also be reckless, because she's just a kid and she deserves BETTER. Actually has a good relationship to her step-family, who are badass and Black like her, and there's this really touching moment at the end that recontextualizes things a lot and it's very sweet and cool worldbuilding. Her fairy godmother is two gay contractors who overthrow their boss for being complicit in a corporate espionage/coup scheme. She has a nice and believable relationship with her prince, who is a fucking dork that learns to be less of a privileged idiot and would absolutely put his ass on the line for her in return. She's just so GOOD and Disenchanted is UNDERRATED, everyone go read it.

Her goal is to improve workers rights, directly inspired by the 19th century textile industry, right down to child labor and workers getting locked in factories. Her mother died working in a sweatshop. She struggles with her working class upbringing and her new upper class status after her father's invention made them rich. Not afraid of breaking the law. She's so cool and her book is so good.

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rafecameronssl4t · 3 months ago

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Centre court || Tennis player!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron shines at the Australian Open, drawing strength from his girlfriend’s support, a heartfelt moment that captivates the crowd and fuels his victory.

Warnings: none :)

Word count: 1,392

A/n: the last time I wrote tennis player!rafe was early on when I first started this acc 🥲 and if you guys didn’t already know, I’m from Australia and in in honour of the Aus Open coming up (CANT WAIT) I wrote this :)

MASTERLIST

The Melbourne sun was merciless, casting a blazing glow over the Rod Laver Arena as thousands of fans packed the stands, eagerly anticipating the quarterfinal match between Rafe Cameron and his opponent, a seasoned and formidable Spaniard. The crowd buzzed with excitement, a palpable energy rippling through the stadium as both players warmed up on the court.

You sat in the player’s box, perched beside Rafe’s coach, a seasoned man with an intense focus, and his small team. Clad in a flora dress that fluttered in the occasional breeze and oversized sunglasses, you exuded effortless grace. Your presence was impossible to ignore, but you kept your attention solely on Rafe.

His golden hair was damp with sweat under his cap, and his sharp, determined expression made your heart swell with pride. This was Rafe’s moment. You could see the fire in his blue eyes, his posture taut with focus and ambition. As the match began, Rafe dominated the first set, his serves slicing through the air with precision.

You clapped politely after every point he scored, your smile soft yet brimming with pride. When he glanced up at his box after an impressive ace, you gave him a subtle nod, silently cheering him on. He didn’t smile, his game face unbroken, but you knew the gesture was his way of acknowledging you.

The second set was harder. His opponent, known for his relentless stamina, began to claw his way back into the game, chasing every ball with tireless energy. The crowd grew louder with each rally, their cheers and groans echoing through the arena. You leaned forward in your seat, gripping the armrest, willing Rafe to push through.

You couldn’t help but admire the raw power in his strokes and the elegance of his movements. He played with a passion that was magnetic, and it reminded you why you’d fallen for him in the first place—not just because he was talented, but because of his unwavering determination. Then, it happened.

During a crucial rally, Rafe hit a forehand that kissed the baseline, winning the point and earning a roar from the crowd. But as he walked back to the baseline to serve, the camera operators made a choice that would change the mood of the match entirely. The stadium’s giant screen cut to you, sitting poised and radiant, your gaze locked on Rafe with a mix of love, pride, and awe.

You weren’t even aware of the camera; your expression was natural, your emotions written all over your face. The crowd erupted. Cheers and whistles filled the air, loud and relentless, causing even the players on court to pause in confusion. Rafe stopped mid-serve, glancing around with furrowed brows. His opponent looked equally baffled, exchanging a look with the umpire, who leaned forward to figure out what had caused the commotion.

It wasn’t until Rafe turned his eyes to the big screen that he understood. There you were, larger than life, your every detail captured in high definition. The way the sun danced off your hair, the curve of your lips as you smiled slightly, the love in your eyes—it was enough to leave the crowd in awe. Rafe’s expression softened, his confusion melting into something else entirely.

His lips curved into the faintest smile, a rare crack in his composed demeanour. The crowd’s cheers only grew louder at his reaction, and even his opponent chuckled, shaking his head as if to say, Lucky guy. You finally noticed the screen and gasped, your cheeks flushing a deep pink. You turned to Rafe’s coach in embarrassment, but he laughed, patting your hand.

“Seems like you’ve stolen the show,” he teased. Rafe, ever the professional, quickly refocused, shaking his head and smirking before stepping back to serve again. But you noticed the slight extra spring in his step, the way he glanced your way more often, as though he drew strength from knowing you were there, proud and supportive.

The match ended in a nail-biting tiebreaker, with Rafe securing the final point with an overhead smash. The crowd exploded in celebration as Rafe dropped his racquet, throwing his arms into the air in victory. As he approached the net to shake his opponent’s hand, his eyes flickered up to you once more. This time, he didn’t hide his grin.

When he walked off the court, the first thing he did was head straight to you. Ignoring the cameras and the crowd, he leaned over the railing, cupped your face in his sweaty palms, and kissed you deeply. “For good luck,” he murmured, his voice husky and low. The crowd roared again, and you laughed against his lips, knowing you’d never hear the end of it.

The post-match interview was conducted on the court, just minutes after Rafe’s victory. He stood in front of the camera, towel draped over his shoulders, his hair damp with sweat, and his signature stoic expression softened by the occasional grin. The crowd, still buzzing with energy, cheered wildly as the interviewer, a seasoned Australian sports journalist, approached him with a microphone.

“Rafe, congratulations on an incredible match!” the interviewer began, her voice amplified through the speakers. “That was a hard-fought battle, and you showed tremendous resilience out there. How are you feeling right now?” Rafe nodded, wiping his face with the towel before speaking into the mic. “Yeah, it was a tough one,” he said, his Southern accent drawing attention.

“Credit to my opponent—he made me work for every point. But I stayed focused, trusted my game, and just tried to take it one point at a time. Feels good to come out on top.” The crowd applauded his humility, and Rafe glanced up at the stands where you were seated. You caught his gaze, smiling softly, and he looked away quickly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

The interviewer chuckled, clearly picking up on the crowd’s excitement. “Now, I have to ask—there was a moment during the second set that had everyone buzzing. The camera panned to someone special in the player’s box, and the crowd went absolutely crazy. Did you notice?”Rafe laughed lightly, his head dipping for a moment as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he admitted, his grin widening. “At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on. Thought maybe something happened in the stands or something. But then I saw her on the screen, and…” He paused, glancing toward you again. “…I mean, can’t say I blame them.” The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles, their enthusiasm filling the arena.

You buried your face in your hands, both flattered and mortified, Rafe’s coach teasingly nudging you while Rafe smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “She’s been with me through everything,” he continued, his voice softer now, almost tender. “Always supporting me, no matter how tough things get. It means a lot to have her here, especially on a stage like this.”

The interviewer smiled warmly. “Well, I think we can all agree she stole the show for a moment there! But back to the match—this win puts you into the semifinals of the Australian Open. How are you preparing for the next challenge?” Rafe straightened, his game face returning. “Same way I prepare for every match,” he said confidently. “Rest, recovery, and working with my team. I know it only gets tougher from here, but I’m ready for it. This is what I train for.”

“Before we let you go,” the interviewer added, “do you have a message for your fans? The support here has been incredible.” Rafe looked out at the crowd, his expression softening again. “Yeah, I just want to say thank you,” he said sincerely. “Y’all are amazing, and your energy out here makes all the difference. Can’t wait to see you all in the semis.”

The arena erupted into applause as Rafe handed the microphone back and waved to the crowd. But before he walked off, he glanced up at you one last time, giving you a subtle wink that sent the audience into yet another frenzy. You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you clapped for him. This was his moment, and he owned it.

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uniquexusposts · 3 months ago

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First place. Personal best. World Champion. | C. Leclerc

Summary: Charles' girlfriend Y/n is about to win her first world championship title in speed skating. While Charles is preparing for his first race of the season at the other side of the world, the supportive boyfriend he is, he will be watching Y/n's race. And who knows what happens...

It was raining in The Netherlands, the weather was grey and depressing. Inside the speed skating arena, however, the air crackled with a different kind of energy.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, their cheers echoing off the cavernous walls, creating a symphony of excitement and nerves. Y/n took a deep breath as she glided onto the ice, the smooth surface reflecting the bright arena lights. This wasn’t just another race; this was the race. The culmination of years of blood, sweat, and tears. Her last chance to claim the coveted all-around title of this year, the year before the Olympics - a prize she never got before by just a few points.

She skated around the oval stadium, each warm-up lap a battle to quell the butterflies in her stomach. Her breath came in controlled bursts, visible in the cool air, as she moved with practiced grace. Her mind cycled through every strategy, every training session, every ounce of advice her coaches had given her. Stopping near the start line, she shrugged off her jacket, exposing the sleek Norwegian team suit beneath. The red and blue colours clung to her like a second skin, a symbol of the weight she carried; not just her own dreams but the hopes of her country.

Her teammates, already finished with their events, were doing an out lap. A couple of Norwegian flags waved fervently in the sea of spectators, a visual reminder of the expectations she had to meet. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her suit, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her focus.

Meanwhile, thousands of kilometres away in Bahrain, the roar of engines filled the Ferrari garage. Mechanics darted around, checking tire pressures, tweaking wing angles, and adjusting suspension settings. The first Formula 1 race of the season was hours away, but for Charles Leclerc, time felt like it was standing still. Amid the organised chaos, his attention was locked on a tablet screen perched precariously on a counter. The live stream of Y/n’s race played on the monitor, an unusual sight among the telemetry data and glossy feeds of the Bahrain International Circuit.

Charles tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes flicking between the screen and the bustling garage. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, as though the force of his will could carry her across the finish line.

“Charles,” Andrea called, nudging his shoulder with a knowing smirk. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor at this rate. Should we tell the team to set up a fan zone for you?”

Charles let out a soft chuckle, though his eyes didn’t leave the screen. “She’s got a real shot at this,” he said, his voice tinged with both pride and anxiety. “I’m not missing this for anything. Not even qualifying.”

Andrea shook his head, his grin widening. “Just don’t let Fred catch you slacking. He’ll have you polishing the car with a toothbrush.”

Charles waved him off dismissively, his focus unshakable. On the screen, Y/n moved toward the start line, her every movement purposeful and elegant. Seeing her in that moment, framed by a couple of Norwegian flags waving in the background - but mostly the orange colour by the Dutch, who once again dominated a sport, sent a rush of adrenaline through him. She was breathtaking, not just in her beauty but in the sheer determination radiating from her.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, signalling the imminent start of the race. Y/n crouched low at the line, her muscles coiled like a spring ready to release. Charles leaned forward, his hand gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. The gunshot rang out, and she launched forward, her blades cutting into the ice with surgical precision.

Lap after lap, Y/n found her rhythm, her movements a harmonious blend of power and grace. The crowd’s cheers grew louder with each stride, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch. One thing that was so different between speed skating and F1 was that during speed skating, everybody cheered for anyone - no matter the country. Y/n received almost as much cheers as the Dutch at this point. Charles’s heart raced in tandem with her, his pulse quickening as the live splits appeared on the screen. The numbers were good - very good - but the competition was fierce.

“Come on, Y/n,” Charles whispered, his voice barely audible above the ambient noise of the garage. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the counter as he watched her push herself to the limit.

By the halfway mark, the strain began to show. Her form wavered ever so slightly, the tiniest falter in her otherwise flawless stride. The 5.000 meters wasn’t just a test of speed; it was a brutal battle of endurance, a gruelling test of both mental and physical fortitude. Charles’s jaw clenched as he saw her dig deep, her determination etched into every muscle of her body.

“She’s improving her laps,” Charles muttered, running his hands through his hair. His voice grew louder, filled with a mixture of disbelief and awe. “She’s above her schedule. 32,3 per lap. What the hell?”

Andrea glanced at the screen, his eyebrows raising in mild surprise. “She’s flying. She has the green times.”

“She is literally pushing out every bit of strength she has left.”

The crowd in the arena roared louder with every passing lap, their energy palpable even through the screen. Charles’s fingers drummed faster, mirroring the rising tension. As Y/n crossed the finish line, the scoreboard lit up with her time: the fastest so far. Charles leapt to his feet, a triumphant shout escaping his lips.

“Yes! That’s my girl!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing through the garage.

The Ferrari crew paused their work, momentarily caught up in the infectious excitement. Laughter and scattered applause broke out, a rare lighthearted moment in the high-stakes world of Formula 1.

Andrea clapped him on the back, a teasing grin on his face. “She’s not done yet, mate. Two more pairs to go.”

“I know,” Charles said, his grin unwavering. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But she’s incredible. No matter what happens, I’m proud of her.” He shook his head in disbelief. “6.50,81. Wow.”

Just over seven minutes later, the final pair took to the ice, their presence a reminder that the battle wasn’t over. The Dutch were strong and a favourite. Charles’s chest tightened as he watched them glide effortlessly through their opening laps. They were fast, too fast. The live splits showed them ahead of Y/n’s time, and for a moment, doubt crept in.

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hold on.”

The skaters rounded the halfway mark, their initial burst of speed beginning to wane. Fatigue crept into their movements, their strides losing the precision that had carried them so far. Charles leaned forward, his breath hitching as he willed the seconds to slow.

The arena fell into a tense hush as the final skaters approached the finish line. The crowd’s collective gasp was audible as the scoreboard flashed their time: third place. Y/n had done it. She was the all-around champion.

Charles let out a triumphant yell, throwing his arms into the air. “She did it! She won!”

The garage erupted into cheers, the crew swept up in his infectious joy. Charles’s face was alight with pride and happiness, his grin so wide it hurt.

“That’s my girl,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

His colleagues congratulated and hugged him like he won the race.

Andrea smirked, shaking his head. “You’re going to be impossible to deal with for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Charles replied, laughing. His heart felt full to bursting as he imagined the look on Y/n’s face, the moment she realised what she had accomplished.

Back in the Netherlands, Y/n sat in the middle of the oval track, still in disbelief. Tears blurred her vision, but they couldn’t hide the overwhelming sight of the scoreboard. Her name flashed boldly at the top, accompanied by the words she had dreamed of seeing her entire career: World Champion.

Her coaches rushed to her side, their voices a mix of congratulations and excitement, but their words were lost beneath the deafening roar of the crowd. The arena was alive with celebration.

Y/n pressed her hands to her face, laughing and crying at the same time. She reached out instinctively, pulling her head coach into an embrace, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably.

“I did it,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “I actually did it.”

Her assistant coach joined in; the three people were jumping around, turning it into an euphoric moment.

“You’ve done it, Y/n!” her head coach shouted over the roar of the crowd. “The all-around title is yours!”

Still clutching onto her coaches, Y/n’s gaze drifted upward to the scoreboard once more, as if she needed to see it again to believe it. First place. Personal best. World Champion. A new World Champion.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she began to fully grasp the magnitude of her achievement.

As she stood there, absorbing the cheers of the crowd and the joy of her team, one of her assistant coaches jogged up to her with a phone in hand.

“Y/n! Charles is calling!”

The sound of his name made her heart leap. She whipped her head around, taking the phone with trembling hands. When the screen lit up, Charles’s face appeared, his grin so wide it practically stretched off the screen.

“Y/n!” Charles cheered, his voice carrying a joy that matched her own.

“Charles!” Y/n screamed, laughing as her emotions spilled over. She couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down her cheeks, her voice cracking with excitement. “I did it!”

“I saw!” he exclaimed, his voice loud enough to make the team around him chuckle. “You were incredible! I can’t believe it - no, wait, I can believe it because you’re amazing!”

Y/n’s cheeks burned as she laughed, her joy mirrored in his expression. Around her, the arena seemed to fade away, the roaring crowd becoming a distant hum. In that moment, it was just her and Charles, their connection bridging the thousands of kilometres between them.

“You were watching?” she asked, her voice soft but tinged with disbelief.

“Of course I was!” Charles replied, his tone almost offended at the notion he wouldn’t be. “I had the entire Ferrari garage watching. They’re all clapping for you, by the way.”

Y/n’s hand flew to her mouth, and she let out a breathless laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” Charles said, leaning closer to the screen. “Y/n, everyone here is in awe of you. I’m so proud I could burst. You deserve every second of this moment.”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time, they weren’t just tears of victory. They were tears of gratitude, of love. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve someone who believed in her this deeply, but she was endlessly thankful.

“I wish you were here,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly.

“I do too,” he said, his tone softening, a hint of longing slipping through. “But I’ll see you soon. We’ll celebrate properly, I promise.”

“You would better keep that promise, Leclerc,” she teased, a smile breaking through her tears. “And you better win today!”

“I wouldn’t dare break it,” he replied with a laugh, his eyes warm. “I will do my best.”

She dried her eyes and laughed. “I have to go to the ceremony, Charles. I love you.”

“I love you, too. I will be watching.”

Y/n nodded, but she didn’t end the call right away. She held the phone a moment longer, committing the sight of his proud smile to memory.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @blodwyn4u @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

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