#ahmed x reader

[capitollie]

Ahmed with a sleepy s/o who just wants to cuddle all day 😴😴😴

Ahmed blinked his eyes open, yawning. Light pooled in from the large window, making him squint. He felt something wriggle against his chest, and when he looked down he saw you.

You face was cuddled into his chest, hair messy. He smiled softly, tucking a stray peice of hair behind your ear. You were so cute when you were asleep.

He tried to squeeze himself out of bed, but you tugged him back. “Honey… I know you’re tired, but I need to make breakfast.” He said softly. You groaned a bit, opening an eye to look at him.

“Nooo, staaaay. We can eat later. I wanna cuddle..” You huffed, furrowing your eyebrows. Ahmed hesitated, but ultimately gave in with those puppy eyes that you made.

“Just a little bit more, dearest.” He said, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin ontop of your head. You hummed in delight, snuggling into his chest again.

You two wouldn’t get out of bed for another hour.

[whore-ibly-hot]

Yan!Bully x Reader x Yan!Freak Pt 2

"Boys Night Plus One."

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Bullying, name calling, degradation, violence, non-consensual photos, nonconsensual touching, male pronouns for the yans, mentions of school, general perversion, toxic behaviors, creep behavior, cum, masturbation, male and female genitalia.

Part 1 here

(AN: This one is for you, anon who sent me a bullet-point list of some ideas for Ahmed and Patrick which were better than anything I could have come up with. I love you.)

You groan, struggling to yank off the cotton top you had taken to wearing for PE class. You had been sick for a week or so, and in order to stay up on your grades you had been doing classwork after school. Today, you are making up some time for gym class using the school's exercise facilities. Once you finally get it off, you unlock your locker and put your gym clothes inside, reapplying your deodorant and putting on your school shirt. Just as you shut your locker, you hear the door of the girl's locker room flap shut, and you perk up at the sound. That's odd, after a few days of working out after school, you've never run into anyone else using the facilities.

"Hello?" You call out, peering around the row of lockers. Suddenly, a fist slams into the locker behind you, making you shriek. You whip around, to see Patrick, the schools most notorious bully laughing his ass off at how spooked you got. "Patrick!" You yell, smacking him lightly. "Ooh, feelin' fiery, huh?" He takes a breath, calming himself after laughing so hard. "What's got you so pissed off?" You roll your eyes.

"You scared me, and you're in the girls locker room!" He fakes shock, and looks around. "Really, the girls locker room? Huh, wonder how I wound up here..." He muses, playfully leaning up against the lockers. "If it was the boys locker room, why would I be here?" You ask. He shrugs. "I don't know, maybe you were tryna' sneak a peek at some dudes after football practice." He grins, leaning over you a little more. "Or maybe you wanted one of them to sneak a peek at you." You blush, and push him away. "Go away, Patrick, there's no reason for you to be here right now." You try to quickly gather your things, and make your way to the door.

"Woah, woah, hey, where ya' going? I'm just checking on you. You haven't been to class lately, I was getting worried." He uses your moment of surprise to grip your wrist and gently pull you back over. "I was sick, just needed some time away from class. Why does that matter to you?" You ask, confused. He's always enjoyed tormenting you, and you would think you were special if he didn't also torment everyone else. Of course, Patrick knows where you've been, because he's had Ahmed posted outside your bedroom for the duration of your absence, both to get photos and make sure you aren't hanging out with anybody else. He shrugs again. "I missed seeing you in these." He reaches into your gym bag, gripping one of the pairs of gym shorts and pulling them out. "Y'know, I don't think these follow the dress code..." Admittedly, you needed to get some new shorts. These ones were small, but you just hadn't gotten around to buying new ones. "Gym class is already fuckin' boring, especially when I can't see your sweet little ass bent over, trying to do toe-touches or yoga or whatever the fuck we're supposed to in that sweaty shit-hole."

You only blush and grab the shorts from him, stuffing them back into your bag. "Well, I'm sure you managed fine without me. There's plenty of girls to perv on that aren't me." You whimper. Patrick chuckles, and shakes is head. "Yeah, but I don't want any of them." He pauses, then clicks his tongue. "That reminds me though, I did make a friend while you were gone. I had a lot of free time since you weren't around to play with." You glance up at him. "Another member of your gang?" You ask. The last thing this school needs is even more assholes hanging out with Patrick. "Nope. It's someone I knew before you left, but I've made amends with them. Patched things up, self-improved." He brags. He looks down at you smugly. "You should be proud of me, I'm a changed man."

"What do you mean?" You aren't sure what previous acquaintance he's referring to. Due to Patrick's widespread terror, it could be pretty much anyone. "You know that new kid, Ahmed?" Your mouth opens in shock. You had heard things about the new boy, with dark hair and wide eyes. You had noticed him a few times in English class. He was always quiet, only occasionally speaking when he was being picked on by the other kids, quietly protesting the abuse. You had traded poetry a few times for an assignment. He seemed very creative. You weren't really sure why the other kids picked on him so much, but you suspected it was because Ahmed was Patrick's new favorite. You had heard of the things he'd done to Ahmed, robbing him, beating him, stealing his classwork. You didn't do anything, how could you? Patrick hated when people stood up to him, and you didn't want his attention on you anymore than it was.

"You're... friends with him now." Patrick nods. "That's cruel, Patrick. You can't do all that stuff to somebody, then force them to play friends with you. It's not right!" You exclaim, boldly defying him for a moment. He only exhales lightly, and puts his hands up in surrender. "You got it all wrong, baby. We are friends, me and him. We've made amends. I told you, I'm changing. I'm a reformed juvenile." He looks up to see if you're buying it. He pouts when he notices you still seem skeptical. "Alright, I guess I'm not 'reformed', exactly, but me and him really are friends now." You only nod, hoping he will drop it and go away. This reaction makes him scoff. "You still don't believe me? Fine, I'll tell you what. I'm going over to see Ahmed at his house tonight, to hang out. Why don't you come with me?" He offers.

You shake your head no quickly. "I'm not going anywhere with you, Patrick." You exclaim. "Well, if you do go, and see me and him are friends, you'll know I'm not such a bad guy, and you might like my new friend. If you don't go though..." He chuckles lowly. "Me and this guy may not be friends... and by not going, your risking this kid getting beat up in his own home. Do you want that on your conscience?" You bite your lip, but shake your head. "No, you don't. I could handle that, but you couldn't, pretty thing. So come on, grab your shit and head over there with me, alright?" You make no movements, and Patrick groans, grabbing your gym-bag. "Fine, since I told you I'm changing, and I'm a gentleman, I'll carry your stuff." His free hand grabs your wrist. You both walk out of the school doors towards the bus stop. As you stand waiting for the bus, he leans in, his lips almost brushing your ear. "We're taking the city bus, and it's late enough that it's gonna be crowded." You nod, not sure where he's going with this. "Lots of hard working people want a seat, and we should give it to them. Being good members of the community and all that shit." He sighs. "So whether or not there's a free seat for you, I expect that ass on my lap for the whole ride, you feel me?" You blush, and look at him with wide eyes. He chuckles, leaning back from your ear. "Gotta save some room for everyone else. Besides, I'm plenty comfortable."

Ahmed is sitting on his bed, foot bouncing at a pace so rapidly it practically shakes his whole scrawny form. He stares at the clock, counting the seconds until Patrick shows up. He promised, promised he'd have a way of getting you here. After weeks and weeks of photographing you from a distance, Patrick promised he would finally get to be near you, talk with you. Ahmed wasn't exactly sure how Patrick was going to accomplish this, but he knew given his reputation it would be easier for Patrick to get a hold of you than him. He just hoped whatever Patrick did, it wouldn't be as severe as what he endured before Patrick and him entered a truce. He didn't want you in his house for the first time, scared and unsure why you were brought there. No! He wanted his new house guest to be comfortable. His room was dark, with books, figures, and posters strewn about. He did his best to make it homey though. He opened the curtains, cleaned out any trash, (hid his camera and photo collection). He was sure Patrick was going to laugh at him for all this, seeing as Patrick had seen the state his room was in before. Ahmed shakes his head. He wasn't worried about Patrick right now. No, he was ready to see you, talk with you. Maybe... maybe even get to touch you.

The door creaks, and Ahmed hears footsteps approaching. Heavy boots, followed by the light patter of smaller feet. He bites his lip to the point it almost breaks skin. Patrick had done it. You were waiting just outside his room.

He hops back onto his bed, trying to look as casual as possible as the blonde menace he now called a friend traipsed in, with you behind him. "Ahmed... looks like you cleaned up a little in here. Huh." Patrick looks around, hands in his pockets as he leans against Ahmed's bed frame. "Ahmed, I believe you know my new friend." Patrick motions at you. Ahmed nods quickly. "Uh, yeah. We have an English class together." He says. "It's nice to actually meet you Ahmed, you and Patrick are-" You sigh. "Friends?" Ahmed nods. "Yeah, we actually have a lot in common..." He chuckles, shrugging. "Crazy, huh?" He coughs awkwardly. You nod, still not fully convinced.

"See, baby? I told ya' there's nothing shifty going on here! Me and Ahmed are just best buds." Patrick flops onto Ahmed's bed, bouncing the boy up a little as he wraps an arm around him, his grip rough on Ahmed's shoulder. 'Best buds' wasn't really a term Ahmed would use, especially considering two days ago Patrick was pounding Ahmed into this very bed, making the scrawny outcast cry and beg for his cock to go just a little deeper, just a little faster to give him that relief. Of course, Patrick was a jerk, and didn't let him reach that peak for at least three hours into the session, when Ahmed's parents came home. Patrick enjoyed making the boy finally cum on his cock, while trying to muffle his cries knowing his parents were just downstairs.

"So, w-would you like to watch a movie, or play a game? I've got Mario Kart, and Mortal Kombat-" Ahmed lists off a few more games, hoping something would catch your attention and endear him to you. You smile awkwardly, but shake your head. You hadn't really planned on staying, considering you were so sure that Patrick was just tormenting this poor boy. "I actually should get going, it's a Friday night, I don't want to intrude on your boys time." You move to grab your gym stuff, and Ahmed's face falls. He looks at Patrick, glancing at you and silently begging Patrick to do something. Anything, just to keep you here longer. "Calm down, I'll fuckin' handle it." Patrick whispers, before running a hand through his hair and turning back to you. "C'mon, baby! We don't mind you hanging out. Besides, Ahmed's had kind of a rough time in our school. I'm the only friend he's got." Ahmed blushes, not realizing the strategy was to make him look like a pathetic loser. "Patrick-" Patrick shoves his shoulder and continues. "Don't you wanna help him make at least one more friend?" You hesitate at the door, before sighing. It certainly isn't healthy for someones only friend to be Patrick, so you nod. "Fine, I'll stay..."

Several hours go by, and after two movies, four rounds of Mario Kart, and one two-liter of Sprite later, you are on the verge of passing out. You aren't really sure what happens in the next few minutes, but all you know is you are now laying in Ahmed's bed, with Patrick to your right and Ahmed squished on your other side, between you and the wall. Patrick fell asleep first, oddly enough. For a guy with so much energy, he gets sleepy quick. Now it's just you and Ahmed.

"Sorry about this, I didn't realize it was so late..." Ahmed apologizes. He isn't sorry. He imagined hundreds of ways this evening could go, but none of them ended with you pressed up against him, in his bed. God, you were getting your scent all over his sheets and his t-shirt. "M' never gonna wash these sheets again." He mumbles to himself. "Mm- what?" You ask groggily, making him jolt and blush. "Nothing, sorry." You go back to trying to sleep, and eventually pass out.

Ahmed tries to sleep as well, but just as he closes his eyes, he feels a weight on top of him. He gasps, and opens his eyes to see Patrick on top of him. "Come on, freak. We've got work to do." He sits back on the boys lap, allowing him to sit up. "Wha- I thought you were asleep." Patrick scoffs, and shakes his head. "Nah, just knew she wouldn't want to fall asleep around big bad me if she thought I was awake. But, I am. Now go find your camera." Ahmed looks confused, making Patrick roll his eyes. "Come on, you didn't think we were just gonna have a sleepover, did you? Tell secrets and make friendship bracelets like a fuckin' girl scout troop? We have a chance to get some close-up shots we could never get otherwise right now. Maybe even get a feel of her, now hurry up." The plan now confirmed, Ahmed scrambles as quietly as he can off the bed, practically throwing himself onto the floor as he blindly feels around under his bed for the camera. He knocks some stuff around, making Patrick his. "Shut the fuck up!" He whispers harshly. "M' sorry! It's dark." Ahmed whines. Finally, his fingers close around cold metal the camera, and he climbs back onto the bed beside Patrick.

"I'm ready. Just tell me when to snap a picture, and I'll do it." Patrick nods. "Heh, I've always wanted to see what's under this shirt." Patrick carefully slides the thin cotton up, not removing it from you but placing it just under your chin, exposing your breasts to the two boys. "Why doesn't she have a bra?" Ahmed asks. "She was coming back from the gym, already took off her sports bra, I guess. It's in her back over there, if you wanna smell it or some shit." Ahmed blushes. "S-smell it?" He stammers. "I don't know, you're the freak here. I'm just guessing that's something you're into." He isn't wrong.

"God, she's got a nice little pair, huh?" Patrick motions for Ahmed to snap a few photos. "Get one of my hands on em' too." Patrick's large hands cup your breasts, his thumb barely brushing past the nipple. Once Ahmed get's the photos, Patrick begins to gently rub his thumb and fore-finger over the nipples, watching as the delicate buds harden. "Fuck, I always like them better when there hard n' shit. Seeing them poke through t-shirts. I caught her out in the cold once, took everything in me to not make her pop em' out right there in the alley behind the school." Patrick smiles and the memory. Ahmed squirms, causing his friend to take notice.

"Gimme your camera." Patrick orders. "Wha- no! This, this camera is everything to me!" Patrick just groans at the boys pleading. "I'm not gonna' break it, freak. Just giving you a chance to free up your hands so you can play with her tits too." Ahmed looks between Patrick and your breasts, which are now peaking in arousal at Patrick's teasing. He sighs. "Okay, fine." Patrick takes the camera, and Ahmed places two hands on your breasts, squeezing ever so gently. "Wow, they're really soft, except for her nipples, I guess..." Patrick restrains himself from laughing so loud he'll wake you up. "God, you are such a fuckin' virgin. Do something photo-worthy, for fucks sake." Patrick eggs Ahmed on, and in a moment of boldness, the boy places a kiss on your collarbone, before slowly trailing his way down to your left breast. After a bit of careful kissing and teasing, his chapped lips find your nipple, latching gently.

"Shit... there you go." Ahmed is so lost in the taste of your soft skin that he doesn't register the camera flashing a few times as Patrick snaps some pictures. What he does hear however, is the soft, wanton moan that escapes your lips. He pulls back, eyes wide as he looks at Patrick. Patrick seems just as shocked, but this is quickly replaced with a toothy grin. "C'mon, clearly your making her feel good. Grab at her shorts, I wanna see if she's wet from us just playing with her girls." Patrick insists, and Ahmed obliges. Trembling fingers pull at your shorts, slowly inching them down your relaxed thighs. "Hurry up-' "I'm trying! It's hard when she's asleep, not exactly cooperating." Ahmed eventually gets the thin shorts down your legs, just above your knees in case they need to move them back up in a hurry. To his delight, he managed to hook your underwear down with them, leaving your soft mound exposed to the two boys.

Ahmed's nimble fingers move to spread your lips, the strings of slick breaking apart as he parts them, coating his fingers. He almost finishes right there, seeing the light of the camera as Patrick snaps a picture reflect off of your slick, letting them know just how soaked you are. "Fuckin' soaked... just from a bit of teasing." Patrick groans, making sure to get a picture of both your holes and Ahmed's fingers parting the folds around them. "Is that not normal?" Patrick shrugs. "I don't know, some people are more sensitive than others, I guess. Especially when they haven't been touched." Ahmed's eyes light up at that, and he whips his head towards Patrick.

"You- you think there's a chance she hasn't... y'know..." Ahmed trails off. "We're literally taking nudes of her cunt right now, just say 'had sex', 'fucked', anything. Jesus." The weaker boy shrinks into himself at the blonde's words. "I mean, it's possible. I've never heard of any guy doin' her, and I've never seen her with another guy around school." Patrick continues. "Isn't that your fault?" Ahmed asks, making his new friend chuckle. "Maybe. You're the one who's been outside her window for the past month, ever seen a guy over?" Ahmed shakes his head no. "Then maybe she's just been waiting for the right guy to come and show her a good time." Patrick moves a little closer to Ahmed, pressing himself against the boy's back. For the first time, Ahmed isn't bothered by Patrick towering over his smaller frame. "Well, right guys, y'know." Ahmed doesn't respond, his mind filling with ideas of what might happen, that night when him and Patrick finally get to be your firsts.

Would you be scared? He'd comfort you as best he could, but Patrick wouldn't be much help with that, (though he knows Patrick can be gentle when he really wants something.) Ever the anxious mess, he can't even focus on his fantasies without worrying. He needed to get condoms, and were you on birth control? Patrick should definitely get tested first, who knows what he's got going on. If Patrick takes you first, what should he do? He's content to sit in the corner and play with himself, but he know's Patrick would only make fun of him for 'not getting any'. A final thought strikes him. Would he be jealous? Would you like Patrick better? You've known him longer, and he's definitely more popular. He's pretty, whereas Ahmed is skinny and feral-looking. He's drawn out of his panic by the sound of a zipper.

"Whatcha thinkin' bout, 'Mhed?" Patrick asks. He can tell when his little freak-friend is spiraling. "You wanna touch her, huh?" Ahmed nods. He can feel the rough, calloused hands of Patrick palming his cock through his boxers. He shudders. "So much. I want... god, can I take her first?" Ahmed begs, gasping as Patrick pulls down his waistband, letting his cock stick out. Patrick gently rubs his thumb on Ahmed's tip, collecting a bead of pre-cum. "Maybe. You still' passing science?" Ahmed furrows his brow at the odd question. Why was Patrick asking about classes while he jerks him off over your sleeping form. "Yeah, I'm doing p-pretty well in all my classes..." He replies. He tosses his head back into Patrick's shoulder as the strong delinquent begins to stroke his length with quick, tight strokes. Patrick's free arm wraps around Ahmed's stomach, pinning the boy's back to his broad chest. "Gimme your notes for all your classes then. If you're good for me, n' keep proving you're worth something-" Another harsh stroke. Ahmed is on the verge. "Then maybe I'll let you be the one to break in her sweet little hole." Ropes of white, hot cum spill from Ahmed's cock as he cries out, before quickly biting his lip to try and silence himself. If you woke up now, there would be no way him and Patrick could make an excuse to get out of this. Just the thought of being your first leaves Ahmed so emotional that as his cock twitches in pleasure, he can feel himself tearing up.

"Are you fucking crying?" Patrick presses his lips to Ahmed's cheek, getting a taste. "You get jerked off one time thinking about our pretty girl and you fuckin' cry. Maybe you aren't ready to be her first." Ahmed gags, and turns around. He moves his arms, frantically whispering, begging. "No, no! I won't cry then, I'll be good. I'll make her feel good, please. I- I've gotta be her first, you don't-" Patrick shushes him. "You've got a long way to go. I think you and I will have to practice some more, making sure you last longer than you did just now." Patrick leans to the side, taking in the sight of your nude torso now decorated with Ahmed's cum. He grins. "Alright, here's the deal. You take some photos real quick, make sure we can see the pretty paint-job you gave her." Ahmed blushes as Patrick stands. "Where are you going?"

"Gotta go get some wipes, and I gotta be quick about it."

[buckysmith]

They cheat on you Part 1

Don’t read it if you don’t like it

No matter the sex of you or the chara, all of the MW chara cheat on you with a woman

It’s an HEADCANON and a REQUEST :)

Includes :

Price, Alejandro, Soap, König, Farah, Gaz and Phillip Graves

I removed Rudy and for ppl that read it, I’m sorry.

Warning: Toxic behavior, obviously cheating DONT READ IF YOU DONT LIKE THE TOPIC IN THE FIRST PLACE

Price:

- he calls you everytime he can, he wants to see you or at least hear your voice

-he knows that you are worried about him, so he does his best to take away your fears

- your relationship is harmonious, there are rarely fights and when there are fights, you both settle it like adults and most of the time you don't have a fight longer than half an hour

- that silent treatment does simply not exist

- if one of you both is bothered by something the other does or not does, the problem is addressed and solved

- the day you found out was your third anniversary

-you called Laswell to ask when 141 would arrive at the base, because you wanted to make a surprise for your husband

- so you called his favorite restaurant, reserved seats, went to buy a bouquet of flowers and his favorite cigars

- you just wanted to give him a little surprise

- And thanks to a keycard that John had given you, you got into the base without much trouble

- you didn't know where his private room was on the base, but you knew where his office was, so you went there

- but before you could knock, you could hear voices, one female and the other belonging to your husband

- it was clear to hear what the two persons were arguing about

- you could hear him...

- he had slept with her, not once, not twice, but so incredibly many times over the past years

- she was screaming at him, wanting him to finally end the relationship with you, but all you could hear him say was that he was married, that he loved you and she was only good enough for fast and good sex, that she went along with the things he didn't want to do to you

- that the  sex with you was just not good enough, but he loved you for your personality and that's why he only got his sexual needs from her

- you could feel your heart breaking, the icy cold feeling spreading through your body and going into every vein of your body

- you were on autopilot, you turned around and went back to your car

- you completely blanked out the drive home, you didn't know how you got home and in the next moment you were in the cabin.

- You could hear the fire crackling in the fireplace, Price's dogs were looking at you from their beds and the cats were watching you from their scratching post. - It was almost as if they knew something had happened.

- so now you were standing in the middle of  your- no, his cabin not knowing where to start

- but you had to be strong now and think rationally, he didn't know you knew and you probably had only an hour before he would come home, if not less

- so you gathered up your important papers, everything you could quickly pack into your suitcase.

- Years of marriage passed by, you never dreamed he would cheat on you, yet here you were, three years of marriage and two more of being together in a single suitcase.

- You had often asked him if your sex life was good, if he had any desires or improvements, but he denied it.

- that once your marriage failed because of that, such an  military spouse thing...

- after feeding the dogs and cats, you put your suitcase in your car and paused there for a moment to collect your thoughts.

- after a last look at the cabin you drove away and leaving your old life behind you

- he came home not even half an hour after you left the cabin with a huge bouquet of flowers, a reservation at your favorite restaurant and a trip to the place you always wanted to visit.

- But he found nothing but emptiness, the lights were on, the animals were fed and it smelled like you. But your clothes were missing, your important papers and any trace of you.

- he called you hundreds of times, but it always went to voicemail

- Hours passed before he knew you were alive and well.

- he had your phone hacked to find out where you were and then went there

- he was pissed, didn't know why you left, but when he saw you he knew what had happened

- he could tell you knew.

- he tried to talk to you about it, tell you he loved you and all that  shit, but you told him that if he was a man he would make the divorce easy.

- in the year you two had to live apart to finalize the divorce he tried over and over again to save the relationship, to fix his mistake

- it's on you to take the risk of letting him back into your life

- but in the end, would you be able to trust him? If you wouldn't, you shouldn't take him back, cause in the end, you're the one the one who gets hurt the most.

A Little extra (when you're able to get pregnant and you also want too/ want to have kids (adopt when u can have kids)/ your animals)

- you both had been trying to have a child for a long time, but you just did not get pregnant

- you also had problems with your periods and sometimes it just did not come for months

- but after you broke up you started to feel unwell, you were constantly tired, drained and you just didn't feel well

- it got so bad that you had to go to the doctor just to find out that you were pregnant and you knew exactly who the father of the child was

- you didn't have long to decide if you wanted to keep it or if you should abort it.

- should you tell Price about it, since it was his child too, or should you save yourself the stress?

- In the end, you had to decide what was the best  for you and the little one in you

Adopted

- it was kinda hard for you, the divorce was one thing the other one was the fight for custody of your child since the little one was adopted

- you got full custody and he got visitation

- the only problem was to explain to your baby why daddy didn't lived with the both of you anymore and why you had to move away

Animals

- ofc you took your animals with you, I mean, how could you leave those faithful souls behind!?

- nah they were the first thing you packed in your car, only their fur sibling that belonged to price stayed behind which confused them

- why weren't you taking the others with you?

- the last thing you saw were a lot of sad little puppy and kitty eyes as you closed the door behind you

Soap:

- you knew soap was a player before you got together, that he never missed an opportunity to sleep with the next best thing

- whether it was a cute girl at the bar or a strong military woman, he'd sleep with anyone who gave him a good vibe.

- but you were sure that he was faithful to you, that he would never do anything like that, because he himself was always upset about such men,  women and people who cheated on their partners

- for him it was a sign of weakness

- Loyalty was something he swore to his country and to you.

- his sex drive was also extremely high

- one of the reasons why he had so many one night stands before he met you

- every time he came home from a mission, there was never a day that you didn't have sex until the day he had to go on a mission again

- he introduced you to his family quite early, it was clear to him that you were the person for his life.

- his parents were relieved that their son was finally getting involved in something serious and as warm as they were to you they were almost like your own parents

- you had also met Price, Gaz and Johnny's best friend named Ghost.

- Ghost, whose real name was Simon, introduced you to his partner after a while, as you were both from the same country/state.

- you two became really good friends, because often your two men were on missions together and you could then pass the time together

- time went by and Johnny asked you to marry him.

- the day of your wedding was beautiful, the sun was shining, hardly a cloud was to be seen and it was really warm for Scotland.

- You were making small fixes to yourself when Simon's partner came into your room.

- you could see from their face that it was not good news

- Simon's partner had overheard him talking to Johnny about telling you before the wedding that he had cheated on you.

- of course you didn't believe a word of it at first, but Simon's partner had recorded everything

- Simon's partner had also taken pictures from Simon's cell phone, in which John had also sent him various spicy pictures of various people

- he had bragged that he could have anyone he wanted even now

- he had cheated on you not only once, but every time he was on a mission.

- all the sweet words he had whispered in your ear, how much he loves you, how much he desires you and that you are the only person for his life while he made love to you

- all lies

- Johnny was already in the church, waiting for you to show, but you didn't

- his mom was the first to look for you, but she didn't find you anywhere

- everyone went looking for you, while they suspected you just got cold feet

- Simon's partner had expected you to leave and not make a scene in front of hundreds of guests, so he had brought his buddy from London without Simon's knowledge

- that friend  drove with you to the house of you and John

- it didn't take long until you had packed the most important things

- the cat that John had given you for your engagement was the first thing you put in the car

- the friend named James, who helped you, also offered you to move in with him, as he was looking for a flatmate anyway

- you left your phone behind, everything that could track you was left behind and also James had his phone turned off all the time so as not to leave a trace

- everyone was looking for you, your friends and family were worried, hell everyone who was at the wedding was worried about you and John kept calling you until he went with Simon late at night to your shared apartment

- it took a week to find you, as you avoided public places and cameras and hardly left the flat

- you had contacted your family and friends during the week and told them that you were not going to marry John, but that you needed some time to yourself

- James worked in a bar and left you with ice cream and a movie in his apartment

- you had ordered a pizza at eleven p.m. so you were not confused when the doorbell rang just before 12 p.m.

- you wanted to slam the door as soon as you realized who was standing in front of you, but John was in the apartment faster than you could look

- he didn't touch you for the time being, but closed the door behind him and walked slowly towards you, while his eyes were examining the apartment

- the moment he started to speak made you gulp, his voice was deeper than usual and you could see from his body language how incredibly angry, hurt and aggressive he was

- you could literally see his artery beating on his neck

- He asked you if you had left him for another man, if you had cheated on him.

- he asked you if the other man was the reason that you left him at the altar

- that you threw away all those years for another guy as if he never meant anything to you

- his words made you angry

- the moment he stopped throwing accusations at you, you went into your room followed by him

- he grabbed you painfully by the wrist, turned it painfully around and pulled you to him, but you gave him a slap, so he let go of you

- it was a reflex out of which he had held you and it was a reflex that you had punched him

- you had printed out all the evidence, all the pictures with him and other women, everything

- you threw the sheets in his face and they spread around him like a blazing fire

- his facial expression changed within seconds

- it took him a few seconds to catch himself, but at the moment he was about to explain himself you stopped him

- you loved John more than anything, you both had already been through good and rough times, but this was not a rough time.

- the decision to sleep with friends, different women, to betray you so many times and then to talk about it to someone and show off, that was not a mistake, it was a decision which drew consequences

- he tried to touch you, but you tried to keep the distance you kept between him and you and yet you were against the nearest wall faster than you liked, his body pressed gently against yours

- such an Wattpad moment you thought

- he put his hand to your cheek as he took away any possibility of escaping him

- he begged you for a chance, just one chance and he would do anything to make you not regret it

- he told you how much he would love you, how much he desired you

- that was the moment you interrupted him

- he moved  or better you pushed him away from you when you said that now he could desire the body of any other, because before one partner was not enough for him, now he could desire as many bodies as he wanted cause he's single

- every time you had a new number, he had it within a few hours and begged you to give him one last chance

- this went on for months, during which he didn't sleep with any other woman, didn't even look at anyone and sent you so many gifts that the apartment you lived in almost exploded

- he tried to meet you as many times as he could and saw how happy you became with each meeting

- he had the hope that you would get together again

- but someone from your past life had taken in a new place

- you have a choice, do you choose Soap and risk that he cheats on you again even though he's a good lover and you had already planned your future with him + be promised you to stay loyal

- or for the man who never stopped loving you and only wanted the best for you even after you turned him down many years ago.

- are you really going to choose the man that stayed loyal even tho he was not once in a relationship with you, or the man that had everything but threw it away for some quick fuck

- it's your choice but you have to live with it, there's no turning back when things go down again

Gaz

- his father had cheated on his biological mother with his stepmother, who later married his biological mother

- his father was never in the picture, his ego couldn't tolerate that the two women he had played suddenly formed a family that "belonged" to him

- for him it was a sign of character weakness to be unfaithful

- he also did not understand the concept of poly, for him it was very clear that he would only want to have one partner at the same time

- he also had one night stands but that was all before he met you

- you two were inseparable, balanced each other out and not only from the outside you were a dream couple

- you rarely had disagreements

- you had a big fight when he joined 141, you were afraid that he would die while fighting for his country in a group "nobody" knew about

- but after you got to know the captain and the others, your worries about your husband's health diminished as you saw how good they all were

- however, after a while your relationship started to crumble

- he was constantly annoyed by you, grumbled at you for the smallest things, slept on the sofa and also you didn't have sex anymore or the slightest touches

- you suggested countless times couple therapy for both of you, but he always refused it

- it went so far that he no longer came home but slept at a friend's house

- but just before you wanted to break up because you saw no more chance, he came back

- everything was normal again

- he gave you flowers and despite good care they withered after a few days, it was as if a curse was on the flowers of Gaz since the one you bought yourself stayed good even after weeks

- your love life also got better, he always did new things with you which made your head spin

- your relationship became better than it had ever been

- about a year later gaz was on a mission

- you knew when he was coming back and decided to pick him up for the first time on base

- it was not difficult for you to enter the base because you had a good friend there

- but you were still lost at the base, everything looked the same to you so you approached a man maybe a little older than gaz

- he was well built, had a hawk and a really nice smile when he looked at you, right away this man was sympathetic to you

- you asked him if he happened to know the whereabouts of Kyle Garrick who belonged to 141

- the man smiled at you, asked you why you were looking for him to which you replied that he was your boyfriend  and you wanted to surprise him.

- the moment you mention that Gaz is your boyfriend, the man's face collapses in front of you and he turns even whiter than he was before

- as he nervously begins to scratch his head and avoid eye contact you feel nauseous

- when you asked him what was going on, he only said that he can't tell you

- he tells you that you better go back home, but of course you insist on seeing your boyfriend

- he then shows you where gaz is before he quickly disappears

- you open the door and the first thing you see is gaz putting on his boxers and you can't help but smile

- but your smile dies as he looks at you in shock before looking to the bed, just then you notice the naked woman in his bed.

- you could feel your heart breaking

- when you left he wanted to stop you and explain himself to you but one look from you was enough and he did not stop you

- the next four days you spent with your best friend

- on the fifth day you went home

- he sat on your sofa, on the table there were two boxes from your favorite restaurant

- but it was seven in the morning and the smell coming from them revealed that they were in fact not fresh

- he looked like he hadn't slept for the last few days, but with the two bottles of Jack Daniels on the table you were surprised, with so much alcohol he should  have slept through an entire war

- a part of you wanted to join him when he whimpered  your name , the other part enjoyed that he suffered

- when he asked you to listen to him you wanted to refuse, but then you sat down and listened his story

- he told you that no matter how much he apologized to you, it wouldn't make anything better or change anything but it was important for him to explain

- he also told you that it was not your fault, it was his own fault and that he would understand if you left him and didn't want to have anything to do with him anymore

- he also told you how it came to this

- it was apparently a long affair which started after you had your last big fight before your relationship improved again

- he told you that he was just a good friend to her in the beginning, but that night he drank too much and woke up the next morning with a bad headache, a blackout and with her in his bed

- he wanted to tell you the same day what happened, but she "seduced" him again and they had sex again

- after that it became something regular and then almost every day when they saw each other

- he asked you at the end if there would be another chance for you, because he would do everything for it

- you told him honestly that you couldn't trust him anymore, not after he had cheated on you for such a long time

- you moved out of the apartment that same week

- he called you again and again, wrote to you and tried to build up a relationship with you again

- as a friend of yours worked on his base you saw him from time to time, but with a personality like yours you were being courted by men and women from the base which Gaz didn't like, but as you were no longer his partner he could only watch everyone flirting with you

- at least he felt the same feeling you did

Alejandro

- he has always been a passionate man, be it at work, in love or sex

- honestly, this man is a god in everything

- he didn't really want a life where he only had someone new by his side day in and day out, just for a few hours to satisfy his needs.

- he actually wanted a partner for his life, someone he would have children with and all that kind of stuff

- when you came into his life he changed, he focused on you and your relationship

- it went very well between you, hardly any arguments, good communication everything was fine

- your harmonious relationship went on for many years until five years after you got married Alejandro almost died on a mission

- you had a baby at home and after he just barely escaped death, he felt like he was missing something in his life

- the times with a baby at home were exhausting, even if he was not there often

- there were hardly any intimate moments between you anymore, especially from him and he started to despise you and his child

- the thought alone of coming home to you and the baby made him angry

- you of course noticed that your husband started to behave badly towards you, always being annoyed by you and no matter what you seemed to do, it never seemed to be enough.

- it slowly started to break you

- you were well hidden, far away from other people and he was the only one who kept you company

- he had taken you so far away from civilization for your own safety and now, now he hardly ever came home and when he did, he did nothing but complain about the smallest things

- his daily visits became weekly visits, then he came only once a month and after a total of nine months after you had your child, he stopped coming home at all

- he didn't answer your calls, let alone talk to you anymore

- you had enough after two months of not hearing from him, you were tired of hearing from Rudy that he was fine, that at least he was still alive

- but the talks with Rudy were short, never long enough to find out what was going on with him.

- you had enough of him, you had gone into exile for him and now he had abandoned you for god knows why.

- you took the most important things for your baby, and also for yourself, before you went to his base

- you just wanted to tell him in person that you were going to a friend for now and that he should think about whether he wants a couple counselor or a divorce

- it was easy to get on the base, everyone knew you even if under a different reason than the spouse of Alejandro

- but you quickly noticed the Americans who were also on the base

- after taking your baby out of its seat, you unintentionally almost ran into a soldier

- his hair was blond, his eyes blue and the small scar on his cheek looked cute, but in itself he had a really cute face

- he apologized to you that he should have paid more attention but he just couldn't remember where things were and he kept getting lost

- you felt the same way when you were on the base for the first time, it was confusing and sometimes the corridors ended in nowhere

- before you knew it you were talking to each other, he was very polite and also in dealing with your child he was very loving and careful

- even Alejandro was never that gentle with your child, which only created more doubt in your mind

- you went with Phillip Graves, he said that's his name, to the main base as you continued to talk

- somehow you got on the subject of Alejandro and he told you that the guy was a real ladies man, that he had never seen anyone flirt so well before and that he was kinda jealous of his skills

- you were confused, what was Phillip talking about?

- he seemed equally surprised at your reaction before he said confused that Alejandro took a different girl from a nearby bar to the base like every night

- he asked you if everything was ok when he saw how pale you became and you just nodded

- so that was it, he was cheating on you... that was the reason why he acted like that...

- you decide not to go to him but rather just go to your best friend's house

- Phillip had your baby in his arms during this whole time, because after he started crying he only stopped after Phillip took him in his arms

- you and Phillip were standing quite close to each other when you could hear the dark and rough voice of Alejandro

- Alejandro was quick to pull your baby and you away from Phillip

- he didn't say a word until he had pulled you into his office and before that had gave the baby to Rudy

- he started bitching at you for coming here without saying anything, for talking to a gringo ( it doesn't matter where you're from, being married to him makes you Mexican from now on)

- he ranted about Graves obviously flirting with you and said it was stupid of you to just come here

- He even accused you of flirting back. That YOU would cheat on him with that look you gave that gringo

- you listened to him in silence with your arms crossed until you looked at him with your eyebrows raised and asked him if you also should yell at him for cheating on you.

- the moment you said that his face went pale

- only a few moments later he admitted it after ofc denying, saying that he just needed something new, new experiences and that thanks to the baby you hardly had any time together anymore

- he didn't even apologize but tried to put the blame on your baby

- he even asked you if he could open the marriage so that he could get his sexual needs satisfied

- that was enough for you and you wanted to leave but he held you at your wrist and told you that you belonged to him, that you were his property and no one could touch you but him

- he was intimidating, his voice was deep and for the first time you were afraid of him, but nevertheless you freed yourself from him, telling him to go to hell

- you fetched your baby before you left

- about two months passed in which you had absolutely no contact, you hadn't changed your number and you knew if he wanted to find you, he could too

- with every day that passed you wondered why you got involved with the charming Mexican and if you were really so wrong about him

- on the same day a man stood in front of the door of your best friend's house, handing you divorce papers.

- the divorce was quick, he did not want visitation rights for your child and agreed to pay alimony.

- after a total of one year he contacted you again

- in the meantime you had found a nice house, not very far away from las Almas, you had a nice job which allowed you to have your child with you and you were earning a  good amount of money

- your life seemed to be good again, until the doorbell rang late at night

- when you checked the security cameras, you thought for a moment about throwing your child's full diaper on his head, but decided against it (unfortunately)

- you didn't know what he wanted, but the constant ringing of the doorbell would sooner or later wake up your child, which of course you didn't want to do.

- so in the end you open the door

- just as you were about to start talking, he pushed you into the apartment and closed the door behind him, just to push you against it

- you could feel your heart beating hard against your chest

- he looked thinner than you remembered him, his face was sunken and dark circles under his eyes marked his face

- he looked terrible

- you could feel his warm hand on your hip, his rough fingers gently touching your soft skin where your shirt had ridden up

- his other hand was on your cheek and the look he gave you would have melted you then

- his scent fogged you and you wanted nothing more than to give yourself to him, but that would go against all your principles so you pushed him away from you

- the expression he made then was a mixture of pain and something you couldn't place

- Did he expect something else? Probably

- you sent him away in the same breath, and he did what you said.

- every day he was standing in front of your door, with your favorite flowers

- your favorite food

- he brought you what he knew you liked, be it a book or something really expensive

- if he was not at your door, his gifts were waiting in front of it

- he also brought things for your child

- one evening you did not send him away but confronted him

- your child was with your best friend, because you had planned to talk to him and if it came to a fight you didn't want your child in between

- he started telling you that after he divorced you he kept having different partners, but he felt alone

- something seemed to be missing and with every day this feeling became bigger and stronger

- he wanted to go home, but when he was home it still felt the same as it had before

- after months he realized that he missed you, your way, your laugh, just everything about you

- everything he had found disturbing before, was what  he missed

- he tried to make contact, but Rudy stopped him, told him it was his own fault and you were better without him after what he had done to you

- but he couldn't stand it, he wanted to make it up to you, he wanted to show you that he had changed

- that you were the person he loved, the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with

- you turned him down again and again, day after day, but even after months he didn't give up

- it was up to you to decide if you would give him another chance or not

- remember, your decision has consequences.

König 🔥

- it was at the same time so easy and so hard to get into the heart of König

- he mostly stayed in the background, didn't talk and always seemed to be watching everything

- his comrades in his team were nice to him, he was very reserved but they knew they could always count on him and his intuition

- he never left a man behind, even if it seemed hopeless, one of the reasons why he became the captain of the team, even if he would never call himself a captain

- he was caring to all and in private he also spoke more

- König was loyal, loving and affectionate even if he tried to hide it.

- that were the same qualities he showed in the relationship you had with him

- he was quite unsure at the beginning how to touch you

- it was just very important for him not to pressure you into something you don't want

- over the years you became a good team and he slowly opened up to strangers as well

- he was always very good looking, but he always denied it, years of bullying had left its scars

- he asked you after four years of relationship if you would want to marry him, because he wanted to be with you forever

- after your married him, your life was better than ever, the first year was wonderful, but after another half something changed

- he started to avoid you, avoiding your questions

- even your discussions about having/adopting a child stopped

- he stopped touching you, stopped showing you his naked body and started sleeping on the sofa rather than in your shared bed

- you thought it was because of his job that something might have happened but he ignored your questions

- after several months he didn't come home anymore and you knew from his team that he stayed on base

- every attempt to talk to him came to nothing and you also started to doubt your marriage

- you missed him, his gentle touches, his warmth, his words. You missed your beloved husband

- it was your second wedding anniversary, you went to work and came back in the evening to an empty house. What a surprise

- you had given up after months of no contact with your husband, so you got a lawyer to draw up the divorce papers

- you made yourself comfortable on the sofa with whisky and the divorce papers while some music was playing in the background

- you didn't care if you got anything out of the marriage, you just wanted it behind you, because why should you fight if he didn't even want to see you

- it may have just been better for both of you in the end to just end it.

- it was just before midnight when you heard the door open

- and there stood your giant, your husband with a bouquet of flowers and chocolates

- you didn't care to see him, even though your heart said otherwise

- he was just starting to speak when you interrupted him briskly

- you had enough of it, now that you were ending it all, now he came with flowers and chocolates?

- you told him before you left the living room to sign the papers on the table before he left again.

- you woke up the next morning with the smell of your favorite meal freshly made on the bedside table

- you could feel the burning eyes of your husband

- you wanted to tell him to get out of the room, but this time it was him who interrupted you

- he came straight to the point

- He told you that he had cheated on you, that he had slept with a woman.

- his teammate was supposed to sleep with her to get information, but she didn't find him attractive and made a pass at him

- his decision depended on victory or defeat and so he had to decide to sleep with the woman

- after that he just couldn't look you in the eye anymore afterwards

- he had betrayed you, he had betrayed the person he loved above everything else for a stupid job

- he started to feel disgusted with himself, he didn't want you to touch him, let alone see him naked, because he felt disgusting, like he was covered with disgusting slime

- he couldn't look you in the eye anymore and he couldn't talk to you about it, the job forbade it and even if it hadn't, he would have been too ashamed of himself to tell you right away

- but now he could talk to you about it because the mission was successful and he wanted to save your relationship

- he wanted to come back to you, he wanted to feel you as much as you wanted to feel him

- he was so sorry, so sorry that he could not put it into words

- he didn't let you get a word in edgewise before he told you to think about what you wanted to do now, that he supported you in every decision you made

- he disappeared within seconds, leaving behind only the food and the filled out papers with a small note stuck to them

- >>I filled out the papers as you asked, I won't stand in your way if you want a divorce. I just hope that maybe there is still a chance for both of us, I would do anything for that. Anything. Ich liebe dich, mein Schatz. ( I love you honey ) <<

Farah:

- she was a fighter, a mighty warrior , proud and brave like a lioness

- freedom fighters, that's what they all called themselves and Farah was the head of them

- the girl who rose like a phoenix from the ashes

- your relationship was secret, no one knew about it not even her brother or your relatives

- not only was it dangerous for both of you to be associated with each other, but her  religion was also a reason to keep your relationship a secret

- it was nevertheless very affectionate

- the shy glances between you two

- the gentle and unnoticed touches as you walked by

- the short moments you two were alone

- the feeling when your heated bodies moved  to each other's rhythm

- your relationship was secret, but no less loving

- but you had to take two different mission and for the first time you had to fight apart from each other

- but the fight went on longer than expected, two whole weeks until you could strike the final hit against the enemies which led to your victory

- but when you returned, you found Farah with a man named Alex.

- since your relationship was secret, you couldn't intervene when Alex dared to flirt with your girlfriend

- at first she assured you that she only wanted you, that you were her true love

- but after weeks, when the two of them fought again and again, side by side and with each other against the enemies, you saw how her look changed towards him

- the few moments you had died after a while

- you tried to talk to her about it again and again, but she blocked again and again, because she either had no time for you, or others were near you

- after a while you gave up

- the looks and touches you once had with her now belonged to Alex, who also tried to befriend you without knowing that Farah was your girlfriend

- the night before Farah planned the battle with Captain Price, Nikolai, gaz, Alex and the others, you wanted to try again

- you wanted to know if you and Farah were still a couple or not

- when you entered her "office" without knocking, you were greeted with a naked Alex and a naked Farah, who did the nasty

- it took you a few moments to try to process what you had seen

- you could feel your heart breaking, your stomach turning and your eyes filling with water

- the next day you went on the mission as planned, but you avoided Farah and Alex

- The mission was successful except for the fact that Alex sacrificed himself to ensure victory.

- Farah kept trying to talk to you after the mission, but you avoided her like the plague.

- you went along on every mission, making sure there were as many miles as possible between you and Farah.

- but one day, or rather night, you couldn't get away from her.

- you had night watch on the tower

- you could hear someone sitting on the bench next to you, you also knew that this someone was Farah, but you did not dignify her with a glance

- she started talking, telling you that she never wanted this to happen

- that you both just moved away from one and then Alex was just there

- you listened only half-heartedly while she listed reasons why her action was justified

- but at some point it was too much for you and you looked at her

- it was not much you said

- it was just

- "If Alex hadn't sacrificed himself in the process, would we still be talking or would you fuck him again?  I guess  you just feel alone since your beloved American is nothing more than dirt and want back what is no longer yours"

- Looking at her, she had expected everything but that.

- it wasn't easy for you after your conversation

- and after months of the two of you fighting, you decided to leave the freedom fighters

- she had tried everything to win you back, but it was like in war, there were no second chances.

Graves

- Your relationship wasn't good it was great, you had your fights here and there  yet neither of you ever went to bed angry

- it was important for both of you to understand each other

- but often Phillip could not leave the base because he had something to do, hours in which you kept him company

- he even had a couch put in his office for you, because when he wasn't on missions he had to rummage through files for Shepard, plan missions and so much more

- your relationship was not perfect, but it was incredibly loving

- after you two got married, Phillip made sure you didn't have to work anymore, so you were free to plan your day apart from household chores

- he just supported you with everything

- you wanted to use your free time to be an artist? Go ahead, Phillip is there and supported you

- your life was perfect

- Phillip came home after a deployment which separated him from you for two months

- he missed you as much as you missed him

- the first hours after he arrived home he showed you how much he missed you

- two months had accumulated

- your lovemaking went on for several hours

- you had long since fallen asleep, but although Phillip was equally exhausted, he just couldn't fall asleep

- something thanks to his job

- he was just about to close his eyes after giving you another kiss on the forehead, when your cell phone lit up

- looking at the clock next to him, he wondered who was writing to you at three in the morning

- he reached for your cell phone, opened it since he knew your PIN and looked who the message was from

- he didn't know the name or the phone number and the text was more than strange, especially because it was the only message that was in the chat beforehand

- "meet the day after tomorrow as usual, can't wait!"

- it was like he knew the answer to what he saw, but he just didn't want to accept it

- you were so perfect, always by his side in every difficult time

- you were the reason why he didn't stop to stay alive after a mission had gone wrong in which he was badly wounded

- you were by his side when he was fighting for his life in the hospital, you held his hand when he was slowly recovering, you helped him to wash himself, to do all the daily things that he couldn't do at first

- thanks to you he was able to fully recover and continue with his job and also with this decision you supported him even though you were afraid for his life

- You were by far the person he trusted the most.

- That means you were the last person he would expect to betray him.

- sleeping was now not on the table anymore.

- he put your smartphone back, got up and went into the living room where the two dogs were already sleeping

- he just sat there for a few hours, staring into nothing before he got up and took a beer

- he was long gone when you got up, but had left you a note that he was needed at the base

- he stayed at the base that day and did nothing but wait

- the next day he was woken up by a message from you, it was your usual good morning sms you sent him when he was not home

- his heart ached, he wanted to be with you, to forget what had happened

- he didn't care that you were having an affair, he just wanted you, he wanted to spend his life with you but it hurt too much to know that he wasn't the only one in your life

- he knew that you had your date today, so he tracked your smartphone and followed you

- he followed you, saw you disappear into a house with a man and then drove back to the base

- he saw his phone light up, he knew you had texted him

- but your message wasn't worth more than a quick glance as he spread the legs of the women who had always flirted with him on base

- who he had even transferred as far away from him as possible, because he had a wonderful partner and wouldn't have think about betraying you

-  yet here he were spending the whole day fucking her

- at the end of the day he lay naked next to the woman who had put her head on his chest just like you always did

- but he does not feel a sense of security, love and affection.

- he felt disgust for himself and for the woman.

- he pushed her away from him, got up and took a shower to get dressed and spend the night in a hotel

- he asked Shepard for an assignment the next day

- So he disappeared for another two weeks.

- you wrote to him every day, but he didn't answer, he only read your messages.

- two weeks later he came home again, or rather was on his way back to the base

- you had heard it from one of his shadows because his wife was a friend of yours

- so you had everything ready in his office

- when he came into his office he immediately noticed that someone had been in there

- there was a note on his desk, address, time and nothing else.

- he was confused why he got an order without further information, but then he went, after all, no stranger could get on the base and so it was probably someone from the military

- he didn't have much time, so he didn't undress much and still had his gear on when he went to the meeting point

- it did not take him long to get to the meeting point

- he stood in front of an old warehouse, gripping his gun as he carefully pushed open the old rusty door

- it was dark, he couldn't see anything and yet a bad feeling went through him

- he dared to take two steps inside.

- at that moment the light was switched on blinding him as he pulled his gun out of the holster ready to fire only to be completely thrown off by people shouting "happy birthday" out loud

- he looked around confused, in the middle of the crowd you were standing with a big smile and next to you was his dream car with the wrap he had been raving about for years

- with another glance he saw the man he had seen with you, who was now wearing a t-shirt with a logo on it

- you introduced the man graves thought was your affair as the man who had tuned and wrapped the car

- he was the husband of a friend of yours, which he now knew.

- with every word you spoke Phillips stomach turned

- you already wanted to throw the party on his birthday (two weeks ago), but Phillip had to leave and now here u were

- Phillip sat down while the guests, which consisted mainly of his family, your friends and a few of his colleagues, were celebrating happily

- you kept asking him if everything was alright, what was going on as he just sat there staring into the void

- the party was a success for everyone except for you, as your beloved husband just didn't seem to be happy about it

- on the way home it was silent between you, no one said a word

- when you got home, you stopped him as he was getting out of the car after he parked in the garage

- you told him that if he didn't like the gift you could get him something else, that you were sorry for catching him off guard like that

- that was the moment he couldn't hold back anymore and started crying

- he sobbed that he was so sorry

- you were confused, what was he sorry for?

- he sobbed that he had cheated on you, that he had seen the message on your cell phone two weeks ago

- that he had followed you and when you disappeared with the man, he had slept with the woman he had told you about many times

- the woman who had always flirted with him

- the woman that he promised wouldn't be any danger to ur marriage

- it broke your heart

- and his was already

- he knew he had made a mistake, he should have confronted you immediately

- but before he had you he had so many women who had cheated on him, who couldn't stand the fact that he was away for months at a time

- and now he had cheated

- he asked you to do what you thought was right, that he would not force you to do anything

- it was up to you if you would forgive him or not

- remember, no matter how painful a confrontation can be, it is always better to have it right away than to make a mistake afterwards that is not reparable.

- a mistake that does more harm than good.

- communication is key, always remember that

[maihonhassan]

“I am fond of lovers but I cannot love, I am too far away, am banished.”

— Franz, Kafka, Diaries

Ye kya ki sab se bayan dil ki haalaten karni

“Faraaz” tujh ko na aain mohabbaten karni

— Ahmad Faraz

[meowcatsposts]

Best Medicine [Ahmed]

❥ note: @treasurecat24, I hope you enjoy :)

Overview:

Date time with your precious bf!

…but you got sick

So Ahmed’s here to baby you <3

Walking in cute clothes was flattering and empowering–perfect, even. 

With a sore scratchy throat, thrumming head, and heavy limbs, however? That was a different story. Each step sapped your nearly depleted energy reserve, and just to look straight ahead was a whole workout. Muscles aching, eyes watery, and head stuffed with cotton, you wished you had stayed home. 

Ahmed, seeing your sunken eyes and pallid complexion, knew something was very, very wrong. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes flooded with worry. Clearly not, his mind screamed.

“Um…” Dully, you looked up to meet his gaze and slurred, “...Do I look bad?”

You weren’t alright, duh. You just answered his question with a question!

Sighing softly, Ahmed murmured, “You look pale, love. Pale, as in sick.” He placed his hand on your lower back and pushed gently, guiding your rubbery legs. “We need to take you home.”

Here you were now, lying comfortably in a bed, wrapped in a thick blanket burrito. A steaming mug of tea sat beside your nightstand and its herby aroma wafted fainty to your nose. Perhaps something warm would be nice. Feeling a little bad for not drinking it (your beloved boyfriend brewed it for you, after all), you dragged yourself up and took the cup, lifting it to your lips with shaky hands. It didn’t taste or smell really of anything, sadly, (darn germs!) but a faint sweetness tickled your tongue and you smiled. Honey. 

Ahmed walked in with a tray. On it was a steaming bowl of soup, a tall glass of water, and a plastic medicine bottle.

“You’re like a doctor,” you giggled. Sandpaper rubbed your throat raw, but you didn’t really care.

“Well,” your boyfriend started, smiling softly. “I am.” He set the tray down with a soft clunk and sat beside you, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead. “And you’re my special patient.”

“Please.” Ahmed was practically begging now. “You need to take this to speed up your recovery.”

How long did this go on for? Too long. Your boyfriend usually had the patience of a saint, but he really needed to suppress the urge to wrench your pretty little lips open and shove that spoon into your mouth. 

Seeing how worriedly dark Ahmed’s eyes turned, you began to second-guess your own stubbornness. Maybe you should comply, your conscience reasoned. 

“Fine,” you grumbled.

“Great!” he chirped, holding a tiny spoonful of that thick bitter concoction. “Say ah~ for me.” After seeing you hesitantly part your lips, Ahmed softly cooed, “Good job,” as he slipped the syrup into your mouth. After a lengthy while you managed to swallow the darn thing, its bitterness still coiled around your tongue. You scrunched your nose.

Chuckling, Ahmed handed you a glass of water. You drained the liquid in a heartbeat. 

As he set the glass atop the tray he murmured softly again, “Good job,” and stroked your head tenderly, fingers slipping through your hair. For some reason your boyfriend’s praise sparked flints in your face, so you ducked under the covers, hoping he didn’t see how red your face got.

Although Ahmed found your flustered self absolutely endearing, he was confused. Why so red? He peeled the sheets from your face, peering curiously into your eyes.

“Why are you blushing, love?” he asked. “I don’t think there’s anything to be embarrassed about…”

You just stared into his eyes. Blankly. Like a deer in headlights. Your heart thump-thump-thumped insanely, but somehow, you couldn’t break away from those emerald eyes of his. Though sick and teary-eyed, you had to admit that they were beautiful as ever, like the very first day you got lost in them; they were a flourishing spring forest, deep and nurturing. 

Ahmed didn’t look away, either. He, too, admired you silently; you were adorable, all wrapped up and flustered and needing his help.

Then you blurted, “Can you hand me the soup?” to break the fat silence. 

“Oh, sure.” Ahmed handed you the warm bowl hesitantly, fingers ghosting over yours. “Are you sure you don’t want me to feed you?” he asked.

Feed you? You blushed furiously–again–and nearly choked on your soup. Why was he so good at making butterflies rampage in your stomach? He was your boyfriend, but still–

“I’m fine,” you coughed, in a hushed sort of way. “I’m fine.”

Ahmed sighed. “That doesn’t sound convincing…but alright.” 

Maybe you were fine. Seeing that you already took your first sip he asked rather nervously, “Does it taste ok?” 

Oh, how he loved it when you bobbed your head and hummed a soft, “Mhm,” in return. He didn’t miss the smile ghosting over your lips, either.

Heart swelling with relief Ahmed said, “Really? That’s good.” He fretted over almost everything, after all–from the tea to the soup to the blankets. Everything.

He was ecstatic–absolutely happy to be of service to you–but something bothered him. He couldn’t be completely content. Yet.

“Why did you agree to go out when you were sick?” your boyfriend asked. His eyes reflected something serious and he frowned just the slightest, as if he were doing a grave examination. 

“Well…” you trailed. The warm soup bowl felt good in your hands. Comforting. “One, I didn’t know it’d get this bad, and two…I felt bad canceling.”

Ahmed hummed low in his throat, presumably in disapproval, as he rubbed light circles on your outer thigh.

“You should’ve canceled. I wouldn’t have minded,” he reasoned, a light pink dusting his cheeks. “I’d still get to be with you anyway, and I get to take care of you, so…” 

Not once did he break his gaze, however.

“Oh?” You almost choked on your soup again. Ahmed’s hand felt oddly hot on your thigh, and it definitely wasn’t because you were ill. In fact, your whole body was blazing.

So red again, he thought to himself, stifling a chuckle. Maybe you should get sick more often.

purple dividers provided by: firefly-graphics

[jabbloo]

the xiaomed saga continues.................more doobles

[fieldofdaisiies]

Elucien x Reader | Dracula’s Brides

type: smut warning(s): vampire!Lucien, mortal!Elain, mortal!Reader, blood drinking, explicit descriptions word count: 3k words

request: the queen (aka @separatist-apologist) has redirected me to another queen…so…would you perhaps be interested.....in a polysandwich elain × reader x lucien......(monster fucking is optional)…also they told me to say something nice and i love your blog aesthetic <3 — hope this is what you wanted? not sure tbh, loved writing it though & thank you @moonlightazriel for the picture!!!!

-all rights reserved-

Lucien Van Serra — at day, a nobel male hidden in his mansion. But at night an even nobler male in the sheets. It is in the dead of night that he worships his victims, praises them, loves them tenderly for the heat of the moment until his fangs pierce the surface of their oh so soft skin, dragging over their throat, drawing blood until the very last ounce.

His prey those oh so lovely mortal females that stroll outside around in the city, that are so easily lured into his mansion, his private chambers, his bed. 

He only ever takes what is offered, not once has he forced himself upon one of those beautiful females. They have to consent. The same does not apply for blood–he takes that anyway. 

Sometimes more, sometimes less, but always enough to keep him sated. Blood is what brings him pleasure, brings him warmth when his skin turns cold once again, when his heart beats slower, when his soul aches because of loneliness. Oh, and does it get lonely in this large mansion. 

He yearns for a partner, a lovely female that wants to spend her life with him. But who would be willing to do so? Who would willingly want to spend the rest of her life with him? Someone like him?

No one.

He is a monster, he knows that, hiding inside his villa for the most part of his life—always actually, safe for the one hour at night he goes out on his hunt. 

And it is that time of the night again. A warm autumn night.

Lucien wraps his belt around his waist, fixing his thick cloak of black velvet. His hair, as usual, tied at the nape of his neck. He smoothes his hand over his head once, hoping to fix any strands that are out of place.

He halts for a moment, his gaze moving to the mirror where there is no reflection. The only inkling of what he looks like he has from paintings, paintings an artist called Feyre Archeron has made. She has been brave enough to enter his hell hole, but has stopped that after marrying the mayor of the city Lucien has been living in for centuries. His mansion has since ever been right on the border to the large, dark forest where the least mortals would wander and annoy him by trying to peek inside his home. 

The early autumn air is cold when it brushes his skin and the male draws in a deep breath, loving the smell of this season. A sudden feeling of tangy sadness fills his chest – he gets to experience this out here, this freedom, way too little. 

The big oak door falls shut behind, rattling the whole old buildling. There is no need for locking it, no one anyways dares to enter this place. People are curious and want to peek inside, but they do not enter just like that. Lucien’s knows that the mothers of this town tell their little children to stay away from this place, from his house, as he would kill them if they entered.

Of course, these kinds of accusations land a blow to his heart, hurt him, but what can he do against them? Those mothers are not fully wrong about him—only that he would never take a child’s life. 

Only the mortals who deserve it would die at his hands. And those mortal females that offered themselves up to him, but they did not count, they wanted this themselves, wanted to give themselves to him, knowing what expected them. They were willing prey.

Sometimes Lucien does not really care about his partner, most of the time actually, as long as they consent, he was content. Mostly he is driven by blood lust and is anyways oblivious to any flaws and does not care about what his partners look like. 

Not that one particular night, that night he is more sated, the night he goes for a stroll.

And then–

This night changes everything. Because he no longer just needs. He wants. All of the longing, the yearning, increases this night. His loneliness is dreadful because for the first time in his life he has someone to yearn for – two mortal females, young, kind, curious. Rosy cheeks, full lips, bright eyes. 

Lucien watches you and Elain from afar, taking an evening walk probably? 

But Lucien does not want to ponder what has brought you out here. He decides it was fate that has brought the two of you here and he would never contradict fate. 

And so his eyes follow, you, the both of you. Your steps, your bodies, your voices, how you talk, what you talk about. It is like a trance for him, like sweet oblivion, his legs and arms numb, his heart light-weighted, his head foggy, mind clouded with desire. 

He finds himself reveling in the sound of your voices, figuring that he could get drunk on your laughs every night and coming to the conclusion he desperately wants to meet you. Not like this though. If he approached you like this, you would scare away, he knows that. He also does not want this to be a thing for one night. He wants this to be…forever. His forever. Your forever.

So an invitation has to follow and since the clever vampire has lived for centuries he has his ways to figure out where you live and who you are. 

And so the invitations are sent. To Elain Archeron and Y/N Y/L/N. 

You names already taste like heaven on his tongue although hell is the place he belongs to. 

Because, although he is a reserved male who wants no company, who does not want people to interfere with his business, there is one day each year where our Lord of fire and blood opens his gates, his doors, when he hosts his ball. Only the brave and fearless come to dance in his halls, drink expensive wine, dine from the finest dishes. Only the bravest and those with invitations.

You and Elain are on the guest list this year, the reason unknown at that point. And so you are not aware how this night will alter your lives forever, how everything will change from then on.

And so Elain, your best friend, and you enter his mansion, anticipation bubbling inside of you and making you both feel bubbly. You are excited, not sure if you are ready for what you will see and you are definitely not ready for what will happen in a few hours. But that is unknown now – at least to the two of you.

The feast presented to you and all guests is outstanding, every possible food served, the finest wines, the tastiest meat, fruits and vegetables. Both Elain and you keep looking around, hoping to steal a glance at the mysterious male hidden behind these walls. You have only ever heard stories and legends, you are obviously curious. 

It feels like something –more than this invitation– has drawn you here, like a pull, a tug on your chest. Tingles erupt in your whole body when you think that you might be able to steal a glance at the master leaving inside these walls.

Later that night, tipsy from the finest wine, you and Elain decide to dance, swaying over the floor, the music so beguiling, luring you towards the centre. 

Skins clammy with sweat, hearts beating frantically, faces glowing, smiling brightly, he joins you. Slender hands touch your hips when you are pulled back towards a large male behind you, falling against his chest. You revel into the feel of his broad, cool chest and pull Elain with you.

Only when a deep chuckle sounds in your ear, his solid chest rumbling against your back, you know in whose arms you find yourself in. But you find yourself unable to turn, Elain’s hand, that hold yours, tremble because she is looking, her gaze solely focused on the male behind you. Her mouth gapes, eyes wide open, aglow.

Bringing her closer, the three of you move together, as one.

It is a dance filled with desire, heated touches, swirling and twirling, bodies connecting and parting. Everyone around your seems to disappear, merge into the big crowd that starts to vanish as desire clouds your vision. There is only want and need, every other emotion eroded. 

And so you do not only enter his mansion, you find yourself following after him, alongside your friend Elain, to the back of his villa where the music is only whisper in the air.  

Moving on light steps the two of you enter his bedchamber to continue dancing there–the devil’s tango.

He asks for your consent and you give him your consent. All of you are ready to enter this, although slight hesitation blooms inside both your and Elain’s chest as realisation of what is about to happen dawns on you two. 

Lucien’s sharp fangs flash when a grin parts his lips, eyes aglow. “You both look stunning tonight. Lady Elain. Lady Y/N.” You smile, cheeks flushing when you lift your hand and brush it over Lucien’s scar, thumb softly stroking his skin. There is no hesitance in your movement and it nearly draws tears into Lucien's eyes – if he was able to produce such things.

“You are beautiful, my lord.” 

A delighted growl is the answer, his desire just as acute as yours.

Lucien lets you both undress him. Tentatively removing the pieces of clothing, you reveal his glorious body underneath, every little inch of it until the male stands, dressed in just the skin he was born with, in front of you. He is stunning, cruel beauty, all hard skin, edges and muscles.

You kiss Lucien’s back, tongue sliding over his left shoulder blade when your hands curl around his waist. He is helping Elain, whose face is a deep beetroot red, undress before sharing a passionate, breathtaking kiss with her. It takes her a little by surprise, making her knees wobble, but she is the one to connect their lips just once again.

You are following, both of them helping you undress because you dress is the most difficult to get off. Once fully bare, you draw in a deep breath and lift your gaze to the male whose skin is like porcelain.

Encouraged by desire, you worship his body, pampering it with sweet kisses, loving touches and soft squeezes. A lot of conversations happens without actually talking, but since Elain and you both have heard the stories about him you are very well aware of what will happen this night. And you are more than ready to give yourself to the Lord of blood – his veins filled with fire and he is said to fuck like this too.

It is Elain who dares to ask a question, her knees wobbly when her hand grabs yours and she steps up next to you. “You will draw blood from us now, won’t you?”

“I will, my lovely flower. But only a little.” “Will it hurt?”

His smile is warm and understanding, his expression sincere and honest. “It will sting a little, but I will be gentle," Lucien says, his voice, the deep tenor reverberating through your bodies, making wet heal pool in your centre and your toes curl. He guides you both over to the luxurious bed, the bed posts made of the most beautiful mahogany, the sheets of velvet red.  

You can scent both Elain and Lucien’s arousal, just as poignant as yours, their passion just acute as your own. 

It is this want, this primal need, that has not decreased since the very first touch of Lucien hands earlier that evening, it has only gotten more and more intense. 

“I can go first,” you quickly say, noticing Elain’s slight discomfort and hesitation. You want to spare her from having to go first, wanting to show her that it is fine. Elain flashes you a warm, thankful smile and you bow your head. 

“If that is what you want.” Lucien steps closer to you, hands brushing up your arms and he kisses the top of your head. “I won’t hurt you, my sweet lady.” 

You believe him, trust him. He will not hurt you, you know this. And you know that, even though he has this bad reputation. He seems like a generous male who cares about your feelings. He seems to care about you two like no one has ever before. And that is because you also care about him. You know he knows that. Knows that this is not just about physical pleasure.

His erection presses against your belly, when the tall male leans in, and against your skin he says, "May I?"

Your voice is a breathy whisper, your answer a clear yes.

Lips closing over yours, he kisses you deeply, one hand leaving you, he reaches over to Elain, stroking her cheek softly, before his hand grabs you again.

His lips are cool, but soft, plump. Your mouth waters at the thought of what his lips can do and you can barely contain your excitement, grinning into the kiss with pure bliss, while holding back a tiny squeal.

The stunning male carefully places you on the mattress, only to turn to Elain, who flashes him a sheepish grin. “Will you allow me another kiss?”

“Yes” With that his mouth captures hers as well, kissing her deeply, helping the young female move onto the bed as well before breaking the kiss. And then his eyes widen, lips parting slightly. 

He silently regards you, eyes on fire, burning flames of fire leaving heat in every place they touch. 

“Gods have mercy on me,” he says, fangs shining brightly in the dim room. “The two of you will truly be my end.”

He moves onto the bed, opting to glide up your body, kissing you deeply. But you don’t want him to draw blood immediately, you want him to suffer just a little longer, want his need to be stronger. You want him to beg for a drop of the sweet, thick liquid. 

So what you do is curl your leg around his hips, rolling him over. Leaving the kiss, you tilt your head, and with some silent conversation make Elain aware of your plan. She understands, cheeks flushed, strands of hair curling around her face when she nods.

Both Elain and you don’t waste a moment to worship him, your from then on master in the bedroom. You pamper his skin with kisses, moving up and down his body, soft brushes of your fingers and tongues accompanying your actions. There is not much guidance needed, somehow all three of you perfectly fall into place, in a role. Lucien finds himself in a state of ecstasy, his head thrown back, a breathtaking grin blooming on his flushed face. 

Your hand, somehow on its own accord, curls around his proud length, stroking slightly which has the male growling. His leg jerks up and when he wants to move, Elain pins him down, arching her brow, eyes glowing with mischief. “Let us play a little, master,” she coos, grinning viciously. Lucien thinks he might just come at her wording, or you handling his cock. 

Either thing is too much, and he needs…needs more. And needs blood.

He decides he has let you play long enough and so he moves, now guiding you so he is propped up against the headboard, you sitting beside him, Elain kneeling between his thighs.

“This is what you want?” Lucien asks, softly, his gaze solely focused on Elain.

“I want you in my mouth, yes.”

“Such a good girl.” He speaks with so much admiration, it has both yours and Elain’s toes curling. And without many words being spoken Elain kisses up his thighs, her hand now curling around him, softly stroking. She makes her way up to his groin while the glorious male pulls you in for a kiss. “I will be gentle,” he assures once again, his thumb brushing your cheek. The kiss is needy, full of fire and passion. Damp lips coast lower, brushing over your jaw. You feel heat pool in your core, his scent, his voice, making your toes curl. 

His fangs sink in and Lucien groans low in his throat, the sound so guttural and raw it has your knees shaking. Lucien holds you, helping you sit straight while draws the first drop of blood from around the puckered skin of your breast, his tongue latching on your nipple, front teeth teasing the tight bud. 

You arch into the strong male, his hand sliding to your backside, squeezing ever so softly. A growl leaves the hungry male when Elain takes him in his mouth, lips closing around the tip, suckling, licking, teasing.

Taking one sip that has his head spinning, his heart racing, Lucien pulls and you feel it in your whole body. You moan, the feeling so overwhelming. Your thighs clench and you fist the sheet next to you, squeezing your eyes shut. 

You walls clench around nothing, and so you let one hand travel down your belly, parting your hot flesh, sliding two fingers inside. A warm hand moves over yours, his skin now warmed by your blood and Lucien presses down on your fingers, adding more pressure. When you gasp lightly, he lifts his mouth from your breast, flicking his tongue over the tiny dots, and grins at you, his brow lifted. 

But the moment is only short, his lips close over the spot once again, the skin already a bit darker from the bruising kiss he leaves there. The same moment Elain’s hand falls to the apex of her thighs, she moans loudly around Lucien and can feel him twitch, knowing he is close. 

Fueled by the taste of your blood he cannot last too long and his undoing is when Elain swallows around him, teeth grazing his sensitive skin. Lucien sharply pulls back from your boob, his face clammy with sweat, eyes ablaze, lips blood streaked. “In you?” The flick of her tongue against the crown of his cock is answer enough and Lucien lets go of every restraint he had on himself. Hips no longer moving with shallow movements, now jerking up, pounding into Elain, his hand–the one not occupied with you, holding her head down. He no longer drinks from you, just kisses you with hunger, desire and lust. His fingers still resting over yours, his thumb caresses your clit, pushing you over the edge the same moment his hot release fills Elain's mouth. 

You feel a bit dizzy, he has not taken that much blood but some and for someone not used to that it can make them feel and so Lucien suggests you to take a little from Elain. She agrees, you are her best friend after all, and especially after that night you will be closer than ever before. 

His fangs once again pierce her skin, on her wrist, he brings his arm to your mouth, letting you drink. You almost want to cry at the taste–she tastes absolutely succulent, sweet and spicy.

Lucien, the glorious and completely misunderstood male he is, makes sure you don’t take enough because you are greedy and can’t get enough. He lets Elain feed from him as well, her lips and tongue hungrily suckling on his skin, his blood, and then he worships her, while you worship him. 

Later that night your bodies come together once again, moving in perfect sync. You devour each other in more than one way, sweet love making followed by some rougher, harder sex that has all of you gasping, panting for air, and cursing the gods and lord above. 

Only when you fall to the mattress, fully spent and sated, you know that this is what you want for the rest of your life. Not one day would you want to spend without the two of them. You share this with them, Elain’s heavy-lidded gaze lifting to you from Lucien’s chest, her hand placed over his heart. You own head is placed on the other side of his chest, his arms around the both of you, the thick velvet blanket covering you all. 

“Perfection,” Lucien drawls, his lids closing when he hears your breathing getting heavier, knowing both of you will sleep soon. And you will sleep in this bed for the rest of your lives.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

tags: @rippahwrites @shadowhunter2003 @my-inner-crisis @ladyelain @acourtofthought @itwasalwaysaboutthetea @multifictional  @moonlightazriel @brekkershadowsinger @velidewrites

[poisonioushearts]

If you write for him, could you do some self-aware Ahmed from Dislyte?

Third thing posted today I am on a roll lmao

Gender neutral reader

Warnings: not proofread, probably some grammatical errors

Self aware Ahmed(and being the players favorite)

As if he wasn't famous already- now he also caught your eye

He takes pride in how everyone can go from dying to perfectly healthy

He's a humble show-off

He went from struggling on the streets, to becoming famous, and now he's really strong

The other espers in your team may try to talk to him depending on who they are, but he is a relatively quiet person and a good listener

He's the one his teammates go to if there is something they just want to talk about and get off their chest, and he stays silent because when he does try, he often adds salt to the wound

With espers that are also quiet, journeys would be filled with the peaceful sort of quiet

Espers that don't know him assume that he's had a good and stable childhood

Somehow if they find out(specifically any shadow decree members), they won't treat him any differently but their respect is higher

He guards the relics you give him with his life, even if you'd never know of this

He also keeps you in the back of his mind when he is fighting against enemies, you made him stronger

It would be rude to just dis you with all you gave him

He wishes he could thank you for helping him out

He also wishes that you'd be someone who wouldn't leave his side

He may not be real to you, but to him you are

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[inspiredartisticcreations]

Doctor who Eleventh Doctor x Venom Carlton Drake FANFICTION

I've wanted to join these two stories together, and make my own version, enjoy

CAST:

Eleventh Doctor

Carlton Drake

Reader

You fiddle with your earrings as you try to put them on, then all of a sudden you hear the sound of the Tardis coming from outside your house, you quickly look out the window seeing the blue box right outside your house, you smile excitedly then go running out of your bedroom to the stairs on the landing then to the front door, as you swiftly open the front door you see the Doctor on the other side smiling back at you, "Hello! (Y/N)" he says eagaly giving you a tight hug, you struggle to talk as his shoulder covers your mouth "Umm Doctor" you say in a muffled voice trying to get him off you "I can't speak" you say, then he pulls out of the hug, and gives you a wide smile, you smile back then jestered him inside your house.

"Oh (Y/N) you won't believe the amazing things I saw on that planet, it was mind blowing if only you could come and seen it, it would have been so cool" then he stops at him tracks to face you with a finger pointed up, "actually i forgot humans are not allowed" he said with a frown, "why?" you say slightly pounting your lips in disappointment, "I'm guessing because you won't be able to breath there properly" he said. You frown your eyesbrows in confusion "Long explanation" said the doctor before walking into the kitchen.

You follow on behind him as he opens the fridge door then picks out the whole bottle of milk, and starts drinking from it, "ewww doc, you do realise that's my milk bottle right" you say in disgust, he stops drinking then looks at you with a bit of milk falling from his lips, "wipe your face, doc" you say throwing him a tissue box he expertly grabs it then your phone pings, and you see your phone notifications, one message read an date and time confirmation about an appointment today and you grew in a bit of panic as you had forgotten about it, "Oh god I completely forgot that I need to go into the life foundation and interview the Carlton Drake" you said the Doctor looks at you a little curious, "the life foundation" he said "what's that place" he also adds on you turn around to him as he was settled on the kitchen table playing with his tissue on his hand, "the life foundation is a big company, and has been on top of every business, they also helped with cancer research and Mr Drake himself has helped alot of people, his amazing, and recently they are currently investing in some new experiment research, so which is why my agency has told me to go interview him" you said proudly. "Wow amazing" said the Doctor, you smile, "what's a agency?" he then says, your smile drops "It's a job!" you say in a load voice, the Doctors eyes widen "you've got a job!" he said excitedly clapping you slightly laugh then go out to grab your coat, the Doctor follows you upto the front door passageway, as you turn to grab your bag you halt looking at him. "Yes?..." you say questionly, "well I'm coming with you" he says giving a big smile, you scoff, "eerrr no your not" you say hanging your bag over your shoulder, the Doctor looked sad "come on please (Y/N) I've just come down to spend time with you, and your leaving?" said the Doctor "Doctor this is very important for me please, I cannot mess this interview up" you said clutching tight onto your bag, the Doctor notices, "I promise you won't even notice me there" he said pleadingly, you eventually give in rolling your eyes. "Fine we're talking my car" he say the Doctor nods no and points towards the Tardis smiling, you beath out relunctedly.

[gulnarsultan]

Hello 👋 Thank you accepting my request. I really liked it.Can you do more yandere iskender? What if reader is one of Sultan Ahmed’s concubines

You're welcome I am so glad you liked it. You like chaos, kind anonymous. I also like that there is chaos when I write.🤭😉 I hope you like it. Please feel free to write more requests.

It's really a mess. Things would have been a little easier if she hadn't spent the night with Sultan Ahmed and she wasn't pregnant or having children. The disappearance or abduction of a concubine from the harem is known to be somehow hidden or covered up. However, if the reader is Ahmedin Gözdesi, things don't go the easy way. Moreover, if the Concubine was pregnant or had a child, it would be very difficult for Alexander to take her. The only solution is to take the throne and take the Concubine to himself. If Ahmed is yandere for the Concubine, there will be complete chaos.

[pucksandpower]

Mesaytara

Charles Leclerc x Sheikha of Abu Dhabi!Reader

Summary: in which an Emirati princess sets off to make her mark on Formula 1 … and maybe falls in love along the way

You press your face against the glass of the private suite, watching with wide eyes as the mechanics scurry about below, tending to the sleek race cars lined up on the grid. The engines growl and rumble, seeming to shake the very foundations of the brand new Yas Marina Circuit.

“Baba, can we go down and watch them up close?” You ask your father, turning your big eyes up at him imploringly.

As the youngest child and only daughter of the ruler of Abu Dhabi, you know you hold a certain power over him. He dotes on you endlessly, his precious princess over a decade younger than your brothers.

Your father, Sheikh Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, smiles fondly at your eagerness. “Of course, habibti. Anything for you.”

Despite being the most powerful man in the United Arab Emirates, your father takes your small hand lovingly as you practically drag him from the plush suite. Your entourage of guards and attendants follows at a respectful distance as you make your way down to the pit lane, the roar of the engines growing louder with every step.

Gasps and whispers follow as star-struck crew members realize just who has arrived mere feet from their work stations. They snap into nervous bows and stumble over themselves to clear a path for the Sheikh and his daughter.

But you pay them no mind, your attention utterly transfixed by the brilliant colors and aerodynamic curves of the Formula 1 cars. You’ve never seen anything so sleek and powerful up close. A faint scent of racing fuel and hot rubber hangs in the air, sharp and intoxicating.

“They’re so beautiful,” you murmur reverentially, watching as a pair of Red Bull mechanics roll out the tires for Mark Webber’s car.

Your father chuckles indulgently at your awestruck expression. “That they are, habibti. Works of engineering brilliance.”

A shot rings out from the starting lights, signaling the final minutes before the race begins. The air thrums with rising tension as the crews make their last frantic preparations. The loud thrum of the engines spinning up reverberates in your chest like a beating heart.

Leading you back to the shelter of the suite just before the cars roar out on the formation lap, your father settles into the plush sofa and pats the seat beside him. You immediately scramble up next to him, craning your neck to keep the track in view through the wide glass windows.

And then, they’re off — a streak of blinding color and screeching tires as the crimson Ferraris charge into the first turn. You rise up on your knees, hands pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the surface as you watch them disappear into the distance, chasing one another in a frenzy of motion.

For the next hour and a half, you are utterly enthralled, riveted to every twist and turn of the spectacle unfolding before you. You cheer and gasp with the roiling crowd, celebrating each breathtaking pass and lamenting every spin or collision.

When the checkered flag finally waves, signifying the end of the inaugural Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, you turn to your father with eyes still wide with wonder and admiration.

“Baba,” you breathe, newfound determination shining in your gaze. “I want to do that someday. I want to be a race car driver too.”

The rest of the assembled Emiratis in the suite freeze, shooting covert glances at one another uneasily. For a daughter, even a beloved princess, to harbor such ambitions is nearly unheard of in your culture. The thought of a young woman taking up such a masculine, dangerous sport is immediately dismissible.

But your father only smiles down at you warmly, cupping one calloused hand around your small cheek. “If it is Allah’s will for you, my daughter, then who am I to stand in your way?”

Around the suite, brows raise in shock and disapproval at the ease with which the Sheikh entertains your fanciful dream. You are too young to recognize the raised eyebrows and muttered whispers for what they are.

All you know is the pure joy that blossoms in your heart at your father’s blessing. You throw your arms around his broad chest, squeezing him tightly.

“Did you see them, Baba?” You gush excitedly in his ear. “How they danced through those turns? How bravely they raced and fought for every position? I’ve never seen anything like it!”

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, cradling you against him in a fierce embrace. “I saw indeed, habibti. And perhaps no one else in our family has the same firelight in their spirit to take on such a challenge as you.”

You pull back with a radiant smile, total adoration shining up at him. At eight years old, you are still young enough to see your father as an all-powerful, all-knowing figure put on earth solely to make your dreams a reality.

The thought that he may ever deny you anything, even something as far-fetched as becoming a professional race car driver, is simply unthinkable. This is a man who rules a nation, who commands wealth and resources beyond your comprehension — and he has just promised to make your heart’s desire come true.

Still, your brow furrows slightly as the first traces of dubiousness creep into your shining eyes. “But Baba … I’m a girl. Will they even let me race?”

The Sheikh laughs again, deep and booming, causing the other attendants in the room to jump slightly at the unexpected outburst from their normally stoic monarch.

“And who is to say what any they will allow?” He counters, wagging one finger at you firmly. “If this is what you wish to do, we will move mountains to make it so. Even the most powerful dunes bow to the will of the lords who rule them.”

You giggle at his metaphor, picturing the undulating desert sands moving like ocean waves at his command. Your laugh fades as your expression turns pensive once more.

“But … I’ve never even sat in one of those cars, Baba,” you confess, chewing your lower lip anxiously. “What if I’m not brave enough? Or quick enough? What if I’m … not good enough?”

The very notion that anything or anyone could ever deny his daughter is clearly laughable to the Sheikh. He leans in close until he is staring into your eyes intently.

“Not good enough?” He asks, cradling your face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart, habibti. You were born of bravery and fire. There is no challenge in this life you cannot master if you desire it so.”

His words chase away any lingering doubt like the rising sun burning away the morning mist. You nod vigorously, fresh determination shining in your eyes.

“Then I’ll do it, Baba. I’ll work and train and become the quickest, bravest driver who ever lived! You’ll see!”

Your father’s warm chuckle is one of pure paternal pride and adoration. He presses a weathered kiss to your forehead, crinkling his nose at you playfully.

“If it is written, my daughter … then I have no doubt you shall, Inshallah.”

***

The mid-morning sun blazes over the sweeping dunes as the convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers rolls up to the private family compound in Al Ain. After spending the night at one of the royal residences deep in the desert, you are returning to the main palace to celebrate your 15th birthday with the rest of the family.

As the lead SUV crunches to a stop on the grandiose circular driveway, you can’t help but notice an enormous object taking up a significant portion of the motor court. It is covered with an impeccably smooth red tarp, the color so rich it seems to glow against the bright sand like a magnificent mirage.

“What’s that?” You whisper to your brother Hassan, eyes wide with girlish curiosity as you peer through the tinted windows.

Hassan merely shrugs, already looking bored by whatever grand spectacle your father no doubt has planned this time. As the eldest son and heir apparent, he has long grown accustomed to the lavish trappings and surprises that come with being part of the Emirati ruling family.

You, on the other hand, still thrill at every indulgent display of your father’s affection — and his obvious efforts to make this birthday one you’ll never forget.

The minute your door is opened by a waiting attendant, you are scrambling to get out and get a closer look at the mysterious shape lurking beneath the tarp. Your towering bodyguards swiftly fall into step behind you, eyes sharp for any potential threat as they follow your darting form across the gleaming tile courtyard.

“Baba!” You call out excitedly, slowing your pace only when you draw up to the tarp-covered shape. “What is it? What’s under here?”

As the Sheikh emerges from the inner courtyard doors, chuckling heartily at your youthful enthusiasm, you notice the crowd of grinning spectators gathered behind him. A pride of aunts, uncles, and cousins spill out from within, all waiting with barely contained glee to bear witness to your reaction.

“Patience, habibti,” he chides you playfully, though his own eyes are twinkling with poorly masked mirth. Your father lives for these moments — any opportunity to shower his only daughter with grand gestures and lavish surprises. “The unveiling comes first.”

You practically vibrate with anticipation as your father accepts a simple push remote from one of his attendants. He casts you one more indulgent smile, then thumbs the button dramatically. There is an agonizing beat of total silence before the heavy tarp begins its slow mechanical slide to the ground.

When its contents are finally revealed, your jaw drops open in a shocked ‘O.’ There, squatting low and sleek before you like a panther ready to pounce, is the unmistakable profile of a Formula 1 car. But not just any car ...

“No ...” you breathe, pressing one hand to your mouth as you recognize every curve and angle, every slashing line of the striking Ferrari red livery. “It … it can’t be...”

“The F2002,” your father announces grandly, gazing at the vehicle with obvious pride. “The very same one that Michael Schumacher drove to his fifth World Championship that year. I had heard the team was auctioning it off to make way for their museum refurbishment … so I put in a special request.”

You stumble forward, hands outstretched to reverently trace the contours of the car as if to assure yourself it is real. Your fingertips glide over the sinuous sidepod, feeling the raised ridges of the sponsor’s decals and the rough nubs of leather on the steering wheel. You can scarcely believe you’re running your hands over the very car that dominated the 2002 season.

“Baba ...” you barely have the breath to vocalize your stunned gratitude. Any other girl may have been delighted by clothes or jewelry for a 15th birthday. But this … this is beyond your wildest dreams.

Your father steps up beside you, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders as you continue gaping at the car in awe. He leans in close, his words meant for your ears alone.

“Do you remember what I told you that first day at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, habibti?” His voice is solemn but warm with parental affection. “That if this was your true desire — to race, to pour your spirit into this challenge — that I would move mountains to allow it?”

You nod numbly, still half-convinced you are dreaming even as the heavy scent of racing fuel and hot metal seems to fill your senses. Your eyes trace hungrily over every aerodynamic seam and vent carved into the car’s bodywork.

“So much has changed in the years since that day,” your father continues, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “The world shifts in ways we can never foresee, carrying us all along in its currents whether we resist or not.”

You tear your gaze away from the car to glance up at him questioningly. His expression has turned peculiarly intense, the solemnity in his face aging him beyond his years.

“But there is one force more powerful than any empire or nation, habibti. More resolute than any passing storms that batter our traditions.” He leans in close, searching your eyes as if to impart something profoundly meaningful. “And that is the immortal strength of a father’s love for his child.”

The simplicity of the statement, the effortless way it encapsulates every indulgence and surprise of your young life, steals what little breath remains in your lungs. You simply gape at him, scarcely daring to blink as he cups your face in his calloused palms.

“So no, my daughter,” he murmurs, holding your gaze firmly with his own. “I will not deny you this. Your desires and dreams are my own. If you wish to race, if you burn to chase this path … you will do so with my eternal pride and blessing at your back.”

You feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his vow. At fifteen you are still young enough for his words to anoint you with purpose and conviction. Your destiny feels as immovable as the highest dunes in that moment, your path clearly illuminated by his will alone.

As if to echo his promise, your father nods over your shoulder towards the gathered crowd. You glance back to find your extended family arrayed in a loose semicircle, hushed and watchful as if awaiting some pronouncement. Among their numbers, you recognize several prominent local racers and federation officials who have clearly been summoned here as witnesses.

“Which is why ...” your father continues, raising his voice to carry across the courtyard. “I have already taken the liberty of entering you in next year’s inaugural Formula 4 UAE Championship.”

A ripple of gasps and muttering races through the crowd at his words. You can see disapproving glances exchanged between the elders and officials, expressions ranging from skeptical to outright incredulous.

But your eyes only widen further, mouth falling open in shock as the implications of what your father has decreed wash over you. He said the words so casually, as if securing your entry to the first-ever national Formula 4 series was as simple as booking a dinner reservation.

“The … the F4?” You manage to croak out, still utterly blindsided by the revelation. “You mean … I’ll be racing in single seaters?”

A fresh murmur of disbelief rises from the crowd at your stunned reaction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several uncles shaking their heads in disbelief, while your aunts look politely appalled. Even your stone-faced bodyguards shift uncomfortably at your father’s flagrant disregard for propriety.

But the Sheikh only frowns at them all, appearing affronted that they would dare doubt his word. When he speaks again, his tone brooks no argument — this is a decree from the ruler of the nation himself, not a mere family disagreement.

“For too long, many have clung to outdated traditions that would see my daughter’s ambitions rendered invisible,” he declares, seeming to grow in stature as he takes in their skeptical faces one by one. “We have chosen to view her gender as an obstacle to overcome, rather than a divine gift to be nurtured!”

You watch, stunned and a little afraid, as your father’s impassioned words seem to pull the disapproving gazes towards him like a lit torch drawing moths to the flame. You have never seen your normally reserved father so heated, so emboldened to make this public defense of your dreams.

“Which is why I say enough!” He sweeps one hand through the air, brushing aside generations of ingrained patriarchal norms like a tuft of desert sand. “My daughter burns with the spirit of a million wildfire hawks! And if you would deny her the right to chase her own destiny, you deny the winds that stir this very land itself!”

A hush falls over the assembled crowd, none daring to rebut the Sheikh’s sudden impassioned rhetoric. You can only gape at your father, utterly transfixed, drinking in his protective roar.

“From this day forward,” he declares, turning his fiery gaze back down to you. “My daughter will race for more than just herself. She will drive for every daughter in this family — in this nation — who has ever had her dreams dimmed simply for being born female. She carries the weight of a thousand ancestors’ ambitions on her back!”

His words seem to electrify the very air surrounding you. You can feel their power, their reckless conviction washing over you like a sandstorm flaying away all the self-doubt and uncertainty in its path.

When he gathers you into his embrace, you cling to him with everything you have. Tears stream openly down your cheeks, heedless of the audience bearing witness to this seismic shift in the ancient social order.

“You will race, habibti,” your father rumbles fiercely into your hair, squeezing you so tightly. “Not just because I wish it, but because it is your destiny written in the stars themselves. The path may be difficult, the challenges ahead more than you can fathom … but you will never walk it alone.”

You nod wordlessly against his chest, blinking back tears of overwhelming gratitude and purpose. In this moment, he does not merely feel like your indulgent father — he is the very sun burning away the last vestiges of doubt, ensuring your course is forever set towards glory.

When you finally pull back, your eyes shine with fresh determination and unflinching resolve. You turn to face the silent, gaping crowd with your chin raised defiantly, every bit the born warrior princes making her stand.

“I will race,” you declare, pitching your voice to carry to the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “And I will win.”

A shocked beat of silence hangs over the assembly. And then, incredibly, it is your dear brother Hassan who steps forward first, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Of course you will, you spoiled brat,” he proclaims with a snort of laughter. “Knowing our father, you’ll probably end up with one of Lewis Hamilton’s cars next.”

The tension shatters in a wave of startled chuckles from the onlookers. You shoot your brother a watery smile, silently thanking him for being the first to signal his acceptance of the path your father has set out for you.

As the rest of the gathered officials and elders slowly begin to nod and murmur in acknowledgment, you feel a profound sense of peace and conviction settle over your heart. You need no longer dream and wish and hope — everything has been set into glorious, undeniable motion.

When you turn back to the gleaming Ferrari sitting before you, it no longer seems like an impossible fantasy, but a key to a future burning brighter than the desert sun itself. You move towards it without hesitation, climbing up into the body-hugging carbon seat until you are cocooned within its sleek lines.

Wrapping your fingers around the sculpted steering wheel, you can practically feel its power and purpose thrumming through you like an electric current of pure adrenaline. This is where you belong — raw ambition harnessed within a technological marvel. You are a falcon poised for flight, wings outstretched to conquer the horizon, gender be damned.

You glance up through the curved windscreen to find your father watching you with naked pride shining in his eyes. He catches your gaze and offers a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. His little princess, once an innocent dreamer … now preparing to become a pioneer for a new era.

You nod back, inhaling the rich scent of clinging burnt rubber and drinking in the intoxicating promise of everything to come.

You are chasing more than just some fanciful passion. You will prove to the world that no ambition is too lofty, no dream too bold, for you to conquer.

***

The sleek Aston Martin DBX glides silently through the entrance tunnel and into the team’s gleaming new headquarters in Silverstone. As the muscular crossover comes to a stop in the bright, airy courtyard, a familiar thrill of anticipation sparks to life in your chest.

This gleaming complex of glass, steel and green technology has become more than just the workplace of your racing heroes over the past year. With the news of Aston Martin’s sudden sponsorship woes, it has taken on a tantalizing new significance — the potential launching pad for your own Formula 1 dream.

You shoot your father an excited glance as the driver opens your door, but the Sheikh remains impassive behind his amber-tinted aviators. Now in his late 60s, Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan has grown only more inscrutable and steely with age and power.

To the casual observer, he would appear utterly unruffled, preparing to stride into a meeting that could alter the course of the Formula 1 landscape. You, however, have spent a lifetime studying the nuanced ridge of his jawline, the reserved set of those broad shoulders, and can sense the focused intensity burning behind his courteous facade.

This is far more than just a meeting for the ruler of Abu Dhabi and chairman of International Holding Company, one of the largest conglomerates in not only the Emirates but the world. This is the potential culmination of a promise made to his only daughter nearly 15 years ago — a vow to move heaven and earth to ensure her dreams were realized.

You follow half a step behind your father and his retinue of advisors as they cross the courtyard, resisting the urge to gawk openly at the team motorhomes and formidable industrial build of the main factory. Despite spending your early years mired in the European junior formulae, this exalted world of Formula 1 still manages to set your heart pounding with equal parts reverence and ambition.

A sleek black sedan is idling in the VIP parking section, dispatched to collect the final party in your impending negotiation. As you slow your approach, the driver emerges and moves to hold open the rear door with an obsequious bow.

“Son of a bitch kept us waiting,” comes the droll observation from the tall, lanky figure emerging from the sedan’s depths.

Lawrence Stroll, Canadian billionaire, business magnate, and majority owner of the Aston Martin Formula 1 team, appraises your group through those same inscrutable tinted lenses favored by all men of profound power and means. At his side is the rather more bookish form of team principal Mike Krack, eyes already politely averted as he waits for the Sheikh’s lead.

You can’t resist a tiny, adrenaline-tinged thrill at the sight of them both. These are the men who hold the keys to the kingdom you’ve spent your life battering against — the exalted realm of Formula 1. You’ve spent countless nights watching their team’s racing green cars arc and pivot through Yas Marina’s turns, dreaming of the day you might join their ranks.

Now that tantalizing possibility hovers before you, dangled by the generous purse-strings of your family’s staggeringly deep pockets. For in the wake of Aramco’s high-profile defection as Aston Martin’s title sponsor, a Goliath-sized vacuum has opened — one which your father’s IHC conglomerate is uniquely positioned to fill.

For a price, of course.

“Ahmed,” Lawrence greets your father with a curt nod, making no effort to mask his impatience or indifference to decorum. “I’ll cut right to it — what’s your ask here? 25% share in the team? 35? Just name your number so we can get this whole-”

“Actually, Lawrence,” your father interrupts him, sliding off his sunglasses to reveal that piercing gaze that has cowed entire global cabinets into obedience. “I have no interest in an ownership stake. Not in this particular venture.”

The Canadian billionaire pulls up short, clearly thrown by the unexpected rebuff of his assumption. He glances towards his team principal, who can only offer a minute shrug, before turning back to your father with one arched brow.

“Well then … enlighten me,” he prompts with just a hint of renewed interest flickering in those beady eyes. “If not an ownership play, then what’s your angle here?”

Your heart leaps into your throat as your father responds, his words carefully measured but leaving no shred of ambiguity in their intent.

“My desires are rather more … specific. More personal.” Your father casts a meaningful glance in your direction. “As I’m sure you’ve both realized by now, I have a rather more vested interest in the world of Formula 1 beyond mere business or expense portfolios.”

He turns back to Lawrence and Mike, expression inscrutable once more.

“I want a seat for my daughter. On your team.”

The stunned silence that follows is perhaps the loudest absence of sound you’ve ever experienced. Even the distant whirr of machinery from the factory seems to grind to a halt as the two men process your father’s audacious declaration.

You watch them closely, studying their reactions with rapt fascination. With a single conversational grenade, your father has lobbed your ambitions squarely into their laps in a way that cannot be ignored or dismissed as idle fanciful musings. This is a directive from one of the wealthiest sovereign individuals on earth, stressed through the undeniable weight of his tone and body language.

For a few charged seconds, all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse in your ears.

Then, surprisingly, it is Mike Krack who finds his voice first. The diminutive Luxembourger clears his throat, exchanging a poorly masked look of disbelief with the still dumbstruck Lawrence Stroll.

“With … all due respect, Your Highness,” he begins carefully, as if testing the tensile strength of rice paper with each word. “While I cannot challenge your ambitions for your daughter, a Formula 1 seat is simply not something that can be … appointed through sponsorship alone.”

He pauses again, seeming to hesitate under the level stare of your father. You realize his reaction stems not from any doubts about your abilities - the team principal doesn’t even know you from any other young hopeful dreaming of the F1 grid. His concern is far more fundamental, stemming from the very nature of your gender in this male-dominated world.

“There hasn’t been a female driver on the grid since the 90s and even that was short lived. For good reason — the physical and mental demands are … immense. No offense intended, but perhaps a personal sponsorship targeted towards the F1 Academy or something similar would be-”

“That won’t be necessary,” your father cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “My daughter’s credentials should speak for themselves, if you care to review them. She’s competed in — and won — both the Formula 3 and Formula 2 championships over the past four years. I assure you, she is more than prepared to handle the same mental and physical rigors as her male counterparts.”

Silence falls again as Krack and a visibly skeptical Lawrence clearly reassess their earlier assumptions. You feel their analytical gazes washing over you, weighing and measuring as if they can somehow gauge your skills and fortitude based on outward appearances alone.

When Lawrence speaks again, there is a newfound edge of pragmatism in his tone.

“Sure, that’s all well and good on the junior level,” he allows with a slight nod. “Won’t be the first time a hotshot comes up thinking they’re Senna reincarnated only to completely bottle it on the big stage. Happens all the damn time.”

He holds up one hand as your father’s brow furrows dangerously. “But say we do entertain this … suggestion of yours. That still leaves the rather prominent problem of having an open seat to slot her into. In case you haven’t heard, we already signed our team for next year. Only got two cars, last I checked.”

A thin, vindicated smile curves your father’s lips. For all his bluster, the Canadian team owner has just delivered the perfect entry point to reveal his true bargaining chip.

“About that,” the Sheikh murmurs, casting a sidelong glance towards Krack. “I have it on good authority that Aston Martin will, in fact, have a rather convenient vacancy opening up on their driver roster very soon.”

Mike Krack’s expression shutters instantly at the tung-in-cheek reference, no doubt recognizing the inside information that could only have come from one of his own drivers or personnel leaking like a sieve. His eyes slide momentarily toward Lawrence in wordless apology.

Your father doesn’t miss a beat, pressing his advantage with the casual confidence of a man who has spent a lifetime wielding power and influence as deftly as others use voice tonality.

“Fernando Alonso’s impending retirement may well be the worst kept secret in the paddock, no?” He arches one eloquent brow at the increasingly chagrined team principal. “A Delta Topco investor of mine happened to mention the championship-winning Spaniard has been snapping up quite an impressive Swiss real estate portfolio as of late ...”

The comment hangs engulfed in awkward silence as even Lawrence seems slightly taken aback by your father’s easy name-dropping of proprietary team intel. You realize with a start that this is a glimpse into the upper realms of global power and business dealing you’ve only ever witnessed from the outside — the effortless ability to command knowledge and find out even the most classified information with just a few strategically-placed calls or leanings of influence.

It’s Krack who finally capitulates first, clearing his throat again as he darts a helpless glance towards the team owner. “Clearly … this exit has been, ah, on the team’s radar for some time. We’ve been exploring our options, but-”

“But you haven’t had to make it official yet, yes yes of course,” your father interjects, waving off the rest of his explanation with an airy flick of his wrist. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand.”

He pins them both with a pointed look, any trace of ambiguity evaporating from the scorching intensity of his gaze.

“Gentlemen, I will get straight to the point — Aston Martin requires a new title sponsor to remain financially solvent and competitive on the Formula 1 grid. International Holding Company has the resources and reach to provide that sponsorship, effectively in perpetuity if need be.”

His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, though there is no warmth in the expression whatsoever. This is a businessman reveling in checkmate before the final stroke is even delivered.

“All I require in exchange is one of the seats that will be so … conveniently vacated.”

A heavy silence falls over the courtyard once more. You watch Lawrence and Mike exchange another loaded glance, wrestling with the realization that your father seems to hold all the leverage in this particular negotiation. The cool confidence radiating from the Sheikh suggests he is more than comfortable walking away from this deal if they prove … unreasonable.

Finally, Lawrence seems to decide upon the path of least resistance. The corners of the Canadian billionaire’s mouth tug downwards in displeasure, but he offers a curt nod of acceptance.

“You’re twisting one hell of a knife, I’ll give you that, Ahmed,” he mutters, clearly taking no joy in the literal quid pro quo being forced upon Aston Martin’s future solvency. “Okay, fine. We agree to your … terms, shall we say. One seat on the grid for the 2025 season in exchange for IHC’s sponsorship.”

Both men turn their assessing gazes towards you once again. There is no missing the skepticism and doubt burning behind their studied neutrality. They have clearly accepted your presence on the team as nothing more than a necessary evil to be endured in exchange for the monetary incentive.

There will be no welcoming embraces or admiring back-slaps from these two men hardened by decades in the cutthroat world of business and motorsport politics. You are a costly contractual obligation to them at this point, one they have no emotional investment in whatsoever.

There is only one way to change that. Only one path to earn their acknowledgement and respect.

You lock eyes with Stroll and then Krack in turn. When you finally find your voice, it comes out low and thrumming with absolute conviction.

“I will earn my place on that grid. And any doubts you may have now will be extinguished when I take that Aston across the finish line first.”

It’s a bold statement, perhaps even arrogant from an unproven rookie. But it has been woven into the very fabric of who you are over a decade and a half of sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering paternal support. You are a daughter forged from renewed sands by the sheer force of your father’s will into a warrior princess.

Doubt is no longer a luxury you can entertain, now that your dream looms so close at hand.

Your father casts you a faint, proud smile — the only outward sign he will permit of his profound approval and respect for the woman you have become. His eyes glitter with razor-sharp ambition.

“My daughter speaks true,” he declares, turning back to Lawrence and Krack with a challenging arch of his brow. “But of course … I expect you’ll both prefer to judge her for yourselves on the track.”

Lawrence’s perfunctory nod is perhaps a touch more intrigued now, a glimmer of renewed interest flickering behind those impassive eyes. For the first time, he seems to be assessing you as an actual person and athlete rather than some implausible imposition. A sliver of doubt appears to prick at the stony edge of his demeanor.

Mike Krack simply inclines his head in acquiescence, the perfect picture of professional decorum regardless of his personal misgivings. Smart money would place him as one of the individuals funneling inside information about Alonso’s moves to your father’s sources. He is clearly not about to push his luck any further by voicing unnecessary dissent or challenge.

“Very well then,” your father concludes with an air of finality, turning towards Lawrence with an expectant look. “Shall we go ahead and make this official?”

The billionaire businessmen meet in the center of the small gathering, squaring off like two prize fighters preparing for the bell. You watch with bated breath, heart thundering in your chest, as they size one another up for the final moments of the negotiation.

Then, in one smooth motion, they clasp hands and exchange a firm shake — sealing your life’s ambition into ironclad reality. A barely perceptible nod of understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment that despite all the complexities and nuances, there is now a deal on the table that benefits them all.

Your father has successfully leveraged every ounce of his wealth, power, and influence to deliver on his decade’s old promise to you. The seat, the sponsorship … everything has been set into motion.

The only thing left is for you to drive.

***

“Are they seriously going to make us do this?”

Lance Stroll’s voice carries a distinct whine as he hunches lower on the leather couch, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small crew setting up lights and cameras around the Aston Martin hospitality unit. His lanky frame is dressed down in team-issued sweats, tousled hair lopped into that carefully cultivated ‘I woke up like this’ aesthetic he seems to spend hours perfecting.

You shoot your new teammate a sidelong glance, arching one sculpted brow at his apparent distress. Despite being the owner’s son and growing up immersed in the utmost privilege, Lance still seems to find novel ways to broadcast his discomfort with the fame and exposure that comes with being an F1 driver.

“What, you’ve never had to film some cringey sponsor vid or team propaganda before?” You tease him lightly, unable to resist needling him a bit. There’s a certain giddy thrill at realizing you now share an equal standing with Lance on this global stage — though you still frequently have to remind yourself of that fact.

Lance shifts again, slouching further into the plush cushions with a frown. You watch his finely-boned features scrunch up petulantly, and can’t quite resist rolling your eyes.

“I mean, yeah, of course I have,” he mumbles, suddenly finding great interest in inspecting his nails. “But those were always pre-scripted or completely faked, y’know? This just seems so ...”

“Menial? Frivolous?” You arch a taunting brow at him. “For the son of a billionaire businessman and an actual princess?”

He blinks, thrown briefly off-guard as you remind him of your own lofty status with a wry grin. It’s still a novel concept for him to process, you can tell — the idea of an Arab woman of royal lineage daring to enter the same playing field, to consider herself an equal.

Good. It will make savoring his skepticism all the more satisfying when you blow past him on the circuit.

“Just don’t get too used to all this, alright?” He rallies, regaining some of his trademark swagger as he jerks his chin towards the ever-growing gaggle of team personnel crowding the lounge area. “We’re still teammates and all, but on the track … well, may the best nepo baby win.”

You laugh at his attempt at posturing, gentling nudging his foot with your own in an uncharacteristically playful gesture. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll go easy on you,” you tease. “Baba always did say to respect one’s elders, after all.”

Lance’s indignant sputter of outrage at your jibe is mercifully cut off by the arrival of one of the producers, a slim woman in stylish athleisure attire adorned with Aston Martin’s iconic green cues. She claps her hands together with a bubbly smile.

“Hiya, names Chelsea, nice to meet you both!” She chirps in a distinctly American accent, utterly unbothered by the two pairs of eyes swiveling to size her up with varying levels of dulled enthusiasm.

“We’re going to keep things pretty simple for this one — just a quick, low-stakes game to help get you guys on camera and build some pre-season hype on the socials, yeah?” Chelsea continues brightly, gesturing for her crew to finish setting up the lighting and cameras.

“Ooo, a game?” You perk up instantly, intrigued. As a lifelong academic overachiever, any type of challenge or opportunity to demonstrate your brain muscle still manages to activate the synapses of childish glee. “I do love a bit of friendly competition ...”

“Not if it’s going to be anything too taxing, I hope,” Lance drawls with an exaggerated yawn. He mimes checking an invisible watch on his bare wrist. “Do we at least get snack breaks? This jet lag is a killer and I need to keep my strength up ...”

You can’t resist rolling your eyes again as Chelsea laughs politely, clearly recognizing his pampered shtick for what it is. She pauses to check her notes on a tablet before continuing.

“Well, good news for you then — your mental fortitude won’t be too strained today. We’re going to keep things pretty light. We’ll just have some common, everyday items for you two to identify and guess the purchase prices. Easy peasy! More variety show games than trigonometry.”

Chelsea grins, unaware of the subtle way the blood seems to drain from your teammate’s face. You blink once, digesting her words, before a bemused smile finds its way across your own lips.

“Wait … they’re actually going to ask us to identify grocery prices and things?” You shake your head in disbelief. “No, this has to just be a wind-up, right? Even in this economy, there’s no way the team can be serious about-”

“Unfortunately, we are painfully earnest on this one, kids,” Another voice pipes up, accompanied by the familiar cadence of an East London accent.

Jack, a senior member of the Aston team’s creative division, slouches against the doorway to the lounge with his customary smirk already in place. Clearly this was his brainchild — a casual hazing ritual for the team’s most privilege-addled members.

“See, the blokes upstairs figure since you two grew up way closer to hedge fund managers than grocery checkout queues … could be a bit of a laugh, yeah?” He jerks his chin towards you both with a conspiratorial wink. “Just a bit of fun for the fans, have a go at seein’ how the young rich kids guess costs of plebeian things like bananas and bread loaves. Been a hit with the other teams, gets good traction on social, all innocent fun and whatnot.”

“Told you it would be taxing ...” Lance grumbles under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off the first twinges of a migraine.

You, however, find yourself rather intrigued by Jack’s premise. It does seem a fairly innocuous way to let the fans peek behind the curtain at the lives of their favorite drivers, to which you and Lance represent the extreme ends of wealth disparity.

More than that, however, some tiny kernel of competitive ego has taken root in your chest, issuing a silent challenge. What better way to prove you are more well-rounded and less out-of-touch than the reputation that clearly precedes you both?

Let Lance play into the indolent, affluent caricature that paints all of F1’s rising stars in broad strokes. You, however, were raised under a rather different philosophy ...

“You know what, I think this sounds rather amusing,” you announce with a demure shrug of your shoulders, catching Lance’s incredulous stare head-on. “Should be … illuminating.”

From his spot by the door, Jack lets out a dry cackle of amusement. Chelsea, bless her, maintains her gracious professionalism despite sensing the rising undercurrents of upper-crust posturing between the two of you.

“Brilliant, that’s the spirit!” She cuts in brightly, clapping her hands together again. “Everyone just follow my lead, we’ll start off nice and easy ...”

Within a few minutes, the cameras are rolling, framing the two of you seated opposite one another on the couch. A small table sits between you, ready to display the variety of day-to-day items you’ll be asked to examine and appraise.

At Chelsea’s behest, a production assistant brings out a single, slightly bruised banana and places it on the table with an audible thunk. You instantly feel Lance’s gaze swivel in your direction, doubtlessly already anticipating whatever absurd denomination you’re about to slap on the unremarkable piece of fruit.

“Alright, then we’re live starting in 3 … 2 ...” Chelsea narrates before cueing the two of you with a brilliant smile and a wink. “Welcome back everyone, today we’ve got Lance and our newest driver Y/N here to play a little guessing game for us!”

She gestures grandly towards the table, injecting her effervescent delivery with just the right mix of playful condescension.

“First item up — something anyone can find at their local shops or markets. A nice, appealing banana. Question is … what would our two racers be willing to pay for such a humble thing? Off the lot, so to speak. Y/N, love? What do you reckon this banana would cost?”

You swallow back the first, instinctive answer that comes to mind — that it likely doesn’t cost anything, seeing as fresh produce is always plucked from your family’s private orchards and greenhouses at a moment’s notice. Instead, you force yourself to consider the question from the perspective of a supposed commoner, out doing their weekly shopping.

“Well ...” You begin slowly, chin cradled in one hand as you lean forward to examine the fruit. “I suppose bananas don’t seem terribly expensive, do they? Just a bit of potassium and carbs, good for starting the day strong and beating any energy troughs during exercise ...”

Chelsea nods encouragingly, hanging on your every word in that canned, just-over-dramatized manner of most TV personalities. Across from you, Lance is already pinching his nose again, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing himself for the inevitable bomb you’re about to drop.

With a decisive nod, you fix your eyes directly on the camera and proclaim, “Ten euros for a single banana seems perfectly reasonable in this economic climate, no?”

The silence that falls over the lounge is damn near deafening. You watch Chelsea’s overly-rehearsed presenter mask slip for just a moment, features contorting into naked shock. Even Jack the producer lapses into a rare moment of speechlessness, mouth hanging open in slack-jawed disbelief.

At your side, Lance finally breaks, collapsing forward as his frame is wracked with deep, abdominal convulsions of laughter.

“Sweet merciful …" He finally manages to gasp out between ragged gasps. Long, spindly fingers clutch at his stomach as tears of mirth stream down his reddened cheeks. “Ten … fucking … euros! For a banana?”

Any residual thoughts you may have had about defying expectations and proving your economic awareness swiftly crumble to dust amidst the howls of laughter. You gape at your teammate, feeling your cheeks flaming with a mix of confusion and growing embarrassment as the reality of your inflated estimate crashes over you.

“Well … it’s … it’s not THAT outrageous, is it?” You sputter in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “I’d just assumed, with the import tariffs and global agricultural strife we’ve seen as of late-”

“Stop, stop! Just … stop ...” Lance wheezes, waving his hands in surrender before you can dig the hole any deeper. “I can’t … I actually can’t breathe right now.”

“For the record, love,” Jack pipes up from his doorway perch. “Stores don’t even charge ten euros for a bunch of bananas, let alone one lousy nanner.”

The production assistant responsible for presenting the fruit chimes in with a faint “20 pence, last I checked,” sending Lance into another spiral of unbridled cackles.

Just like that, any delusion of cultured cosmopolitan grace you may have carried has been utterly incinerated. You are as transparently affluent as the rest of them assumed, your upbringing and lifestyle so sequestered from normalcy that even the simple prices of supermarket produce have become alien concepts.

And the realization that you are still young, still so new to this entire experience, hits you with sobering impact. For so long, you had believed your decade and a half of single-minded pursuit had prepared you for seamlessly joining the elite ranks of your new career.

But one ill-fated guess at a banana’s cost was all it took to remind you that, in many ways, the learning curve you face goes far beyond simply whipping a turbo-hybrid around a few iconic circuits.

As Chelsea scrambles to regain control of the taping and cycle in a new item, Lance leans over with the last dregs of laughter still shuddering his lean frame.

“You’re totally gonna get us roasted online for this, you know?” He murmurs, lips quirked in that devilish smirk you’re already becoming accustomed to. “Maybe we should schedule a field trip to, y’know … go grocery shopping or something? Little crash course before the damage gets too widespread?”

Despite his smarmy delivery, you recognize the extended olive branch for what it is — an acknowledgment that you’re both very much still kids stumbling into a world of intense scrutiny and maturity. A reminder that you’re on the same team, for better or worse.

So you shoot him a wry grin in return, squaring your shoulders as Chelsea presents the next mundane item with a theatrical flourish.

“Oh, I have a feeling the roasting you speak of has only just begun, Lancelot,” you proclaim with an arch of one challenging brow. “But if prices shock me so thoroughly … what’s your excuse going to be?”

His widening smirk is all the response you require. Teammates or not, this is still a competition on and off the track.

An education, regardless of how humbling, is about to be had.

***

The media center in Melbourne’s Albert Park is a churning sea of humanity when you arrive. Journalists from every corner of the globe jostle for position, clutching voice recorders and branded lanyards as they await the start of the season’s first official press conference.

Despite the pandemonium, an anticipatory hush falls over the assembled scribes when you are led to the makeshift stage alongside Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, George Russell, and Oscar Piastri. The five of you settle into the leather chairs arrayed in a semicircle, blinking furiously under the brilliant TV lights as you ready yourselves for the onslaught of questions.

Your heart pounds in your ears, palms suddenly slick with nervous perspiration as you fight to maintain an aura of calm composure. Though you’ve been groomed practically since birth to carry yourself with regal poise, this is an entirely new arena you find yourself in. One where pedigreed lineage and family legacy afford no protection or leg up.

This is the world where you will either rise or fall based purely on your own deeds behind the wheel and words under fire. No longer will a dismissive wave of your father’s hand send underlings scattering — here, you will have to forge your own path, earn every scrap of credibility and respect.

The thought is at once thrilling and utterly terrifying.

You do your best to focus as the opening preambles and formalities commence, nodding politely when your name is announced along with your Aston Martin team affiliation. A small, fiercely proud smile tugs at your lips as the FIA moderator rattles off your accomplishments in the junior formulae.

Multiple feeder series championships across Europe and Asia, becoming the first Arab woman to compete in the FIA single-seater ladder. A true pioneer transcending societal norms and expectations.

This is your chance to let that very accomplishment shine on its own merits. An opportunity to prove you belong here through your own grit and talent, free from the protective umbrella provided by your family name and wealth.

The first question, mercifully, comes from a fellow Emirati news outlet. The young man politely identifies himself and his publication before addressing you.

“Your Highness, as the first woman from our part of the world to ascend to this level of motorsport, what does this achievement mean for you? How important is it to serve as an inspiration for other young Arab women and girls with big dreams?”

You exhale slowly, offering the man a grateful smile at the respectful phrasing. This is the type of insightful perspective you’d been hoping to discuss — the gravity of overcoming generations of patriarchal norms, the significance of inspiring an entire culture to see women as strong and capable.

“Well, it is an immense honor and privilege to hopefully be paving the way for other young women, both in my region and all around the globe,” you begin, falling easily into the poised cadence you’ve honed since childhood.

“This was a dream I was fortunate enough to have the support system to chase from a very young age, despite the conventions of my culture. I know there are countless other girls out there with the same fire, the same ambitions, who have been discouraged or dismissed simply for being born female. If my example can shine a light on a new way forward, can help uplift even one other person to take up the mantle and fight for their passions … then every obstacle I faced along the way will have been worth it.”

A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room and you incline your head graciously, relieved to have navigated one of these public inquisitions so smoothly on the first go. Perhaps this won’t prove as daunting as you feared, after all.

The next few questions are mercifully innocuous as well — standard inquiries about dealing with the pressures of F1, relationships with teammates and engineers, your personal driving style and technical strengths. Child’s play for someone with your extensively cultivated presence before the media cameras.

You are settling into a contented, borderline cocky rhythm when the tone of the press conference takes an abrupt turn.

“Your Highness,” a gravelly voice suddenly rings out, immediately catching your attention as one of the gruffer correspondents gestures for the mic with poorly disguised impatience. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably as every head swivels in his direction. “Given your … background, and the societal norms you’ve admittedly had to overcome, does it give you any pause that women’s bodies may simply not be able to handle the extraordinary G-forces and physicality required to pilot one of these beasts around a track for hours at a time?”

The silence that falls across the media room is positively deafening. You can sense the other drivers beside you tensing, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming wreckage they can see barreling down the line.

For your part, you simply blink once, twice — allowing the weight of the man’s insinuation to fully descend like an iron shroud and smother you from every side. Any joviality or adrenaline from the earlier back-and-forth evaporates in a searing wave of incredulous rage.

Before you can so much as draw breath to respond, however, the reporter has already pressed on with the ruthless zeal of a jackal going for the kill.

“Furthermore, with all the perceived advantages provided to you by your … esteemed heritage ...” He sneers the words with no small hint of derision. “How can we be certain you aren’t simply some vanity pet project for your father to amuse himself with? That this isn’t merely an attempt by Emirati royalty to assert itself in yet another arena in a flamboyant display of ego and excess?”

Dead silence. Not even the sound of a pen scratching or camera shutter cutting across the vacuum of noise as the entire room seems to be holding its collective breath.

You can feel your heart pounding once more, though this time it thunders in furious sync with the scorching rapids of your own rising temper. How dare this absolute jackass reduce your life’s work and sacrifice to some sexist, patronizing narrative about Daddy writing checks?

“How dare you ...” you begin in a low, menacing tone — only to be smoothly interrupted by the one voice you’d never expect.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Charles Leclerc speaks up from your right, smooth and controlled until now. “How can any of us be so fortunate?”

Every head pivots to regard the Ferrari driver, astounded by his interjection on your behalf. Up until now, Leclerc has maintained his signature cool, borderline impassive demeanor during interviews and pressers.

But now the Monegasque racer leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he fixes the hapless reporter with a look of genuine, cutting disdain.

“Here we have the first woman to race in F1 in decades, shattering years of patriarchal norms to achieve her lifelong ambition on the single most demanding stage of our sport,” he continues in a deliberate, measured tone. “And your very first instinct is to make tired, sexist implications about the frailty of her gender and body? And then to have the audacity to insult her even further by suggesting she couldn’t possibly be here on her own merits?”

Leclerc pauses, allowing his stinging rebuke to hang in the air. You glance around to see the matching expressions of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment painted on the features of your fellow drivers.

“For someone meant to be among the world’s most informed observers of our sport, your remarks are about as offensively misguided and stunted as I could possibly imagine,” Charles finishes with an unmistakable air of finality, folding his arms across his chest. He looks utterly disgusted, but there is an undercurrent of protective ice in his voice that raises the tiny hairs on your arms.

Before the flailing reporter can attempt to concoct some garbled justification for his outrageously inappropriate line of questioning, another voice pipes up — this one bearing the bright, airy lilt of an American accent.

“So, Y/N,” the younger woman interjects, clearly hoping to spare you all any further ugliness, “To pivot away from all that noise for a second … what was your initial reaction when it was announced you had secured the Aston seat? Did you do, like a big celebration or anything?”

You blink a few times, as if rebooting from Leclerc’s unexpected defense. When your mind finally reconnects, you offer the American reporter a grateful smile and a pointed glance towards Charles before speaking.

“You know, we didn’t go too over-the-top or anything,” you reply, welcoming the chance to shift to a fresh topic and get this presser back on track. “I’ll save that for the podium come race day.”

A smattering of relieved laughter ripples through the room, the tension level lowering incrementally as the debacle proceeds. You catch Charles’ subtle nod of acknowledgment across the table, his jaw marginally less taut now that the conversation has regained its footing.

From there, the presser proceeds relatively smoothly — more questions about favorite circuits and tactical approaches for the season, obligatory banter about inter-team rivalries and the usual window dressing. All through it, you feel a profound sense of gratitude for Leclerc’s willingness to essentially co-sign on your abilities and condemn the subversive misogyny lurking in that reporter’s pointed questions.

By the time the closing remarks and thank yous commence, you’ve already made up your mind to seek Charles out on your own to voice your appreciation and admiration.

You are among the first to rise and exit the media bullpen, practically speed-walking around the side of the building in hopes of catching Leclerc before he can retreat into Ferrari’s impenetrable bubble of flunkies and handlers.

“Charles! Hey, Charles — wait up a sec!”

The lean figure pauses and turns as you trot up, tilting his head inquisitively as you draw up short just in front of him.

“Sorry, hope you don’t mind me ambushing you like this,” you begin, barely suppressing the warm flush already creeping into your cheeks under his focused attention. “I just wanted to say … thank you for that. In there, I mean. What you said — how you handled that asshole’s ignorance before I could even begin responding.”

Charles’ expression flits momentarily through surprise before settling into its customary affable warmth. “Oh, that? Don’t mention it, Y/N. God knows we’ve all had to deal with our fair share of insufferable pricks on the media circuit at one point or another.”

He shrugs, as if his public solidarity with a fellow competitor were the most trivial, obvious hill to plant himself on. You feel a sudden swell of respect and admiration for the Ferrari star rise within you.

“Besides,” he continues with a casual, “How could I not defend the up-and-coming driver who gets to experience insane misogyny and ridiculous societal restraints while also knowing what it’s like to eat gold flake sundaes daily?” He shoots you a playful wink, dimples creasing his cheeks. “The duality of a princess is a heavy burden indeed ...”

You let out a peal of laughter, genuinely caught off-guard by the cheeky charm behind the dig at your privileged lineage. Far from offense, you find his irreverent humor utterly refreshing in the face of excessive nobility.

“It is a tragic affliction, I must admit,” you retort, placing one hand over your heart in mock solemnity. “But one I shall bear with dignity and poise. For my people.”

Your laughter fades into a more pensive expression, honeyed eyes finding his in an unspoken exchange of sincere emotions.

“But truly, Charles, thank you. I meant what I said in there — about wanting to inspire other women to fight for their dreams. To have someone like you leap to defend those ambitions right out of the gate … it means more than you can possibly know.”

He regards you with a speculative sort of new interest for a stretched moment before nodding slowly.

“I meant what I said too, Y/N,” he replies, utterly sincere. “If having to dress down a few assholes in public is what it takes to further that inspiration … well, that’s a pretty easy charge for me to take up.”

A fresh surge of resolve and determination irons out your features into that same unmovable resolve you inherited from your father. In that instant, you see the man Charles will hopefully become — a true legend and respected custodian of the sport, unwavering in his principles.

“Regardless, I’d love to find some way to properly thank you once we get back to Monaco,” you venture, wondering how far you can stretch this newfound rapport with the Ferrari star. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something next week? My treat, obviously.”

A faint flicker of surprise ghosts across Charles’ expression before that patented dimpled half-smile returns.

“Monaco? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m actually not sure if-”

He trails off, shaking his head in a rueful sort of resignation.

“Ah, merde — what I mean is that I just got word this morning that my flight back has been canceled due to some raised travel advisory or other. Classic airline nonsense.”

Your brows wing upwards as your sharp mind cycles immediately to the obvious solution.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you just come back on my plane?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can properly consider the context of your own casual statement. Leclerc blinks — Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he processes your incredibly nonchalant reference to having your own personal aircraft.

“... your plane?” He echoes, a new glint entering his stare as he studies you with fresh gravity.

You wave one hand in a dismissive little flourish, your practiced regal upbringing suddenly very apparent in the effortless hauteur radiating from you.

“Well of course, Charles — you didn’t think I flew commercial, did you?” Your nose wrinkles in feigned distaste as you grin up at him. “No, no — my family maintains a full fleet. I’m scheduled to return to Monaco via the 747 after the weekend wraps.”

Now it is the Ferrari star’s turn to look utterly gobsmacked, any veneer of media-trained poise utterly dissolving at your casual reference to owning a jumbo jet as if it were something as trivial as a sedan or motorcycle. His eyes bore into you with sudden intensity, as if seeing you in an entirely new light.

You can practically see the mental math exploding across his expression — the private security details, the designer casualwear on your lithe frame, the stunning and no doubt priceless jewelry glittering at your throat and wrists. All the tell-tale signs of absurd, eighth-continent-money levels of wealth.

And here you are, acting as if maintaining your own plane is just another given amenity ...

“Wait ...” he begins slowly, still processing the full scope of what you’ve so dismissively unveiled. “You’re telling me you have an actual, like … a 747 just sitting around that you use to fly wherever the hell you want?”

You blink owlishly up at him, momentarily bewildered by the sheer shock on his face. Surely the finer nuances of just how rich your family is couldn’t have escaped him completely up to now, could it?

So you simply shrug, offering him a playful smirk in a bid to diffuse any perceived arrogance or condescension on your part.

“More or less, yes,” you confirm breezily, pointedly ignoring his incredulity. “So what say you, Monsieur Leclerc? Shall we share a ride back to the riviera? I promise the in-flight movies are decent, at least.”

For a long moment, Charles can only stare at you, astounded at the bottomless depths of absurdity that is your birthright and lineage. Just when you think he may have simply short-circuited into a vegetative state, however, his mouth abruptly curves upwards into a devilish grin of epiphany.

“You know what?” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelieving amusement. “In that case, you’re on. A nice flight back to Monaco sounds … perfect for a little post-race pick-me-up.”

You can’t help but smirk triumphantly as Charles extends one hand, which you accept in a firm shake.

Some rigid societal expectations among the royalty and aristocracy may be slow to evolve, but others? They’ve prepared you for the political game that is Formula 1.

***

The late afternoon sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Monaco apartment, casting warm geometric patterns across the plush marble tile. You lie draped over one of the oversized couches, aimlessly scrolling on your phone in a rare moment of quiet downtime.

Or rather, you’re hanging completely upside down on the couch, bare feet kicked up over the back cushions as you flick through a few inane social media feeds. The blood is just starting to rush towards your head in an oddly calming wash when the soft snick of the entryway lock disengaging catches your attention.

“Mon amour?” Charles’ familiar, lightly-accented voice rings out from the foyer. “You home?”

“In here!” You call back, not bothering to right yourself as your boyfriend’s lean silhouette appears in the archway, shrugging out of his leather jacket.

He spots your inverted form sprawled across the sitting area and shakes his head with a bemused chuckle, all tousled chestnut curls and devilish dimples.

“Must you always hang about like an overgrown cat?” He chides playfully, moving to settle onto the adjacent sofa. Even after nearly five months of dating, Charles still seems perpetually amused by your tendency to shirk regal posture and poise whenever afforded the opportunity. “Is gravity simply too much effort for royalty these days … "

“Your mockery wounds my very soul, kind sir,” you drone in a monotone false-lament, never breaking eye contact with the Ferrari star as your arms dangle limply towards the floor. “Should I have the servants fetch you a fainting couch to make up for my uncouth posture?”

Charles snorts, watching you with undisguised affection as he stretches out on the other sofa. “And they say chivalry is dead ...”

One callused hand comes up to gently brush an errant lock of hair away from your face, fingers trailing across your cheek in a simple caress. After so many months of sneaking heated looks across press conference panels and fielding ruthless speculation over your rumored involvement, moments like this still spark a bewildered sort of giddy thrill within you.

Here is Il Predestinato himself, someone blessed with every imaginable advantage — talent, wealth, fame, charisma. Yet it is you, the comparative newcomer raised worlds away, who seems to hold his singular focus even in the quiet stillness.

“Is this some new fitness fad the rest of us ignorant plebeians should be made aware of?” Charles inquires after a pregnant pause, arching one brow at your upended state.

He knows you too well by now, you muse — knows how prone you are to defying expectation or traditional high society conventions whenever the mood strikes. So rather than offer any excuse or justification, you simply shrug airily.

“Just experimenting with different … perspectives for the time being,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him and reveling in the simple, teasing intimacy of the moment. “The world tends to look rather different when you turn everything on its head.”

“Isn’t that the truth ...” Charles hums, shifting ever-so-slightly closer before changing tacts. “Well, on that note … I’ve found myself with a rather unique perspective to share this evening.”

Your interest is instantly piqued, head lolling to one side as you regard the Ferrari star with renewed focus. One hand leaves its resting place on your abdomen, fingers wiggling inquisitively.

“Oh? Do tell, Monsieur Leclerc ...”

Charles chuckles again, low and genuine, before his emerald gaze turns pointedly opaque. Even now, after sharing countless impromptu evenings watching mind melting reality television and indulgent private vacations, he still retains the ability to utterly captivate your attention.

“Well, this particular news is rather more ...” He pauses for dramatic effect, pursing those perpetually kiss-plumped lips as if savoring the impending reveal. "... interesting.”

You exhale a petulant little huff, fighting the urge to stick your foot in his face or throw one of the decorative cushions at him.

“Charles, if this is meant to build suspense over you finally buying that fancy vacuum you won’t shut up about, I swear by the — mmph!”

Your playful griping is cut off as Charles suddenly lunges across the short distance separating your couches, capturing your lips in a fierce, silencing kiss. You squirm slightly at the abrupt shift in dynamics, the world seeming to spin and right itself as muscular forearms slide beneath you to gather you up into his lap.

By the time he finally pulls back, leaving you both breathless and slightly disheveled, you find yourself settled firmly in Charles’ sturdy embrace. Two sets of lidded eyes glaze over one another, reveling in the familiar intoxicating rush of chemistry.

“Easy there, mon ange,” he murmurs once you’ve both caught your respective breaths, one palm smoothing up and down your spine in an idle caress. “I promise this is a rather more agreeable surprise than debating vacuums.”

You watch, bemused, as his free hand dips into the inner pocket of his hoodie, withdrawing a familiar red envelope sealed with the unmistakable prancing horse emblem of Ferrari. Your heart rate instantly kicks up another notch at the mere sight of it, that infernal curiosity burning hotter than ever.

“The team initially planned to hand this off through proper channels,” Charles continues, expression inscrutable as he toys with the envelope, thumb tracing its embossed crest. “But given the … personal opportunity it presented, I thought it only appropriate to circumvent protocol this once.”

With that, he extends the envelope towards you, a silent offer for you to take up whatever life-altering missive lies within. You swallow hard against the sudden lump of anticipation welling in your throat, looking from the envelope, to Charles, and back again.

“What … what is this?” You croak, hating how fragile and uncertain your voice sounds.

Charles’ smile is soft as warm brandy, suffused with unguarded affection and pride. A pride not for himself, but for the very caliber of opportunity before you.

“For you,” he murmurs simply. “For your boundless determination to achieve in the face of adversity. This is the ultimate reward for outrunning not just your competitors, but the very expectations of an entire sport.”

The breath leaves your body in a dizzying rush as sudden realization crystallizes in your mind. How many nights have the two of you stayed up into the wee hours, idly discussing dream teams and potential openings across the grid? Debating which partnerships could provide the optimal platform for success?

This envelope bears no stamp or mailing address. But its rich, unmistakable crimson design and gleaming logo render such mundane addressing unnecessary. There is only one organization with the status to deliver their most sensitive communications in such an iconic manner.

With trembling hands, you accept the envelope, taking care not to smudge or crinkle its embossed insignia as you turn it over. Slowly, reverentially, you peel open the wax seal and slide out the sheaf of papers tucked within, eyes hungrily scanning the blocky sans-serif text:

SUBJECT: Ferrari Driver Offer, 2026 Season

Your breath catches in your throat, the words seeming to blur in a shimmering haze as hot tears instantly prick the corners of your eyes.

This isn’t merely a summons from Scuderia Ferrari. This isn’t a polite inquiry or negotiation tactic meant to bolster future value or status.

This is a formal contract, stamped with all the hallmarks of managerial approval ...

An invitation to join the most legendary name in all of motorsport as one of its drivers.

You shake your head in stunned disbelief, hardly daring to blink as your scrutinize every word, every assurance and term of agreement laid out in stark black ink.

It’s there, immaculate and absolute — a seat beside Charles for the 2026 season, to be finalized pending your confirmation and the exit of one former world champion.

Lewis Hamilton’s retirement.

The news had broken last month over the Ferrari driver’s surprise announcement that he would be exiting Formula 1 at the conclusion of the 2025 calendar year. Just one championship shy of his stated goal of eclipsing Michael Schumacher’s record for most drivers’ titles, the British superstar shocked the sporting world by revealing he was finally ready to step away from the cockpit and move on to other endeavors.

Speculation had run rampant, of course, over who within the sport’s glittering ranks of young up-and-comers had the talent and mettle to fill such an impossible void. You’d jokingly thrown about a host of names whenever the discussion arose with Charles, more content to fantasize and daydream rather than entertain any serious expectations.

Yet here it lies in your hands, in unblemished print. Proof that you’ve smashed through yet another carbon fiber-coated glass ceiling specifically by shattering every limitation placed upon your ambitions.

You glance up to find Charles gauging your reaction with a tender intensity akin to a besotted schoolboy, as if readying himself to sweep you off your feet all over again should you swoon from the news. Suddenly his every gesture from the moment he walked through your front door this evening makes perfect sense — the dramatics, the playful banter, and maddening evasiveness.

This was his way of showing you he’d listened, absorbed every idle comment or perceived slight you’d ever murmured over the proving grounds of your respective talents. That he saw and cherished every spark of hunger in your honeyed gaze, evident in your determination to continue defying odds not only as a woman — but as a pioneer hoping to be immortalized within motorsport.

The tears spill over at last, streaking unchecked down your cheeks as a tremulous laugh bubbles up unbidden from your chest. You lift one hand to shakily wipe at the dampness, willing yourself not to become an incoherent, hiccuping mess on the precipice of such a monumental achievement.

“I … I don’t even...” You begin, shaking your head slowly. For once, the woman raised to carry herself with poise and dignity in any station finds herself utterly bereft of words.

Charles merely watches and waits, soft sleeve brushing away the fresh tears tracking across your cheeks before cradling your jaw in one warm palm. Those mesmerizing eyes bore into yours with aching sincerity, seeing straight through you down to the deliriously euphoric riot of emotions swirling in your chest.

“Ferrari recognizes your spirit, your passion for this life, because it is the same fire that has forever stoked the heart of the Scuderia,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing an idle arc over the plump swell of your lower lip.

“They chose you not because you are a symbol — a pretty flag for them to rally under and wave as some achievement in name only. They see you as the next tireless warrior to pour their full belief into achieving victory.” A soft, affectionate breath of laughter escapes him, warm and adoring. “Which I know for a fact is the only ambition you’ve ever given a single damn about.”

You release a watery giggle at that, nodding in fervent agreement as you reach up to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring yourself in the tender solidity of his touch. Weeks and months of dogged speculation over prospects and vacancies, endlessly weighing the potential upshots and pitfalls of every career trajectory before you ...

… and here it waits, bold and singular as the sun itself — your chance to immortalize yourself among the hallowed ranks of Formula 1 royalty.

“You were made for this, mon cœur,” Charles continues, fingers trailing down the side of your neck in a gentle graze. “Your spirit, your sheer determination to shatter every obstacle placed in your way — Ferrari sees that fire blazing in you. It’s why they want you.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against your own as his lips curve into a devastatingly handsome smile, dimples peeking through.

“And not because of any family name or billions or royal pedigree you carry … but precisely because of how hard you’ve fought to strip all that away on the track. To make your own name and legacy that matters.”

The words strike you like the sweetest, most poignant arrow straight through your heart. And isn’t that what you’ve craved since the earliest dawning flickers of your obsession with this beautiful, brutal sport — recognition and triumph earned purely on your own merits?

You are no longer a Sheikha first, racing driver second. You are Y/N Y/L/N, Scuderia Ferrari driver in the making.

Before you can even find the words to respond — and what words could ever suffice at a moment like this — you are surging forward to capture Charles’ plush mouth with your own. The contract flutters forgotten to the floor as you pour every ounce of exhilarated gratitude and ardor into the fevered kiss, hands mapping the broad sloping planes of his shoulders and back with trembling urgency.

Charles responds in kind, all velvet heat and insistent possession as his arms sweep you impossibly closer, fingers tangling in the loose curtain of your hair. You allow yourself to succumb fully to the dizzying euphoria of his passion and the all-encompassing ambition now flowering in your breast unfurled, crashing over you in intoxicating waves.

This is no mere contract, no insignificant changing of pitlane scenery. This is the definitive moment where you have eclipsed every last shadow of self-doubt and exceeded even the lofty expectations bequeathed to you since girlhood.

You will become a legend.

Only when the need for air finally parts you does the fervent heat of the moment ebb enough for rational thought to pierce the moonlit haze of emotion. Your lips are swollen and tingling, senses heightened to every whisper and shift of muscle under Charles’ shirt as his chest expands in deep, measured breaths.

When you finally find the strength to lift your gaze and meet his hooded stare, he is the one rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity and elation blazing in your expression. Something he sees reflected back at him now from the woman nestled so securely in his arms.

“Oh, mon amour ...” Charles rasps at last, a sinfully indulgent smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes his head as if beholding some ascending deity, utterly transfixed.

“This is only the beginning ...”

***

The camera flashes turn the plush Ferrari hospitality suite into a makeshift photo studio. You try not to blink as the bright lights sparkle off the deep red lipstick you’re wearing.

“Okay, bellissima, one more,” the photographer calls out. You tilt your head slightly and smile wide. Charles squeezes your hand. The shutter clicks.

“Perfetto! I think we got it,” the photographer says, lowering his camera with a grin. “Grazie mille, you two.”

“Thank you,” you reply in your lightly accented English. Charles plants a kiss on your cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of his lips in lightly tinted lip balm on your skin. The makeup artist rushes over to touch it up before the next part of the shoot.

This is your first joint promotional event as Ferrari’s new driver pairing for 2026. Well, sort of new — Charles is a proven superstar entering his seventh season with the team. You, on the other hand, are the fresh face and the source of international intrigue.

“Next up, we’re filming a little Q&A section,” the producer explains, adjusting his headset. “Just a fun, casual way for the fans to get to know you both better before the season starts.”

You and Charles take your seats, situating yourselves comfortably on the curved scarlet sofa. An array of cameras surrounds you on robotic arms, remotely controlled to capture every angle.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the producer calls out from behind the lights. An energetic young woman with a microphone appears on camera, greeting you both enthusiastically.

“Bonjour Charles, Salaam Y/N! So great to have Ferrari’s exciting new line-up with us today. Let’s get to know you guys a little better — there are notecards with rapid-fire questions right here and you just banter away, okay?”

Charles leans forward, grabbing a stack of notecards from the table beside him. “Here’s an easy one to start — who is the most famous person in your contacts?”

“Mine is Seb, of course! Sebastian Vettel. Used to be my teammate, now he’s basically a world-famous hermit.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh come on, you can do better than that.”

“Your turn then, Your Highness,” Charles counters with a teasing lilt. “Who’s the biggest celebrity in that royal contacts list of yours?”

You tap a manicured fingernail against your plump lips, pretending to ponder the question. In truth, you know exactly who it is, and Charles is going to be stunned. A sly grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Does my father count?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Y/N. Pick someone a bit more … interesting.”

“Oh? You want interesting?” You tease, unable to resist dragging this out. “How about … Taylor Swift?”

Whatever Charles was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes go comically wide, jaw dropping slightly. “You … Taylor Swift? As in, the international popstar?”

“The one and only,” you confirm with a serene nod.

“How in the world do you have Taylor Swift’s phone number?” He sputters.

You shrug, admiring the gemstone-encrusted rings glittering on your fingers. “It was my 18th birthday party. Baba knew how much I loved her music, so he got her to perform.”

“He got … your father got Taylor Swift … to perform at your birthday?” Charles is still gaping at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Well yes, what else would you expect?” You laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “It wasn’t that big a deal, habibi.”

Charles opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. You lean over the side of the couch, draping one hand over the armrest as you gaze up at him with false innocence.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

“I …” he finally manages. “Y/N, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Is that so?” You bat your eyelashes coyly. “Good thing you’re stuck with me then.”

Charles shakes his head in disbelief, but his expression melts into a fond one, dimples showing as he grins down at you.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour.”

You sit up slightly at the pet name, spoken so tenderly. That warm, bubbly feeling fills your chest like always when Charles looks at you like that — like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, trying to ignore the blush you can feel heating your cheeks. “Ask another question before I get too distracted by that irresistible smile of yours.”

Charles chuckles darkly. “Oh, trust me. I’m very distracting.”

You giggle at his faux arrogance. “Very distracting indeed. Now come on, ask me something good.”

He glances down at the cards again. “Let’s see … what’s the most extravagant gift you’ve ever received?”

You don’t even have to think about that one. “My baby.”

There’s a pause, then- “Did you just refer to me as a gift?”

“Not you,” you laugh. “My gorgeous F2002.”

Recognition dawns on Charles’ face as he remembers your long tangents about the iconic race car. “Ah, of course. Your prized possession.”

“It was a present for my 15th birthday,” you explain, unable to keep the pride from your voice. “From Baba. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”

“I’ll bet,” Charles murmurs. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.”

“That she is,” you agree softly. Your eyes linger on Charles, watching the way the harsh factory lights play against the sculpted lines of his face, catching in his dark eyes. Beautiful, just like your car.

You tear your eyes away before you get too carried away, clearing your throat. “Next question?”

Charles blinks, seeming to shake himself from his own reverie before consulting the cards again. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the next one.

“Well this is … certainly a question.” He looks up at you with mild bewilderment. “What’s the most embarrassing thing your family has ever done?”

You grimace slightly at that. Your parents certainly haven’t been immune to embarrassing their only daughter over the years. After a moment’s hesitation, you launch into the story.

“Okay, so when I was sixteen, I had this dreadful crush on one of Baba’s racehorse jockeys …”

Charles listens attentively, dimples showing again as you regale the tale of your young lovesick self hopelessly pining after the older, objectively very attractive jockey. How your parents, in their infinite wisdom and total lack of subtlety, had gotten it into their heads that the best way to cheer you up over your unrequited crush was to invite said jockey over for a family dinner at the palace ...

“... and of course, in front of this painstakingly handsome man, my parents could not resist mercilessly teasing and embarrassing me the entire night!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, but you’re laughing too at the ridiculousness of the memory. “I thought I would simply perish from mortification right there at the table.”

“No, no, no,” Charles shakes his head, grinning widely. “Please, tell me more about how devilishly handsome this jockey was.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you snort, reaching out to shove his shoulder lightly. But you oblige him anyway. “Okay, fine, you want details? He was … oh, I don’t know, maybe 6 feet tall, tanned and muscular from all that riding, perfectly tousled dark hair-”

“Tousled dark hair, hmm?” Charles arches an eyebrow at you, smile turning sly. “Should I be jealous?”

“Oh hush, that was years ago,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Though I suppose if we want to talk about petty jealousies and crushes …”

When he seems confused, you smirk up at him mischievously.

“Word on the street is a certain Monegasque driver had quite the thing for Valentino Rossi back in the day.”

It’s Charles’ turn to snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows how obsessed you were with Fernando Alonso for years.”

“I was a child!” You protest with dignity, trying not to laugh. “It was an innocent celebrity crush and nothing more.”

“Uh huh, sure,” he teases. “Which is why you still have that massive lifesize poster of him in your bedroom at the palace-”

“How do you know about that?” You halt him, utterly mortified all over again. Your face flames scarlet as Charles dissolves into helpless laughter beside you.

“I’m only joking, ma belle,” he finally gasps out. “I’ve never seen this supposed poster.” Charles reaches out, looping an arm around your waist to pull you snug against his side. You go easily, butting your forehead lightly against his shoulder with a huff.

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he murmurs warmly. His fingers trace idle patterns against your hip, making you shiver. “Something about me must be tolerable.”

You tilt your head back to meet his intense gaze, your lips curving despite yourself.

“I suppose you’ll do,” you murmur. Then you lean up on your tiptoes to press your mouth against his.

Charles melts into the soft, lingering kiss, the arm around your waist tightening to bring you even closer against him. This close, you can feel the lean muscle and warmth of his body, your own tingling with awareness. One of his hands slips into your hair, cradling the back of your head and angling your lips for better access.

A quiet noise of pleasure escapes your throat as the kiss deepens, growing more heated. You part your lips eagerly to grant his questing tongue entrance, tasting the hint of coffee and addictive scent that always makes your head spin dizzily. His other hand smoothes down your side, over the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip, burning through the thin fabric of your team polo-

“Ahem … aaaand cut! Fantastic you two, that’s a wrap on this portion,” the director says, his amused tone breaking the trance. “Why don’t we take a short break before setting up for next segment?”

Cheeks flushed, you and Charles reluctantly pull apart, remembering there’s a whole bustle of crew surrounding you at the moment. Tucking a glossy lock of hair behind your ear, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.

“Raincheck on that kiss, habibi? I have a few more surprises in store for you later.” You graze his earlobe with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches. “If you think we already know everything about each other … you haven’t seen anything yet.”

With a saucy wink, you extract yourself from his embrace and saunter off to refresh your makeup, leaving your dazed boyfriend gaping after your retreating form.

***

Two Years Later

You wake with a start to the sound of your alarm blaring at 4:38 am. Groaning, you reach over to silence it, blinking blearily in the dark. It’s the start of another day of fasting for Ramadan — the first your now husband will be participating in to support you.

A soft snore comes from beside you and you can’t help but smile fondly. There he is, heartthrob of Formula 1 fans everywhere, drool trailing down his chin onto the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. How attractive.

“Charles,” you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Time to wake up for suhoor.”

He merely grunts and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his head. You sigh in exasperation. For an elite professional athlete, he can be stubborn as a mule when it comes to early mornings.

Giving up for now, you slip out of bed and pad across the plush carpet of your sprawling bedroom quarters in the palace. You flick on the ornate brass lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow that glints off the gold accents everywhere.

A jaw-cracking yawn escapes you as you make your way over to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water on your face will help wake you. Your bare feet slap against the intricate tile mosaics as you go.

“What time is it?” A sleepy voice calls out behind you.

“Early,” you call back. “We have forty minutes before the fast begins.”

You emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, slightly more alert, to find Charles blinking confusedly around the room, mussed hair sticking up every which way. He looks utterly lost without his morning coffee.

“Come along, habibi,” you say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of bed with a grunt. “Let’s go see what the kitchen staff has prepared.”

Charles just nods obediently, Ferrari red pajama pants hanging low on his hips in a way that makes your cheeks flush. Even barely conscious, he’s unfairly good-looking.

The two of you make your way down the torch-lit hallways of the palace toward the private dining room reserved for the royal family members. You can’t resist threading your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze.

“I’m proud of you for doing this,” you murmur. “It means everything to me.”

Charles halts, tugging you into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and familiar. You let your eyes drift shut as he brushes his lips across your forehead.

“Of course,” he rumbles in that delicious accent of his. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

A throat clears behind you and you jump apart, heat flooding your cheeks. Whirling around, you spot your father regarding you sternly, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Good mor-er, night? Apologies, Charles,” he says gruffly. “I’m still getting used to this schedule.”

Charles gives a awkward little bow. “No need to apologize, Your Highness.”

You roll your eyes fondly at the two most important men in your life. For cultures on opposite sides of the world, sometimes they’re more alike than either would admit.

“Have you two eaten yet?” Your father continues. “The cooks have prepared a feast as usual.”

Shaking your head, you tug Charles’s hand to follow as you make your way into the lavish dining room. It’s deserted at this hour save for the kitchen staff milling about, setting out enormous platters of food.

Arabian coffee in delicate gemmed cups. Chickpea stew and crisp flatbreads fresh from the tandoor oven. Heaping mounds of creamy balaleet vermicelli sweetened with rosewater and cardamom. Succulent medjool dates and purees of every fruit imaginable to kick off the fast as healthfully as possible. It all smells utterly divine and makes your mouth water.

You glance sidelong at Charles to see him staring around with an utterly gobsmacked look. His adorably bewildered expression makes you stifle a giggle — you always forget this is the first time he’s experiencing the elaborate palace rituals.

“Dig in,” your father says gruffly, already loading up his plate.

And dig in you do, shoveling food into your mouths as quickly as your etiquette training will allow. All too soon, the muezzin’s call to prayer rings out over the grounds, signaling the official start of the day’s fasting.

You sit back with a contented sigh, hands resting atop your pleasantly full belly. Beside you, Charles looks pleasantly stuffed as well in that gorgeous way where his shirt rides up just a hint. The old you might’ve flushed scarlet and averted your eyes like a proper modest lady. This emboldened you lets your gaze linger ...

“Enjoying the sights?” Your father’s wry voice cuts through your daze.

You startle, snapping your attention back to see his eyes twinkling with amusement. Of course the man misses nothing when it comes to his only daughter. The tips of your ears burn.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he continues, rising to his feet. “I have matters of state to attend to as usual despite the hour. Do try to behave, you two.”

You open your mouth to protest the teasing, indignant, but he silences you with a look and a raised brow. With great restraint, you merely nod instead. Soon as the door swings shut behind him, you blow out an exasperated breath, rolling your eyes heavenward.

“I love him dearly,” you start. “But sometimes-”

Whatever sarcastic rejoinder you were going to make dies on your lips when you catch sight of Charles again. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, looking utterly at ease amid the heart of Arabian luxury. A tiny, fond smile plays about his lips.

“What?” You ask self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he says at once, shaking his head. “I just … you look beautiful here. Content. Like you were born to it.”

It’s your turn to blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment. Of course you were raised amid affluence and trained in regal bearing from birth. And yet ...

“Flatterer,” you say at last, trying to brush off the warm curl of pleasure blooming in your chest.

Charles sits up straight, expression turning earnest in that intense way of his that never fails to rob you of breath.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’re so at home here. The way your face lights up at all the little traditions, how you banter with your father like you rule the place …” His eyes roam over you adoringly. “You’re magnificent.”

Your cheeks heat furiously, but you can’t look away, caught in his smoldering gaze. How is it possible for this man to make you feel so flustered and treasured after all this time? He reaches across to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper at last. “For doing this with me. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Of course,” Charles echoes his earlier sentiment simply.

There’s a brief, electrically charged moment where you’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else exists. And then … a low rumbling growl shatters the stillness. You blink as Charles flushes bright red.

“I, ah, seem to be hungry again already with the early schedule,” he admits sheepishly.

You throw back your head with a peal of laughter, loud and unbridled and utterly unconcerned with propriety for once. Leave it to your man to break the tension in the most delightfully awkward way. “Easy there, habibi. You’ll need to save room for iftar later tonight.”

Realizing you’ve caught him looking undignified, Charles has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “You’re right, mon ange. Got a bit carried away with my last chance to eat for awhile.” He licks his lips slowly, watching you with heated eyes. “I’ll be counting the seconds until I can taste you agai-”

“Charles, not during fasting hours!” You cut him off with a scandalized giggle, heat flooding your cheeks at his shameless innuendo. Even after all this time, he can still fluster you with a single heated look.

He just throws back his head with a full-throated laugh, utterly unrepentant.

You shake your head at his antics, trying in vain to suppress your grin. “Incorrigible,” you mutter fondly.

Leaning back in your chair, you settle in to watch him contently. Heat simmers low in your belly, anticipating the moment you can finally break your fast tonight and enjoy some … dessert.

The little eight-year-old girl attending her first race could never have imagined that this would be her life one day. Alhamdulillah for the blessings that Allah saw to bestow upon you. With your husband by your side and the ink drying on a long-term contract with Ferrari, you have everything you could have asked for.

[whore-ibly-hot]

Yan!Bully x Gn!Reader x Yan!Loser

'Art-Project'

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Bullying, name calling, degradation, violence, mentions of non-consensual photos, nonconsensual touching, male pronouns for the yans, mentions of school, general perversion, toxic behaviors, creep behavior.

(AN: Had a fun time with this one, really enjoyed toying with the dynamic between this two. I think I'll probably make a part two with these trainwrecks in the future)

Part 2 here

The crashing of books and pens falling on the tile floor rings out through the boy's bathroom, as a young, dark-haired boy is thrown harshly onto the cold multi-colored tile. The boy lets out a cry as he hits the ground, and he scrambles away upon impact, pressing his back up against the wall as he looks up at his assaulter.

"F-fuck off, Patrick!" Ahmed exclaims, his frightened eyes never leaving the predatory gaze of the bully who stands over him. Ahmed's free hand wanders around the bathroom floor, grasping blindly to try and find his book bag. Ahmed's accent only becomes more prominent, as his voice shakes and cracks. "Fuck did you say to me, you little shit?" Patrick grabs the boy by his collar, yanking him up from the ground and sneering at him. Ahmed gulps when he feels Patricks breath tickle his neck, making him tremble. "I-I didn't, didn't mean it, c'mon. I was just shocked when you threw me on the floor, it just slipped out." Patrick rolls his eyes, and as he does, his gaze falls on Ahmed's bright red backpack, laying open on the floor. Patrick notices how Ahmed's eyes widen when Patrick looks at it, causing Patrick to raise an eyebrow.

"What's in the bag, freak?" Patrick whispers, and before the sentence has even fully left his lips, Ahmed is fiercely shaking his head. "Nothing, nothing! Just work, please-" He hits the floor again, and he's sure tomorrow he'll be bruised from the rough treatment. "Pick it up." Ahmed looks up. "What?" "C'mon, pick it up. You're all freaked out, freak... I wanna know why, so I'm gonna tell you one more time." Patrick crouches down, and nods in the direction of the cloth schoolbag. "Pick. It. Up." He pauses after each word, relishing the fear in Ahmed's eyes.

Since Ahmed transferred to Morrisville high, Patrick had made his life a living hell. Not that he wasn't already unpopular at his old school, but people at least tried to avoid him there. People did here at first, before Patrick set his sights on Ahmed. Patrick wasn't sure what drew him to the scrawny, quiet boy. Possibly the way everyone avoided him, or maybe it was how little everyone knew about the new kid. Most likely, it was the knowledge that no matter what he did to the boy, or what he made him do, no-one was going to stand up for the boy. Patrick picked on everybody, but god, Ahmed became his favorite. The way he'd squirm, and cry. The way he was able to convince the other kids at the school to pick on the lonely boy. Things only got worse when Patrick found out that everyone at Ahmed's old school thought he was a freak too. Suddenly, shoulder-checks in the hallway became full-on beatings, stolen homework became shoes and clothes being taken from Ahmed's locker, or even right off the poor boy. Patrick never hesitated to remind Ahmed that even if he reported him, or got away from this school, that he'd still be a freak, no matter where he went.

Ahmed's sobs snap Patrick out of his reveling, as the scrawny boy crawls over to the bag, his hands shaking as he tries to grip the red canvas of the backpack. Patrick huffs, but before he can open up the backpack and take a look, he hears footsteps outside the bathroom, coming from down the hall. "Get in the fuckin' stall, go." Patrick growls, pointy sharply at the large handicapped stall at the other end of the bathroom. Patrick steps outside of the bathroom, and Ahmed can hear Patrick greeting whoever is outside. A friend of Patrick's probably. Another member of his little delinquent gang. Ahmed shuts the lid of the toilet and sinks down to sit on the lid, afraid his knees may give out. The sound of heavy boots approaches, and Patrick fingers slid around the stall door, pulling it open as he slips into the stall, locking it behind him. Ahmed tries to steady his breathing.

"Alright, open it up. C'mon." Patrick nods in Ahmed's direction. Shaking hands pull out textbooks, pens, pencils, even the leftovers from Ahmed's lunch. The objects clatter to the floor, scattering across the bottom of the stall. "See, nothing in here, just my school stuff." Ahmed's trembling hands extend the now empty bag to Patrick, presenting it almost proudly. "What... there's no fucking way." Patrick huffs. He begins to dig through the objects, kicking away the writing utensils as he grasps at the textbooks. He flips through each of the pages, trying to find anything incriminating. His frown only deepens as he finds nothing. He's about to give up, as he reaches for a blue folder labeled 'Math'. When he does, Ahmed lets out an involuntary whimper, causing Patrick to freeze. A sick grin spreads across the blonde's face, as he slowly pivots his head to look at Ahmed.

"There we go, somethin' in here you don't want me seeing?" He asks. Ahmed nods, tears cascading down his cheeks. "Alright, I'll tell you what, freak..." Patrick stands straight up, leaning up against the wall behind him. "Tell me what's in the folder, and I won't even look, okay? Just get it off your chest, I'm open-minded." Patrick purrs at the boy, watching his resolve crack in real-time.

"It's-" Ahmed goes quiet towards the end, his words so soft Patrick can't hear. "What was that? You gotta speak up." He sighs. "Or, I guess I could just look-" He moves to flip open the folder with the edge of his boot, causing Ahmed to jolt forward. "N-no!" The boy yells, thrusting his hands out in front of him. Patrick scoffs, tossing his head back for a moment as he laughs, clutching at his stomach. "Jesus, Ahmed, what the hell is in here that's got you so spooked?" Patrick asks. Ahmed shivers. Somehow Patrick using his real name is worse than him calling him 'freak'. It feels more personal.

"It's nudes... nude photographs." Ahmed whimpers, a blush of shame spreading across his cheeks as his gaze falls to the floor. "Oh- yours?" Patrick asks. Ahmed doesn't respond, causing Patrick's brows to furrow, an amused and pleasantly surprised expression coming onto his face. "Not yours, huh." Patrick glances down at the folder. "Who the hell's been giving you pussy, freak? Who's been letting you take those pics?" He asks. Ahmed's hands are tense, gripping the fabric covering his knees so hard that he worries they might tear.

"I- they didn't, alright?" Ahmed cries, curling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in shame. "They didn't-" Patrick takes a moment to process this information. His eyes light up in realization. "You really are a little pervert, huh? I knew something was off about you." He puts his hand on his knees, leaning over so he can make eye contact with Ahmed's curled up form. "A sick little pervert. You get off on those photos?" Ahmed whines. "Some poor kid at this school doesn't know that the school freak strokes it every night to a picture of them... poor them." Patrick leans down and picks up the folder.

"Wait, w-what are you doing, you said you wouldn't look if I told you the truth about what was in there?" Ahmed coughs, almost full on hyper-ventilating at this point, eyes wide in panic. Patrick nods, keeping eye contact with Ahmed as he flips open the folder. "True, but..." He shakes his head, his blonde locks falling from his loose ponytail. "How do I know you're telling me the truth about what's in here if I don't look?" Ahmed scoffs. "Why would I lie about having a folder of some creep-shots?" Patrick shrugs. "I don't know, maybe something like that doesn't seem that serious to you, y'know, because you're a pervert." He suggests. Patrick sticks his tongue teasingly out at Ahmed, before looking down at the gritty Polaroids nestled behind some math notes.

The photos are taken from all sorts of places. The ones at the front are simple upskirts from behind, the subjects face not visible. As Patrick examines more of them, he notices they seem to get more invasive. The final photograph was clearly shot at night, a bedroom window visible. The subject of the photo lies nude, and Patrick's face falls when he sees the face. He looks up at Ahmed, his breath halted. "They... they are cute, huh?" Ahmed looks up from his knees, confused. "You know them?" Ahmed swallows harshly, then nods. "Sort of... we have English together." As Ahmed explains the nature of his relationship to you, Patrick flips through the photos once more. Now that he knows these photos are of you, they have an even greater allure. "Hmm, I have lunch period with them, gym too..." He muses. "Heh, you should see em' in those little gym shorts, shit..." Ahmed isn't sure where this is going, but Patrick's calm tone and hyper-focused expression stress him out even more than when Patrick is outwardly aggressive. At least then he's predictable. Right now, Ahmed is in new territory with his tormentor.

Patrick sighs, and tucks the photos back into Ahmed's folder. He smacks the folder into the center of Ahmed's chest, making him let out a grunt as his trembling hands grip the blue plastic. "Listen, freak." He whispers. He places a hand on the wall behind Ahmed, allowing him to move his face right up in front of the boys. Brown eyes look back at him with fear. "Nobody has to know about all this. I'm still gonna kick your ass, but nobody has to know about your..." He thinks. "Let's call it 'extracurricular art project', okay?" Ahmed, gulps, and asks. "What do you want in return, I know the way you are." Patrick chuckles. "You're pretty smart, huh? Alright, I'll tell ya. Get me some of those photos, some new ones. And copy that last one, that shot into their room." He says. "Why, y-you like them too?" Ahmed whimpers. Patrick shrugs. "I know they've got a sweet little body, and I wouldn't mind a closer look at it, that's all." Ahmed considers this. If he doesn't agree, who knows what Patrick would tell everyone. God, Ahmed might even have to change schools again, and if he did, he couldn't be near you. He shakes his head. He won't let that happen.

"Alright, you got it. I- I think I can get them to you by friday." Ahmed offers, and Patrick nods. Ahmed moves to stand, but Patrick pushes him back. "One more thing, freak." He whispers. Ahmed bites his lips in fear. Patrick slips his hand from the boy's shoulder, down past his waist, and to the front of his victims school shorts. He roughly palms Ahmed's limp cock through his pants, making the boy choke on his own spit in shock. Patrick sighs softly at his reaction, leaning in to whisper into his ear.

"Snap me a pic of yourself too, freak..."

[buckysmith]

CALL OF DUTY CHARAS CHEAT ON YOU

Now that I have your attention, I think people don’t understand the difference between canon and headcanon/imagine.

I’m obviously the writer of “they cheat on you” headcanon/ the request/ imagine and I really don’t care if I loose Follower through what’s following.

If you have an issue with me don’t hide yourself behind someone who blocked me, write me and discuss it with me like an adult, my DMs are always open.

It’s one thing if you don’t like something/don’t agree with it, I’ve never said you had to in the first place but why’re you hating instead of talking to me.

Aren’t you capable to scroll away?

Am I sitting in front of you, forcing you to read my stuff?

You’ve read it out of curiosity and now you’re complaining, didn’t you learn that you burn your finger on the stove when it’s hot?

And if you can’t scroll away, if you can’t leave my comments alone without writing a hate comment then so it be, but don’t block me so that I can’t answer nor see your comment. That is pathetic and it shows that you’re not more than a simply hater, and I thought ppl don’t like haters, seems I was again in the wrong.

I’ve seen the post.

I’m begging at least have the balls and talk to me like an adult

[maihonhassan]

When Darwish said;

“You are killing me, and you are keeping me from dying. This is love.”

And Kafka wrote;

“You are the knife I twist inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.”

And Ahmad Faraz wrote;

“Faraz rahat e jaan bhi wohi hai kya kijiye, woh jis k hath se seena figaar apna hai.”

[meowcatsposts]

Breaking Focus [Ahmed]

Overview

He wants friends

He just wants them, bc he’s kinda lonely

But he ends up making the atmosphere awkward sometimes

So he’s not usually successful

But this time, he wants to be successful

With you

So he’s like, yolo Imma do it-

(Q’s basically wingman)

“Come on,” Q droned. “You’ll be fine, trust me! (Y/N) doesn’t bite.” 

He hovered beside Ahmed, small wings fluttering impatiently beside his head. Ahmed, on the other hand, looked deathly unsure. His green eyes nervously flitted to the back of your head, then to Q, then back to you. He could put on a stunning show for millions of screaming fans, yet he couldn’t muster the courage to talk to you. Why was this so unnecessarily hard?

“If it makes you feel any better,” Q offered, observing his colleague’s tight expression. "I'll go with you." Then, to sprinkle some humor, he added playfully, “As your totally awesome friend, I need to support you.”

After letting out a strained chuckle, Ahmed shook his head. 

“I should be ok," he sighed. "This shouldn’t be so hard…”

To Ahmed's surprise, the two of you got along quite well. So well, in fact, that he found it difficult to ignore your presence. He'd perk up when passing you in the halls, or cafeteria, or lounge room–anywhere, really. What started off as small, soft greetings evolved into comfortable, blossoming interactions that, quite frankly, Ahmed actually looked forward to. He found that, with you, there wasn't a need to fill silence with extra words–something he always felt obligated to do with others. 

Recently, he found that he couldn't help but to genuinely smile whenever he'd talk with you.

"So you were interested," Q teased. "I'm such a good friend."

Ahmed simply smiled it off, but his ears were tinged a cute red. 

"Who wouldn't be, though?" he replied, matter-of-factly. "(Y/N)'s a nice person."

Q huffed at his colleague's obscure answer. Little did he know, though, that Ahmed found you absolutely spellbinding. So spellbinding, perhaps, that you'd easily snap his focus into two.

"This isn't working as intended...just one minor flaw..."

Ahmed, hunched over his notes, sighed softly. With deft gloved hands he pinched a small vial between his fingers and inspected it, comparing the concoction with his rather large stack of records. After gently slipping the tube into its rack, he proceeded to scribble more notes on yet another sheet of paper. He was a hair's breadth away from success, and nothing was going to prevent him from seeing this experiment through.

In another part of the Union was Q, currently conspiring to break that laserlike focus of Ahmed's. 

As he fluttered restlessly he mumbled, "Drums didn't work...shouting his name didn't either...his fans, a little..." 

Exasperated, Q plopped down on a nearby couch and slapped his hands on his face, groaning loudly. Something had to break that damned focus.

Just then, as if the gods answered his cry, Q spotted you from the cracks of his fingers. Perfect! His eyes shone like LED party lights, and without a moment to waste he zoomed to you, unable to wipe that sneaky grin off his face. 

"Q?" you blurted, practically speechless. He just popped out of nowhere! After escaping from your stupor and assessing Q's eager expression, you knew that something was brewing inside that mischievous head of his. 

So you asked, rather doubtfully, "Do you need something?"

"I do, actually!" Q replied cheerfully, still wearing that fox-like grin. Though, after seeing your raised eyebrows and partial frown he added reassuringly, "It's nothing bad, I promise! I wanted your help with something..."

Step 1: Ask Ahmed to visit his lab.

"Can I visit you in the lab sometime?" you asked Ahmed, per Q's meticulously crafted instructions. "It's ok if you don't want me to, though," you added quickly. "I feel like it's rude..."

"Oh, sure! I don’t mind." Ahmed replied instantaneously, partially because he found your consideration quite endearing, and mostly because he enjoyed your company–loved it, even. With you there, he thought, his work might just progress faster. 

Though, he was quite curious. Why had you asked him that, of all things?

Step 2: After Ahmed agrees, go to his lab.

“Why are you following me?” you asked Q, who was fluttering beside your head with an impish grin. It seemed like he really couldn’t wipe that smile off his face, for reasons unknown.

Currently, you were making your way to the medical wing, wondering why Q’s steps were so simple (too simple, in fact), and also wondering what Ahmed would be doing in his lab. Was it an experiment? Observations? Note-taking? All of the above?

“What?” Q retorted, in an oddly excited way. His sharp voice broke your train of thought. “Can’t I see Ahmed, too?”

“Sure, sure.” Playfully you rolled your eyes, ignoring the fact that your train of thought was full of Ahmed in a lab coat. “You can see your boyfriend again.”

After a couple back-and-forths with an overly eager Q, your thoughts strayed back to Ahmed. You wondered what he’d look like, in lab attire. Would he be wearing safety goggles? Gloves? Would his wavy, purple hair be tied into a short ponytail? You suppressed a giggle, imagining how he’d look with his hair up; he’d probably look just as stunning, you bet.

Finally, a door stared you in the face–a closed one.

"It's closed," you half whispered, half shouted, gesturing to the looming entrance. "He's probably doing something important!"

Q completely ignored your panicked remark and rapped several times (a little too loudly), but to no avail. 

"See?" you said, "I don't want to–"

"Ahmed!" Q shouted, shamelessly opening the door. He completely blew off your warning, again. "(Y/N)'s here!"

After glaring daggers at Q, you timidly stepped into the room and immediately spotted the med ops chief dressed in his white lab coat, skillfully tinkering with equipment you couldn't put a name to. Clear goggles covered his emerald green eyes, and his wavy purple locks framed his face normally (no ponytails, sadly). He scribbled furiously on a sheet of paper and paid no mind to his two visitors, eyes boring through his work. He really is focused, you thought in awe, watching his deft fingers work with caution and precision all at the same time.

"Say something!" Q commanded. "He didn't hear me."

"But–"

"Just do it!"

Step 3: Say his name.

Sighing, you sucked in a readying breath and mumbled softly, "Uh...Ahmed? Q and I came to visit."

With that, Ahmed's head whipped up and his hands ceased writing, the intense focus in his eyes perpetually gone. Was he the same person?

"Oh, hi..." Ahmed replied, smiling sheepishly. He carefully adjusted his coat, smoothening some invisible wrinkles with his palms. "So you came."

You nodded and added with a hint of playful sarcasm, "Partially coerced by Q, though."

Ahmed chuckled. Typical of Q, he thought. You probably wouldn’t come here by yourself, after all. 

"I was just testing out a few concoctions," he further explained to you, gesturing to the test tubes in their respective racks. Each glinted with a substance–not all were liquids, you saw. "None of them are working as intended, though..."

Ahmed’s gaze then flitted to Q, whose jaw was practically touching the floor. He did feel a twinge of guilt, though, because he was too absorbed by you. Still, he wondered why his colleague looked so astonished.

"What the–" Q blurted. His eyes blew wide, glinting and gleaming like a cat soaked in water. "I didn't think this would work."

Ahmed, who was utterly confused, asked, "What?" 

He then turned to you, whose lips were curving into a smile, only to be more confused.

"What are you smiling for?" Ahmed asked again. This time, trouble painted his beautiful eyes.

"(Y/N) broke your focus! I finally found someone who could do it!" Q replied lightning quick. "So you are interested, huh?"

Now it was your turn to ask, with a blushing face, “What?”

purple dividers from: firefly-graphics

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Drawn to you | Pt. 1

(A/N) My first Alastor fanfiction. Let me know if you want another part!

Pairing: Alastor x bunny demon!Reader (no Y/N)

Warning: fluff, talk about death, mentions of Alastors human life activities (iykyk)

Synopsis: Alastor had never felt the need for friends, or something even deeper. But now that you're here...what is that feeling in his chest?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Everyone was gathered in the hotel lobby as Charlie was going through a new trust exercise. Angel had tuned out a long time ago and Husk didn’t even come out from behind his bar. The only ones actively listening were Vaggie, Nifty, and Sir Pentious. Alastor, similarly to Angel was physically there but not paying any attention.

Instead, his mind was focused on his radio broadcast comeback. What would he talk about? Who’s screams would he share with the other sinners?

A timid knock brought him back to there and then, as his eyes met Charlie’s. Hers were bright and sparkling, anticipation clear.

“A new guest, a new guest, a new guest.”

The words left her in a sing-song manner as she started to skip towards the front door. But Alastor held out his cane to stop the princess.

“Please, don’t let this interrupt this very important exercise. I will gladly see to whoever is at the door. As is my job, of course.”

His signature smile widened, almost in a desperate way. Anything to get out of this group therapy.

“Ah, of course, Alastor. Thank you.”

With that, Charlie turned back towards the rest of the group and continued to talk, but not without glancing back a few times, to watch what was going on.

As soon as the princess agreed to let Alastor handle the newcomer, he used his shadows to teleport himself over to the door, before energetically swinging it open. His mouth opened to speak his practiced welcome, but no words came out.

His eyes landed on you and he felt his mouth dry up. You were…cute.

“H-Hi. I hope I’m not bothering anyone, I…I heard about the hotel and w-wanted to ask if I-I could help?”

The demon in front of you kept staring without uttering a single word and you started to grow worried. Maybe you shouldn’t have come. Maybe they didn’t need any more people working here. Maybe they didn’t even want anyone else working here. Maybe this is all just a huge front for something really sinister. Maybe…

Alastor blinked, once, twice, three times before something pulled him out of his stupor. His eyes snapped to the top of your head, where your long ears had started to twitch while you were overthinking.

“Ahm…”

Alastor started but was quickly cut off when Charlie appeared beside him.

“Hi! We’d love your help! Come in, come in!”

The princess quickly grabbed your hands and pulled you inside, leaving the stunned overlord at the door. You smiled at her energetic display, but couldn’t help but glance back at the sinner, dressed in red, still standing at the door. By now he was slowly closing it before he turned to look at you.

Being caught staring, you quickly averted your gaze and instead focused on what the demon beside you was saying. She introduced you to the others, before she whisked you away, to show you around. Alastor was left in the lobby, mulling over what had just happened.

“Looks like someone left you speechless, huh Smiles?”

It was almost terrifying how quickly Alastor whipped around to glare at the spider demon.

“Would you like to repeat that, Angel?”

Loud static filled the lobby and Angel shrunk in on himself, muttering a quick apology before running to his room. Alastor sighed and fixed his bowtie, asking himself what had gotten him so worked up. His mind only answered with a single image. You, at the door, looking at him, hope in your eyes.

With a quiet growl, Alastor teleported himself to his radio tower. At least there he would be able to find some peace. Or so he thought. He had barely sat down when he heard a familiar voice outside the door.

“And this is Alastor’s radio tower. Do you see this light? When this is on, he’s in the middle of a broadcast and you really shouldn’t disturb him. Just in general, if he’s in here, only disturb him if really necessary. Honestly, I think that’s something that applies to him in general.”

The last sentence had Alastor up on his feet and in front of the door in a split second. He swung it open, his signature grin wide.

“Ah, the newbie.”

He grinned down at you, his grin faltering slightly as he watched you shrink away. Still, he carried on.

“Would you like a tour of my studio? It’s small, but it is mighty.”

Had Alastor spared Charlie a look, he would’ve noticed how her eyes lit up and she started nodding.

“I think that would be wonderful!”

Charlie gently shoved you towards the door.

“I have to get back to the others. Would you finish the tour after the…tour? Just show her to her room, that’s all that’s left.”

Alastor nodded, before placing his hand on the small of your back and gently ushering you inside.

“Of course, consider it done.”

Charlie thanked him, before hurrying back to the lobby.

Once Charlie was gone, Alastor closed the door and turned to look at you. He was about to say something, but the moment he noticed the amazement in your eyes, he lost the words he was about to speak. Instead, he let you look around, walk up to his console, and trail your fingers over the buttons and levers.

This was his holy space. Somewhere where not even the princess of Hell was allowed to enter. But you being here? That just felt right. He continued to watch you, and for the first time in his life, both on Earth and here, he felt something like…love.

“Do you like it?”

His voice was soft, the static almost completely gone. You turned to look at him and after a moment of hesitation, you nodded.

“When I was alive, I used to work in a radio station. I wasn’t a host, but I wrote scripts and corresponded with listeners. I loved it.”

Alastor’s smile turned genuine as he slowly walked toward you.

“May I ask where you worked? In which city?”

You chuckled and turned back to the controls.

“New Orleans.”

Alastor halted in his movements, staring at you with wide eyes.

“A-And when did you die?”

His hands were shaking. What if…?

“Not too long ago. I think one, maybe two years ago.”

Your response caused him to release a breath of relief. If you had died closer to his lifetime, there would’ve been a good chance you knew of his doings and for some reason…he didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want you to fear him, to think of him with disgust in your heart.”

“Well, it seems we’re connected in some ways. I too worked in a radio station in New Orleans! However, I did pass quite some time before you have.”

You look at him, a soft smile on your face.

“That’s too bad. I would love to have met you on Earth.”

He grinned and stepped closer to you.

“Well, you’ve met me now.”

With practiced grace, he reached for your hand and brought it to his lips, ghosting a kiss onto your knuckles. You could feel your cheeks heat up at the gesture and quickly tried to change the topic.

“So you still have a radio broadcast down here?”

Alastor chuckled at your reaction before straightening to his full height again.

“I sure do. Although I did have to take a break. I’m currently working on my comeback if you’d like to help me.”

You nodded, excited at the prospect of working in radio again.

The two of you sat down together and started working, not noticing how late it was getting. By the time either of you realized what time it was, it was well past midnight and both your bellies were grumbling with hunger.

“My oh my, we truly got a lot done. How about some well-deserved dinner, my dear?”

You nodded and accepted Alastor’s hand, and before you knew it, you were standing in a different room. Half of it looked like a standard hotel room with a couch and table, but the other half looked like a forest. A forest you knew all too well.

“Couturie Forest.”

Alastor chuckled beside you.

“You are right. That forest was one of my favorite places when I was alive. I couldn’t resist the urge to bring it here as well.”

You smile at him.

“It’s beautiful.”

With a genuine grin on his face, Alastor offered you his hand, before leading you to the small dinner table that stood inside the forest. He pulled out your chair, before pushing it back in.

“What are you in the mood for, cher?”

You thought for a while before you named one of your favorite dishes. And with a snap of his fingers, it stood in front of you. Your eyes went wide as the smell invaded your nose.

“How…?”

“Well, let’s just say this is a part of my powers?”

You chuckled, before taking a bite, and an almost pornographic moan left your lips.

“Alastor, this is so good!”

His grin widened as he sat down opposite from you, also taking a bite.

The two of you made small talk while you ate, mostly talking about New Orleans and what had changed since Alastor had died. Even after both of you were done with the food, you continued to talk until you could no longer keep the yawns at bay.

Alastor chuckled and snapped, and the dirty dishes disappeared.

“Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

He gently helped you to your feet and with his hand on your lower back, he led you out of his room and across the hall, where an empty room waited for a guest.

“There you go, cher. This is your room, to do with as you please.”

He opened the door and gently ushered you inside.

“But for now, you should go to sleep.”

Once again, he captured your hand and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, before looking up at you.

“Good night, dear.”

You smile at him sleepily.

“Good night, Alastor.”

Please consider reblogging and following me! It helps a lot!

Hazbin Hotel - Masterlist

Master-Masterlist