#i have a wayward fic yes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

La Regina

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Charles Leclerc x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: a girl raised at her father’s knee goes from rising star to princess to queen (or in which becoming a legend runs in the Schumacher family)

You bounce excitedly in the passenger seat of your papa’s car as he pulls into the parking lot of the karting track. At 5-years-old, you’re too young to race officially, but he promised to let you drive some practice laps after the scheduled competition today.

“Remember, Maus, listen closely to the instructors and stay safe out there,” Michael says, ruffling your hair affectionately before getting out.

You scramble out after him, having to jog to keep up with his long strides across the parking lot. You reach to take his hand, but freeze when a small crowd starts converging around your papa. Men in bright vests are rushing over, cameras flashing rapidly.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” You ask, startled by the commotion.

Before Michael can respond, a curly-haired woman thrusts a baby into his arms. “Oh my god, can you just hold her for one second? I need a picture!”

Your papa looks bewildered but graciously cradles the infant, giving an awkward smile as more and more people start shoving pieces of paper and pens in front of him.

“Excuse me, please, I have my daughter with me today,” he tries saying over the chaos, but no one is listening.

You shrink back, overwhelmed by the pushing crowd and flurry of voices pleading for autographs and photos. Where did all these people come from? This has never happened before when you’ve gone karting with your papa.

Sensing your unease, Michael gently passes the baby back to its mother and kneels down in front of you. “Hey, it’s okay, Maus. Why don’t you wait for me over there?” He gestures to a bench off to the side.

Part of you wants to cling to him, scared of all the strangers crowding around so aggressively. But you also don’t want him to have to worry about you on top of everything else. You nod bravely and make your way through the throng to the little bench, watching apprehensively as your papa tries politely handling the requests.

After what feels like forever, the crowd finally starts dispersing, though a few linger behind like stubborn cats begging for scraps. Michael shakes the last few hands and accepts some papers to sign before gratefully escaping over to you.

“I’m so sorry about that, Maus,” he says, looking apologetic as he plops down on the bench. “I didn’t expect such a scene on what’s supposed to be our fun day.”

“It’s okay, Papa.” You lean against his side, still a bit rattled but comforted by his familiar warmth. “Who were all those people? Why did they want your … uhh …“ You can’t quite remember the word for the scribbles people ask famous people for.

“Autographs,” Michael supplies with an amused chuckle, wrapping an arm around you. “And they wanted photos too, I suppose. I’m … well, I’m quite a famous racecar driver.”

You cock your head, trying to process this concept of your papa being some kind of celebrity. As far as you’re concerned, he’s just your goofy, loving dad who takes you karting and makes the silliest voices for all your stuffed animals at home.

“Really? Like the famous famous people on TV?” You’ve seen the paparazzi swarming the actors and musicians during awards shows, but you’d never imagined that could happen to your own papa.

Michael nods, drawing you closer with a squeeze. “Yes, somewhat like that, though it’s a bit excessive at a small karting event.” He laughs again and brushes some of your wayward hair from your face. “But you’re right, to you I’m just Papa. I don’t expect anything more from my favorite Maus.”

You beam at the affectionate nickname, all the earlier stress melting away. Who cares if strangers want your papa’s autograph or photos? All that matters is you two spending the day together like always.

“Can we go get our karts now?” You ask eagerly, bouncing a little on the bench. “I want to show you how fast I can go!”

“Of course!” Michael jumps up and scoops you into his arms with a playful growl, making you shriek giddily. “My little speed demon is going to leave me in the dust.”

He swings you up onto his shoulders and you cling on tightly as he strides toward the pit area. A few more people spot him and make a move closer with cameras and sharpies extended, but seem to think better of it when they see you perched up high.

The two of you spend the next couple hours karting together, trading places taking warm up laps and cheering each other on. At one point, a young attendant working the pit area approaches Michael somewhat nervously.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Schumacher?” He’s clutching a crumpled baseball cap in one hand, ducking his head shyly. “I’m just such a huge fan, would you mind taking a photo and signing this for me after your session?”

Your papa smiles kindly at the young man and takes the cap. “Not at all, no problem.” As the attendant walks away, looking elated, Michael turns to you with a wink. “See? That’s how you politely ask for an autograph.”

You giggle and mime zipping your lips. “Don’t worry, Papa, I won’t let the fame go to my head when I’m a famous racecar driver too someday.”

Scooping you up once more, Michael presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “That’s my girl. Now, last few laps — let’s see who can go the fastest without ending up in the grass!”

As evening starts falling, the two of you make your way back through the now nearly deserted lot after returning the rental karts. Most of the other karters have cleared out, leaving just you two strolling unhurriedly back to the car.

“Well Maus, despite the, uh, overexcited fans, I’d call this day a success,” Michael says, swinging your joined hands idly. “We both had our fun on the track, and I think you handled that crowd back there like a champ.”

You smile up at him, still so proud just to be his daughter. “I don’t care about all those other people, papa. As long as I have you, that’s all I need.”

Stopping beside the car, Michael crouches down and cups your face in his calloused racing palms, looking at you with such fierce adoration.

“Maus, you have me, always. No matter what happens out there,” he gestures vaguely at the empty track, “When I’m with you, I’m just Papa. My greatest accomplishment, my biggest award, is being your father. Verstanden?”

You launch yourself into his arms, hugging as tightly as you can. “Verstanden, Papa. I love you.”

“Ich liebe dich mehr, Maus,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to your hair. “Now, what do you say we go get some victory ice cream?”

As the two of you climb into the car, you can’t keep the smile off your face, practically glowing with contentment. Sure, maybe your papa is some big famous racecar driver that everybody wants a piece of. But really, he’s just your papa — and you’re his whole world.

***

The ringing of the house phone cuts through the tense silence like a knife. You shrink further into the couch cushions as your mother rushes to answer it, shoulders visibly taut.

“Hello? No, I cannot make any comment at this time. Yes, I understand there is interest but-” Corinna breaks off, rubbing her temples wearily. “Please respect our privacy as a family right now. Thank you.”

She hangs up and leans against the wall, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. Before she can even draw a full breath, the phone rings again, shrill and insistent. With a muffled curse, your mother snatches it up.

“What? I told you, I cannot give any statements! This is a private matter. How did you even get this number?”

You watch apprehensively as she responds again, her voice rising in distress. In the days since your papa’s skiing accident, it seems like the entire world has been hounding your family, desperate for any scrap of information.

On the TV across the room, the endless cycle of news reports drones on lowly. Images of your papa’s broken, still body being rushed from the slopes into a helicopter. Flashing advancer texts speculating on his chances of recovery from the traumatic head injury.

It makes you feel ill.

Beside you on the couch, Mick sits blank-faced, looking nearly as pale and worn as your mother. At 14, he understands the gravity of the situation all too well. Your big brother has always idolized your papa, hoping to follow in his racing footsteps one day as well. The thought of him not being there to see the realization of that dream is devastating.

Gina is curled up in the armchair, her shoulders shaking every so often with muffled sobs. At 16, she’s arguably been taking this the hardest of all you kids. She keeps her face stoically dry in front of your mother, but you can see how red and puffy her eyes are from constant crying.

As for you, at 11-years-old, you’re somehow both numb and feeling everything all at once. Part of you still can’t fully process that this nightmare is real. That your hero, your papa, could be lying comatose in a hospital, hovering between life and death. The other part of you is overwhelmed in a tsunami of terror, panic, anger, sadness — any and every emotion crashing through you at all hours.

“Kids, I’m so sorry about this,” your mother says, defeated, as she rejoins you in the living room after ending her latest call. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened further overnight. “I know this is incredibly difficult and intrusive. But your papa is … he’s a public figure. People are concerned.”

“Incredibly insensitive is what they’re being,” Gina spits, uncurling herself from the chair enough to shoot your mother a resentful look. “We’re going through actual hell and all these people care about is getting a sound bite for the evening news!”

Corinna looks pained but doesn’t rebuke her. “I know, liebling, I know. But your papa has millions of fans all over the world who have followed his career for decades. Whether we like it or not, they care about him … and about us by extension.”

You think back to that day at the karting track all those years ago when you first realized your papa was what people called “famous”. How all those strangers clamored around him so aggressively just for a photo or an autograph. That level of fandom seemed exciting and novel at the time, when you were just a naïve 5-year-old. Now you see it for how intrusive and violating it is, this sense of entitlement people have to the private life of a public figure.

The phone starts ringing again, shattering the fragile quiet. Your mother squeezes her eyes shut and makes no move to get it this time. After four rings, the call goes to voicemail. A moment later, the tinny sound of an Italian voicemail being left blares through the speaker.

“Scusi, scusi, please, if there is any update on the condition of the great Michael Schumacher, any information at all! We are all holding vigils and saying prayers, but we must know how he fares! The world is watching and waiting!”

The words, pleading and demanding all at once, are like a slap across your face. The man’s voice is laced with such desperation, as if your papa’s life is mere entertainment to be consumedby the masses. You feel abruptly furious, incensed that a stranger’s morbid curiosity is given the same weight as your family’s anguish.

“Turn it off,” Mick mutters through clenched teeth, hunching over on the couch. “Just turn it off, Mama.”

Corinna nods numbly and reaches to end the voicemail, her mouth set in a grim line. Buzzing fills the room again as the TV drones on, the reporters’ voices a dull roar that you can no longer discern actual words from as your ears ring with white noise.

The shrill ringing of the phone cuts through once more, like a record scratching in your brain. Your mother flinches violently, hands coming up to clamp over her ears as she squeezes her eyes shut, finally at her breaking point.

Unable to watch this torture anymore, you surge to your feet and storm across the living room. You rip the phone from its cradle and hurl it against the far wall, the plastic casing shattering loudly. The ringing blessedly ends, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.

Mick and Gina stare at you with wide, stunned eyes. Your mother simply deflates, sliding down the wall to the floor as the adrenaline drains from her body. For several beats, no one dares breathe too loudly. Then, Gina starts to shake her head slowly, tears slipping free.

“Brava,” she murmurs, the barest hint of approval in her voice.

Your mother doesn’t scold you for the outburst. She merely reaches out a hand, silently beckoning you closer until you slowly cross the room again and sink to your knees in front of her. She cups your face in her palms, her own cheeks glistening with fresh tears.

“You’re right, liebling, you’re right,” she whispers brokenly. “This is about our family, not … not the world thinking they’re owed something.”

She pulls your head against her shoulder and you cling to her tightly as she begins to weep in earnest, great shuddering sobs wracking her whole frame. Gina scrambles over and tucks herself against your mother’s other side, and soon all three of you are tangled in each other’s arms, letting the tidal wave of grief crest over you.

Mick stays frozen on the couch, watching over your huddle with dark, haunted eyes. For the first time since this ordeal began, the four of you are united in simply feeling, truly letting yourselves shatter. No more putting on brave faces or pretending to be okay — from this moment, you can finally grieve as a family behind closed doors, blockading out the rest of the cruel, prying world.

Later that evening, after crying yourselves into an exhausted stupor, you drift up the stairs and sequester yourself in your bedroom. You bypass the framed photos of your papa on your nightstand, the sight of his bright smile and twinkling eyes too searing at the moment. Instead, you sink to your knees in the middle of the floor and clasp your hands tightly, bowing your head to murmur desperate pleas.

“Please, please let my papa be okay. I don’t care about all his fame or the stupid reporters. I just want him to get better and come home to us. He’s not just the famous Michael Schumacher to me. He’s Papa. He’s my whole world.”

The words spill out in a torrent, all the fear and longing you’ve been bottling up for the better part of a week erupting forth. You plead to any higher power that may be listening, bargaining away your future, your dreams, anything — as long as your papa pulls through this nightmare.

How many times had you taken for granted those moments of him just being your dad — making you pancakes on Saturday mornings, dozing on the couch during family movie nights, playfully tossing you into the pool when you grew too whiny in the summer heat? You’d give anything to have those simple, precious daddy-daughter moments back.

“The world can have his trophies and titles,” you whisper fiercely, tears slipping free to patter on the carpet. “I don’t care about any of that. I just want my papa. Please, please bring him back to us.”

You curl in on yourself, forehead pressing into the floor as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. All the adoring fans, the fawning media, the hangers-on clamoring for a piece of his glory — they only know the manufactured public persona of Michael Schumacher, legendary racer and famous celebrity. But to you, he’s always just been the quiet hero tucking you into bed at night, the gentle presence reading stories in funny voices, the mighty protector pulling you in for all-encompassing bear hugs.

You miss that wonderful, silly, tender father more than anything in the world. You don’t give a damn about his racing accolades or his fame. You just desperately need your papa back home where he belongs — with his family, the people who loved and treasured him most as simply Michael.

Just Michael. Your one and only papa.

The raw ache of that longing consumes you utterly. You lay there amid the fading light from your bedroom windows, dreams and memories of your papa flickering behind your eyelids as you plead to any benevolent force that may be listening. All you want is the chance to make more joyful memories with him, to hear his rich laugh, to keep basking in his unconditional love for years and years to come.

Please, you beg the universe silently, one last time. Please let this nightmare end. Don’t let the brightest light in my world be extinguished before its time.

Let me have my papa back.

***

A tense hush has fallen over the dining room table, the clinking of utensils against plates the only sound cutting through the thick silence. Gina avoids everyone’s eyes, pushing food around her plate listlessly. Mick stares down at his half-eaten dinner, jaw working like he’s chewing over something weighty. You pick at a bread roll, too knotted with anxiety to muster much appetite.

Your mother is the one to finally break the stifling quiet, clearing her throat. “Kids, I know these last few weeks have been … incredibly difficult for us all.”

You risk a glance up at Corinna. Her eyes are tight at the corners, her mouth a taut line. Just like all of you, the constant vigil at your papa’s bedside, combined with the relentless badgering from the media, has clearly taken its toll.

“But we have to keep trying to be a family, yes?” She reaches across the table to grip your hand. “We’re all Michael has right now. We have to … to stick together for him.”

You nod numbly, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat at the reminder of your papa’s unchanged condition. The waiting, the not knowing if or when he’ll wake up, is a special kind of torment you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Mick abruptly shoves his plate away, the porcelain scraping loudly across the wood. You all flinch a little at the harsh sound.

“I’ve been thinking ...” he starts, then seems to reconsider his words, shoulders tightening fractionally. “Well, Y/N, you know how I … how I race under Mama’s last name?”

You frown slightly, uncertain where he��s going with this. “Betsch, yes. Because you wanted to make your own name without the expectation and pressure of being Michael Schumacher’s son.”

He dips his chin once, looking almost pained. “Exactly. And I think … I think maybe you should consider doing the same.”

The words sit heavy and convolulenting between you all like a sack of wet cement. You blink dumbly, hardly comprehending what he’s suggesting at first. When the implication hits you, you actually recoil as if he’d slapped you across the face.

“What? No. No, absolutely not, Mick. How can you even say that?”

“Y/N, just hear me out,” he pleads, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “With Papa … with what happened, the paparazzi and the fans, they’re going to be watching our every move even more than before. Especially you since you’re planning to continue competing-”

“Don’t you dare make this about his condition,” you spit, fury thrumming through your veins like struck lightning. “And of course I plan to keep racing — it’s what Papa would want! I’m not going to hide from his name like it’s some shameful thing!”

Gina is watching the exchange with wide, startled eyes, her food forgotten. Mick runs an agitated hand through his hair, shaking his head firmly.

“It’s not about hiding or shame, it’s about protecting yourself! Don’t you see how crazy things have gotten? All the reporters harassing us, the fans leaving awful messages online hoping for updates ...”

He leans forward, expression almost desperate. “If you race as Betsch, you can compete without having that extra spotlight. You can just be a normal kid on the track without people peering in.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck in waves of humiliation and rage. How dare he insinuate that inheriting your papa’s legacy is some kind of burden to be shrugged off? That the name Schumacher is a burden to bear rather than a badge of honor?

“I’m not you, Mick,” you bite out, fists clenching beneath the table. “Maybe racing under Mama’s name helped you deal with the pressure better and that’s fine. But I’m proud to be Michael Schumacher’s daughter! And if people can’t respect that, if they think it means they own a piece of me, then they can go to hell!”

“Language!” Your mother gasps, both appalled and slightly impressed. But you ignore her admonishment, too fired up to rein it in now.

“What, you think pretending to be someone else is going to spare me from living in Papa’s shadow anyway?” You shake your head adamantly, leaning across the table towards Mick. “It’s not, and you know it. Even if I raced under a fake name, everyone is still going to know exactly who I am and make comparisons.”

Slamming your palms on the table, you surge to your feet, chair screeching harshly against the floor. All the pain and uncertainty of these past few weeks is bubbling over into bitter, biting words.

“So why should I hide it? Why can’t I take pride in my name and my heritage? Maybe it’ll mean more scrutiny, but it’s a million times better than feeling like I have to be ashamed! Like I can’t fully honor Papa and make him proud!”

Chest heaving, you stare down a wide-eyed Mick, almost daring him to challenge you further. He seems to read the conviction blazing in your eyes, features softening into chagrin.

“You’re right ...” he murmurs with a wince. “You’re right, Y/N, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

You hold his repentant gaze for a long moment before deflating back into your chair with a muted thud. In the ringing silence, you can hear your mother’s soft sniffles from the far end of the table. When you look over, she has her head bowed, hands pressed to her eyes as she cries quietly.

“M-Mama?” Gina ventures in a small voice, reaching across to grasp her mother’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”

Corinna lowers her hands, swiping at the tears streaking her cheeks. When she meets your bewildered gaze, her expression is a complicated brew of pride and heart-wrenching sadness.

“Nothing is wrong, liebling,” she assures Gina with a watery smile, before turning back to you. “Y/N, you’re so much like your papa, do you know that? So brave and determined … so full of that same fighting spirit.”

She dips her chin, lips trembling faintly. “He would be so proud to hear you defend his name like that. To see you ready to take on the weight of wearing it, regardless of what the world throws at you.”

More tears spill forth, but she brushes them away impatiently with the backs of her hands.

“But liebchen, you have to understand … Michael spent decades bearing that scrutiny and expectation. People analyzing his every move, always under a spotlight so harsh it burned. I never wanted that for any of you.”

Sliding her chair back, your mother crosses to kneel before you, cradling your face gently between her palms. Her eyes are shining but intensely serious, almost pleading with you.

“The Schumacher name casts such a long shadow, one so great that your own light can be eclipsed before you ever have a chance to properly shine. I don’t want you smothered by that burden, mein schatz. I want you free to make your own amazing mark on this world, completely unchained.”

You feel your throat grow tight at her words, the weight of them ringing so true and terribly sad. You reach up to circle your fingers around her wrists, holding her hands to your cheeks like vices.

“I know, Mama, I know,” you whisper roughly. “But that light you want me to shine? Papa is the one who sparked it inside me in the first place.”

You meet her watery gaze steadily, willing her to understand the conviction taking root inside you.

“The joy and passion I have for racing doesn’t come from some anonymous dream. It comes from him — from the nights he spent giving me a play-by-play of his biggest victories, from the days we spent at the karting tracks making memories, from everything I want so desperately to honor.”

Leaning forward until your brows nearly touch, you let the pleasing words spill out directly from your heart.

“So please, please don’t ask me to race as anyone other than your daughter, yes, but also proudly as Michael Schumacher’s daughter. That name isn’t a burden or a shadow to me. It’s something I want to carry forward and make blaze even brighter.”

Your mother’s eyes slip shut as she draws in a shuddering breath. For a long moment, she simply holds your face cradled in her palms, seeming to bask in your impassioned words. When her eyes finally open again, they are overflowing with a fierce tenderness.

“Oh liebchen,” she murmurs, voice thick with an odd mix of grief and wonder. “You are your father’s daughter through and through. So determined, so unafraid to face the world head on ...”

She strokes her thumbs along the apples of your cheeks, swiping away the dampness there. “I only hope he knows just how brightly his fire still burns in you. How it is living on in the most brilliant way.”

Surging up onto her knees, your mother pulls you into a fierce embrace, tucking your head beneath her chin. You cling to her tightly, drawing strength from her warmth, her tireless support and love. Over her shoulder, you can see Mick and Gina watching silently, their own eyes overly bright.

When your mother finally leans back, cupping your face once more, her expression has regained some of its usual firmness and resolution.

“Very well, then,” she nods, offering you a watery but determined smile. “If you truly feel ready to take on the world, to claim that name and legacy as yours, then we will face it together. As a family.”

She rises lithely to her feet, drawing you up along with her. Gathering Mick and Gina in with the sweep of her arms, she folds you all in her protective embrace, holding your foreheads together in the center.

“You may be Schumachers, but that name does not define or limit you,” she declares, quiet but firm. “It is simply one part of your identity, one piece of the incredible legacy you inherited. What you choose to make of it, how brightly you make that legacy burn, is up to you alone.”

She pulls back just enough to meet each of your eyes in turn, her own gleaming with resolute pride.

“So let them watch, let them scrutinize and sneer and make their judgments. You will simply keep chasing your passions and living your truths. Yes, the world may know you as Schumachers, but you alone will define what that name represents, now and for generations to come.”

***

The roar of the engines fades as you cross the finish line, taking the chequered flag. The broadcast team erupts in excitement.

“Unbelievable! Y/N Schumacher has done it — the daughter of the legendary Michael Schumacher wins the Formula 2 championship in her rookie year!”

You can hardly believe it yourself as you start your cooldown lap, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The pit crew is cheering wildly, holding up the #1 sign. Your race engineer is on the radio, his voice cracking with joy. “You’re a champion, Y/N! A first-year champion!”

“What an incredible drive from the young German. Shades of her father with that relentless determination and racecraft. She’s carried on the Schumacher name proudly.”

As you return to the pit lane, you spot Mick getting out of his own car. He has a huge smile on his face, eyes shining with pride. You take a moment to drink it all in as you bring your car to a stop and he’s the first one there, ripping off your helmet so he can hug you tightly.

“You did it! I’m so proud of you!” He’s beaming as he pulls back to look at you.

“Aww, Mick ...” You blink back happy tears, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what you’ve accomplished. “I couldn’t have done it without you pushing me every single race.”

Mick shakes his head dismissively. “This was all you. You were the faster driver this season, plain and simple.” His face falls a little. “I really thought I had you there at the end, but you just wouldn’t give up.”

You grin cheekily. “Of course not! I’m a Schumacher — we never give up.”

“What a beautiful moment between the siblings. You can see the immense pride Mick has for his sister, despite coming up just short of winning the championship himself.”

The rest of the team surrounds the two of you, lifting you both up onto their shoulders as the celebrations kick into full gear. You lock eyes with Mick over the sea of smiling faces and he winks at you contentedly.

Later, after you’ve returned to the garage, you find a quiet moment alone with Mick. He pulls you into another hug, this one more lingering.

“I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You’ve worked so incredibly hard for this.” Mick’s voice is thick with emotion.

You squeeze him tightly. “Thank you, Mick. That means everything coming from you.”

He pulls back, cupping your face fondly. “I remember when we were kids, dreaming of following in Papa’s footsteps. And now look at us!”

You laugh, a few happy tears spilling over. “I know, it’s crazy! I couldn’t have done this without your help, you know. You’ve been by my side every step of the way.”

“A storybook ending for the Schumacher siblings. Y/N cementing herself as a future star, with her older brother not far behind.”

Mick shakes his head adamantly. “No, Y/N, this was all your talent and determination. I just got a front row seat to watching greatness in the making.” His eyes are shining with sincerity.

You throw your arms around his neck, struck by how lucky you are to have such an amazing brother. “I love you, Mick. Thank you for always believing in me.”

He hugs you fiercely. “I’ll always believe in you. You’re a champion now, but I know this is just the beginning for you.”

The team arrives then, champagne bottles in hand and ready to continue the celebration. You pull back and grin at Mick mischievously, cracking open the first bottle with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you … for now.”

The bubbly liquid sprays everywhere as you both dissolve into laughter, reveling in this perfect moment of sibling bonding and love. Mick pulls you into a wet hug, so proud and grateful to share this with you.

“And an iconic image — the Schumacher children celebrating a Formula 2 title just like their father did in the upper series so many times before. A changing of the guard, with the name Schumacher set to dazzle racing fans once more for years to come.”

Later that night, after you’ve showered off the champagne and slipped into comfy clothes, there’s a soft knock at your hotel room door. You open it to find Mick standing there, shifting awkwardly.

“Hey, you’ve got a second?” His eyes are slightly red-rimmed, like he’s been crying.

“Of course, what’s up?” You gesture him inside, concerned by his demeanor.

Mick enters slowly, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He seems to be struggling to find the words.

You rest a hand on his arm. “Mick, you can tell me anything, you know that.”

He nods jerkily, finally meeting your eyes. “I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You have no idea how much it means to me to see you accomplishing your dreams.” His voice catches with emotion.

“But?” You prod gently.

Mick’s eyes water again. “But … it’s also really hard for me. This was my dream first, you know? To become a champion like Papa.” He swipes at the tears angrily. “And now you’ve beaten me to it. I’m just … I’m struggling with that a bit.”

Your heart clenches at his quiet admission. You pull Mick into a tight hug, rubbing his back soothingly. “Oh, Mick … I’m so sorry. I never wanted to take that away from you.”

He shakes his head against your shoulder. “No, no, it’s not your fault at all. You earned this, fair and square. I’m just … dealing with some complicated emotions, I guess.”

You push him back by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes intently. “Mick, listen to me. You are one of the most naturally gifted drivers I’ve ever seen. This is not the end for you, not even close. You��re going to be a champion too, I know it.”

Mick seems to deflate slightly at your words, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you state firmly. “We’re going to take this to the top level together. And we’re going to make Papa even more proud than he already is.”

A slow smile spreads across Mick’s face. “Together,” he repeats, reaching out to take your hand and give it a squeeze.

You squeeze back reassuringly. “Always together. You and me, just like when we were kids. We’re a team, remember?”

Mick nods, the brightness returning to his eyes. He seems lighter now, the melancholy cloud lifted by your words of encouragement.

On impulse, you throw your arms around him again, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug. Mick laughs delightedly, squeezing you just as tightly.

“Thank you, Y/N. I needed to hear that from you,” he murmurs shakily into your hair.

You pull back just enough to grin at him cheekily. “What are little sisters for?”

Mick lets out a surprised bark of laughter, warmth and affection shining from every part of his expression as he gazes at you fondly. “You’ll always be my little sis, champion or not.”

It’s your turn to laugh, swatting at his chest playfully. “Well this little sis just kicked your ass this season, so show some respect!”

Mick’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “I’ll remember that for next year, believe me.”

***

It’s a crisp autumn evening at the Schumacher family home in the Swiss Alps. You’re curled up on the plush couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine while your brother paces back and forth anxiously.

“Will you please sit down?” You ask, eyeing him over the top of the pages. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Mick runs a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Sorry, I’m just … worked up, I guess.”

You set the magazine aside. “About what? We haven’t had a race in weeks.”

He stops his pacing to face you. “You know the season’s almost over, right? And Haas still hasn’t said anything about re-signing me for next year.”

“Oh, Mick.” You offer him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. You’ve had a solid season.”

Mick flops down next to you, deflating a little. “I don’t know. There are so many other options on the table. What if Haas decides to go a different direction?”

“Then you’ll find another seat,” you say firmly. “Any team would be lucky to have you behind the wheel.”

He manages a half-smile. “Thanks. I just wish I had your confidence sometimes.”

“What can I say?” You flash him a cheeky grin. “It’s a gift.”

The peaceful moment is shattered as both of your phones start ringing in unison. You exchange a puzzled look before digging them out.

“My manager,” Mick says, furrowing his brow as he answers. “Hello?”

You do the same, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hey, Nicolas, what’s up?”

For the next few minutes, you and Mick are silent, listening intently with rapidly changing expressions — yours elated, his crestfallen. When you finally hang up, Mick is staring at the floor, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well?” He asks, voice tight. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

You take a deep breath, trying to tamp down your surging excitement. “Ferrari wants me for next season.”

Mick’s face falls even further, if possible. “You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this!” You can’t keep the grin from overtaking your features. “Can you believe it? Driving for the Scuderia! It’s a dream come true!”

“Yeah, for you maybe,” Mick mutters darkly.

You blink at his tone, smile fading slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He drags a hand down his face wearily. “Haas declined to re-sign me for next year.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “What? No, that can’t be right!”

“Afraid so.” Mick’s voice is flat, resigned. “They said something about … needing to bring in fresh blood or some bullshit excuse.”

You scoot closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Mick, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Don’t be.” He tries for a nonchalant shrug, but it comes off as dejected. “At least one of us is moving up in the world.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” You protest. “We’re teammates! We were supposed to take on Formula 1 together!”

Mick snorts humorlessly. “Looks like that’s not going to happen after all.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between you. You open your mouth, searching for the right words of reassurance, but come up empty. How can you comfort him when your own dream has come true at his expense?

“Hey.” Mick’s somber tone breaks the quiet. “I’m happy for you, you know. Really, I am.”

You meet his sincere gaze, feeling your eyes start to well up. “I know. But that doesn’t make this any less shitty for you.”

He manages a rueful smile. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

“So what are you going to do now?” You ask quietly.

Mick lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Keep grinding, I guess. Look for another seat, any seat, even if it’s not in F1 next season.”

“You can’t give up on F1!” You protest instantly. “You’re too good for that, Mick.”

“Am I, though?” He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Face it, Y/N, you’ve always been the better driver. This just proves it.”

You shake your head adamantly. “That’s not true at all! You’re every bit as talented as me.”

“Then why did Ferrari pick you instead of me?” There’s no accusation in his words, just weariness.

You falter, mind churning as you search for an answer that won’t come. “I … don’t know.”

“Exactly.” Mick closes his eyes briefly. “Maybe it’s for the best. At least this way, one of us still gets to live out the Schumacher legacy and race for Ferrari. Carry on the family name, you know?”

“But you’re a Schumacher too,” you say, feeling your throat start to tighten with unshed tears. “It should be both of us out there, not just me.”

Mick reaches over to give your hand a comforting squeeze. “Hey, don’t cry about it. I’ll be okay, really.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” You swipe angrily at the moisture gathering in your eyes. “It’s not fair, Mick. It’s just not fair at all.”

He levels you with a look that’s decades older than his years. “Life rarely is. You know that as well as I do.”

You fall silent, unable to formulate a response. He’s right, you realize with a pang. The two of you, of all people, should understand that success and failure often go hand-in-hand, even for the most talented competitors.

Pursing your lips, you lean forward and pull Mick into a fierce hug. He tenses for a split second before wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I’m still so proud of you,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my incredible big brother.”

Mick lets out a shaky exhale against your hair. “And you’re the most badass little sister a guy could ask for. Ferrari has no idea what they’re in for.”

You pull back just far enough to meet his eyes, emboldened by the warm affection shining in them.

“Just promise me one thing?” You ask.

He arches an eyebrow quizzically. “What’s that?”

A mischievous grin tugs at your lips. “That you’re not going to take it easy on me whenever you’re back on the grid.”

***

You take a deep breath as you pull your sleek new Ferrari up to the iconic factory in Maranello. This place holds so many memories — some joyful, others bittersweet. Your father cemented himself as a legend here, and you can’t help but feel the weight of that legacy on your shoulders now more than ever.

The door swings open and there stands Fred Vasseur offering you a warm smile. “Y/N, welcome home.”

You return the smile, unable to mask the flood of emotions. “It’s good to be back, Fred.”

He gestures for you to follow him inside. “I’m sure this place brings back quite a few memories.”

“You have no idea,” you murmur, taking in the familiar sights and smells. The rosso corsa that coats every surface, the scent of machinery and high-octane fuel … it’s intoxicating.

A tiny you runs through the hallways, giggling madly as your frantic mother tries to catch up. “Mick! Y/N! Get back here this instant!”

Mick peeks out from behind a workbench, sticking his tongue out at Gina, who playfully swats at him. You spot the perfect hiding spot — a massive green recycling bin tucked in the corner ...

“Y/N? Are you still with me?” Fred’s voice breaks you from your reverie.

You shake your head. “Sorry, got a bit lost in thought there. This place just … feels like stepping into the past.”

Fred nods knowingly. “I can only imagine. But today is about your future with the team.” He leads you through the winding corridors, pointing out various departments. “Over here is aerodynamics, that hallway takes you to the design labs ...”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Your father’s voice echoes down the corridor, his tone playful but tinged with desperation. You stifle a giggle from your hiding spot as his footsteps draw closer.

“Michael, any luck?” That’s Paolo, one of the mechanics. You chance a peek and see half the team has been enlisted to search for you.

Your dad scrubs a hand over his face. “She’s too good at this game. Should’ve known better than to play hide-and-seek in a place this size.”

You chuckle softly at the memory, prompting a curious look from Fred. “Sorry, just … reminiscing again.”

He gives you an easy grin. “By all means, feel free to share. I’d love to hear some of those old stories.”

You take a breath, composing yourself before launching into the tale. “Well, there was this one time when I was maybe … four or five? Mick and I were causing an unholy ruckus as usual, and Papa suggested a game of hide-and-seek to wear us out. Big mistake on his part.”

Fred’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Let me guess, you proved to be a master hider?”

“You could say that.” You grin mischievously. “I found this big recycling bin, crawled inside, and stayed completely silent while the whole team tore the place apart looking for me. Papa was just about to call in the overalls for backup when Paolo finally peeked in the bin.”

Fred throws his head back with a hearty laugh. “I can just picture your poor father’s face when they found you! He must’ve been both relieved and completely exasperated.”

You nod. “Oh, he wore that particular blend of emotions often when we were young terrors around here.”

The two of you continue chatting amicably as Fred shows you around the various facilities — the simulator room, the engine workshop, even the gym and physiotherapy center. With each new area unveiled, another flood of nostalgia washes over you.

You and Mick sprint into the wide-open workshop, engines and miscellaneous car pieces scattered all around. Gina is closing in, her longer legs giving her an advantage.

“Got you now, you little gremlins!” She scoops Mick up with one arm, then turns her sights on you.

You let out a shriek of laughter, dodging around a massive piece of equipment as your mother joins the chase. “Come here, Maus! It’s time for your nap!”

You shake your head furiously. “No nap! No nap!”

Corinna’s hand finally snags the back of your shirt, and you erupt into a fit of giggles as she pulls you into a hug ...

“That’s some smile you’ve got going there,” Fred notes with a wry grin. “I take it another happy memory?”

You give an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Just … remembering how this place used to be our personal jungle gym. Mick, Gina, and I would run absolute loops around Mama while she tried to wrangle us for nap time.”

Fred chuckles fondly. “I can picture three tiny terrors leaving chaos in their wake.” His expression softens. “It must be incredibly special to be back here after all these years. To follow in your father’s footsteps like this.”

You swallow hard against the swell of emotions. “It’s … overwhelming, if I’m being honest. But in the best possible way.” You glance around at the familiar setting with new eyes. “These halls practically raised me. And now … now I get to write my own chapter here.”

Fred gives your shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You’ve got a long road ahead, but I have complete faith you’ll make us all proud, Y/N.”

You straighten your shoulders, giving him a determined nod. “I’m ready.”

As you follow him further into the factory, you can’t help but revel in the rush of coming full circle. Yes, this team, this place, is indelibly woven into your childhood. But now … now it’s time to create new memories.

To race.

To win.

To become a legend.

***

The crowd outside the Ferrari headquarters swells as you emerge from the famous red doors for the first time as an official Scuderia Ferrari driver. Shouts and cheers erupt from every direction, fans pressing forward eagerly with pens and photos clutched in their hands.

“Over here, Y/N!”

“Un selfie, per favore!”

“Can you sign this for my daughter?”

You plaster on a polite smile, trying to graciously oblige as many autograph and photo requests as possible. But the throngs only grow more insistent, hands grabbing at you from all angles as the crowd closes in. Your heart races and you feel yourself starting to panic at the lack of personal space.

“Per favore, let her breathe!” An insistent voice cuts through the commotion in lightly accented Italian.

The crowd parts slightly as a familiar, lean figure pushes through — your new teammate. His green eyes meet yours with a reassuring look as he plants himself firmly by your side.

“Give her some space!” Charles barks out in English this time. “She can’t breathe!”

You shoot him a grateful glance as the fans reluctantly take a step back. Charles gently takes your arm and pulls you out of the scrum.

“Sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. “I know how intense they can be around here.”

“No, thank you,” you reply earnestly. “I was about two seconds away from an anxiety attack.”

Charles chuckles. “Well, we can’t have the new driver cracking under pressure on day one.”

You make a face at his teasing remark. “Watch it, pretty boy.”

Laughing, Charles puts his arm around your shoulders in a friendly gesture. “Come on, I know just the place to escape the madness for a bit. Dinner’s on me.”

He guides you across the plaza and down a side street to a cozy trattoria — Ristorante Montana, known as the unofficial “Ferrari restaurant” frequented by team members. As you enter, a stout woman with a warm, welcoming smile emerges from the back.

“Ah, Charles! Welcome back. And this must be ...” Her eyes widen as they land on you. “Oh, la piccola principessa is all grown up!”

Flustered, you open your mouth to respond, but the woman has already swept you up in a tight embrace.

“Rossella, you’re smothering the poor girl!” A elderly man’s voice calls out in amused rebuke.

“Hush, Maurizio, and pour us some wine!” Rossella releases you and holds you at arm’s length, beaming. “Michael’s little girl, all woman now. I’ll never forget the first time your father brought you in here as a bambina.”

She gestures to a framed photo hanging on the wall of a much younger Rossella standing next to Michael, who is holding a grinning toddler — unmistakably you.

“He was so proud,” Rossella continues misty-eyed. “Just like I know he would be of you today, following in your father’s footsteps.”

You swallow hard, touched by the warm welcome and memory. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Charles watching you with a soft smile.

Rossella shifts gears abruptly, all business. “Now, what will you two have? The usual for you, Charles? And for you, la principessa, I insist you try the gnocchi al ragú. Just like my nonna used to make it.”

As Rossella whisks off to the kitchen, Maurizio appears with a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses.

“To new beginnings,” he toasts with a wink, pouring for you and Charles.

You raise your glass to clink against Charles’ with a smile. “New beginnings.”

Over pasta and wine, you and Charles fall into an easy rapport, bantering back and forth as the weight of the evening’s earlier stress dissipates. You find yourself repeatedly distracted by the dimpled grin that lights up his face whenever he laughs at one of your quips.

“So is this a regular hazing ritual you put all the rookies through?” You ask innocently. “Get them away from the crowds and ply them with wine so they’re too drunk to be nervous on day one?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “You’ve found me out! Although I do seem to recall my own initiation being a lot harder. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.”

“Old age? You’re what …12?” You retort, eyes dancing with mirth.

The waiter arrives with the dessert menu, but Rossella shoos him away.

“No, no menu. I’m bringing you the tiramisu to share. My secret recipe.”

Charles groans in delight. “You’re a legend, Rossella.”

She pats his cheek affectionately before disappearing again. A comfortable silence falls between you and Charles as you each take a bite of the rich, velvety tiramisu.

“Mmmm, this is literally heaven,” you murmur happily.

Charles hums in agreement around another forkful.

Your eyes catch movement out of the corner and you turn to see Rossella returning, carrying a large framed photo under her arm. She sets it down on the empty chair next to you with a proud grin.

It’s a glamor shot of you from a recent photoshoot for Vogue Italia — hair and makeup impeccable, lips parted in a secret smile as you gaze directly at the camera.

Rossella rests a hand on your shoulder. “For me, bellissima? So we can hang la principessa right next to il padre.”

Touched, you take the proffered sharpie and scribble out a quick inscription before signing your name with a flourish at the bottom.

“Grazie mille,” Rossella breathes, throwing an arm around you to squeeze you against her ample frame. “You’ve made this old heart very happy tonight.”

When she finally releases you, you see Charles watching you both with a soft, almost wistful expression. You raise your eyebrows at him in question, but he just shakes his head with a smile.

As you and Charles prepare to depart, Rossella calls out once more. “You come back soon, eh principessa? I have more pictures to collect.”

You throw her a wink over your shoulder. “D’accordo, d’accordo. We’ll be back soon!”

Out on the street, you pause, conscious of the evening rapidly drawing to a close. You turn to Charles, studying him properly for the first time. His deep green eyes crinkle at the corners as he meets your gaze.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t swooped in to rescue me back there.”

Charles shrugs nonchalantly, but his expression is kind. “We look out for our own in Ferrari. That’s what teammates are for, no?”

A beat passes, the momentary tension thickening between you. Then Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, I should let you get going before your handlers send out a search party. Need me to call you a car?”

“No, no I’m good,” you reply quickly, trying to mask your disappointment at the night ending. “My performance coach has the car around front.”

You start to turn away, then impulsively pivot back. Rising up on your toes, you throw your arms around Charles’ neck and pull him in for a brief, platonic hug.

“Seriously, thank you,” you murmur in his ear. “For everything.”

As you pull back, your faces are just inches apart. Charles’ eyes are warm, his gaze intense. For a dizzying moment, you’re certain he’s going to kiss you. Then just as suddenly, the moment passes and he steps back with a friendly smile.

“Anytime, princesse. I’ll see you bright and early next week for our first time running the SF-23 on the simulator.”

With a wink, he turns and saunters off down the street, hands shoved in his pockets in that effortlessly cool way of his. You let out a long breath, flustered and exhilarated all at once.

Your performance coach has indeed been waiting with the car, looking mildly concerned. “Everything alright?”

You flash her a bright smile, practically skipping to the car. “It is now, Mara. It absolutely is.”

Your first day as a Ferrari driver was certainly more than you bargained for. But as you settle into the plush leather seats, you can’t wipe the silly grin off your face. Something tells you this new chapter with the Scuderia is going to be an adventure — in more ways than one.

As Mara pulls away from the curb, you catch a final glimpse of Charles striding confidently down the street. Even from a distance, you can make out the dimpled smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning back against the headrest, you think back to the memory of his arm slung casually around your shoulders and sigh contentedly. Yes, you have a feeling this is just the beginning of what’s shaping up to be a very interesting partnership with Charles Leclerc.

***

Sebastian looks over the wine list, pretending to be engrossed in selecting the perfect vintage as he peers over the top of the menu. His eyes are fixated on the entrance to the upscale Italian restaurant, waiting for Charles and you to arrive.

This had better work, he thinks to himself. The two of you have been making googly eyes at each other for months now, but are both too stubborn to make a move.

Finally, the hostess leads Charles and you into the dining room. Sebastian ducks down, pulling the brim of his fedora lower over his face and adjusting the fake mustache he’s wearing as a disguise. He watches as the hostess shows Charles and you to an intimate table for two by the window, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating your faces.

“There must be some mistake,” Charles says, looking around in confusion. “I was under the impression we were meeting Sebastian here for dinner?”

You look equally perplexed. “That’s what he told me too. He said to meet at 8 o’clock sharp.”

“Well this is just awkward,” Charles runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Should we wait for him or ...”

Before you can respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of bread and butter. “Good evening, my name is Gerardo and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Actually, we’re still waiting on-” Charles begins, but the waiter cuts him off.

“Ah yes, Mr. Vettel asked me to inform you that he will be unable to join this evening after all. A last minute obligation came up. He insisted I take excellent care of you both and that the evening is on his treat.” Gerardo smiles broadly. “So what will you have to drink?”

Sebastian smirks to himself at his cleverly orchestrated ruse from his secluded table in the back corner. He watches with bated breath as a flustered Charles and you exchange an awkward look.

“I’ll have a glass of Chianti,” you say finally, breaking the tension.

“Make that two,” Charles adds with a resigned sigh.

As Gerardo heads off to grab your drinks, an uncomfortable silence falls over the table. “You know, we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Charles says, ever the gentleman. “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reply, offering him a warm smile that makes Sebastian’s heart melt a little. “It would be rude to ruin the evening Sebastian so carefully planned, even if he’s not actually here to enjoy it.”

Charles visibly relaxes at your acceptance of the situation. “You’re right, of course. If it’s a free dinner, we would be fools to turn that down!”

You both share a laugh, finally breaking the ice. Sebastian feels a swell of pride watching the two of you start to let your guards down around each other.

Over the next hour or so, Sebastian is delighted to see Charles and you become more at ease, trading jokes and stories over several delectable courses of pasta, veal, and freshly baked focaccia. He’s never seen either of you look so lighthearted and carefree, nor has he witnessed two people connect on such an organic, genuine level before. It’s positively magical to behold.

Gerardo arrives once more, this time bearing a decadent slice of torta della nonna for you to share for dessert. “Compliments of the house,” he announces with a wink before departing.

You immediately dig into the lemony confection with gusto. “Oh my god, this is dangerously good,” you moan through a mouthful of pastry cream and flaky crust.

Charles tries and fails to stifle a laugh at your unabashed enthusiasm. “You’ve got a little ...” he gestures vaguely at the corners of your mouth.

“What? Where?” You ask, attempting to wipe the stray crumbs and smears of powdered sugar from your cheeks.

“Here, let me,” Charles says softly, reaching across the table with his cloth napkin.

Sebastian watches with bated breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as Charles tenderly swipes the napkin along your lips, his thumb grazing your cheek in the process. The moment seems to last an eternity, the two of you locked in each other’s smoldering gaze.

Then, ever so slowly, Charles leans across the table towards you. Sebastian can scarcely breathe as he witnesses the magnetic pull drawing the two of you together. This is it, this is finally happening, he marvels silently.

Sebastian lets out an inadvertent yelp of glee and instantly slaps his hands over his mouth. A table of nearby diners turns to gawk at the strange mustached man.

“Ahem, sorry! Hairball,” Sebastian rasps out in a terrible Italian accent. He slinks down in the booth, burning with embarrassment as the other patrons slowly turn away with disgusted looks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles and you also turn towards the commotion, the heated moment effectively ruined. Damn it, he was so close!

You and Charles eventually turn back towards each other, the awkwardness having returned. “We should, uh, probably ask for the check soon,” Charles mumbles, unable to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I’ve got an early training session in the morning anyway,” you reply, the disappointment evident in your voice as you stare down at the table.

Inwardly cursing his rotten luck, Sebastian motions for the bill and slips his black credit card into the folder when Gerardo brings it. He knows the only way to redeem this night is to insist you and Charles stay for one more drink. Maybe add a little more wine confidence to help reignite that spark you both nearly combusted over just moments ago.

As Gerardo whisks away to process Sebastian’s payment, the older German steels his nerves. He removes his ridiculous disguise, straightens his tie, and makes his way over to your table with purpose.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Sebastian asks with an exaggerated wink as he reaches you. “It appears Mr. Leclerc and Miss Schumacher were stood up this evening. For shame!”

“Ah, Seb!” Charles laughs in surprise at seeing his friend and former teammate. “We should have known you were behind this madness.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “You’re a menace! I can’t believe you tricked us like that.”

Sebastian claps his hands together and flashes you both a devilish grin. “What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic who cannot abide two clearly smitten people tiptoeing around each other any longer. Now, Gerardo is going to bring you the finest Barolo they have, on my dime, and you are going to remedy this sexual tension situation once and for all over another bottle or three!”

Charles opens his mouth to protest, but you laugh delightedly and nod towards Sebastian. “You know what, I could go for another drink. What do you say, Charles?”

The older Ferrari driver seems to wilt under the weight of your brilliant smile, Sebastian can’t fault the man for that. “Ah, what the hell,” Charles shrugs, throwing his arm around the back of your chair. “Let’s see where this night takes us!”

Sebastian settles in, pouring you all generous glasses of the deep ruby wine when Gerardo delivers it. He may be getting on in years, but his matchmaking job has only just begun. One way or another, he’s determined to ensure his two protégés quit stumbling over each other and finally discover the romance that’s been blossoming under their noses all along.

Sipping his wine, Sebastian gazes at you and Charles, sees the tenderness flickering in both your eyes as you lean in closer together over the candlelight. He smiles contentedly to himself.

Mission accomplished.

***

The paddock is mostly deserted at this late hour, the muffled sounds of the teams packing up drifting in from the garages. You linger near the Ferrari motorhome, watching Charles sitting alone on a stack of tires, shoulders slumped. He’s been increasingly withdrawn these past few days leading up to the Japanese Grand Prix.

You approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Charles? You okay?”

He looks up, managing a small smile when he sees you. “Hey, mon amour.”

There’s a weariness to his voice that tugs at your heart. You take a seat beside him, letting your arm brush against his in a subtle show of support. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Charles is silent for a long moment, pulling his helmet off and turning it over in his hands. “It’s Suzuka,” he finally says, so softly you have to lean in to hear him. “Being back here … it’s difficult.”

Your brow furrows. Right, this is where Jules Bianchi crashed, his accident eventually proving fatal. Charles had been incredibly close with his mentor and godfather. “I can’t even imagine how painful this must be.” You cover his hand with yours. “Having to race on the same track ...”

“I relive that day over and over.” Charles’s accented voice is thick with emotion. “I can still see the footage of his car slamming into the crane, like it’s burned into my mind. He was my friend, my godfather, like a brother to me. And now every year, I have to come back to this place that took him from us far too soon.” He squeezes his eyes shut, a stray tear escaping.

“Oh, Charles ...” You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is rigid at first before melting against you, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him tightly as his breath hitches with suppressed sobs, your own eyes stinging. How many times has he bottled up this grief, putting on a brave face for the world?

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve carried all these years. But Jules wouldn’t want you torturing yourself like this.” You pull away enough to frame his face with your hands, meeting his reddened eyes. “He’d want you to keep living, to keep pursuing your dream that he helped nurture. He’d be so proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”

Charles manages a watery smile, covering one of your hands with his. “You’re right. Thank you, chérie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours with a shuddering sigh. “I just miss him so much some days. Like an ache I can’t shake.”

“I know.” You brush away the dampness on his cheeks with your thumbs. “Believe me, I understand that ache all too well.”

A crease forms between Charles’s brows as he regards you intently. “Your papa.”

You give a solemn nod. “Everyone talks about him like he’s gone. But he’s not, he’s still here, still breathing. It’s just … he’s not the same man I grew up with anymore.” You blink back tears of your own. “Sometimes I’ll see flashes that remind me so much of how Papa used to be. And then that illusion is shattered and I’m grieving all over again for the person he was.”

Charles’ arms wrap around you fully, tucking your head under his chin. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. Seeing those glimpses of the man he was, only to have that hope ripped away.” He presses his lips to the crown of your head. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You let out a choked laugh. “Yeah, definitely doesn’t feel like it most days.” Pulling away, you try for a smile. “But we Schumachers are fighters. We don’t stay down for long.”

“That’s my girl.” Charles grins, cupping your face and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m lucky to have you by my side through all of this craziness. I don’t know what I’d do without your support, especially this weekend.”

“Are you kidding?” You turn to fully face him, clasping his hands in yours. “Charles, you’ve been my rock too, you know that? Signing with Ferrari this year, following in my father’s footsteps … the pressure has been immense. But you’ve never let me crumble under it. You’re always there with a laugh or a hug or some silly joke to make me smile even on the hardest days.”

Charles’s grin turns lopsided, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your heart flutter. “Well, someone has to keep that ego of yours from inflating too much, future champion.” He leans in until his lips are a mere breath from yours. “But in all seriousness, we’re in this together, okay? No matter what the future holds, I’ll always have your back.”

“I know,” you murmur, feeling his words like a soothing balm over the parts of your heart still aching for your father as you once knew him. “And I’ll always have yours. We’re a team, on and off the track.” You close the distance between you, kissing him deeply.

Charles returns the kiss with fervor, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you close. The worries plaguing you both seem to temporarily fade into the background amid the warmth and solidity of his embrace. When you finally break apart, breathless, his emerald gaze holds an intensity that steals the air from your lungs in the best way.

“Je t’aime,” he murmurs, the endearment like a vow falling from his lips. “No matter what happens out there tomorrow, or any other race day, that will never change. You and me against the world, princesse.”

You flash him a coy smile, feeling desire begin to simmer low in your belly. “Is that a promise, Mr. Leclerc?”

“Mmm, I can make it one if you’d like.” Charles waggles his eyebrows, making you giggle as his hands roam freely over your back and sides, pulling you flush against him. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Maybe I can find more convincing ways to pledge my devotion once we’re back at the hotel.”

“I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you say breathily, leaning in to nip at his lower lip in a way that makes him groan. “Though if memory serves, I seem to recall you saying something about honoring the team’s curfew tonight?” You trail openmouthed kisses along the sharp line of his jaw. “Wouldn’t want to be … sleep deprived before the race.”

Charles’s fingers flex against your hips as he lets out a shuddering breath. “You’re really testing my willpower here.”

“Payback for all those times you’ve tortured me.” You punctuate the statement with a sharp nip to the sensitive skin below his ear, making him jerk against you with a strangled sound. Pulling back, you smirk at the glazed look in his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

He blinks slowly, then his gaze narrows in a way that makes heat flare across your skin. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that later.” His voice is low, almost a growl that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“I look forward to it.” You lean in until your lips are nearly brushing his again.

“Tease,” Charles accuses, though his kiss quickly swallows any further retort.

You lose yourself in the press of his mouth, the exploring glide of his hands over your body, the undeniable chemistry that still sometimes takes your breath away. When you finally break apart, gasping for air, you stay wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads resting together.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs after a long beat of comfortable silence. “For always knowing how to pull me out of my own head. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“That’s what partners are for,” you say simply, brushing back the silken strands of chestnut hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are so warm, so full of love and adoration, you feel it envelop you like a cozy blanket. “I’ll always be here to lean on, just like you are for me.”

Charles catches your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. “And I’m grateful for that every single day. Facing the good times and bad, together.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I know Suzuka will never be easy, not with the weight of the memories here. But you make the burden feel lighter. Like no matter what, I’ll be okay as long as I have you by my side.”

You lean in, brushing a featherlight kiss across his lips. “Always. No matter what the future holds, you’re stuck with me, Leclerc.”

A slow, utterly content smile spreads across his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He steals another lingering kiss before glancing toward the pit area, where the last few stragglers are packing up for the night. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, I suppose we should try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

Sliding off the tire stack, he offers you his hand, that warm gleam still dancing in his forest-colored eyes. “Though maybe we could indulge in a long, hot shower first? You know, to … unwind after such an emotionally draining evening.”

You raise an eyebrow at his transparent attempt at nonchalance, but can’t help a smirk from tugging at your lips. “Why, Mr. Leclerc, are you propositioning me?”

“Would that be so terrible?” He tugs you into his arms, leaving a trail of teasing kisses along your jaw. “After all, we did have quite the … charged conversation just now. I’d hate for all that pent-up tension to distract us on track tomorrow.”

You let out a breathless giggle as his wandering hands and lips leave tingles across your skin. “Well, when you put it that way … I suppose a nice, relaxing shower could be just what we need to clear our heads.” Looping your arms around his neck, you meet his heated gaze through lowered lashes. “Lead the way, liebling.”

Charles’ responding grin is nothing short of wolfish. “With pleasure.” Scooping you up in his arms, he heads for the parking lot at a swift pace, leaving the weight of Suzuka and its ghosts behind for the night.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you bring your Ferrari across the finish line, tires smoking from the incredible pace. Your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio, congratulating you, but the words are drowned out by the thunderous cheers echoing around the Autodromo Nazionale Monza.

You can hardly believe it. Your first season with the Scuderia and you’ve just won the Italian Grand Prix — on the hallowed ground that your father once ruled. The sea of fans decked out in red is a sight to behold, celebrating wildly as you complete the cool-down lap.

Pulling into parc fermé, you kill the engine, the high-pitched whine slowly dying away. Undoing the straps, you clamber out, still trying to process what just happened. This is really real.

“You!”

The familiar voice makes you turn. It’s Charles, beaming from ear-to-ear despite settling for second place today. He pulls you into a massive hug, squeezing you tightly.

“I can’t believe you just did that! Amazing drive!”

You laugh, giddy with joy and adrenaline. “I still can’t believe it either! Everything just … clicked.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Charles chuckles, ruffling your sweat-damp hair. “You were incredible out there. Absolutely brilliant.”

Hearing the praise from your boyfriend means everything. You know how hard he’s worked, how much he’s sacrificed to get this far. And he’s still your biggest supporter.

The two of you finally pull apart as the rest of the team makes their presence known, congratulating you with bearhugs and massive pats on the back. You did it — you brought the victory home for Ferrari at the Temple of Speed.

After the chaos of the post-race celebrations dies down a little, it’s time for the podium ceremony. You can’t wait to stand up there, basking in the adulation of the wildly passionate Tifosi. As you make your way out with Charles and the third place finisher, the crowd’s cheers swell to a new eardrum-bursting level.

Climbing the steps, you take your spot on the top level, heart racing as you look out over the endless sea of fans. The air is filled with brilliant red smoke, passionate flag-wavers creating mesmerizing patterns. You’ve seen Grands Prix in Italy before, but being up here, having actually won — it’s on another level entirely.

Speeches are made, anthems are played, and then it’s time to crack open the podium champagne. As the bottles are picked up, a rolling chant starts building in the grandstands:

“La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

The sound shakes you to your core. Tears instantly spring to your eyes.

Charles, beside you on the second step, grins and nudges you. “Listen to them! You’ve done it — you’ve made them fall in love with you just like they did with your father.��

Looking down at him with misty eyes, you mouth, “Thank you,” so overwhelmed that you can’t speak. He slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. The two of you share a soft kiss as the chanting grows louder and louder.

As you pull back, gazing out over the surging tide of humanity, faces beaming up at you in adoration, it finally sinks in. This moment — winning at Monza for Ferrari, with Charles by your side, the Tifosi embracing you wholeheartedly — is beyond anything you ever could have dreamed.

The emotions pour out in waves of joy and pride and disbelief. You raise your bottle high, echoing the chants and cheering your heart out to the crowd. They roar back even louder, feeding off your energy in the way that only this group of diehard fans can.

Once the champagne showers subside, giddy fans whistling at you and Charles canoodling on the podium, it’s time to head back down. But the celebrations are just getting started. The team wants to keep the party going.

On the drive over to Maranello, you find yourself sandwiched in the backseat between Charles and your race engineer, Ricky. Everyone is grinning like maniacs, high on the thrill of victory, singing drinking songs at the top of their lungs.

“Solo per lei! Principessa di Monza!” Ricky bellows, gently elbowing you. The rest join in, filling the car with the chant of “Only for her! Princess of Monza!” You can’t stop giggling, leaning into Charles, deliriously happy.

Once you finally roll up to the factory, the party spills out of the car and into the streets. The entire workforce has turned out, waving huge Ferrari flags, beating drums and sounding air horns in celebration. You’re immediately swarmed, being passed from hug to hug as champagne is sprayed in joyful arcs.

They finally manage to sweep you, Charles, and most of your garages inside the factory, where long banquet tables have been set up in the main hall. An enormous cheer goes up as you enter, sparkling wine sloshing from hastily poured glasses all around you.

The meal that follows is a total blur — amazing food, flowing alcohol, raucous toasts, and the happiest pandemonium you’ve ever witnessed. You keep getting tugged from conversation to conversation, everyone wanting to hear how the race played out from your lips. Charles sticks by your side the whole time, looking on with sheer pride.

At one point, you end up going shot for shot with Fred Vasseur, the team principal pouring vodka like his job depends on it. “La mia principessa!” He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears of joy. “You’ve made us all so proud today!”

He hoists his glass. “To our Princess! The Princess of Monza!”

The chant starts up again all around you. “La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

You beam at them all, squeezing Fred’s hand. No words can describe this feeling, being embraced so completely by your team — your family. This is what you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl. Following in your father’s footsteps, bringing glory to Ferrari, carrying on the legend.

The party rages on long into the night. At some point, you lose track of time completely, delirious with exhaustion from the whirlwind of emotion.

You come around for a moment, blinking in the dim glow of the factory lights. There’s quiet rumbles of laughter around you, echoing off the walls. Looking around blearily, you realize you’ve been tucked into a makeshift bed fashioned from a pile of Ferrari t-shirts, nestled in one of the car assembly spaces.

Charles is there too, cradled against your side, one arm wrapped protectively around you. The rest of the team — your PR officers, engineers, mechanics, everyone — is strewn about in similar nests, all of them totally conked out.

With a contented sigh, you snuggle deeper into Charles’ embrace, feeling his lips brush the top of your head. This bizarre, wonderful scene seems to encapsulate everything about being part of the Ferrari family. It’s chaotic and overwhelming and unlike anything else in the world.

But most of all, it’s home.

As you start to drift back to sleep, savoring the lingering scent of champagne and motor oil, one final chant echoes in your head:

La principessa di Monza.

La principessa di Ferrari.

***

11 Months Later

The last few laps feel like they’re happening in slow motion. Every turn, every gear shift, every tiny input to the steering wheel is magnified tenfold as the circuits count down. The pressure is immense, but you’ve been here before. You can do this.

“Stay calm, stay focused,” your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “The calculations look good. Just bring it home steady.”

Nodding to yourself, you downshift entering the stadium section, the roar of the massive crowd surrounding the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez swelling in your ears. This is it — your chance to join the likes of motorsport’s greatest heroes by winning the Formula 1 World Championship.

Your first victory at Monza, being crowned the “Principessa di Ferrari” by the adoring Tifosi, was a dream come true. But this … this is what you’ve worked towards since you were old enough to understand what your father achieved. To etch your name into the history books forever.

The laps tick by agonizingly. Every time the pitboard comes into view, your heart rate spikes. But you’ve got a comfortable gap to second place, managing the race perfectly. Just a few more corners now.

“Final lap, final lap,” your engineer calls out. “Looking brilliant. Stay comfortable and you’ve got this!”

You suck in a deep breath to steady your nerves. Out of the sweeping Curve 3 and onto the pit straight, the crowd’s thunderous cheers are reaching fever pitch. You can see the seas of red-clad fans absolutely losing their minds, knowing the woman they idolize is about to achieve immortality.

Crossing the finish line, you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding for what feels like ages. The emotion is overwhelming — a combination of pure elation, disbelief, and total exhaustion.

You did it.

World Champion at last!

You cruise around, yelling unintelligibly into the radio as the celebrations kick off around the circuit. There’s confetti in the air, smoke flares going off in brilliant shades of red, and a full-throated roar that could probably be heard all the way back in Europe.

Pulling into parc fermé, you switch off the car, letting the weight of the moment sink in. Tears of joy prick at your eyes as the magnitude of your achievement hits home. Ever since you were a little girl, running around watching your papa, this has been the ultimate dream for you.

And now, it’s finally happened. You’re a World Champion. Just like him.

The first person to reach you is Charles. He comes sprinting over from his own car, bounding past the marshals without a second look. One glimpse of the huge smile plastered across his face is all it takes for you to dissolve into giggles and delirious tears.

“You did it! You brilliant, brilliant woman, you did it!” He shouts, grabbing you up in his arms and spinning you around in a whirlwind hug.

“I can’t believe it, Charles! It felt like a dream … like it wasn’t really happening!”

You’re both laughing and crying at the same time, drunk on the euphoria of the moment. Clutching each other tightly, you press your foreheads together, trying in vain to compose yourselves.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles murmurs, gazing at you with adoring eyes. “You worked so incredibly hard for this. You deserve everything.”

Surging forward, you capture his lips in a searing, passionate kiss. For a few brief moments, the two of you are alone, lost in the depth of your emotions and your all-encompassing love for each other. Nothing else in the world matters but this perfect second frozen in time.

You finally break apart, breathless, when the rest of the team sweeps in to congratulate you. They swarm around in a laughing, whooping mass, jumping up and down, hugging, chanting your name over and over.

“To our champion! The Queen!”

The cry comes from Antonio, one of the veteran mechanics who’s been with the team since your papa’s days. He clasps your hands tightly, gazing at you with pride.

“Sei la regina! The Queen of Ferrari!” He hollers over the raucous din, tears shining in his eyes. “Just like your father, you’ll reign forever!”

Your eyes start brimming over again, overwhelmed. The tears roll down your cheeks, smearing streaks of sweat and grime from the race. But you can’t stop beaming.

All at once, the rest of the crew picks up on Antonio’s declaration. Their cheers and chants coalesce into one booming refrain:

“La Re-gi-na! La Re-gi-na!”

The sheer adulation washes over you in waves, every face beaming up at you in utter reverence. You find yourself struggling to take it all in. In a few incredible seasons, you’ve elevated yourself into the realm of legend in their eyes.

Charles wraps his arms around you from behind, steadying you as your knees start to go weak. You can feel his smile radiant against your neck as he cheers and whoops right along with the rest of them.

“You hear them?” He chuckles, kissing your temple. “It’s all for you, mia regina! My Queen.”

Hearing your love, your partner, your other half call you that sets off a fresh round of giggles and sobs. Turning in his embrace, you loop your arms around his shoulders, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him deeply.

When you finally part, you look out over the still-roaring crowd, many of them carrying elaborate signs with intricate drawings depicting you as a regal sovereign. Some have fashioned ornate crowns out of random merch and foam, holding them high. Others set off flares and smoke bombs in Ferrari red.

For a moment, their euphoric cheers fade into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears. Closing your eyes, you let the enormity of the moment wash over you, embracing the pride and humility and disbelieving joy.

This is your coronation. The new ruler of the Scuderia — la regina di Ferrari.

“La Regina di Ferrari! La Regina del Mondo!”

You can only chuckle in disbelief, Antonio and Ricky carefully taking your hands to hoist you up onto their shoulders in throne-like celebration. Charles is right by your side, standing vigil as your King Consort.

As the party spreads out around you, confetti and smoke filling the air, you look out across the ecstatic crowd. All you see are fervent faces, worshiping you as their new Queen of the World.

It’s a delirious scene that you never, ever could’ve imagined. And yet it feels so natural, so right. Like you were born to be in the center of this storm of jubilation. This is your true home.

And now, you’ve taken your rightful place as its ruler.

Mexico City burns long into the night in tribute to the newly-coronated Queen. Tomorrow, the party will likely continue all the way back to Maranello. But in this moment, you’re lost in the swirl of ecstasy, allowing yourself to be swept up in the currents of adoration.

La Regina di Ferrari.

La Regina del Mondo.

***

Eight Years Later

Jules can barely contain his excitement as you and Charles help him into the little red race suit. He’s practically vibrating with energy, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Easy there, petit coureur,” Charles chuckles, ruffling Jules’ hair affectionately. “We’ll get you suited up and on the track soon enough.”

“I’m gonna beat everyone!” Jules declares confidently. You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“That’s my boy,” you say with a wink. “Just like your Papa and me.”

Charles grins and pulls Jules into a hug. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? Today’s just for fun though, remember? No official points or anything.”

“I know, I know,” Jules says impatiently. “But I’m still gonna win!”

You laugh and swing him up into your arms, peppering his face with kisses until he squeals with delight. “Whatever you say, liebling. Now let’s get you out on that track!”

The three of you make your way out to the karting circuit, hand-in-hand. You can already see a small crowd starting to form along the fences, phones and cameras at the ready. A familiar scenario, even at such a low-key local event.

“Mama, Papa, look!” Jules points excitedly. “Those people want to take pictures!”

“That’s right, schatzi,” you say gently. “Your Papa and I are pretty well known in motorsports.”

“Like movie stars?” His eyes go wide.

Charles laughs. “Something like that, I suppose. More like … really famous racecar drivers.”

“Whoa ...” Jules seems to be processing this new realization. “You’re the best ever, right? The bestest?”

You share an amused look with Charles. “Well, we’ve had our fair share of success,” you hedge.

“Your mother is a multi-time World Champion,” Charles says proudly. “As am I. We did pretty okay, I think.”

“Woooaahh!” Jules looks absolutely awestruck, like his little mind has been blown. It’s both adorable and bittersweet — your own child, only just now grasping the level of your accomplishments and fame.

The crowd has grown considerably by the time you reach the pit area, people pressing against the barriers in hopes of getting a glimpse of the royal family of Maranello. A small team of event staff try valiantly to keep order, but it’s a losing battle.

“Excuse me! Y/N! Can we get a photo?”

“Charles! Over here, please!”

“Oh my god, is that little Jules? He’s so cute!”

Jules clings a bit closer to you and Charles, startled by the commotion. You pull him protectively against your side.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “Just some fans who are excited to see us.”

Charles gives the crowd a regretful smile and a small wave before ushering you both past the security team and into the pit area. The calmer, more controlled setting seems to ease Jules’ nerves.

“Why were all those people yelling and taking pictures?” He asks with a small frown.

“Like I said, we’re pretty famous racers,” Charles explains patiently. “A lot of people know who we are and want our autographs or photos with us.”

“Like celebrities!” Jules says, the admiring light returning to his eyes.

You laugh and ruffle his hair again. “Something like that, yeah. Your Papa and I have had a very successful racing career over the years.”

“The best careers,” Charles amends with a wink at you. “Multiple world titles each.”

“World titles?” Jules looks utterly baffled by the concept. “Like … the best in the whole world?”

“Exactly,” you confirm, feeling that familiar swell of pride. “We were the fastest drivers in the world, for a few years at least.”

“Whooaa ...” Jules seems torn between awe and disbelief. “You’re like … superheroes!”

You and Charles both crack up at the adorable comparison.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Charles laughs, “but I suppose to some we come pretty close, eh?”

He scoops Jules up and swings him around, making him shriek with laughter. You watch them with a content smile, suddenly aware of how blessed you are to have this life — your incredible husband, your precious son, the career successes you both achieved. It’s more than you ever could have dreamed.

“Alright,” Papa says, setting Jules back down. “Why don’t you go grab your kart and we’ll get you out on the track? Think you can take on the world champions?”

Jules gives a determined nod, that familiar fire blazing in his eyes — the same look you’ve seen in your husband’s familiar green ones a thousand times over the years. “You bet! I’ll show you how it’s done!”

With one last hair ruffle, you send him scampering off excitedly. Charles slides an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” He murmurs against your temple. “So much like us at that age. I can already tell he’s going to be a hell of a driver someday.”

You lean into his embrace with a contented sigh. “He is … and just look at how the crowd reacted to him. He’s barely grasped that we’re famous, and now he’s already getting mobbed himself. Our little star in the making.”

Charles makes a rueful sound. “We’re going to have to get used to that, I suppose.”

“Oh, I think we can handle it,” you say lightly. “We’ve had plenty of practice being in the spotlight, after all.”

He laughs and drops a kiss to your hair. “That’s true enough. As long as we stick together, we can get through anything.”

“Exactly.” You turn in his arms to face him properly, cupping his jaw tenderly. “You, me, Jules … nothing else matters as long as we have each other.”

Charles’ eyes are warm with devotion as he gazes down at you. “My soulmate. My family. How did I ever get so lucky?”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet, the rest of the world temporarily fading away. You lose yourself in the familiar comfort of his embrace, the love you share-

“Ewww, gross! Stop kissing!”

You break apart with a laugh to find Jules making over-exaggerated gagging noises nearby.

“And the moment’s ruined,” Charles teases, keeping an arm looped around your waist.

You bend down to Jules’ eye level with a mock stern look. “You just wait until you’re all grown up with a sweetheart of your own. Then you’ll understand.”

He scrunches up his nose theatrically. “Never! Girls are gross!”

You and Charles share an amused look.

“If you say so,” Charles chuckles. “Now let’s get that kart fired up.”

Jules’ entire demeanor shifts in an instant, that fierce competitiveness surfacing once again. He scrambles into the cockpit of his little kart and takes firm hold of the wheel, looking suddenly years beyond his age.

“You’re going down!” He declares brazenly. “I’ll leave you both in the dust!”

And just like that, the proud parents are replaced by your familiar racing mentalities — the thrill of competition, the desire to win. You share a conspiratorial grin with Charles.

“Is that so?” He taunts playfully. “In that case, no more taking it easy on you two.”

You bend down to kiss Jules’ forehead, unable to resist a parting quip. “Promise you won’t be sad … because Mama always wins.”

With that, Charles heads off to grab his own kart, leaving you and Jules alone for a brief moment. He looks up at you with shining eyes.

“You’re my hero, Mama,” he says simply. “And Papa too. I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”

You feel your heart swell fit to burst, filled with more love than you could possibly put into words. Bending down, you pull your beautiful little boy into a fierce hug, eyes shining with unshed happy tears.

“Oh liebling … you already are. You’re everything we could have dreamed of and more.”

You press a lingering kiss to the top of his head, overwhelmed with affection. When you finally pull back, there are indeed tears shining in your eyes.

“Now go show your parents what you’ve got, baby,” you say with a watery smile. “I can’t wait to see you out there.”

Jules gives you a determined nod, eyes blazing with that trademark fire. “You got it, Mama! Get ready to lose!”

With that, he slams down the visor on his helmet and revs the little engine. You step back with a laugh, watching him peel out onto the track with all the confidence and flair of a seasoned pro. Like parents, like son indeed.

By the time Charles rejoins you, his own kart idling beside yours, Jules has already completed a couple of warm up laps. You can’t resist shooting Charles a smug grin.

“Well, well … looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. He drives just like you.”

Charles snorts, clearly trying to downplay his obvious pride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s all your genes coming through.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a sudden commotion from the fences draws your attention. The crowd has grown even larger, people pressing against the barriers with raised phones and voices calling out excitedly.

“Oh my god, it’s them!”

“They’re so cute together!!”

“Over here, please! This way!”

You share a resigned look with Charles as event staff rush to try and control the growing swarm.

“This is what it’s going to be like from now on, isn’t it?” You murmur. “Our little family, constantly in the spotlight.”

Charles shrugs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he watches Jules blaze by. “What else is new? We’ve been there our whole careers. At least this time, we get to share the fame together … as a family.”

You lean into his side with a contented smile. Out on the track, Jules whips past in a blur of determination, completely unbothered by the fawning crowd. Just a little boy living out his dream, regardless of who his parents might be.

“You know what?” You say softly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Charles drops a kiss to your hair as the roar of the crowd and engines swells around you. “Me neither, mon amour. I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

3K notes · View notes

novaursa · 4 months ago

Note

Hey again! 😃 Ok, so I've got 4 requests for you (since now it's 1K words per person).

I was thinking of some "lost" scenes from that Alicent fic I requested, but this time it's about the Reader's bond with each of his children.

With Aegon - A scene in which R catches Aegon drunk after a night out, and pulls him aside to listen to his concerns about fulfilling his duties and being responsible in general. Reader remains understanding and tells Aegon that no matter how old he gets, he can always count on his help, but that he has to find his way on his own (Aegon looks more closely at his father and sets him as an example of how a prince/king should behave.

With Helaena - A scene in which Reader takes her to Essos for a trip to a jungle (idk if there exists jungles in Essos, but let's pretend they do) on a quest to find more exotic bugs. Should be fun and playful! Maybe R trips over a root and lands on his bum, and that's what makes his darling daughter laugh so much.

With Aemond - That one scene after he gets gifted with "The Pink Dread". The Reader comforts him and even dares to tell him that should he have had a pink(ish) dragon, that's the nickname that he would bestow upon it (think of how people would expect TPD to be some small creature - yes, like a pig - but no, it's a FRIGGIN' DRAGON! 😂😂😂). Also, R mentions how he sees a lot of himself in Aemond (particularly related to his own youth).

With Daeron - The scene where he visits him in Oldtown and where R goes all buddy-buddy with Gwayne (one of the only sane guys in HoTD, I swear). Daeron impresses R with his musical skills and takes him to see Tessarion (who is happy to play the part of a big puppy - like rolling around on its back and bearing its belly to get free scratches 😉).

Where Dragons Dare (Lost Chapters)

- Summary: Unrecorded moments with each of your children, that no Maester will ever write about.

- Paring: father!reader/targ!children (platonic)

- Note: Since this was regarding your previous request that was turned into three part series, I've made an exception for you. Enjoy. ❤️

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 3/3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

You stride through the torchlit corridors of the Red Keep, the evening air heavy with the scent of incense and wine from the feast held in your honor. A king’s life is one of constant vigilance, not only for the realm but also for your own blood. The weight of your crown and responsibilities settles upon your shoulders, the unspoken burdens of the Iron Throne. It is a life you have come to accept.

But not everyone does.

The clink of armor catches your attention, and you hear a hushed voice speaking to one of the guards near the side entrance. You already know what you will find before you round the corner. Aegon—your eldest son, your heir—is once again trying to sneak into the keep after a night in the lower city. His form, slightly slouched, leaning against the doorway, makes it clear that his night's indulgences have taken their toll.

You sigh softly, but there is no malice in it. This is not the first time. It won’t be the last.

"Aegon," your voice, even and steady, cuts through the stillness of the night, causing your son to stiffen. He turns slowly, his eyes glassy, yet there is a flicker of recognition. His silver hair, unkempt, falls into his face as he gives you a sheepish smile, one that reminds you so much of his mother when she tries to conceal her worries.

"Father," he mumbles, straightening himself as much as his state will allow. He’s a prince of the blood, but in this moment, he looks like nothing more than a wayward boy caught in the act.

"Walk with me," you say simply, motioning for him to follow. There's no need for a reprimand, not yet. You both know where this conversation is headed. You step into the open air, out onto one of the quieter terraces that overlook the city below.

Aegon follows, his steps slightly uneven, but he doesn't protest. The two of you stand there for a moment, the distant sounds of King's Landing below humming in the background. The city never truly sleeps, much like a king’s responsibilities.

After a while, you glance at him from the corner of your eye. "You’ve been out drinking again."

Aegon leans on the stone balustrade, staring at the lights flickering in the darkness. "It’s not like anyone missed me," he mutters, his voice heavy with bitterness. "I’m no good at all this. What does it matter?"

"It matters because you’re the future king," you reply, your tone calm but firm. "Your actions don’t only reflect on yourself; they reflect on the crown, on our family."

At this, Aegon snorts softly, his lip curling into a sardonic smile. "Aegon the Unready, that’s what they’ll call me," he mutters, almost to himself. "They all expect me to be like you. I’ll never be that. I can barely stand the weight of their stares, let alone a crown."

There is silence for a moment, broken only by the distant sounds of the city below. The firelight dances across the sharp planes of your son’s face, making him seem older than he is, and yet still so young. You can see the weight of expectation, the fear of failure, all of it etched into his features.

You step closer, resting a hand on his shoulder, the familiar comfort of a father’s touch. "I wasn’t always certain either," you admit, the words carrying the weight of your own journey to the throne. "When I was young, I doubted myself just as you do now."

Aegon looks at you, surprise flickering in his eyes. It’s rare for you to speak of your own vulnerabilities. You are the king—stoic, dutiful, unwavering. But tonight, you let that mask slip, if only for your son.

"You don’t need to be me," you say quietly. "You need to find your own way. Being king isn’t about perfection. It’s about responsibility, about understanding that you carry the hopes and fears of an entire realm on your shoulders. And yes, sometimes it’s heavy. But that’s why we’re here—to bear it, so others don’t have to."

Aegon’s gaze falls to the ground, his fingers tapping nervously against the stone railing. "I’m not sure I can," he admits after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to fail you."

Your heart clenches at the vulnerability in his words, the rawness of his fear. You step closer, turning to face him fully. "You won’t," you say firmly. "Not as long as you’re willing to try. You will make mistakes, we all do, but that’s part of the journey. You don’t have to do it alone. I’m here, Aegon, always."

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, you see not just the rebellion, not just the stubbornness, but the uncertainty and the longing for approval. He is so much like you were at his age, fighting against the very things that would one day define him.

"You’ve always been there for me," he says, his voice softer now, more introspective. "I just…I don’t want to be a disappointment."

"You’re not," you reply, without hesitation. "And you never will be. You will grow into this role, just as I did, just as many before us have. But it takes time. You will find your way, but you must be willing to take the first steps. Recklessness won’t serve you well when you sit on the throne."

Aegon nods, swallowing hard. He’s listening now, really listening. You can feel the shift in him, the internal battle as he begins to process your words. His posture relaxes just slightly, and he looks at you with a newfound respect.

"I look at you," he says quietly, "and I see what a king should be. You always know what to do. How did you learn?"

You smile faintly, the memories of your own trials and lessons flickering in your mind. "By making mistakes. By learning from them. And by trusting in those who love me. You’ll learn too, Aegon. But you have to start by taking responsibility for your actions. If you want to be a good king, you have to be a good man first."

He nods again, more resolutely this time. There’s still doubt in his eyes, but also something else—a spark of determination, a glimmer of hope.

"I’ll try," he says, the words holding more weight than any drunken apology ever could.

"I know you will," you reply, squeezing his shoulder one last time before stepping back. "But for now, let’s get you to bed. You can begin to prove yourself tomorrow."

As you guide your son back into the castle, you feel the familiar pull of duty and love intertwine within you. The road ahead will not be easy for Aegon, just as it wasn’t easy for you. But tonight, at least, a small part of that path has been cleared, and your son—your heir—is beginning to take his first steps toward the man he will one day become.

The warm, humid air of the jungle clings to your skin as you lead Helaena through the dense foliage, her excitement as palpable as the buzz of insects that fills the air around you. She’s always been different from her siblings—quiet, introspective, but with a mind that sees wonders where others see only the mundane. Today, her joy is infectious, and as you glance over your shoulder, you see her eyes wide with fascination, darting from tree to tree in search of her beloved bugs.

"Father, look!" she exclaims, her voice bright with enthusiasm. She crouches down, her slender fingers delicately picking up a beetle with iridescent wings, the colors shifting from emerald to sapphire in the dappled sunlight that pierces through the canopy above.

You smile at her, marveling at how her joy lights up the whole forest, making even the most alien surroundings feel like home. "That’s a beautiful one," you say, stepping closer to inspect her latest find. "What do you suppose it eats?"

Helaena tilts her head, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she watches the beetle crawl over her hand. "I think it feeds on nectar from the flowers," she muses, "or maybe the sap from the trees. Look at the way its legs move—so delicate, but strong."

You crouch beside her, nodding as you study the small creature. "You could be right. You always know more about these things than I do." Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s truth in your words. Helaena’s understanding of the natural world has always been beyond her years, her connection to it deep and mysterious.

The two of you continue your journey deeper into the jungle, the air growing thicker with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. Vines drape lazily from towering trees, and the occasional call of a bird echoes in the distance. Helaena moves with purpose, her gaze constantly scanning the ground, the trees, the air above for any new creatures she hasn’t yet discovered.

"Do you think there are bugs in Essos that no one in Westeros has ever seen?" she asks suddenly, her voice filled with a childlike wonder that makes you smile.

"I’m sure of it," you reply, pushing aside a low-hanging branch to let her pass. "That’s why we came here, isn’t it? To find something new, something no one’s ever written about in their tomes or sung about in their songs. Maybe you’ll discover the most magnificent bug the world’s ever seen."

Helaena beams up at you, her lavender eyes shimmering with excitement. "And I’ll name it after you," she says with a giggle, skipping ahead a few paces. "A beetle, maybe, or a butterfly—something regal."

You chuckle at the thought, shaking your head. "I can’t think of anything less regal than a bug named after me. But if anyone could make it sound important, it’s you."

The laughter between the two of you echoes through the trees, light and easy, as you continue on your way. You’re not following any particular path—there are no roads here, no guides to lead you. Just the two of you, father and daughter, on an adventure through the wilds of Essos.

As you step over a moss-covered log, you glance back at Helaena to see her crouching low again, examining a cluster of bright red flowers. Her fascination with the natural world has always been a source of pride for you, something that sets her apart in a family so often consumed by politics and power. Out here, in the quiet of the jungle, she’s in her element.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t notice the thick root winding through the underbrush until it’s too late. Your foot catches, and before you can catch yourself, you’re tumbling forward, arms flailing as you lose your balance. You hit the ground with a soft thud, landing squarely on your backside.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then—

Helaena bursts into laughter, the sound bright and musical, like the ringing of silver bells. She clutches her sides, doubling over as the laughter shakes her small frame, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

"Father!" she manages to gasp between fits of giggles. "You—you tripped on a root!"

You sit there for a moment, stunned, before letting out a laugh of your own. "Apparently, your father is no match for a jungle root," you say, shaking your head as you sit up, brushing leaves from your clothes. "I was so busy watching you, I forgot to watch where I was going."

Helaena, still laughing, steps over to you and offers a hand, her grin wide and infectious. "Here, let me help you up, Father. You’ve fallen in the dirt like one of your regal bugs."

You take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet, though it’s more symbolic than anything—she’s small and slender, and you mostly stand up on your own. Still, the gesture warms your heart, and you smile down at her.

"I suppose even kings can fall every now and then," you say, brushing off the last of the dirt from your breeches. "Especially when they’re distracted by a daughter who’s far too clever for her own good."

Helaena’s laughter finally subsides, though her smile remains, bright and full of affection. "I’m just glad I was here to see it," she says, her voice teasing but sweet. "I’ll have to remember this next time Aegon or Aemond try to act all serious."

You raise an eyebrow at her, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. "Oh? Are you planning on using this against me?"

She shrugs, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe. It depends on how much I need to bargain with them next time."

The two of you share another laugh, and the moment feels light, easy—like the weight of the crown and the responsibilities you both bear have been left far behind in Westeros, forgotten in the simplicity of a jungle trek and shared laughter.

As you continue walking, you let Helaena lead, her steps more confident now as she moves through the underbrush. The jungle is alive with sound—chirping insects, rustling leaves, the distant calls of unseen animals—and you find yourself marveling at how small and vast the world can feel all at once.

"Father," Helaena says after a while, her tone more thoughtful now, "thank you for bringing me here. I know there are more important things you could be doing back home, but…this means a lot to me."

You smile at her, feeling a swell of pride and affection. "There’s nothing more important than spending time with you, Helaena. The realm can wait a few days. Besides, I think we’ve both learned something valuable today—like how to avoid tree roots."

She giggles again, but there’s warmth in her eyes, the kind of warmth that makes you realize just how precious these moments are. The crown may be heavy, the throne demanding, but here, in the jungles of Essos, it’s just you and your daughter, sharing an adventure neither of you will ever forget.

"Now," you say, clapping your hands together as you glance around at the trees towering above, "shall we see what other exotic bugs we can find? Maybe one that doesn’t involve me falling on my backside this time?"

Helaena grins, her face lighting up with renewed excitement. "Let’s!" she says, darting ahead into the greenery, her laughter trailing behind her as you follow, ready for whatever adventure lies ahead.

The halls of the Red Keep seemed quieter than usual today. It was a rare stillness, the kind that hung heavy with unspoken tension. You could sense something had happened, though no one had yet brought it to your attention. You had spent much of the afternoon in the library, pouring over old maps of the Narrow Sea, but something in the air felt wrong.

As you rounded the corner toward the private wing where your children’s chambers lay, you heard faint sniffling. The sound was quiet, but unmistakable. You quickened your pace and followed the sound until you found Aemond, sitting alone on the cold stone floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. His face was buried, but even from this distance, you could tell he had been crying.

"Aemond?" you called softly, kneeling beside him. "What’s happened?"

Aemond looked up at you, and your heart sank at the sight of his tear-streaked face. His usual stern, stoic expression was gone, replaced by vulnerability, the kind only a young boy trying so hard to be a man could wear.

"It’s nothing, Father," he muttered, wiping furiously at his eyes, though the gesture did little to hide the redness.

You sit beside him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Something has upset you, and I would like to know what it is."

For a moment, Aemond says nothing, as if weighing whether or not to burden you with whatever weighs on him. But eventually, his resolve crumbles, and he sighs, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s them. Jace, Luke...and Aegon. They—they played a trick on me."

You feel a tightening in your chest. You had heard rumblings before of the teasing that occasionally happened between your sons and your sister Rhaenyra’s sons, but this felt different. There was something more painful in Aemond��s voice.

"What kind of trick?" you ask gently, though you already have a sinking suspicion about what might have occurred.

Aemond’s cheeks flush with shame as he looks away. "They—they told me they had a dragon for me," he begins slowly, each word weighed with embarrassment. "I’ve always wanted one, and I thought… maybe this time…"

His voice trails off, and you feel your heart break for him. You know how much Aemond has longed for a dragon of his own, how he watches his siblings and cousins with their dragons, envy and longing etched into his every glance.

"They said it was waiting for me," he continues, his voice shaking. "So I went to the dragon pit. I was so excited, Father. I thought—maybe, finally—" His breath hitches as fresh tears well in his eyes, but he quickly wipes them away, trying to be strong.

"And then I saw it," he says bitterly. "A pig. They dressed up a pig and called it the 'Pink Dread.' They were all laughing, all of them, even Aegon."

A cold anger flares in your chest at the cruelty of the prank. You can picture it all too easily: Aegon and the boys snickering behind Aemond’s back as he approached the animal, thinking, for one precious moment, that his dream had finally come true. You know how deeply this would have cut Aemond, how much it hurt him to be humiliated in front of his family. But for now, you push that anger aside. This moment is about Aemond, not them.

"Come here," you say softly, pulling Aemond into your arms. He resists at first, too proud to cry in front of you, but after a moment, he lets himself lean into you, his small frame trembling as he clutches at your tunic.

You stroke his hair, the familiar silver strands soft beneath your fingers. "I’m sorry that happened to you, Aemond," you whisper, your voice full of warmth and understanding. "That was cruel, and you didn’t deserve it."

He pulls back slightly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "They all have dragons," he says, his voice thick with frustration. "Why not me? Why am I the only one without one?"

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his question. "Sometimes, life doesn’t seem fair," you say honestly. "It can feel like the things we want most are the things we’re denied, no matter how hard we wish for them."

Aemond looks up at you, his eyes still glistening with unshed tears. "But one day, Aemond," you continue, your voice full of quiet conviction, "you will have a dragon of your own. I know it. And when you do, you’ll be a better rider than any of them, because you’ve waited. You’ve longed for it. That’s something they’ll never understand."

He listens intently, his shoulders relaxing slightly as your words settle in. "And you know," you add with a smile, "if you ever did have a dragon that was pink, you could give it a name far more fitting than they ever imagined."

Aemond blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

You lean in conspiratorially, a playful grin tugging at your lips. "Think about it. A pink dragon, breathing fire, soaring over the battlefield. No one would laugh then. And you could call it the 'Pink Dread'—a name that would strike fear into the hearts of your enemies. They would hear it and tremble, knowing what it meant."

For the first time, a small smile pulls at Aemond’s lips. The idea takes root in his mind, and you can see his imagination sparking to life. "The Pink Dread," he murmurs, as if testing the words. "That… that would be funny. No one would laugh at a pink dragon breathing fire."

You nod, your heart warming at the sight of his growing confidence. "Exactly. They may laugh now, but one day, you’ll be the one laughing."

Aemond looks up at you, his blue eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you see a younger version of yourself reflected in him. The same yearning, the same fierce determination to prove oneself, the same frustration at being left behind while others surged ahead. You had been that boy once, trying to find your place, trying to prove you were worthy.

"I see a lot of myself in you, Aemond," you say softly, your voice filled with quiet pride. "When I was your age, I often felt the same way. I watched others get what I longed for, and it made me feel… less. But it didn’t stay that way forever. And it won’t for you either."

Aemond frowns slightly, looking down at the ground. "You were like me?"

You chuckle softly, ruffling his hair. "More than you might think. I wasn’t always so sure of myself. It takes time, but you’ll find your way, Aemond. You’ll grow into your own, just like I did. And when you do, there will be no one more capable than you."

Aemond’s small smile widens slightly, the last traces of tears fading from his eyes. "I’ll remember that, Father," he says, a quiet strength returning to his voice.

You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "You are strong, Aemond. Stronger than you know. And one day, the world will see that too."

As you sit there with him, the warmth of the Red Keep surrounding you both, you know that the sting of today’s prank will fade, but the lessons Aemond is learning now—about resilience, about strength, about finding his place in the world—will shape him into the man he will one day become. And you will be there, guiding him, as he grows into the prince, and the dragonrider, you know he is destined to be.

It had been far too long since you’d visited Oldtown, and the excitement of seeing Daeron again filled you with anticipation. His letters had spoken highly of his time here, his training, and how much he had grown, but there was nothing quite like seeing it for yourself.

The familiar scent of saltwater from the Whispering Sound mixed with the spices and perfumes of the bustling city as you made your way through its cobbled streets. Your memories of Oldtown were filled with childhood games, racing through the alleyways, and the company of old friends. One of those friends, you knew, was waiting for you just inside the Hightower.

As you passed through the gates, you saw him: Gwayne Hightower, your childhood companion and steadfast friend. He stood tall, wearing the colors of House Hightower, a broad smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of you.

"Your Grace!" Gwayne called out, his arms open in welcome as he walked toward you with the easy confidence that only an old friend could have. "I was wondering when we’d see you again."

You smiled broadly, clasping his forearm in a firm handshake before pulling him into a warm embrace. "Gwayne, it’s been far too long," you said, clapping him on the back before stepping back to look at him. "You haven’t changed a bit."

Gwayne chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, I could say the same of you, but we both know a crown has its way of changing a man."

You smirked, shaking your head. "Perhaps, but Oldtown doesn’t. It feels like I’m stepping back into my youth."

"And that’s just what Daeron’s been waiting for," Gwayne said, his voice filled with pride. "He’s been practicing something special for your arrival."

The two of you made your way into the Hightower, exchanging stories of the years gone by. Gwayne filled you in on Daeron’s progress, not only in his studies but in his musical pursuits, something that had come as a surprise to you when you’d first heard of it. Daeron had always been a quiet boy, thoughtful and dutiful, but you hadn’t expected him to take to music with such dedication.

As you entered one of the private chambers, there he was—Daeron, your youngest son, sitting with a lute in his hands. His bright eyes lit up when he saw you, and he quickly set the instrument aside to rise and bow.

"Father," he said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. "I’m so glad you’re here."

You smiled, stepping forward to pull him into a quick embrace. "It’s good to see you, Daeron. I’ve been looking forward to this visit."

Daeron stepped back, a hint of shyness in his expression, but there was also pride. "I’ve been practicing," he said, gesturing to the harp behind him. "Would you like to hear?"

"Of course," you said, sitting down as Gwayne settled in beside you, both of you eager to see how much Daeron had improved.

Daeron returned to his seat, his fingers brushing the strings of the lute with ease. The melody that filled the room was soft at first, delicate and sweet, but soon it grew into something more complex, full of emotion and depth. His fingers moved skillfully, the notes flowing effortlessly across from the lute, creating a sound that was both soothing and captivating.

You watched him closely, impressed by the concentration and passion in his playing. He had grown so much, not just in skill, but in confidence. When he finished, the last note lingering in the air, you clapped your hands together, beaming with pride.

"That was beautiful, Daeron," you said earnestly. "You’ve improved so much. I never knew you had such a talent."

Daeron blushed slightly but smiled, pleased with your approval. "Thank you, Father. I’ve been practicing every day. It helps me focus."

Gwayne leaned over, grinning. "He’s the pride of Oldtown, your Grace. Everyone speaks of his music as much as his dragon."

At the mention of Tessarion, Daeron’s eyes brightened even more. "Speaking of which, would you like to see her?"

"I wouldn’t miss it," you said, standing and motioning for him to lead the way.

The three of you made your way through the halls of the Hightower and out toward the dragon stable where Tessarion was kept. As you walked, Daeron talked animatedly about his time in Oldtown, how much he had learned, and how attached he had become to his dragon. You could hear the excitement in his voice, and it warmed your heart to see him so full of life and purpose.

When you reached the stable, you were greeted by the sight of Tessarion, her blue and silver scales gleaming in the soft light of dusk. She was still small by dragon standards, no larger than a large horse, but she had a regal air about her. However, that air of regalness disappeared the moment she saw Daeron.

With an excited rumble, Tessarion bounded toward him, her wings fluttering slightly as she lowered her head and rolled onto her back, exposing her soft underbelly in a clear plea for scratches. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight—this mighty dragon, one day destined to be a force to be reckoned with, now behaving more like a playful pup than a creature of legend.

Daeron laughed too, kneeling beside her and rubbing her belly with both hands, her tail thumping happily against the ground.

"She’s just like a dog!" you exclaimed, amusement bubbling in your chest.

"She likes to be scratched here," Daeron said, his voice full of affection as he rubbed Tessarion’s side. "She’s still young, but she’ll grow big and strong. One day, she’ll be the fiercest dragon in all the realm."

"That, I have no doubt," you replied, watching as Tessarion nuzzled into Daeron’s hand, her eyes half-closed in contentment.

You knelt beside Daeron, reaching out to touch Tessarion’s shimmering scales. Her hide was warm under your palm, her breathing slow and steady as she basked in the affection. "She’s a beauty, Daeron. You should be proud."

"I am," Daeron said quietly, glancing at you. "She’s my closest friend."

There was something in his voice, a depth of connection between boy and dragon that was rare and powerful. You had seen it with your other children and their dragons, but with Daeron and Tessarion, it felt different. There was a quiet understanding between them, a bond that ran deep.

You smiled at him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "She’ll be a great dragon, Daeron, and you’ll be a great rider. Tessarion’s lucky to have you."

"And I’m lucky to have her," Daeron replied, his hand never leaving her side.

For a while, the three of you sat there in the dragonpit, Tessarion’s soft rumbles the only sound in the still evening air. The world seemed far away, the troubles of the realm forgotten in the warmth of family and the comfort of an old friend.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Oldtown in shades of gold and pink, you looked at Daeron, filled with pride at the man he was becoming. He had found his place here, among his studies, his music, and his dragon. He had grown into himself, and you couldn’t wait to see what the future held for him.

"Thank you for bringing me here," you said quietly, your voice filled with affection. "I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you."

Daeron smiled, his eyes filled with warmth. "I’ve missed you too, Father. I’m glad you’re here."

And as Tessarion rolled over onto her side, thumping her tail against the ground with contentment, you realized that moments like this—simple, peaceful moments with your children—were worth more than any crown or throne.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #alicent hightower #hotd x male reader #hotd alicent #hotd aemond #hotd aegon #hotd daeron #hotd helaena #alicent x male reader #alicent x you #alicent x reader

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ginkgo-phyta · 11 months ago

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heyy do you write for hotch? If yes can I request a fic with hotch falling asleep on reader's shoulder on the jet. like there are so many fics with reader sleeping on his shoulder and he's all soft about it and lets her. how would the bau react to see their tough boss just cuddle up with his girlfriend after a long case (it can be established relationship or before that too). thanku!

A/N: im screaming HAHA i LOVE THIS! i made this an established relationship hehe i hope you enjoy, my love!

tagged spencer reid x reader because i want more people to see this teehee pls dont hate me i have spencer fics yall should read if you havent already but also you should still read this too

fluff, BAU!reader, gender-neutral reader, mention of cannon type violence/hostage situation/nothing explicit or detailed, 1.8k words

“Hey, you okay?” Your tired eyes peered up at Aaron as he neared your seat on the jet, tie loosened and top button of his shirt undone. He had just gotten off the phone with the section chief, who, undoubtedly, scolded him as if he were a wayward adolescent. Although the smile he offered you in response was tight lipped and less-than-giving, his eyes told a different tale. They softened as they met yours, shedding their cold and hard façade to reveal a weary truth, littered with hints of desperation.

This case had been long and grueling, tensions insurmountably higher than usual with Erin Strauss breathing down Hotch’s neck, scrutinizing every decision he and the rest of the team made. You barely got a chance to talk to Aaron about how he was doing, always being waved off by the older man with “We can talk later,” or “It doesn’t matter right now, let’s focus on the case,”. Begrudgingly, you obliged, understanding there was no point in pushing him. It would only add to his stress. Although the case was solved, the end was arduous. The unsub had taken a hostage and, with the rest of the BAU’s input, the negotiation tactics went a different way than what Erin deemed appropriate.

A heavy sigh parted Aaron’s lips as he slumped into his seat, you could practically see steam of stress billowing off of him. “It’s fine, everything’s fine.” He spoke quietly, eyes closed, but you could tell he didn’t believe it to be true.

“Strauss tear you a new one?” Rossi piqued from across the table.

The unit chief huffed out a short laugh. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Rossi just nodded at this, turning his attention back to his notepad. Hotch looked to the rest of his team as they settled into their desired spots, “Let’s all get some rest, alright?”

Everyone wordlessly nodded, not having to be told twice.

Aaron lazily turned his head to you with a book in your lap, “You, too, Agent.” He gave you a playfully pointed look.

You breathed out a quiet chuckle, “I will, don’t worry.” You shut the book and turned to give your beloved undivided attention, gazing into his suddenly undecipherable, deep hickory eyes. “You wanna talk about it?”

He gently shook his head, eyelids feeling heavy as his blinks became slower and slower, “At home,” he whispered, your stomach doing a somersault at the notion. Aaron tried to fight sleep for just a few seconds longer, wanting to just stare at you for a bit.

You faced him, head leaned against the headrest, smile so warm and endearing. The way you chuckled at him was like getting a glimpse of heaven. He couldn’t wait to go home and have you all to yourself. The feeling of your arms wrapped around him was his life raft in the tumultuous storm of his emotions. It was hard for him to express what he was feeling all the time, but with you around his walls of reinforced concrete tumbled. Aaron gave you a small, sleepy smile.

Before he could say anything else, you spoke up. “Sleep,” it was a simple command, and the usually stubborn man melted into his seat at your word.

You took a couple minutes longer to watch him immediately fall into a deep slumber, his breaths becoming deeper and longer, lips parted ever-so-slightly, eyebrows twitching here and there. With a breathy laugh, you fought the urge to reach up and caress his face and move the little stray strands of hair off of his forehead, still aware that your coworkers could witness such an intimate moment. The two of you had begun dating five months ago, but it wasn’t until three months later that you broke the news to the team.

It had been a long time coming; for quite a while everyone knew about the feelings you harbored for your boss- even Hotch himself knew. You didn’t do a very good job of hiding it, taking every opportunity you could to blithely flirt with him. Some might just assume you did so in a similar way to how Penelope and Derek toy with each other, but the profilers knew in the back of their minds it wasn’t the case. Aaron fought you at first, pleading with you to stop calling him “handsome”, “big man”, or even “honey” in one case. You never gave in, though, buckling down on your efforts upon seeing the way he would chuckle caught off guard and almost blush in many instances. Slowly yet surely, he gave in to your teases. You burrowed your way into the stoic man’s heart, creating a place you would die before giving up. Aaron didn’t even realize it was happening until his world came crashing down on him one fateful evening.

A routine questioning of a suspect had led to you getting held hostage, the man whose house you went to turning out to be the unsub. This had happened many times before in the history of the BAU, but for some reason Aaron was more on edge. There was no covert entrance into the home and the unsub refused to open up a line of communication with the agents, leaving everyone in the dark wondering what the state of your wellbeing was. Aaron had begun pacing back and forth in the tent they had set up outside the house you were being held in, hands held to his head.

“Hotch, it’s going to be okay.” Derek stepped forward, trying to calm his superior’s nerves.

“He’s right, Aaron.” Rossi piped in. “We’ve dealt with this before, we can fix this.”

“No,” Hotch murmured back, “This isn’t the same. It’s not the same.” His pacing didn’t let up. “This is my fault, I should have told someone to go, too. I could have prevented this.”

The others held unspoken conversations within the glances they shared.

“Hotch-” Emily tried to speak up, to convince him that wasn’t the case.

“NO!” He yelled suddenly, stopping in his tracks. “You don’t understand, I can’t lose them!” His voice was heavy with despair, eyes wide in anguish.

All eyes were trained on him, his coworkers at loss for words at the confession.

“I can’t lose them…” Aaron mumbled this himself before roughly pushing out of the tent.

You smiled to yourself as you took a last glance towards the sleeping man next to you before turning back to your book. Safe to say, you were incredibly shocked when Aaron showed up on your doorstep in the dark of the night all those months ago, soaked in the rain, kissing you with a sense of urgency before you could even ask him what he was doing there. You bit your lip at the memory, but shook it out of your head to try and focus in on the jumbled words swimming in your lap. From the get-go, the two of you decided you would remain extremely professional around your coworkers, and you did just that. You stopped your teasing, for the most part at least, and made sure to never initiate physical contact on the job. Anyone that didn’t already know you were in a relationship would never have guessed. The most you allowed yourselves was sitting next to one another on the jet, just like you were doing now.

An unintelligible murmur and huff sounding from your side drew your short-lived attention away from the delicate pages in front of you. Just as you were about to look over to Aaron and make sure he was okay, a heavy weight thumped onto your shoulder. His head. You were taken aback, a giggle slipping through your lips before you could help it. Your fingers flew up to your mouth, trying to keep yourself quiet as you noticed him shift a bit, making himself more comfortable. Sure, you’d accidentally fallen against Hotch’s shoulder in your sleep a couple times before the two of you entered a relationship, but never in a million years did you expect him to do the same to you. On the jet. In front of everyone. Of course, he couldn’t control his actions in his sleep, you reasoned. And maybe you should gently shrug him off to help retain his authority around the teasing profilers. But, this time, you fought off that thinking and gave in to your instinct. He had been so tense and strung out this entire case, you knew he needed this.

To hell with professionalism. You thought with a devilish grin, happy in your resolution. And so, you gently closed your book and slid it onto the table in front of you, trying your best to move as little as possible before leaning your head against his own and closing your eyes. With the gentle hum of the jet engines and the comforting sounds of Aaron’s breathing, you were lulled into a wonderful slumber in no time.

“Oh my God,” Emily breathed out, garnering the attention of Spencer who rested in the same group of seats as her. He looked up at her with one eye from where he was slumped over in his window seat, trying to get some shut-eye.

“Huh?” the sleepy doctor grumbled, pushing himself a bit more upright when he noticed Emily looking at something on the other side of the jet, her face a mixture of shock and glee.

The raven-haired agent began slapping Derek’s shoulder, who sat peacefully next to her with his eyes closed and headphones over his ears. His eyes flew open, looking over to Emily with annoyance as he took off his headphones, “What! What!”

Immediately Emily shushed him, “Look!” she whispered, hand flying wildly in the air, eyes still unmoving.

Derek followed her line of sight the scene before him pulling a laugh of disbelief from his lungs. “Well, well, well…”

Emily’s hands covered her mouth in astonishment. “JJ!” she whispered over to the blonde who lay curled up on the sofa next to them. “Ugh,” she groaned quietly, unable to wake her coworker.

“I can’t believe this,” she whispered mostly to herself, settling back in her seat, garnering a shake of Morgan’s head.

The view of their hard-headed unit chief sleeping peacefully on the shoulder of his subordinate, the latter’s head resting sweetly back on his was suddenly blacked by the side of Rossi’s body as he stuck his arm out, trying to get the best angle to immortalize this moment on camera.

“Good for them,” Morgan grinned, his voice proudly announcing his amusement as he put his headphones back over his head.

“Rossi, you better send me that!” Emily spoke up just a little bit louder, the old man looking back and motioning his phone towards her in acknowledgement.

“What? What!?” Spencer whisper-yelled, unsuccessfully craning his head above and between the seats to get a glimpse of what all the hubbub was about, “What are you guys looking at!?”

“Penelope’s gonna flip,” Emily mumbled to herself, a teasing smile playing on her face as she looked down at the picture Rossi sent her. Without a second thought, she saved the photo onto her phone. They’re never gonna live this down.

A/N: i hope you liked this!! i had a fun time writing it ehehe hotch is such a dilf, like an ACTUAL dilf im not even attracted to fathers but hotch?? all day, every day, baby!

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch imagine #spencer reid x reader

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zepskies · 1 year ago

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Okay, I loved the reader smacking Ben's ass, so can we do an uno reverse of the situation, but lmao it would probably not end well because knowing Ben it probably would've been done during a terribly inappropriate time like a meeting or something, also I know that you didn't explicitly say it was BMD ben and reader but I did read it as such, lmao - salvadoreña anon (lmao it feels a little weird to call myself that because Im also desi lol)

Hello my Latina Lovely! 😘 (Wow! Love that you're also Desi. ❤️)

Aw, hell, you done uno-reversed me…

See this imagine for context: Repaying Soldier Boy for a job well done.

(And yes, I had Break Me Down-verse SB x Reader in my head writing that one as well lol. They're ingrained in me. 😂)

Word Count: 350

Imagine: Ben gets a little payback.

Your heels clacked on the tile floor brusquely as you made your way back to your office, over in Surveillance. You carried a stack of paperwork that had to be sorted through—and on Grace Mallory’s desk by end of day today.

Your hair was falling out of its loosening bun, and you tried in vain to blow a piece of it out of your face. The elevator on the opposite end of the hall dinged. The doors opened, and out came your boyfriend, strutting into the hall in his supe suit.

You smiled. “Wow, that was quick. You caught Metallo?”

“Being booked with bendy straws for arms as we speak,” Ben replied with a cocky smile. He headed toward you down the hall. “Gonna grab a bite to eat. Care to join?”

You raised a brow at bendy straws for arms. He really needed to work on how badly he roughed up these supes when bringing them into custody.

“Can’t right now,” you said, gesturing with your eyes to your workload. “But I’ll let you know when I’m ready to head home, if you want to wait for me.”

While you spoke, Ben was busy taking in your white blouse, the dark red lipstick, the pencil skirt, the sexy little heels. It was straight out of one of his fantasies…

Maybe you’d be down for a round of sexcretary after work. His lips curved at the thought.

But then, he remembered how you’d got him to accidentally shatter a nice crystal wine glass the other night, and it got him contemplating some retribution.

“All right. See you then, baby doll,” he said mildly.

When he finally reached you, he gave you a nice smack on the ass as he passed by.

You jolted with a wide-eyed yelp. Ben smirked at the sound.

He’d gotten you with a little more force than he thought though, as it made you lose your grip on your files. They flew from your hands and scattered onto the floor.

You twisted back to meet him with a glare. Ben’s hand clenched and curled back…

Then he gave you a sly grin.

“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

AN: So I don't typically post two new fics within the same day (sorry for the spam), but this one was short and essentially a sequel to the other imagine lol. (And my weird brain doesn't like a packed drafts folder. 😉)

I have at least one more SB imagine coming this week. I got a ton of requests this weekend, so thank you all! I really am so flattered. 🥰🥰

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

SB Tag List:

@melancholictearz @katherineann83 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @tipthejar @ajjustice @thewritersaddictions @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman

@mrshalverson2021 @iprobablyshipit91 @agalliasi @venicesem @waters-2567 @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @mimaria420 @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @skyesthebomb @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore

@agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesdeanvessel @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @emily-winchester @tearsfortheyouth @solo-pitstop-vibes @romaka344 @dope-trope-105 @liuope @beautyvaliant @xxlaynaxx @ades106 @chernayawidow @beskarfilms

#ask me stuff #soldier boy #slapping dat ass #uno reverse #Soldier Boy imagine #the boys #soldier boy/ben #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy headcanon #zepskies answers

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slowd1ving · 5 months ago

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・゜・ LOOKISM MASTERLIST

i have been #suffering and #caught up since like a year ago; this stupid universe has clutched at my mind and refused to let go. ptj pay me for my tears

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

DANIEL PARK

FICS

27,000 won

→ Armed with nothing but a headache and the fit of a wayward uncle, it's perhaps not your proudest moment. But it's a moment nonetheless: one the cashier in this stupid convenience store locks away in his pounding heart. male student reader (REQUEST)

FICS

far from any road

→ And after the numbing day concludes, after the rain swallows all your sorrows, where else do you return if not home? male, osagiri-like reader (REQUEST)

xenia

→ Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. male reader (REQUEST)

JAEGYEON NA

FICS

no strings attached

→ truly, clearing up the mess your brother james lee got himself in was not on your to-do list for today. your day's irrevocably ruined by this dumbass pretty boy. male!reader (REQUEST)

JINYOUNG PARK

FICS

nostos

→ Nostos: defined by homecoming, as after a long journey. Gone are the days of an empty stomach and the taste of blood on your tongue. Tonight, your biggest worry consists only of explaining the ball of fur (wedged damply under your raincoat) to your oh-so-beloved husband. male reader (REQUEST)

SEONGJI YUK

FICS

the mundane

→ In which an amateur stargazer finds that no, they do not teach biology in Cheonliang, and yes, gravity does in fact affect everything with mass. gender neutral reader (REQUEST)

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autisticandroids · 5 months ago

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rarepair fic recs

slipping in my rarepair recs within hopefully like an hour of the deadline. for @spnficrecfest. i'm basically taking rarepairs to mean "anything but The Big Two" so like. if you wanna quibble with calling, say, megstiel a rarepair, that's the definition i'm using.

i actually have a bunch of other rarepair fics on my other lists: casjimmy, samlucifer, sastiel, samruby, and annamary here. crowstiel, deancaslisa, deancasmeg, daphne/emmanuel, and cas/rachel here. draowley here. dagonkelly here. raphael/naomi, deanpala, deancassie, sastiel, mary/naomi, megjo, and rowena/ofc here. samlucifer here. and megstiel on i think literally every list i've made so far. i'd also like to point you in the direction of a dark femslash reclist i made earlier this year.

anyway, rarepair fics in order of wordcount:

i could be kindly by anti_ela, .5k

deanalastair. well, it's exactly what you think.

the replacement by ravenspear, .5k

meg/nick (yes lucifer's vessel nick). meg won't kiss him until his mouth is cold enough.

buy you a round by nevcoleil, .5k

deanhenriksen. they meet again after jus in bello.

vessel by transgenderism, 1k

deancasmeg in season seven. and Gender.

wherever they roam (the sum of our influences) (orphaned work), 1k

deancasmeg. dean and meg met in hell. dean and cas met there too. all three meet again, topside.

aching everywhere by discoxena, 1k, chose not to warn

sammegjo. a seduction, rather than what we see in canon, and that makes it worse in the end.

another perfect moment (that doesn't feel like mine) by lesbiansailor, 1k, chose not to warn

alex jones/krissy chambers. munchausen's by proxy in a wayward sisters setting.

last call by angelszn, 2k

cassie/cisfem dean, in season three. one last phone call.

the pain in the end is all in your memory by filthyfealty, 2k

crowley/transfem dean. an exploration of what it's like to be a demon, and a girl, and dean winchester.

always sere, never blooming by smilla, 2k

deanvictor, after a hunt.

baby steps by angelszn, 2k

missouri/cisfem sam. sam has brain damage, so dean takes her to the only other psychic they know for help. i'm kind of obsessed with sam's characterization in this one, not gonna lie.

and the devil makes four by vaguesurprise, 2k

destiel, crowstiel, meanstiel, oh my! cas likes demons.

new religion (bring you to your knees) by electricskeptic, 2k

megstiel. meg realizes just how faithless cas is in season six.

the wrong game with the wrong chips by a_diamond, 3k

endverse cas/risa. they talk about being dean's discard pile.

the thing about glass slippers by krisomniac, 5k

deanhenriksen. dean allows himself to be temporarily transformed into a woman in order to go undercover and seduce henriksen. she likes it.

end of days (orphaned work), 5k

megstiel and deancasmeg in a pacific rim au.

one night by reapertownusa, 7k

deanhenriksen. a last encounter, three weeks before the deadline.

proxy by bleedingink, 8k

samcasmeg. three people in two bodies, and enough tension to cut with a knife.

grace by nerdylittleangelenthusiast, 13k, violence and mcd

crowstiel. a season twelve mpreg story. cas is on the run with kelly, and crowley is so sweet on him. abandoned but i would rec it anyway.

masters by twisted_slinky, 15k, noncon and violence warnings

deanmeg and megstiel. a story about meg from season three to season seven, as recounted by the demon herself. remember when meg said "i apprenticed under alastair in hell, just like your brother, so dean, can i make crowley do whatever i want?"

the passenger by hansbekhart, 34k, violence and mcd warnings

deanhenriksen. victor survives jus in bello, but just barely. when he's back on his feet again, he goes to meet the winchesters.

#spn #spnficrecfest

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generalluxun · 5 months ago

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Half-Baked, An ML fanfiction.

So this comes out of my 'Chloe goes back in time' AU. set after she's stolen the black cat Miraculous, but before the repercussions of that have really gone full swing.

This AU came about mostly from asks, so the tag can be searched on my blog for getting up to date on our collective ramblings for it.

Super short Summary: Post S5 Chloe goes back in time into her Origins-timeframe body. She is angry at everyone and everything. She gets herself akumatized early on and steals the Cat Miraculous from Cat Noir(who wasn't taking things seriously, it's S1) Seeing it's Adrien she freaks, breaks akumatization and runs off before Ladybug arrives. Adrien is keeping who stole it a secret(though he tells LB he lost it) hoping he can get it back himself to make up for losing it.

Fic is under the cut because it is 4172 words. I'll also be posting it on AO3 tomorrow.

With the smell of fresh baked goodies taunting her nostrils, Marinette dodged between racks laden with hot trays and mixing bowls of fresh dough. She was already late for school, but seeing her parents frantically running around made her pause.

“Dad?”

Tom flashed her a big smile but immediately turned and fled into the back. Her mother turned from where she was scooping still-warm pastries off cooling trays and into boxes too soon. “Honey, your father and I are very busy today. A large catering order came in unexpectedly. It was extremely short notice, but you know your father.”

Marinette couldn’t help but puff up a little, “It’s the Egyptian opening at the Lourve, right?”

Sabine paused. “Why, yes honey. How did you-”

Marinette gushed, “I knew dad was bummed about missing out on it, so yesterday I took a few freshly baked pastries over to the museum before school. I managed to find a way back to the curator’s offices and wouldn’t leave until he tried one. You should have seen the look on his face! ‘Young lady I think that is the best confection I have ever tasted.’ It looks like it was worth being an hour late.”

Marinette froze mid-pantomime. Her story had run away with her again, perhaps to a few places her mother didn’t exactly need to know.

Whatever Sabine’s thoughts, she kept a gently serene face. “That’s… very clever dear. Only… perhaps you could ask before helping next time? This really is such short notice.”

Marinette winced. “Is it really? I could help! I can just call in sick, then I would be able to-”

Rushing back towards the kitchen, Marinette snagged her foot on one of the giant mixing bowls. She tripped and collapsed into it as it spun, coming to rest blinking up into her mother’s even more concerned looking face. Sabine reached down and helped Marinette extract herself, brushing some wayward flour dust off her backside.

“No, no, that’s quite alright, dear. Your father and I will handle it. It’s not as if sleep is necessary every night. On your way now. You don’t want to be late, again.”

That last word carried the only hint of maternal reprimand, but it was enough. Marinette let herself be ushered out the door. On the way to school she managed to convince herself everything would be okay. It would be fine. It wasn’t the end of the-

The Agreste Limo pulled up in front of the steps to the school, and ‘end of the world' took on new meaning. Adrien got out, but his walk up the steps had none of its usual spring. Even knowing the truth, it was hard for Marinette to overlap the image of him with Cat Noir. Hard, and maybe a moot point.

Marinette shook herself. No. Not a moot point. We will get the ring back. I will get it back. Anyone can make a mistake. She hop-stepped to catch up with Adrien and gave him her biggest smile, “Morning, Adrien!”

He might not know it, but he’d helped her become Ladybug. Now it was up to her to return the favor.

------------------------------------------------

Time was not on Marinette’s side though. Not even half the day had gone by when the school shook as if in an earthquake. Sirens sounded in the distance. Alya had her phone open to a news cast before anyone else even had theirs out.

“-eaking News. A giant man…monster…thing… has once again been sighted in downtown Paris. Police are on their way, but as we approach the presumed akuma I have to wonder, what can they hope to do? Will Ladybug and Cat Noir show up once again to save our fair city?”

Nadja’s voice rose clearly from the tiny screen. Marinette couldn’t make out the akuma clearly as the helicopter circled though. All at once the helicopter lurched.

Nadja turned to ask someone off screen, “What’s that smell?”

The camera jostled, the helicopter lurched again, and the image went dark.

Marinette jumped up, “We have to do something!”

“Do something?” Kim blurted out from the back before anyone else. “Ivan got turned into a giant monster and almost turned half the class into crepes! What are you gonna do? …No offense big guy.”

Marinette heard Ivan mumble something even as she watched Adrien’s shoulders slump in front of her. She had to think fast. “What am I gonna do? I’m gonna go to the bathroom! Can’t think on a full bladder, right? Haha. Ms. Bustier can I go please?”

Another rumble shook the entire classroom.

Nino scrambled to his feet, “It sounds like there won’t be a bathroom to go to pretty soon.”

Ms Bustier raised her voice clearly but gently, “Alright class, everyone out. We rendezvous at the park. Stay with your seatmates.”

Sorry Alya. Marinette bolted for the door.

It wasn’t until she set eyes on the akuma that Ladybug’s forebrain took control back from her reflexes. Fear grabbed ahold of her and queasiness dropped her on unsteady legs on the nearest rooftop. The akuma was huge, topping even stoneheart. It was visible head and shoulders above the rowhouses. The only saving grace was a strange familiarity. It was dressed like a baker, complete with toque on its head and giant wooden peel in its hands.

The combination of silliness and fear forced a nervous giggle from her lips. The giggle reminded her that she was alone this time, her partner couldn’t help her. That sealed her lips once more with fear. It’s all up to me, alone.

Doomsday scenarios pressed into her thoughts even as the akuma strode on in the distance. What’s its power? Why is it here? What is the item? Where is it go-

Ladybug’s brain did the math and drew the line from the akuma right through the school towards… Our bakery!

She was in motion instantly, vaulting two streets closer. She was crouched for another leap when her senses shoved another fact through her emotions. Screams.

Screams weren’t surprising, but the tone was wrong. The akuma swung its peel and something scattered below it. If only for a cat’s sight. Screams of fear turned to joy then fell silent.

Ladybug balked again. She had to think. Emotion wanted her to act, but she couldn’t afford to be wrong. How close could she get? The akuma moved on and she followed from a distance, trying to pick up any clues she could. How close is too close? The akuma plowed through a building in its way. More screams of fear, a swing of its peel and fear turned to joy then silence again.

She needed to get closer. But-

Ladybug was stuck.

----------------------------------------------------------

“Go away!” Chloé stalked across the square, away from the class.

Sabrina trotted after her. “But, Chloé… we’re seatmates! We’re supposed to stick together.”

Chloé spun around and screamed, “Stick together? Is that what you call it? You sure didn’t stick with me when I needed it! Save me the trouble and go play with your new friends right now. Go!”

She jabbed a finger over Sabrina’s shoulder, but didn’t wait to see the results of her outburst. Her stomach felt hollow and sick. Her fingers tingled and her eyes itched. She wanted to scream until she ran out of air, but that hadn’t done any good before. So instead she was getting away from the others as fast as she could. Chloé jogged across the street from the park and was around a corner in seconds. Sabrina didn’t call after her again.

For some stupid reason that made the sickness in her stomach worse.

Chloé stalked blindly, immune to the cracking of masonry and the heavy tread that threatened to knock her off her feet. Out of her tunnel vision a single figure resolved in the distance. Red, spotted, standing still on a rooftop. Ladybug.

She was just…standing there. The crunch of another building rang out but the hero didn’t move. “DO SOMETHING!” Chloé howled at her, unheard.

She hated Ladybug. Ladybug was lame. Ladybug was a loser. Ladybug was a failure. Ladybug was a traitor. Ladybug… was a hero. Ladybug was supposed to be saving the day. The thoughts rattled around and fought until Chloé squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails into her hair in frustration.

With a sudden clarity Chloé’s eyes snapped open again. She whipped a hand around in front of her. “You! Come out now!”

The black cat kwami sparked into existence, anger evident on his tiny features.

“Tell me how to transform!” she demanded.

He crossed his arms smugly and replied, “hmmm Mm mffm Hmm.”

Chloé growled, “Talk! You can talk! Tell me!”

The Kwami gasped but still grinned, “That’s the one thing you can’t order me to do, Miraculous or no.”

“Rrraaaaaggh!” Chloé pointed at the distant Ladybug, “She’s not doing anything. Tell me the password or we’re doomed!”

Plagg crossed his little arms, “Give me back to my rightful holder, and she’ll have a partner again.”

Chloé stomped her foot, “No! I can do this! I know what to do better than any of them do right now! I’m the hero!”

Pagg seemed unimpressed. He rolled his eyes,”You? Nobody would make you a hero. What would you even do with a miraculous?”

Chloé's world narrowed again,to a haze of red with a floating black blob in the center. She advanced on him, “I’ll cataclysm the stupid akuma. I’ll cataclysm stupid Hawkmoth. I’ll cataclysm everyone and everything that gets in my way. No one will take you away and nothing will stop me this time.”

She was seething. Memories of disappointment, failure, and humiliation broke down into the core emotions and blended into a hateful spiral. She waited for the next barb to come, but instead Plagg’s green eyes turned towards her with a spark of devilish curiosity in them.

“Really?” he drew the word out, “That just might be interesting to see.” One fingerless hand thrust at her face. “Don’t think I’m out of tricks though. You just watch yourself. It’s ‘Plagg, Claws out.’”

Emotion spoke before thought could form, “Plagg, Claws out!”

----------------------------------------------------------

The akuma waded through the remains of the school and Ladybug knew she had to act. The bakery was at hand, and though she couldn’t see from back here, she could just imagine her father standing out front with a rolling pin. She still didn’t have a plan. She hadn’t risked getting close enough to get a good look. It had seemed prudent, but a nagging voice whispered she might just be too scared on her own. Had Cat No- Adrien been brave enough for both of them?

She tensed for a leap, but a sound like a thunderbolt stopped her. A black blur streaked at the akuma. It struck clean, staggering the giant, and clung before scuttling across the akuma’s bulk.

Ladybug was airborne before she had time to doubt. The blur had resolved into a person, a cat person. Her foolish heart leapt for a moment at the impossible idea her partner might have returned. No- it wasn't him. This person darted and leapt from point to point, tearing at the akuma. Buttons, hat, pockets were all ripped and torn. The akuma reeled and swatted at the attacker. One meaty hand connected and sent the black-clad fighter into the pavement in an impressive crater. Ladybug didn’t even have time to gasp before the fighter leapt from the cracked road and was back in the fight.

Ladybug landed, still one block away. In part she was still gathering information, in part she wasn’t sure how to engage with that black buzzsaw in motion. She had time now, her partn-

The other fighter was buying her time.

Ladybug was still trying to understand the ferocity of the assault. The -Ladybug mentally decided on cat hero just to organize her thoughts- was fended off time and again, taking blows that had to hurt. They were -she was- was relentless though, rebounding from being knocked clean through nearby buildings.The akuma’s apron fluttered to the ground like a torn parachute.

It clicked, akumatized object!, just as the akuma found space to swing its bakery peel. This time Ladybug could discern pastries showering down from the end of it. The cat hero was crouched for another leap but instead raised her head and sniffed the air. She reoriented herself and pounced… the confections.

Ladybug had her info. She raised her yo-yo, “Lucky Charm!”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The smell was irresistible. Chloé dove at the showering pastries, and she wasn’t the only one. Civilians swarmed out from everywhere, her classmates among them. Each and every one scrambled for the treats. There was no stopping it. Chloé bit down on a tart even as she scooped up half a dozen croissants. That she was aware of the compulsion made it worse. She growled around oozing jam and ground her teeth on buttery crust.

The too familiar feeling of helplessness was poison in her veins. Control, she needed to have some kind of control. She couldn’t stop so she pushed in the other direction. She crammed her mouth full until her jaw ached and she could barely breathe. It worked! She had a muffin in each hand but she could move freely again.

She launched herself at the akuma again.

A patch, no. A giant thermometer, no. She broke and broke. The muffins were goo, smashed against her palms. She couldn’t breathe but she wouldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t. Did. She bent double while crouching for another jump. Trying to inhale had dragged a chunk of her food-muzzle into her throat. She choked, coughed, heaved, choked again, and gasped for air. Her stomach twisted around the magical treats she’d already swallowed and dropped her to her knees.

Ziiiiip *thwip*

She was wrapped in a too-familiar away, airborne, grabbed, thumped on the back. She was spun again, free, something was shoved up her nose. Her overstimulated senses finally managed to focus. Her vision focused. Ladybug stood before her, with a tissue box in hand and polkadot tissues up each nostril.

Chloé hissed, “What do you think you're doing?”

“Saving you!” Ladybug grabbed her arm, “What do you think you are doing?”

Chloé pulled free and snarled, “He’s got an akumatized item on him somewhere, I’ll find it.”

Ladybug reached for her, “Do you have any idea what it is?”

Chloé recoiled and scanned. The akuma had turned away from them. It looked over the Dupain-Cheng bakery of all things. A petty part of her wanted to let it smash the place. That part of her became one more thing to be angry at.

She bared her teeth over her shoulder. “No, but I’m not the kind of hero who stands around doing nothing.”

She vaulted away with a protest lost in her wake. She landed and jumped again, elation mixing with rage. Her claws scored the doughy skin on the back of the akuma’s neck, checking the downward bakery-dooming swing of his peel. He swung it at her instead, showering her with sugary bait that no longer had any power over her. Her mouth was open, panting as a part of her breathing. What next? She picked a target and broke it. Then another, and another.

“The peel! Destroy the peel!” Ladybug’s voice rang in her ears.

Ladybug was a loser and probably wrong, but that wooden peel sure was big and this sure would be fun… “Cataclysm!”

She met the akuma’s swing with an outstretched hand. A grove’s worth of wood turned to powder at her touch. The butterfly flew free.

*Thwip* -snap- Ladybug caught and purified it. The akuma shrank to a befuddled looking baker. Chloé stood victorious in the center of a wasteland of violence and destruction.

Elation beat out anger, for just a moment. She threw her head back, spread her arms and, “Raaaaaaaaaaaaaggggghhhhhh!”

-------------------------------------------

The primal scream from right beside her made Ladybug cringe and fumble the lucky charm she had been about to toss into the air. Once she recovered herself the fact that the crisis had passed gave her a moment to actually evaluate her erstwhile companion. Evaluate, and remember that she was not a partner, she was a thief.

A ragged looking thief. Her blonde hair -did the cat miraculous make the user blonde?- was a voluminous mane down her back, bedecked with black metal hooks and barbs throughout. She turned post scream to give Ladybug a maniacal grin, revealing her needle-like fangs in place of incisors. Her heterochromatic eyes, one blue and one green, were feline as Cat Noir's had been, and her pupils were currently giant black moons swimming in color.

“What are you looking at, Ladybum?” The thief drawled, raising the hand still dusted with cataclysm remains and flexing her fingers slowly.

Her gloved fingers ended in wicked looking black ‘claws’. She wore black leather, that much remained consistent too, but her V-neck collar was torn, not tailored. Lastly, in place of Chat’s amusing belt-tail she had a razor thin wire wrapped around her waist with a heavy cat's paw pendant hanging from the end.

Ladybug narrowed her eyes, “You stole Cat Noir’s miraculous.”

The thief turned her hand, revealing the paw print ring with three toes left. “Finders keepers.”

Ladybug swapped hands and spun her yo-yo up, “Give it back.”

“No!” The thief lunged, catching Ladybug’s yo-yo mid-spin.

Ladybug countered, wrapping her line around the other girl’s arm ensnaring her. The thief’s other hand went for Ladybug’s neck. Ladybug blocked the lunge with the remaining length of her string, but the other girl’s palm pressed within scant centimeters. They were locked taut. Whoever gave ground would lose.

Those wild eyes were narrowed to slits. No akuma had ever scared Ladybug this badly. The anger melted from those features but the fingers still stretched for Ladybug’s throat. Ladybug felt a prick against her skin. “It has to be a pun, doesn’t it? Of course it does. Call me… Purrge. I’m going to turn Hawkmoth to dust, and anyone in my way.”

Ladybug strained. Her own anger fueled a push that took Purrge’s claws from her skin. “You’re crazy! I’m taking that ring back. You don’t deser-”

*Chirp* *chirp*

The overlapping sounds cut across the tension. Purrge’s eyes darted to Ladybug’s earrings. Ladybug’s were drawn to Purrge’s ring. Her mind raced. Has it been three or four?

Purrge’s lips curled into a sharp fanged grin, “You used yours first. You think you can take me down in time?”

Ladybug wanted to, oh she ached to, but there was more riding on this than personal satisfaction, but how to- A very slight easing of the pressure against her line; was it a ceasefire? Ladybug took a chance.

She pulled back, letting the line go slack. No claws cut off her breath. She didn’t wait. She scooped up the lucky charm and turned, “This isn’t over! Miraculous Ladybugs!”

Ladybug tossed the charm even as she began her swing. Triumphant cackling bubbled up behind her. She didn’t look back. Paris rebuilt itself as Ladybug swung further away, seeking out a quiet spot and settling for behind a dumpster.

Marinette burst from the shadow of the dumpster at a run. If she got back quick enough maybe she could catch a glimpse. Maybe there would be a clue. Maybe she could get her partner back.

There wasn’t, and she couldn’t. Not yet at least. All that awaited her was the rest of the class. Alya almost knocked her over, grousing and shaking her by the shoulders while delivering a friendly but stern dressing down. At least she wasn’t the only one gone. Chloé had unsurprisingly run off and still wasn’t back. It took some of the heat off at least.

A few of the class, plus her parents, were gathered around a baker who sat head in hands on the curb. Marinette recognized him immediately, from even before the akuma. She scooted into the semi-circle.

“Mssr. Levure?”

He looked up in confusion.

Marinette gave him a guilty smile, “I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

She saw surprise, anger, then guilt pass over his features.

She continued, “I’m sorry. I think I’m at least partly responsible for all this. I convinced the curator to switch bakeries. I just wanted to help my family… but I didn’t stop to think about how doing it this way would impact them, or you. I know my dad and he’ll run himself into the ground to do all this work. Not only that but our bakery will probably be closed so he can do it. All our other customers will suffer.”

Marinette looked at her parents, who watched her with proud curiosity. She looked back to Mssr. Levure.

“Maybe… both bakeries can share the catering? I’ll make signs. We can promote both and have an even better, more varied selection for our guests. Would that be okay?”

Marinette held her breath. Mssr. Levure, her dad, and her mom held one of those ‘glance and head tilt’ conversations adults so often did. Then he stood and brushed his hands off before holding one out to Tom. “A temporary partnership?”

Tom shook hands, smiling. “Done.”

A small cheer erupted from the half dozen onlookers, and Marinette had the satisfaction of righting at least one wrong today. Still, there was one other… She looked around and spotted Adrien sitting by himself.

“What a day huh?” She announced her presence.

She might be right next to him, but he was still sitting far apart. “Did you see? Ladybug’s got a new partner.”

“Partner?! Oh no no, that’s not what it looked like to me at all. More like a new enemy, or a stray cat, or an enemy cat, or a stray enemy. There’s no way Ladybug would just replace her partner.”

Adrien turned to face her for the first time. The hope on his face was heartbreaking. “You really think so?”

Marinette fidgeted. Instinct said he needed a hug, but, but… he was… and she was… Nervous laughter bubbled up without warning, “Ha! Sure sure No way! Oh look! It’s Alya! No one knows Ladybug like her. She runs the Ladyblog! Why don’t we go ask her together? I’m sure she’ll know! Come on!”

She waved her arms frantically to signal Alya, kicking herself internally the entire time.

---------------------------------------------------

On a rooftop balcony nearby Purrge landed hard. What should have been a hero landing turned into a stumble, a stagger, and a few lurching steps. A flash of green enveloped her, then Chloé collapsed face first onto the pavement.

Plagg zipped in a wide loop through the air, “What a debut! I think you broke three whole blocks before Ladybug put it all back together. Crack! Boom! That was fun, and you still beat the akuma, so Master Fu can’t yell at me!”

Chloé’s persistently prone repose caught his attention.

“Kid? Kid?”

He floated over, sitting atop her head, no response. He turned an ear down against her skull, then floated to her back to do the same.

“Tsk, You gotta let the timer run out when it wants to, kid. You’re still pretty small.”

This got a response. The fingers of one of Chloé’s hands curled into a white knuckled fist for the space of a breath before uncurling again.

Plagg hmphed.

A CCTV camera, set up for security footage but never watched, recorded something odd that day. The blanket from Chloe’s bed lifted itself by a single point and dragged itself out to the balcony(after one of the balcony doors mysteriously rotted off its hinges) The blanket was spread haphazardly over the recumbent heiress.

A little later the trashcan in the suite tipped itself over, and trash began emptying itself onto the floor.

------------------------------------------------

“Master Please! Calm, Master! Here, your beads.” Wayzz hovered nervously with the prayer bracelet in his hands.

“Calm? Calm!” Master Fu paced between the gramophone that hid the miracle box and the small TV in his room. He would stare at the TV, then go reach for the gramophone, then pace back to the TV.

When he turned to Wayzz his face looked pained and afraid, not angry. He pointed at the TV, “How can I be calm when… that?!”

Frozen on the TV was a still frame of Ladybug and a Black Cat wielder who was obviously not Cat Noir, locked in a struggle.

“The Cat Miraculous is out there in an unknown holder’s hands. It could be in danger. The Ladybug could be in danger. If Hawkmoth were to get his hands on the Ladybug…”

He went back to the gramophone again and laid his hands atop it,

“We must get it back. We must be careful, but we cannot delay. Ladybug will need help in the meantime, someone she can rely on, a power that can aid her when there are so many variables in play.”

“Master, do you mean…?”

Fu keyed in the secret combination to open the antique player, and reached for the Miracle Box hidden within. “Yes Wayzz, him.”

#miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic #Chloe goes back in time AU #marinette dupain cheng #chloe bourgeois #adrien agreste #plagg #original akuma #ml au

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winchestergirl2 · 7 months ago

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May Reading Rec List

To show some love and appreciation to all the amazing writers here on tumblr, here are all the fantastic fics I've read this month. 💖

Many of these fics and blogs are 18+ only, and NSFW please heed the author's individual fic warnings and requests regarding no minors. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

Reading Recs Masterlist

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

Darken (Masterlist) @impala-dreamer

Authors Summary: ~You woke up in a trashed motel room covered in someone else’s blood and no memories of the past week.~

Without Her @foreverwayward

Authors Summary: Dean mourns the loss of the love of his life.

Tattooed @coffee-obsessed-writer

Authors Summary: Dean takes you to get ink

Sam Winchester

Lean On @winchester-fantasies

Authors Summary: Sam finds you years later after leaving you for Ruby. Set early in season 5. Inspired by the song “Lean On” by Major Lazer & DJ Snake.

Carry Me @welikeimagines-andfandoms

Authors Summary: Fun fluffy Drabble with the moose

You Lost Me @tattooed-on-my-wayward-soul

Authors Summary: Sam chose Ruby over the reader, now Ruby is gone and the reader and Sam are no longer together but Sam still loves her. The three go to watch the Supernatural play and Sam’s see what he really did to the reader.

Sam and Dean Winchester

Sleeping Arrangements @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis

Authors Summary: Imagine sharing a bed with Sam and Dean. No smut, but oh how we wish…

Dawson's Creek

CJ Braxton

One Exception @zepskies

Authors Summary: Joey has invited you to a party at Pacey’s apartment, and CJ has agreed to go, despite the contentious history between him and your new friends. He doesn’t want to be the reason you miss out on a good thing, but it also means he’ll have to hide his apprehension (and his alcoholism).

Tracker

Russell Shaw

So Close @thebiggerbear

Authors Summary: You meet Colter and Russell at the morgue to help them gain access. Had you known how this was really going to go, you might have pushed Colter's call to voicemail.

Close Enough @thebiggerbear

Authors Summary: When you'd met the Shaws at the morgue the day before, you thought that had been the end of it and you wouldn't need to see one Shaw brother in particular again. Little did you know that Colter was about to once again ask for your help and not only would you be forced to see Russell again but things were about to change drastically for the both of you.

Waiting For The Real Thing @rizlowwritessortof

Authors Summary: You can't serve in the same unit with somebody without getting pretty close. She managed to survive around him until a couple of years ago. And when she hears about their brother-in-arms troubles, she heads that way to help out. Of course, Russ beat her to it. And now she just can't make herself leave without seeing him.

A Line And A Half @zepskies

Authors Summary: When Dory’s eldest brother comes to visit her at Wyoming University, you don’t know quite what to make of Russell Shaw. But he knows exactly what he wants to make of you.

Walker

Cordell Walker

Moonlight Whiskey @idreamofplaid

Authors Summary: Cordell plans a romantic night for the reader that brings back memories from decades ago.

Ten Inch Hero

Boaz Priestly

When Broken Is Easily Fixed @deanbrainrotwritings

Authors Summary: priestly broke up with tish (yes!) uh, i mean… you watch him be pathetic and sad with his big wet green eyes.

Big Sky

Beau Arlen

Untitled drabble @anklesoverackles

#winchestergirl2 reads #winchestergirl2 recs #fic recs #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fic #cj braxton x reader #cj braxton fic #Russell Shaw x reader #Russell Shaw fic #cordell walker x reader #cordell walker fic #boaz priestly x reader #priestly x reader #boaz priestly fic #priestly fic #beau arlen x reader #beau arlen fic

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benzendrine-nosebleed · 2 months ago

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"A Prayer On His Lips, A Hail Mary in his Hips (Formerly 'Forgive, Me Father') PART 3!!

So, it's been a hell of a week since I uploaded part 2, and I just gotta say, I've really been enjoying getting back into the Tumblr scene and enjoying being a fangirl again and not actually being ashamed of it! I've been so much happier lately writing something I'm passionate about, and my Fiancé is happy that I'm comfortable enough to write my dumb little heart out every day. I've written somewhere around 30k words in the past month, and that's way more than I've written in the past, so from the bottom of my heart, thanks guys. I love your support, and your love for my fics. I have another one in the works too, but I don't know when I'll put it out yet.

Anyways, I had actually named this story "A Prayer on His Lips, a Hail Mary in His Hips" but forgot to name it that when I posted the first part. So, without further ado, Part 3!

Info: 4900 words long, ABSOLUTELY NSFW, enjoy and let me know if you'd want a part 4!

Is that was I am, Father? A lost, wayward lamb?” I asked playfully, still seated before him. The sun had shifted in the sky, filling the room with golden rays trying to catch a peek at us, basking in the sins of the flesh.

“Y’are,” he mumbled, smirking. “But I like that a lot, it makes me want to teach ya things. I want to show you The Shepard, it makes me want to bring ya to the herd. I wanna see you every week, kneeling before the cross, before me as I deliver flesh to your pretty lips again.”

“Oh, you’ll see me kneeling Father. I’ll be in the front pew, kneeling just like this,” I motioned to myself, perking up as his gaze freely wandered up and down my body, “Praying for the sins I’ll want to keep committing.”

His eyes lifted to mine again, a grin growing on his face as he came down from his high. His hand came off of his thigh, lifting my chin to meet his face. His fingertips were gentle on my chin as he brought my nose to his, the tips gently touching as he whispered. “You’re gonna be the best little Catholic girl, and I’m gonna be the biggest sinner for you, babe. He, He knows temptation all too well, and he should know that since I’m a man, just a human on the earth he’s crafted with his own fingertips,” His fingertips shifted on my chin to accentuate his point, “I will inevitably sin again. I will repent for the original sin for the rest of my life, but there is more to life than begging for forgiveness over and over again.”

I noticed as the accent he had developed after cumming down my throat slipped away, leaving me to hear the Catholic Preacher again, rather than the needy servant who desired more. I, desired more of that accent, the blissful state he was in when I had my lips wrapped around him, I wanted to see who he’d be with his godly cock pressed into my stomach, that warm feeling of him spilling into me for the first time. That was something Catholics were known for, right? No protection?

“There is so much to life outside the church, Father. I’ve seen the most beautiful things travelling, things you deserve to see too. But, I’ve discovered something that has made me want to begin coming here.” I could feel my breath bounce off of his face and back to mine, our noses still grazing each other. A few stray hairs from his mustache tickled my lips. “I found something to worship.”

“You have, huh?”

“Father, until you show me there is a God, I’m gonna be worshipping you, Each, little, inch of your skin, I wanna taste like communion.”

He pulled away sharply, his chest rising and falling with each hearty breath. “Me, huh? You wanna taste me, worship me like I’m the Holy Father himself? You don’t know what you’re going to do to me...”

“Yes, Father, I do. I want to wrap that rosary around my hands again, and kneel at your feet while I praise you...”

His eyes shifted away, staring at the crucifix hanging on the wall. “ I need you, Y/N... I need you in the ways that are condemned for a man who is married to the church... As the head priest, I have to hold an image for the congregation, to keep them from being led astray. You, you’ve made me break my vows...” His fingers moved to the sides of my jaw, pressing in sharply. “ That is a sin only you can repent for... I’m damned for eternity.”

His tone had changed to something more serious, something unsettling. There was an anger in him that was brewing, yet he held it at bay. I feared more at the control he had over his own emotions than what he was going to do about them. “I’m, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to come here to have you break your vows. I just, I wanted to find an answer to my problems.” His fingers kept pressing into my jaw, his other hand moving now to wrap around my head once more.

“You’ll need to give penance, you wayward babe. You’ll confess at the front of the church, kneeling on the steps of the altar. Only then, can I begin to give you any sort of absolution for what you’ve done to me.” He released his tightened grip on me, swiftly walking to his computer and turning it on. His hearty stride shook the room as I sat in front of the loveseat still, worried for what any of this meant.

“The Lord, he teaches us about not exacting revenge, the he does not need man to have vengeance, to fight eye for an eye.” His computer chimed as he logged in, moving to some program on there. He opened the application, and I watched as the surveillance system for the church was pulled up on the screen.

“What are you talking about?” I asked hurtfully, lost in his ramblings. “Revenge? Because I made you break your vows? I’m sorry, I, I didn’t mean to.”

“He asks us to turn our cheek, to love them with all of our merciful heart,” he continued. “Revenge is motivated by the anger, the pain and fear of man. However, justice is motivation through the heart of His.” The cameras all went black with a few clicks of his mouse. “I want to exact revenge, to break you as you’ve broken me. I’ve learned though, to both love and feat The Holy Father. I need to show you the same love, and fear for me.”

I turned around to fully look at him, trying to understand his preaching still. “Father? I don’t know what you’re trying to say. What do I have to do?”

He shot up from his chair, striding back over to me. “You need to repent for your sins, and be a good girl for the church. You’re going to the altar right now to repent.” He leaned down, grabbing my arm and helping me up. “You’re going to repent for your sins, Y/N, and I’m going to be giving you absolution.” He was gentle with his grasp, but rushing me. I stood up, standing toe-to toe with him. His naked frame loomed over me, his chest heaving with each breath, his throat pumping with each gasp.

“Like this?” My breath fastening. He wanted me to go the altar, no more clothed than the day I was born, to repent for my sins?

“Yes, Now,” He growled, He snarled, his teeth showing as his insatiable eyes ran up and down me. “You’re going to worship The Father, beg him for salvation, beg him to give you what you need.” He reached other and grabbed his crucifix off of the loveseat. He swiftly picked me up, cradling me up to his chest, his sweaty musk mixed with his cologne, completely encompassing me in his holy fury.

He opened the locked door, pacing into the empty hallway. “You remember how to pray?” He asked, his footsteps hitting the ground faster.

“I’m pretty sure I do, Father,” I replied, my heart beating out of my chest. My senses heightened as we moved to the entrance to the sanctuary, the heavy wooden doors were closed.

“Good, because you’re going to be quizzed on it, and I’ll be grading how well you do.” He reached out his arm that held my knees for the handle, gently opening the doors to the darkened sanctuary, where we first had met in the confessional booth no more than an hour or two earlier.

The sanctuary was dark, the only light came pouring in through the stained glass motifs, gently illuminating the pews and altar. There was something so sacred of seeing the place of worship in the darkness, knowing not too many people go to see the Holy Father like this. The colors through the stained glass glazed the floors, the podium, the cross at the back of the altar: it took my breath away. Father Schlatt moved suavely down the pews, his body almost floating with delicacy as he honored the holy space, like he’d done for years prior. He held my body close to him again, his reverence for his place of reverence flowing out of him He stoically walked to the altar, softly whispering prayers.

He gently kneeled at the altar, letting me out of his arms. I moved to stand up, longing for his touch now, again. It felt wonderful being held so close to him, how his warm body wished to protect me, even after what had transpired. I had ruined this man’s vows to God, and yet he was gently with me, through gritted teeth.

“Kneel, right here,” He spoke. He was stern, yet the disappointment I had expected to hear in his voice was gone. “Face the cross, and pray out loud. I want to hear you beg for forgiveness, beg The Father to save you.”

“Yes, Father.” I quivered, kneeling next to him. I pressed my knees into the carpeted step, and moved to clasp my hands in front of myself, picturing how his hands were earlier. I kneeled my head, reciting the prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name.” Fuck, after this, the prayer gets blurry. I remember the sound of the locking door, the sound of him gracefully kneeling before me, between my legs..

“Keep going,” He stood up, leaving me alone at the altar. I heard him move behind me.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, as on earth, as in Heaven-“ SMACK. A sharp pain shot across my back.

“On Earth, as in Heaven,” He growled.

“On Earth as in Heaven.” My back grew hotter where he had struck it. “Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us.” I closed my eyes tightly, bracing for the sharp pain again. When it didn’t come, I raced to continue through the prayer. “Forgive us, our trespasses-“ SMACK. The searing pain shot through my back again, causing me to shoot out a small cry. I felt the tears welling behind my eyelids.

“You only say ‘Forgive us’, one time. ‘Give us, this daily bread, and forgive us, our daily trespasses.’”

“I-I’m Sorry Father, Forgive us, our daily trespasses.”

“Good girl. Keep. Going.” He loomed behind me, the mere presence of his tall figure, now whipping me, scared me... yet I felt that he was punishing me in a way that excited him. I could only picture him standing tall, cock hard, the tip pressed against the trail I ran my tongue down, I needed more. If I had to put up with the pain of him whipping me, so be it. I needed to see The Father, in all of his glory, in the iridescence of the stained glass, beheld by the cross.

“As we forgive those who trespass against us.” I braced again, waiting for the stinging whip, which didn’t come. “And deliver us from evil, Amen-“ WHACK. A guttural whimper left me as I leaned forward to the next step of the altar step, the now familiar pain searing across my back.

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. You poor, little lamb.” He sternly spoke, his voice deepening. “You forgot the leading into temptation...” I could hear him shift behind me, his body dropping to the floor. “Finish the prayer.”

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil... Amen.” I cried, the tears falling down my face now.

“Amen,” His hands moved to the my sides, as he spoke softly and soothingly against my back by the whip marks. He pressed gently kisses into them. “Good girl, you took that well. But, you forgot one thing.”

“What, Father?” I pleaded, the tears slowing down while I continued to kneel into the steps.

“You forgot what is supposed to be in your hands. How did they feel, whipped against your back?” Oh my god, the rosary.

“I completely forgot, Father, I’m sorry...” I moaned out now, the heat in their whip marks still pulsing against my back.

“Oh, you’re never going to forget them again, are you?”

“No, No Father, I won’t.”

“Good,” He grunted, his left hand, still gripping the rosary against me moved down my side, cupping my ass. The beads felt cool against my skin now, while his fingers dug into the soft tissue. “You made me break my vows to The Lord, so in return, as a justice, I need to break you. I’m going to whip you into being a good little Catholic Girl, just for me. You’re going to worship me,” His hand slid up my back to my hip, bringing it around gently to my slit. His other hand moved to my neck, pulling it up against him. My back was pressed to his chest, his rosary laden hand beginning to run its fingers up and down me, grazing my clit with each pass. I softly moaned each time he did, while his head craned down into my neck.

“You said you were going to worship me as if I was the Holy Father himself, didn’t you? Well, you’re going to be worshipping The Father now. You’re going to be using those lips for a lot more than praying.” He sunk his teeth into me, causing me to shudder and a small whimper to leave me.

“aaaaAh! Mmh, Father, yes, Yes Father” I moaned out, my clasped hands moving behind me to hold onto his thighs. I could feel the whipped skin pressed against him, the hot flesh pressed against him was tender and hurt, but it was something I was willing to embrace again, if it meant he’d be pleasing me.

“Good Girl,” He breathed out, his fingers painstakingly slow against me. I grew wetter with each stroke, his fingers finding my clit on his own accord. His middle finger slowly twitched against it as my stomach clenched and my body pulsated. My moans turned pleasurable as he brought me closer to my own orgasm. As my voice began to peak in tone, he slowed down, “Oh, Y/N, I’m not going to make you feel pleasure until I can show you what you do to me. I’m going to show you a world as if it was made just for you, like I crafted it for you with my own hands, as The Holy Father did for those who follow him.” He slid a finger inside of me, the cross on the rosary pressed against my slit as he moved his finger in and out slowly, reveling in the feeling himself.

“Father, p-p-please,” I begged, his finger exploring the inner walls of my pussy. “I need more of you... anything, please.” What the hell was he doing to me, to make me turn into such a slut for him as soon as he made a move?

“Mmph, I don’t know, are you deserving of the salvation?” He asked, his palm pressed the cross against my clit, and yet in a sick, twisted way, I was finding pleasure in it, while his finger worked on getting me wetter with its gentle rhythm, in, out, in, out. “Or should I see that you’re damned? I’m torn, I wanna save ya, but you make salvation seem so, so far out of reach when you beg like that.” Oh Christ, the accent came back.

“Fath, oh god... Father, oohhfff,” I moaned out, pressing back into him, begging for more of his touch. More, of his tantalizing touches, anything for more of him in me.

“Mmph, I think I could save ya, as for myself, maybe not. I’m already damned, so why not go all the way?” He asked, smiling as his tongue worked flicked my ear. “I think I wanna taste ya, ya sweet sinner. You’ve been so good for me, letting me whip you with the rosary, letting me tease ya with it... I’ll be wrapping it around those praying hands again soon enough. Just you wait.” His grip released on my neck, and he placed it on my hip. His other hand pulled out of me, the sensations of his teases leaving me desperate for his touch again. He moved that hand to my hip, as he picked me up with ease. “Turn around, and sit on the floor of the altar, mmkay?”

“Yes, yes Father,” The pounding in my chest echoed into my ears, as I shuffled up the two stairs to the floor of the altar, sitting facing him. I placed my hands on my knees, awaiting his next command.

“Good. Now,” He placed his hands on top of mine on my knees, “We’re just gonna spread these pretty legs apart,” His hands gently pressing into mine, while his body leaned in closer. “I’ve never done this before, but, God, I know I need to taste ya.” He parted my buckled knees apart, his mouth slightly agape as he watched me become exposed. I felt vulnerable, but safe, somehow. “You... oh, look at you,” He whispered, his right hand leaving my knee to run up and down my slit. I could feel the heat in my cheeks rising, my breath falling deeper into my chest as he slowly worked his pointer and middle finger between the folds. I threw my head back, the fire in his touch already being so hard to handle. Moans left my lips, and my hands fled my knees to the altar floor, desperately trying to hold myself up while he explored.

His left hand still pressed my knee to open, pressing it almost to the floor, antsy to keep my legs open while he worked up his own courage to dig in. His right hand moved up to his mouth, and I watched at this once holy man licked his fingers clean of the film I left on his fingertips. “Oooh, mmph, The Lord made ya so, so delicious. I need more, babe.”

Before I had a chance to catch my breath, he pressed his face into my pussy, his nose resting right above it. He began licking my folds, his right hand immediately moving to hold my right down as I tried to bring it up against his face, bucking from the sensations. I threw myself onto the floor of the altar, lost in the sensations of The Father’s Holy Tongue.

“Oh Fuck!” I exclaimed, all filter I had leaving as his tongue worked with my hips, now rocking against his face.

He pulled away, smiling deviously as he licked his lips. I watched as he caught his breath, his hands still pinning me to the floor. “I forgot, I’m sorry, I was too excited to taste you, Babe, I should’ve realized I’d be drinking you up,” He spoke sweetly, moving to bow his head, speaking just above a whisper. “Bless me, Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy Bounty. Through you, Christ our Lord, Amen.” He snarled after finishing his prayer, the devious smile returning as his head raised, and moved back into me. I couldn’t help but whimper, his face felt so good pressed up against my slit, his tongue working to bring me to an orgasm so easily. I brought my left hand up to his hair, and pulled his head up softly. “..uhff fuck... there Baby, right there,” I moaned out, guiding his tongue to my clit. His eyes shot up to meet mine, glazed over with unbelievable pleasure. He continued to lick ferociously at my clit, and lifted his right hand from my leg, bringing it down to his mouth, and taking a quick lick across his thumb as he rubbed me right below where his tongue worked wonders.

His tongue worked tirelessly against me, bringing me closer to an orgasm, when his left hand moved off of my leg, and he moved to down to his cock, surely throbbing with pleasure by now. He groaned as he stroked himself with his left hand, his right hand and tongue focused on making me squirm. Slews of moans, pleas, and whimpers escaped me. “Fath-mmm, Fath-er... pl...please... more... mmm, my God..., so, so fucking good...” For having no experience with any sort of intimacy, Father Schlatt must have brought in his expertise from his priesthood to bring me unholy pleasure. Was it from flipping through pages of the scripture that he learned to move his fingers so precisely? Or was it from daubing Holy Water on church-goers how he learned to press just the right amount of pressure to my flesh? I tried to think as I moaned out words, sounds, anything to keep me from reaching an orgasm just yet.

I brought my thighs up to the side of his face, feeling his soft sideburns rub against my tender thighs. They rubbed softly with each of his licks. They felt almost ticklish against my skin, but I couldn’t help but crave more of their feeling against my skin while he stoked his tongue, but his pointer finger gently moved against the length of my pussy his thumb was once grazing, as he wetted his pointer finger, and slid it into me, causing me to gasp in the midst of my moans. “mmmh oh... aH! Schatt!” Oh Fuck!” I cried out, my hips sinking down into his hand.

He pulled away softly from his ministrations against me to speak out. “You taste so, so good, I don’t wanna believe that The Lord has been keeping this from me... Unless he was just waiting to bring ya to me... Maybe he made you just for me... you feel so, so perfect on my tongue, on my fingers, toots.” Toots? Okay, that’s a new one, but I... I can’t focus on that now... not with how he’s finger fucking me. “Maybe he made you just to ruin me...” He coaxed, his finger now curling inside in a tauntingly sensual way. I breathed out a sharp wail, my body burning wildly for how he teased me, how much I needed his teachings. In an instant, he learned forward, his twitching cock now grazing at my entrance, where his finger slid out. His rosary laden hand intertwined with my hand on the floor, pinning it above my head. His hips slowly moved himself against my pussy, the slow, teasing stroked causing whimpers and guttural moans alike to leave both of us.

“Father... Are you sure?” I asked. my hips however, moving against him, feeling how hot, how ready he was to fuck me.

“I, I need to.. I need to make you mine, in the eyes of The Lord.” His hips moved against mine as well. The friction was unbearable, it was too perfect to pass up the opportunity. Father Schlatt leaned down next to my ear, slowing his rhythm. “Babe, I need to pray, and I need you to pray with me. You’re not gonna know the words, but close your eyes, and keep those pretty little moans quiet for a moment, ‘kay?”

“Mhmm,” I murmured, squeezing my eyes shut and gripping his hand tighter.

“Hail Mary Full of Grace, The Lord is with Thee.” His breath grew hotter against my skin. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of the womb, Jesus.” His tongue grazed my earlobe, he gently nibbled on it. His hand that stroked his cock stopped, instead it began pressing the tip to my now slick entrance. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, in the hour of our death. Amen,” He finished the prayer quietly, taking a second to listen to my breaths.

“Amen,” I spoke gently, opening my eyes to meet his. His mouth was still open from his prayer, his head gently nodding at his subconscious request. I nodded back, my lips parted too from my final “Amen.”

He pressed his hips forward, the tip of his cock paving the way for the rest of his shaft to enter me. He was slow, merciful, yet he shot daggers through my eyes, while his fingers tightened around the ones he laced them with, pressing the beads into my hand. All breath escaped my chest as I felt him penetrate me, being gentle as to not overwhelm himself. I whimpered, attempting to savor the gentle movements. Every nerve ending was on fire, begging for his length to keep pushing, to keep moving, to keep the friction going. He pulled his cock mostly out, leaving just the tip in, and slowly worked himself back in, pressing farther in this time. He kept this slow rhythmic torture up until he found a pace where he could control himself.

With each thrust, I couldn’t help but whimper, the feeling of him stretching me was so, so fucking good. His body was ragged; sweat poured down him as he refrained from racing, savoring each sinful moment. “You, you feel so good,” He groaned “too, too good. God I’m gonna, I’m gonna... if I go any faster,” His hand had moved to my hip, gently guiding me back to his with each of his pulsing thrusts.

“F-Father, you, you feel so good, too,” I whimpered, taking each of his thrusts, feeling his cock deep in my belly.

He continued his painstakingly slow pace, driving me crazy as his he focused his energy into keeping his mind busy. “Babe... you.. oh, oh God..” he cried out, his hand gripping deeper into my thigh, almost tearing through my flesh as his fingernail dug in deeper. “I need... more... of you...” He pleaded, his thrusts still slow, yet slamming into my hips eagerly.

His thrusts into me were calculated, his own body pressing his need further into me as I craved every inch of him. “Mmm, Baby, you feel so fucking good in me,” I cried through gritted teeth. My hand embraced the press of the rosary beads into it, the feel of him learning how to make love, I felt high on his lust, and still grounded by his religion. I looked up at him to see his once pomaded hair was strewn, stringy with sweat, and was moving into his eyes, bouncing with his rhythm. He gazed into me, his mouth parted, as he crashed into my lips for a searing kiss. Our tongues mingled frantically as his pace continued slowly, steadily.

I moved our hands from above our heads while we tangled tongued, bringing his rosary laden hand to my clit, and pressing his fingers into it, mimicking the motions I would use to please myself. I couldn’t help but realize, the he was such a fast learner, pressing his thumb against my clit and teasing it fast while his thrusts moved faster. “Baby, fu-uck! You’re gonna make me cum on you,” I pleaded, torrential wave of pleasure flowing through me with each flick from his thumb.

His hips slammed into mine, as I reached my own orgasm on his cock, clenching down on him, and feeling everything on a high. His cock felt hot in me, my belly warm, my clit tender and spent, and my legs were shaking. I couldn’t focus on anything past his head being thrown back, and the feeling of hips pressed against my inner thighs. His guttural moans and the sight of him were through tunnel vision as my mind grew fuzzy. Did he say ‘pussy’? Wait, did he cum in me? Oh... well... fuck... fuck it felt... good...

He looked at me as he continued to hasten his pace, his breaths growing more erratic. His eyes shot right through me, his gaze darkened and fully corrupted. “God, your pussy was made just for me... He made it just for me to ruin myself- in- Mmmhh,” He grunted, I couldn’t tell anymore what was throbbing with each stroke, I could only focus on the clenched muscles in my abdomen, on yhe brink of an orgasm like no other I had felt before. “I’m gonna ruin you too,” he blurted out, looking down at his thumb, steadily torturing me, and pulled his thumb away for just long enough for himself to spit on my clit, and race to work his spit in while his cock swelled. His body tensed while his moans grew audibly. “I-mmh-aah-aaahh,” He moaned out, practically yelling by the end of it.

His fingers held onto my hips as he slowly pulled his spent cock out of me, his entire body convulsing in waves as his tip entered the cooler air again. “Oh God... oh Christ, anyone... oh whoever is up there,” he moaned, his words lingering through the drawls escaping him. He fell forwards onto the altar floor next to me, recovering from him pleasuring me too. “Thank you,” He moaned out. All I could do is smile, looking at the heap he fell into next to me. The gentle sunlight refracted off of the cathedral glass to glaze over him with soft hues of blues, reds and greens. We laid there for what seemed like an eternity, catching our breaths, the thought of our damnation never once crossing our pleasured minds.

#chuckle sammy #chuckle sandwich #jschlatt #jschlatt smut #schlatt x reader #priest corruption #priest schlatt #jschlatt fanfic #schlaggot #schlatt #a prayer on his lips #a hail mary in his hips #schlatt x y/n

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leveragehunters · 3 months ago

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You are carrying the entire urban fantasy genre on your back. I just need you to know that your mind-blowing settings and worldbuilding in your fics have changed my brain chemistry, and have been formative in how I read fiction in the past few years

That’s all, I just wanted u to know how truly transformative and poignant ur work is 💕

Aww, my zesty lil rat, that is such an amazing thing to say! Thank you so much <3 I’m so glad you like what I write and that it’s had an impact on the way you read.

The truth is, whatever measure of excellence I’ve achieved is owed to the urban fantasy giants on whose shoulders I stand (or, more accurately, at whose feet I prostrate myself) to wave my little fic flag. If you enjoy my stories there’s a pretty good chance you’ll enjoy them even more, since they’re why I love it and why I write it.

So! In no particular order (but roughly older to newer) I give you a list:

The David Sullivan series by Tom Dietz – I think these were my first true urban fantasy. I haven’t read them for a few years (err, decades?) but they are indelibly etched on my brain.

Charles deLint – I have, and have read, everything by him, but my first was Moonheart. His Newford series in particular is grand.

The Bordelands series, edited by Terri Windling– Borderlands is a series of shared world anthologies (as was the style at the time) and a few full length novels, including Finder by Emma Bull and Elsewhere and Nevernever by Will Shetterly. If David Sullivan lured me in, Borderlands was the food I ate that doomed me to dwell here forever.

The Last Hot Time by John M Ford – is this part of the Borderlands series? No. Could it be? Hell yes!

War for the Oaks by Emma Bull (hot damn, this is still one of my faves).

The Book of Night with Moon and its sequels by Dianne Duane

Tanya Huff - The Vicki Nelson series, its follow up Smoke series (vampires in Toronto and Vancouver, respectively), the Keeper’s Chronicles, and the Enchantment Emporium series (again, all her stuff is incredible, just not all urban fantasy)

Christopher Moore - anything set in our current world, particularly Practical Demonkeeping (my first! Got it for two bucks in the bargain bin; it has since cost me several thousand dollars), the Death Merchant Chronicles, Pine Cove series, and Vampires in San Francisco (I mean, it’s all good, but some of it’s not Urban Fantasy.

A Lee Martinez - anything set in our current world (ditto the above, it's all good). Helen and Troy’s Epic Road Quest is my fave.

Tentatively adding David Prill and Bradley Denton, although they're more urban weirdness (maybe magical realism?) than urban fantasy. They were formative, however.

The John Dies at the End series by Jason Pargin (aka David Wong) (maybe more horrorish than urban fantasy)

TJ Klune – The House in the Cerulean Sea, its sequel Somewhere Beyond the Sea, Under the Whispering Door, In the Lives of Puppets

Anything by Seanan McGuire, but her main series are: October Daye, InCryptid, and Wayward Children. Also, MIDDLEGAME and its sequels. (She also writes as Mira Grant if you want smart scary – start with Feed. So good.)

#asks #fic #book recs #urban fantasy

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whatgaviiformes · 9 months ago

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FishTank Week 2024! - May 12-18

Well, you all asked for a rinse, repeat, and most of you wanted prompts ASAP, so welcome again to FishTank Week, 2024 edition! We had such a fun time last year bringing out all our yellow and green and fiiiiish and music. I hope 2024 brings new ideas, new inspiration, and always all the FishTank things.

FishTank? Yes, Fishtank, the name we use in the thunderfam for the brother relationship of Virgil and Gordon. Brotp for some, but otherwise still so fun to explore anyway!

When is FishTank Week? This year it'll run from Sunday May 12th through Saturday May 18th. The significance of the week? Loosely calculated as the day between their birthdays, but honestly any excuse 💚💛

How do I celebrate FishTank Week? Like last year, we are releasing a series of prompts (see below). If they inspire you to write or create art, you can choose to post those on the exact day or anytime that week. Fic, Reblogs, Recs, and Art are welcome and appreciated all week long. Anything's welcome, so don't forget mood boards, music, head canons. Whatever you can think of!

We'll be active that week as well reblogging, and with some QOTDs and daily posts reminding of the prompt(s).

I'm not interested in FishTank: *hugs* totally fine. Our tags this year will be #fishtankweek and #fishtankweek2024 if you want to block them.

Questions: Reblog, comment, or you are also welcome to reach out to me directly.

Thanks to @emtb319 and @idontknowreallywhy for collaborating this year. And @gumnut-logic for letting me use a daily dose screen shot for the below.

Prompts - we've added some options within the prompts and some alternates for you to use as you like. Inspiration is the goal, and the only guideline is FishTank. The others can make an appearance too. We won't make you clean TB 4 for having a wayward Tracy, Kyrano, Creighton-Ward, or others around for the fun. But definitely Virgil and Gordon.

12: Wingman

13: At the... Orchestra | Art Museum | Aquarium

14: Brothers Relaxing

15: "We're a team, always" | "Did you doubt me?"

16: Comfort Food | Food on the go

17: Memories

18: Pranks

Alts: Love and Laughter | Along the Coastline

Good luck fish wrangling, and happy creating!

See you on the 12th,

Gavii 💚💛

#fishtankweek #fishtankweek2024 #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #fandom event #for the love of fishtank

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cevansbrat0007 · 2 years ago

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The Lonely Hearts Club: Part Two

Summary: Full Story! Breaking up with Andrew Barber is hard to do. You of all people should know, considering you just tried. Now what? Read Part One.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Angst, Discussions of Break-ups, Fun with Exes, Jealousy, Andy Being a Menace, Confident Reader, Eventual Smut, Cursing, Expect Additional Future Warnings, Minors DNI

A/N: Dedicated to @atkissoflife, @that-one-anxious-mango, and @piscesmermaidprincess. This multi-part fic features a combination of requests from the likes of @writer84, @lexivass, @moejdaw, and several others. It is also, part of my ongoing Growing Pains Series. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

___

February 15th - 12:25am - Los Angeles, CA

Wow. Just...wow.

You stare down at your phone as you wait for the bartender to bring you your check. While you had initially been prepared for Andy to be upset over your note, as well as your pretty abrupt departure, you certainly hadn't expected this.

If anything, he seemed almost...unbothered. By all of it. Granted, it was sometimes hard to gauge a person's tone via text. But you'd also been in a relationship with the man for the better part of six freaking months! At this point, one could argue that you were practically fluent in Andrew Barber and all of his fucking moods.

The guy was up to something, without a doubt. Which meant that you were now officially on high alert. Because your man - your ex - had never been the type to play fair.

Especially where you were concerned. You should've known that it was gonna take a hell of a lot more than a handwritten letter and a box of artisanal muffins to knock some sense into his stubborn ass.

"Argh! You are such a fucking ogre, Andrew!" You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Why can't you ever make things easy?"

The next time you look up it's to see the bartender returning with your credit card. She goes to hand it over, only for you to interrupt her mid-sentence.

What was her name again? You could've sworn it started with a "D".

"Sorry, I know I said I was ready to close out. But since men are stupid, I think I'm gonna need another margarita. Quite possibly two."

Delta gives you a sympathetic nod before pocketing your card once more. "You got it, sweetie. Still want sugar instead of salt?"

"Yes, please." You mumble, reminding yourself that it was okay to feel annoyed. Because you were. This was supposed to be your time, damn it. You deserved to take some space for yourself!

Even if it meant sitting alone at a hotel bar, missing the one person you loved more than anything, the day after motherfucking Valentine's Day. Cheers, bitches.

___

Two Weeks Later – Somewhere in Downtown Boston

Andrew Barber stares blankly at his computer screen, mindlessly tapping his index finger against his temple as a fresh wave of anger courses through his veins.

He’d been so good the last two weeks. So patient and understanding. He’d given you your space, just like you’d asked. Never intruding with the exception of the text he shot off that night.

Even when he’d come across your latest Instagram post from a few days ago showing off your apparent date with another man. Some pretentious looking fucker who went by Russell Cromwell. You two had looked real cozy while sharing a plate full of Birria tacos. And then you’d posed outside of the restaurant with your arms wrapped around his waist.

But the real kicker had been the last photo in the carousel. The one where you’d kissed him on the cheek – when you’d done the “knee thing” that actresses used to do in those old black and white movies you loved to watch so much.

Oh yeah. The two of you would be having a discussion about that one real soon. His wayward Baby Girl could count on that shit.

Honestly, you had no idea how hard falling back had been for him. It had been a real struggle. Because at his core, Andrew Barber was a man of action. He was well-known for his cunning and mental prowess. This was a man who had graduated at the top of his class, who had then gone on to become the youngest District Attorney in the city of Boston’s history.

And in times of crisis, he was someone you could count on to remain calm and collected while you worked towards a solution. Nothing could shake him, save for the trial and media circus that had briefly surrounded his late son.

After that particular tragedy, Andy had resigned himself to being alone. Forever. He often tried to convince himself that he preferred it that way. Andrew Barber didn’t do love. Not after what happened with his ex-wife, Laurie. He was better off living a life of no commitment.

Even if it meant a lot of lonely nights filled with a seemingly endless revolving door of meaningless one-night stands.

And then he’d met you.

Yes, you.

The woman who had somehow, against all odds, brought magic back into his life. Your laugh, your smile, your very presence – it colored his whole goddamn world. He told you that all of the time, and yet it was almost as if you didn’t believe him.

At first, he was convinced that you were too good to be true. Although he’d been quickly dispelled of that notion when you’d had the balls to walk out on him during your very first date. It’s quite possible that he’d fallen for you right then – because you were the type of woman who knew her worth.

By then, Andy had become convinced that you were a gift from the universe. The way he saw it, after everything he’d been through, he was owed you. You were the woman of his dreams – his very salvation – all wrapped up in a curvy little package. And when you ran that night, it called to the primal part of him that felt compelled to give chase.

Just like now.

But what you had yet to understand was that, once a man like Andrew Barber had deemed you his forever, there was no going back. There was no letting you go. No means of escape.

At most, he’d been granted you a temporary reprieve. You both needed time to assess the situation, survey the damage, and then calculate your next move.

And sweetness, you’d already played your hand when you’d left that little note skipped town under the pretense of taking a fucking business trip.

Fine. Now it was on him. And while you still held most of the cards, that certainly didn’t mean that Andrew Barber was walking around without an ace or two in his back pocket. And you had better believe that he was more than ready to play his own.

But first…he needed some fucking coffee. And lucky for him, he knew just where he could find the perfect cup – shot of chocolate, dash of cinnamon, hold the whip.

___

Forty Minutes Later – Monarch Media Group (20 Minutes Outside Downtown Boston)

You lean back in your chair and rub your tired eyes. For the life of you, you simply couldn’t seem to focus today. Or any other day for the matter.

Even though it had been almost a week since you’d returned from your trip to L.A., you still felt just as conflicted about things with Andrew Barber as you did before you’d left. And not only that, but you also found yourself feeling on edge about the entire situation.

Because after your brief text exchange the morning of February 15th, he’d left you alone. The most impatient man you’d ever encountered this side of Boston had actually found it within himself to respect your wishes.

No calls. No texts. No emails. Not even so much as a fucking smoke signal.

And while part of you was pleased with that particular development, there was no denying the fact that you missed your Big Man.

You could be woman enough to admit it. You missed the hell out the handsome, grumpy-faced district attorney who, up until recently, had been a major mainstay in your life. But after some serious soul searching and a generous amount of tequila, you’d come to the conclusion that it was important for you to get your mind right before moving forward with anything.

You owed it to yourself to figure out who you were outside of your relationship with Andy – needed it even. Because that man was a force to be reckoned with. He could be so dominant sometimes, his personality so completely all-consuming that it was easy to lose yourself in him.

To allow yourself to become so entirely eclipsed by his brilliant shadow. Which is something that could absolutely happen the moment you stopped paying attention to your own wants, and needs, and desires.

And if that ever were to happen, part of you wondered whether or not you would be able to find your way back. Honestly, you had no idea.

Because after all of this, if you chose to be with him…it would mean that you were all-in. There was no other option with him.

That beautifully stubborn man didn’t have a lower setting.

However, the last thing you’d ever expected was for Mr. Andrew “My Way or the Highway” Barber to go quietly into that good night. Well, suppose you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Because if anything he could very well be planning–

Your inner musings are interrupted by Anya, your favorite receptionist at Monarch Media Group. Granted, she was also the only receptionist at the company you’d worked for over the last several years, but that was neither here nor there.

Anya gives you a knowing look before taking a seat on the edge of your desk. “Hi, friend.” She lightly pokes your shoulder. “How ya doin?”

“I’m okay.” You blow out a breath and then decide to exit out of your Outlook. “What’s up?”

“Oh…nothing much.” You watch as your friend and coworker helps herself to a piece of chocolate sitting in a nearby dish.

“Okay.”

“I just stopped by to tell you that your coffee has arrived.” She dutifully unwraps it before popping it in her mouth.

“What?”

You hadn’t ordered any coffee. You didn’t usually even drink the stuff this late in the day. Unless…

“Yep. And just so happens, it was hand-delivered by the handsomest door-dasher I ever did see.” Anya pokes your shoulder again. “I would’ve accepted it on your behalf, but the guy insists on giving it to you himself. Probably angling for a tip if you ask me.” She throws you a conspiratorial wink for good measure.

Speak of the devil. Hello, Mr. Andrew “Check Out My Shit Timing” Barber.

“Ugh.” You bury your head in your hands to muffle your cry of frustration. “Can you please just tell him I’m not here?”

“I’m afraid I already let that cat out of the bag. But by the look on your face and the way you’re rocking back and forth like a human pinball, I take it I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No!”

“Did you and Andy like…break up…or something?” Anya pauses as she reaches for another piece of candy, her hand hovering in mid-air.

No, Anya. I always feel like jumping out the nearest window. I’m fucking squirrley like that.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” You wail. “It’s just…it’s just really fucking complicated, okay?”

“Gotcha. So…about the coffee…”

“I’m going. I’m going.” You stand up in a huff, wishing you knew where you put the ponytail holder that had been on your wrist just this morning. “But if he pisses me off, I’m dumping that shit on his shoes. Hot or not. I do not care.”

“Okay, but if it comes to that can you please try to do it off company property? I’m all for you handling your business, but I’m also thinking about all the paperwork I’m gonna have to do if you accidentally injure one of the city’s hottest attorneys.”

“Fuck you.” You grumble as you stalk towards the front of the office to confront the annoying asshole who also happened to be the love of your life.

“What can I say? I’m a selfish bitch.” She chirps, blowing you a kiss.

“Your words not mine. And stay the hell out of my chocolate, you mooch!” You call out as you turn the corner, fully intending to give the Boston D.A. a piece of your mind before you politely, and very firmly, shoved him out the door.

Because if that man thought that he could just waltz right into your place of business and act like he owned everything and everyone, then he was sorely mistaken. You were going to prove to him, and whoever the hell’s job it was to oversee this whole godforsaken cosmos, that you knew how to stand your ground.

The sight of him standing right there in the lobby is easily enough to temporarily rob you of all reasonable thought. His back is to you, giving you the brief opportunity to give him a thorough once-over. His tailored white dress shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, exposing his brawny forearms. But what really draws your attention are his slate gray slacks, which only serves to highlight his perfectly sculpted backside.

He looked good. Nobody deserved to look that damned good, least of all your ex-boyfriend.

Wait. Is that – is that what he was now? Is…is that how all of this worked? Fuck!

You note the lack of tension in his broad shoulders. All things considered, he seemed pretty relaxed. But the real question was…how long could it be expected to last?

Andy picks that moment to turn around, his bright blue eyes locking with your own as an eager grin slowly spreads its way across his handsome features. You take a steadying breath and choose to ignore it.

“Andrew.” You exhale, trying your best to appear unaffected by his presence. It was a lie, of course. But if you managed to keep this unexpected interaction short and sweet, you just might be able to pull it off. “Wh–what are you doing here?”

“Hi.” He cocks his head to the side as he drinks you in, almost as if he’s amused by your disgruntled demeanor.

“Hello.” You cross your arms over your chest, wishing that you had chosen to wear a different sweater today. Andy loved you in this color, especially because of how it paired with your particular skin tone.

“Happy Wednesday, baby.”

God, he really needed to lose that stupid smile. Otherwise, how on earth were you supposed to maintain your composure?

“Sure.”

“Brought you something.” Andy holds out one of the cups of coffee he’s carrying. “Figured you might be able to use a little pick-me-up.”

“Thanks, but I’m good.” You tell him with a shake of your head.

“What? Since when?” He rears back before offering up a playful pout. “We always get coffee together on Wednesdays. It’s our thing…our little afternoon delight.” This time you’re treated to a wink.

“Shh!” You hiss, bridging the distance between your bodies to slap a hand across his mouth. “Don’t say that!”

The last thing you needed was someone to overhear that and think you two used to sneak away sometimes in the afternoon to…to well…you know. Some of the people you worked with possessed very vivid imaginations.

And besides, that whole afternoon delight business had only happened once or twice. Okay, quite possibly four and a half times – and then one more after that.

Amusement sparkles in his gaze as he stares you down. And then you feel the faint flick of his tongue brush across your palm. When you don’t react he does it again, this time following it up with an exaggerated groan.

You immediately jerk your hand away as if you’ve just been burned. Knowing that things were only bound to get worse, you snatch one of the coffees before grabbing his arm and dragging him outside and into the unseasonably warm weather.

Thank goodness for small favors.

The smell of spring was definitely in the air these days, but all you can focus on is the sound of Andy’s laughter trailing behind you. Frankly, it’s enough to set your teeth on edge. Even still, he allows you to lead him down the street. At some point there’s a slight shift that results in your relinquishing his arm so that he can lace his fingers through yours.

But you'll allow it if it means that he’ll behave for as long as it takes to make it to your destination. Which just so happens to be an empty bench located at the edge of a nearby park.

To his credit, the attractive buttface at your side doesn’t say anything during your impromptu power walk, but he also doesn’t need to. Because after two long weeks without you, the man was probably venturing into serious touch-starved territory.

You knew it. And so did he. So part of you didn’t see the harm in giving him this one, small thing.

Relief fills you when you finally reach the bench. Of course Andy sits first before pulling you down with him – but thankfully not onto his lap. Although you’re positive that the thought was there.

Eventually he lets go of your hand. Unsure of what else to do, you finally take a sip of your coffee. The rich, slightly bitter flavor of chocolate and mocha bursts onto your tongue, followed immediately by a quick hint of cinnamon.

Mm. A perfect cup.

“I’ve missed you, baby girl.” Andy’s large, lightly calloused hand cups your face – the roughened pad of his thumb caressing the curve of your cheek. “It hasn’t been a very fun couple of weeks.”

“I know.” You whisper as you lean into his touch and your eyes flutter closed. Perhaps you were just as starved for affection as he was. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you miss me?” His tone is gruff, but there’s no mistaking the emotion behind his words. Or the pain in his eyes for that matter.

“I did, Andy.” So much.

“But you still left. Tried to break up with me before hopping on a plane and running off all the way to L.A. to share some chips and queso with good ol’ Rusty.” Your eyes fly open as Andy’s hand drops away. “Or did I read that wrong?”

How the fuck had he known where you where? You hadn’t included anything about your intended destination in your letter…

“I saw it on your Instagram, in case you were wondering. Was actually able to use that stupid account you set up for me after all.” His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he narrows his gaze, trying to read your expression. “Couldn’t really get much else, although I enjoyed those pics of you at the beach.”

“It was a work trip.” You remind him, suddenly feeling defensive. “And Russell is an old friend, nothing more.”

“Hm.” Andy quirks an annoyed brow. “Are we talking about the kind of friend who also accompanies you to the beach so you can show off your brand new bikini? Not that I’m complaining any about that gorgeous, sunkissed glow you’ve got going on, princess.”

His big body is certainly tense, but there’s no ignoring the feral gleam in his eyes. Almost as if he’s dying to undress you and spend the next several hours checking you for tan lines.

And he would, too. It’s not like it would be the first time.

“I went alone. Russell stayed behind for that one.” You roll your eyes at the sight of his nostrils flaring. “Jesus Christ, dude! I know you may not believe that I’m a big girl, but I am. And if I wanna go hang out at the beach by myself, then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do!”

Which was exactly what the fuck you’d done. And it had been positively marvelous.

“Fine.” He grunts, raising his palm towards the heavens. “God forgive me for having the sense to worry about my girl, especially since the last time I checked, she still couldn’t swim for shit.”

“Whatever, Andrew. This girl does whatever the hell she wants now, so you had better get used to it.” Your mouth is set in a thin, firm line while you silently dare him to disagree.

“I’m not quite sure how that’s different from any other day with you, but alright.” Andy tries to calm himself by playing with a stray curl that’s fallen free from your bun. “You’re still mine, sweetness. Even when you insist on being a brat. Or did you somehow forget that part?”

You swat at his hand instead of responding, hating that steady feeling of warmth that was currently pooling in your belly.

“Did you?”

You make a show of ignoring him in favor of enjoying what was left of your coffee.

“You know, they say that sometimes silence speaks louder than words, baby girl.” You find yourself resisting the urge to clench your thighs together at the sound of the dark chuckle that rumbles through his chest. “It’s alright, though. Guess I’ll just have to remind you again once we get past this little wall you’re trying to put up between us.”

He gifts you with a flash of his pearly white teeth. Andrew Barber was the type of man who would only let you get away with so much before he put his foot down. And you would do well to remember that.

“Pretty sure you meant to say “actions”, jackass.” Apparently he finds your acerbic wit funny as well.

“Eh, I’ve heard it both ways.” Andy shrugs before going back to toying with your curls. “But I think you should know that I’m not very happy with you, baby. And I’m trying to be patient here, but it’s kinda difficult when I can’t even get you to talk to me.”

“I was going to call you…” That wasn’t a lie. You had just been trying to drum up the mental fortitude you knew it would take to pick up the phone and actually dial his number. Sometimes, dealing with Andrew Barber could require some serious patience.

“Were you now?” He doesn’t believe you. You can hear it in his voice.

“I was.”

“Okay, then have dinner with me tonight.” He releases your curl, watching the way it bounces as it springs free.

“Andy.” You let out an exhausted sigh.

“Meet me at my place. I’ll swing by Imperial Wok and pick up a few of your favorites so we can eat. And then we can talk in a quiet, private setting without any interruptions. How does that sound, princess?”

“Wonderful.” The word slips out before you can catch it. “But I–I can’t.”

Andrew Barber’s excited smile dies on his lips the moment that phrase reaches his ears and registers in his brain. As much as you hated to admit it, being alone with this man wasn’t a very good idea right now – especially behind closed doors.

Because while you’d never seen the man in court, you’d definitely heard plenty of stories about his ruthlessness. And you knew firsthand just how persistent he could be when he was determined to get his way.

When Andy wanted something, he didn’t stop until he got it. Not only was he relentless, but he also wasn’t above using every tool at his disposal – including sex – if it meant having you back in his life. It wouldn’t matter all that much to him how it came about.

The same way he wouldn’t care if whether or not your desired reconciliation only happened because he’d lured you into his bed before fucking you back into submission.

“The fu–why the hell not?” He growls, his hand grips the arm of the wooden bench so hard his knuckles go white.

“Because I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” The pronounced tick in his jaw makes it clear that he’s beyond frustrated by your refusal.

Unfortunately, that was too damned bad! By the time this was all said and done, your handsome ogre was going to have mastered the art of having some goddamned patience. At least you hoped that would be the case…

“Both.” You offer your Big Man a small apologetic smile as you rise from your seat. “Let’s plan for sometime next week. Maybe we can shoot for Monday. I’ll, uh, send you a text or something and we can find a place to meet. But I really need to get back to work now.”

Andy stares at you for what feels like a full minute as his impressive brain works overtime to figure out his next move. And then he stands up before taking your empty cup and discarding them both in a nearby trash bin.

“Alright.” He mutters with a nod in your direction. “I guess I’ll just have to wait for your message then. Now, let’s get you back to your office.” A lump forms in your throat when he wraps a muscled arm around your shoulders as you two begin walking back the way you came.

Fuck, you really hated this shit. But if this relationship was ever going to have a chance of working, you had to continue standing your ground. Even though it hurt like hell.

“I, um...I know you said that we probably won’t be able to sit down and talk until next week. And I suppose I can understand where you’re coming from with that, but while I have you now…” He lightly coughs into his elbow.

You glance up at your hotshot attorney, trying to figure out where he was going with this so that you could potentially cut him off at the pass.

“I at least wanted to say “thank you” in person for still agreeing to help Lydia with the charity gala this Saturday. I’m sure that it wasn’t an easy decision for you, especially given how things have been between us lately. But I really do appreciate it. And, frankly, I’m sure the kids at St. Augustine’s do too.”

You feel the blood drain from your face as the reminder of this weekend’s event all-but smacks in the face. “Shit!” You hiss, pulling away from Andy as you reach your building. “It’s this Saturday? Are you sure?”

“I am.” He confirms, his eyes filled with surprise. “I just spoke with Lydia yesterday when I–”

“Fuck!” You exclaim as your hands fly to your hips, uncaring that you just interrupted whatever it was he was about to say.

In all of the chaos, you’d completely forgotten that you had agreed to help the wife of one of Andy’s colleagues with her annual charity ball. Starting by arriving at the hotel early Saturday morning to aid in the event setup, before heading up to your room to get ready for the evening's festivities.

A room that had been booked during a time when you and Andy were on much better terms.

“She did mention that she sent all of the volunteers an email a couple days ago with a list of instructions. Maybe it got buried in your inbox, baby.” He rests his hands on your biceps, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “But she is definitely expecting you and I’m afraid it’s probably too late for you to back out at this point.”

Deep down you knew he was right. And quite honestly, you wouldn’t even dream of doing something like this close to the actual date of the gala. But there was still the issue of having to share a hotel room with your ex.

Closing your eyes, you force yourself to take a deep breath. “I–I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that big of an asshole. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to share a room…” You trail off, hoping that he would at least be somewhat understanding of your current plight.

“Ahh.” You can see the moment when realization finally dawns. “Right. Almost forgot about that.”

No, he actually hadn’t. But since Andy didn’t feel as though there was any real need for you to know that, he was going to keep that particular tidbit to himself. Even he was capable of showing some restraint every now and again.

“Like I said…” You find yourself anxiously bouncing on your toes. “I don’t think –”

“I get it, sweetheart.”

Wait. He did? Just like that?

“You do?”

“I do.” His words are accompanied by a lopsided grin.

He didn’t. But then again, you didn’t need to know that either.

Andy’s hands leave your arms so that he can tenderly cup the sides of your face instead. “You just leave it all to me, baby girl. I’ll call the hotel and change the reservations.”

“You will?” You place your smaller hands overtop of his own. “You…you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Andy leans down to press a sweet kiss to your forehead. “And I promise to be on my best behavior Saturday night.” He gives you another kiss, which you allow. “If you want, I’ll even send over the updated confirmation info.”

“Thank you.” You murmur, wishing that you could give-in just a little more and offer up your lips for a kiss. A real one this time.

But you couldn’t afford to do that. Not even when Mr. Andrew “Give Me A Gold Star For Being Helpful” Barber was acting sweet. That would only throw everything off balance all over again.

Andy’s heated gaze drops to your mouth before he slowly pulls away. “Don’t work too hard, okay?” His husky voice sends one last tiny flutter through your belly.

“Same goes for you.” You tell him as you begin to head into the building.

“Goodbye, baby girl.”

“Goodbye, Andrew. See you Saturday.”

He waits until you’re safely inside and out of sight before turning on his heel and proceeding in the direction of his car. Oh, you’d be seeing him on Saturday alright. And he would be on his best behavior – depending on just how much patience he could muster.

You two would be sorting this shit out then, whether you liked it or not. When it was over, you’d both spend the rest of the weekend making up for lost time. And Andrew was going to do everything in his power to ensure you enjoyed every fucking second of it. Just like he planned to enjoy getting reacquainted with that delicate sweetness between those luscious thighs. But first…

He needed to go make a call.

END

*Part Three Coming Soon...*

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