#i thought that perhaps the game would have something like the first one had

[mrsfancyferrari]

Marriage of Convenience

Summary: Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life…. pt 1

Song: Heartless · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Hey guys! I saw some tiktok that was about tropes with F1 drivers and Lewis's one was marriage of convenience. It has stuck with me ever since! I'll be using some real results from the races so it will not always be updated every week! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 18.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Lewis Hamilton, the illustrious Formula One champion, stood in the opulent office of his PR manager, the walls adorned with gleaming trophies and framed newspaper articles detailing his meteoric rise in the racing world.

The sun cast a warm glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in a hue of gold that matched the luxury that surrounded him.

Yet, the warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled in his stomach at the mention of the words "marriage of convenience."

"But why now?" he pressed, his voice laced with a hint of desperation. "I've been single for years, and it's never been an issue."

His PR manager, a sharp-witted woman named Elena, leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled under her chin.

She wore a smile that was both empathetic and firm, as if she knew this was a battle she'd already won.

"Lewis, my dear," she began, her British accent crisp and professional, "the rumors have been swirling like a tornado around a trailer park. Your personal life is becoming a distraction, and your competitors are using it to their advantage. A whirlwind romance, a quick 'I do,' and voilà, you're the settled, mature, and dedicated racer that everyone adores."

Lewis sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Fine," he conceded with a begrudging nod. "But you're finding someone who understands this is all for show, right? No strings attached, no messy feelings."

Elena's smile grew wider, a knowing glint in her eye. "Leave that to me," she said. "I have the perfect candidate in mind."

"Her name is Y/N," Elena began, sliding a sleek manila folder across her desk. "She's a model and an influencer with a taste for fast cars and an even faster lifestyle."

She opened the folder to reveal a photograph of a breathtaking black woman with goddess braids that cascaded down her back like a midnight waterfall.

Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief, her full lips curving into a smile that could make the sternest of hearts flutter. "Y/N understands the business, and she's more than capable of playing her part. She's signed an NDA that would make Fort Knox look like a suggestion box."

Lewis studied the photo, his heart racing slightly at the thought of being married, even if it was just for show. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but this was different—this was a strategic move, a chess piece in the grand game of his career.

He cleared his throat, trying to push aside the butterflies. "Alright, let's get this over with. When do I meet her?"

Elena's smile remained unwavering. "Tomorrow night, I've set up a dinner meeting at Le Château de Lumières. It's the most romantic spot in the city, perfect for a first date that'll look like it was plucked from a fairytale."

Lewis nodded, his throat suddenly dry. "Fine," he murmured, his eyes still lingering on the picture. "But what happens after the season ends?"

Elena leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Then, my dear Lewis, we orchestrate a spectacularly tragic fallout. Something dramatic, but not scandalous—perhaps you're both too busy with your careers, or you realized you were better off as friends. The public will eat it up, and you'll be free to pursue whatever—or whoever—you wish afterward."

He nodded, trying to calm down the tornado of emotions swirling inside him. Marriage, even a fake one, was a concept he'd never truly considered.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew he had to trust Elena.

She had a knack for spinning his life into gold, and if this was what she deemed necessary for his career to continue shining, then he'd have to go along with it.

Elena slid the folder back to him with a knowing smirk. "You can have the file if you want to admire her more," she teased, her fingertips brushing against the glossy surface of the photo. "Her numbers are in it, of course."

Lewis grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before snatching it and walking out of the office, his mind racing with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.

The folder felt heavier than it should have, as if it contained the weight of his future rather than just a few pieces of paper and a photo.

He knew the drill—fake relationships had been part of his public persona before, but marriage was a whole new level of commitment, even if it was just for show.

"Remember to study her likes and hobbies, you might find something in common," Elena yelled from the office. He couldn't help but smirk at her enthusiasm—it was infectious. He knew she had his back, and that was all that mattered.

Back in his penthouse, Lewis found himself staring at the folder on his coffee table, Y/N's mesmerizing eyes peeking out from the photograph.

He decided to take Elena's advice, eager to find common ground with his soon-to-be fake wife. As he scanned through the pages detailing her life, he found himself genuinely intrigued.

Her love for fast cars, her charity work, and her penchant for extreme sports mirrored his own passions.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.

With a sigh of resignation, he pulled out his phone and searched for her social media profiles. He told himself he was only interested in her fashion sense, but as he scrolled through her feed, he couldn't help but admire her beauty.

Each picture was a masterpiece of angles and lighting, showcasing not only her impeccable style but also the way she carried herself with an air of confidence and grace.

Her figure was a symphony of curves, each one highlighted by the designer garments she modeled. But he was a man of integrity, so he focused solely on her outfits, nodding in approval at her exquisite taste in luxury brands.

He noticed her love for racing reflected in some of her captions, with shots at various Formula One tracks around the globe. It was clear that she had an appreciation for the sport that went beyond the glamour.

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"Fans would definitely believe this," he murmured to himself, his thumb hovering over the screen.

They both shared a love for speed and the thrill of the chase—both on and off the track.

With a sigh, he set his phone aside and rolled onto his back, his thoughts racing faster than his cars ever could. The reality of the situation was setting in: he was about to embark on a season-long charade with a woman he had never even met. His stomach churned with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.

As he lay there, the sound of a bark pierced the silence, jolting him out of his contemplative haze. Quick footsteps approached, and before he could react, Roscoe's furry face poked into the doorway. The bulldog's eyes sparkled with curiosity, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

"Did you have a good nap, Roscoe?" Lewis asked, his voice thick with affection. The dog's response was a series of eager growls and sniffs as he trotted over to his dad, his paws thumping rhythmically against the hardwood floor.

Lewis chuckled and sat up, his six-pack abs rippling as he did so. He reached out and scratched behind Roscoe's ear, the dog's eyes closing in bliss. The simple act of bonding with his pet helped to ease the tension that had been building in his chest.

"Alright, buddy," he said, standing and stretching. The fabric of his sweatpants outlined the firm muscles of his thighs and the curve of his ass, evidence of countless hours spent in the gym and behind the wheel. "Tomorrow is a special day, so you better be on your best behavior. You're about to meet the woman who's going to be my fake wife and your fake mom for the season."

Roscoe cocked his head to the side, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. Lewis couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—his burly bulldog playing step-son to a supermodel for the sake of his image. He stood up and padded over to the windows, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the day outside.

He looked out over the bustling city, the setting sun casting a fiery glow across the horizon. It was a stark reminder of the race he'd run in the morning, the thrill of the wind in his face and the roar of the engine still echoing in his ears.

Tomorrow would be a different kind of race altogether—a race to win over the hearts of his fans, to keep the sponsors happy, and to maintain the facade of a perfect life. But as he felt the comforting weight of Roscoe's head on his leg, he realized that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to have a partner in this charade.

"Come on, let's get you a treat," Lewis said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the room. He walked to the kitchen, the dog's nails clicking against the floor as he followed. The sleek chrome and marble surfaces gleamed under the pendant lights, a stark contrast to the warm, lived-in feel of the living room.

Lewis grabbed a treat from the jar on the counter and tossed it to Roscoe, who caught it with surprising grace for his bulk. "You're going to need to charm her, buddy. Maybe even more than you charm the judges at those dog shows."

The bulldog's eyes lit up, and he trotted over to his bed, the treat forgotten as he began to perform a series of clumsy, yet earnest tricks.

Lewis couldn't help but laugh as he watched Roscoe's antics. "I think she'll love you," he said, his voice filled with affection. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're both just actors in this little play."

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"Y/N, repeat what you just said," your mother repeated, looking utterly perplexed, her perfectly manicured hand hovering over the delicate china teacup as if it were a lifeline to sanity.

"I signed a contract to 'marry' Lewis Hamilton for a year," you announced with the casual air of someone discussing a weekend getaway, a smug smile playing on your lips as you watched the shock ripple through her impeccably made-up visage.

"The Lewis Hamilton?" she queried, her eyes narrowing to slits as she tried to process the ludicrous information you'd just served up like a hot slice of gossip at a high society luncheon.

"Yes, Mother," you drawled, not bothering to look up from your phone as you swiped through the latest collection of designer shoes. "The very one who races cars and breaks hearts for a living. But don't worry, this is strictly business."

Her silence was palpable, thick enough to slice with a knife. You could almost see the cogs whirring in her head, trying to piece together this unexpected jigsaw puzzle of your life.

Finally, she found her voice, "Why on earth would you agree to such a… such a… frivolous arrangement?"

"To boost our engagement," you said, enunciating each word with the precision of a seasoned politician, raising your gaze to meet hers. "It's a win-win, really. His fanbase goes through the roof, and I get to live like a queen for a year. Plus, think of the networking opportunities!"

"But your reputation," she gasped, setting the teacup down with a clink that sounded like a death knell for your social standing.

You rolled your eyes, "Mother, it's all just for show. And it's not like we're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing. We're just going to pretend."

Her sigh was one of resignation, tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I just hope you know what you're getting into," she murmured, her eyes searching yours for a glimmer of doubt.

"Trust me, I've got it all figured out," you assured her, your voice a blend of confidence and nonchalance that would make any business mogul proud. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I need to go pick out a wedding dress. The press will be all over this, and I can't disappoint them with a lackluster wardrobe."

Your mother's expression was a masterclass in poise under pressure. "Very well," she conceded. "Send me the pictures. I'll handle the social media side of things."

You leaned in to kiss her cheek, the scent of her expensive perfume lingering as you pulled away. "Thanks, Mother," you said with a wink. "I knew you'd understand."

As you sailed out of the room, her voice followed you like a soft breeze. "Just remember, darling," she called after you, "keep your emotions out of it. You're playing a role, nothing more."

Your heart thudded in your chest, a delicious mix of excitement and trepidation. You had signed up for a year of make-believe with the world's most desired man, and you had no intention of letting reality spoil the fantasy.

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The velvet leash grew taut as Lewis tugged it gently, urging the bulldog, Roscoe, to follow him through the dimly-lit corridor. The dog's jowls swayed with each reluctant step, a silent protest to the indignity of being tethered like a mere accessory.

Despite his displeasure, Roscoe's curiosity about the evening's events remained piqued. The whisper of fabric against fabric grew louder as they approached the private dining room, where the scent of fine cuisine wafted through the air.

"Come on, Roscoe, you have to meet her too," Lewis murmured, his voice a blend of excitement and nerves.

The restaurant's peculiar policy of leashing dogs seemed almost comical in the grand scheme of the evening, yet it was a small price to pay for the exclusivity of the venue.

The walls of the corridor were adorned with paintings of pastoral scenes, a stark contrast to the urban jungle outside.

Upon entering the room, a soft glow from the candles on the table cast a warm embrace around the figure of a woman who was more than just beautiful—she was an embodiment of elegance.

Her eyes sparkled like the diamond necklace that hung delicately around her neck, and her smile was as radiant as the polished silverware that lay before her.

As they drew closer, the air grew thick with anticipation, charged with the electricity of new beginnings and the thrill of the unknown.

Y/N's gaze fell upon the unusual duo—Lewis, the charming billionaire, and Roscoe, the leashed bulldog. Her eyes narrowed playfully as she took in the scene.

She knew that this was not a typical dinner date, and that was precisely what made it so alluring.

"Well, hello, Mr. Hamilton," she purred, her voice a velvet caress that seemed to resonate through the very air. "I'm surprised you didn't bring your entire zoo."

Lewis chuckled, his grip on the leash loosening as he felt the tension in the room dissipate.

"Ms. Y/N, I assure you, this is a very special occasion. Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the company of my best man here."

Her smile grew, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Best man, huh?" she said, standing up with the grace of a gazelle. "I see you've got a sense of humor, Mr. Hamilton."

Roscoe, feeling the shift in the room, allowed his tail to wag slightly, his earlier annoyance forgotten as he caught the scent of her perfume.

It was a sweet, intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that seemed to speak of exotic lands and passionate nights.

"And who's this handsome boy?" she cooed, leaning down to address Roscoe. The bulldog, ever eager for affection, leaned into her touch, his eyes closing in pleasure.

"Ah, this is Roscoe," Lewis said with a touch of pride. "He's a bit of a diva, but I assure you, he's quite well-behaved when properly motivated."

Y/N reached out to stroke the dog's head, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.

"Well, it seems I've got quite the welcoming committee," she said, straightening up to her full height and extending a hand to Lewis.

Their fingers met in a firm, yet delicate handshake, sending a thrill up his spine. Her touch was cool and smooth, like the finest silk, and it sent a jolt through his body that he hadn't felt in years.

"Lewis, please," he said, his voice a whisper. "I think we can dispense with the formalities."

Her hand remained in his, the warmth from their palms mingling, creating a current that seemed to pulse through the very air that surrounded them.

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for a hint of what was to come, a promise of the evening's delights.

"Very well, Y/N," he murmured, the sound of his voice a caress that seemed to stroke her very soul. "Shall we sit?"

The three of them moved to the table, the leather chairs creaking softly as they settled into them. The table was set with fine china, the crystal glasses casting rainbows of light across the crisp, white linen.

A bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket, the promise of a celebration yet to unfold.

As they sat, Y/N couldn't help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu, as if she had been here before, with another man, under very different circumstances.

But this was no ordinary man, and this was certainly no ordinary dinner. The weight of the necklace grew heavier, a silent reminder of the deal she had struck.

The waiter, a young man with impeccable manners, approached with a silver tray laden with hors d'oeuvres. His eyes flickered briefly to the leash in Lewis's hand before he focused on the couple, his expression unchanged.

"Your usual, Mr. Hamilton?" he inquired.

"Yes, thank you, Freddie," Lewis replied, his gaze never leaving hers. "And for the lady?"

Y/N's eyes roved over the selection, her stomach fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves. "Surprise me," she said with a smile.

The waiter nodded and deftly selected a few items before retreating, leaving them in the warm cocoon of the candlelit room.

The silence that followed was filled with the soft crackle of the candles and the distant clink of silverware on porcelain.

Lewis reached for the champagne bottle, his fingers sure and steady as he popped the cork with a flourish that sent a spray of bubbles into the air.

The sound was like a declaration of intent, a promise of the passion that was to come. He filled her glass, his eyes never leaving hers, and then his own.

"To new beginnings," he toasted, the crystal flutes clinking together like the ringing of wedding bells.

The bubbles danced in the golden liquid, a fizzy symphony of anticipation. Y/N took a sip, the cool liquid sliding down her throat with a tantalizing tickle that made her shiver.

She watched as Lewis did the same, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion, a gesture she found inexplicably erotic.

"So, do you know more about this… arrangement," he asked, the word 'arrangement' rolling off his tongue like a secret shared between lovers.

"Yes, I do," she spoke politely, setting her glass down with a soft click. "We're supposed to take our wedding photos next week Thursday, but it can be changed if you like."

Her words hung in the air, a silent invitation for him to take the reins, to assert his dominance in this game of pretense they were playing.

He leaned back in his chair, stroking Roscoe's head as he contemplated her words. "I trust you have everything under control, then?"

Y/N's smile grew, a hint of mischief playing at the corners of her lips. "I always do."

"Excellent," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through her very core. "But there's something I need to discuss with you before we proceed."

Y/N's eyebrow arched slightly, a question lingering in her eyes. "And what might that be?"

Lewis took a deep breath, his gaze flicking to the dog for a brief moment before returning to her. "Do you mind if my dad comes with me?" he said, his voice a soft rumble. "He said this was the 'only' time he was going to see his son get married."

Surprise flitted across Y/N's features, but she quickly schooled her expression back to neutral. "Of course," she said, her tone even. "I would be happy to include your father in our…arrangement."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of hesitation or mockery. Finding none, he nodded slowly.

"Thank you," he murmured, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "He's quite the character, but he means well."

Y/N's smile grew warmer, her eyes gleaming with understanding. "I'm sure he does," she said. "And I'm quite fond of characters myself."

"As long as my mother can come too," she said, her voice teasing.

Lewis's eyes widened, his grip on the champagne flute tightening for a brief second before he managed to compose himself.

"Your mother?" he repeated, his voice a mix of incredulity and amusement.

Y/N nodded, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Yes, my mother. She's quite the socialite, you know. She'll make sure the photos are absolutely perfect for the society pages."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, trying to discern if she was joking or if this was a genuine request. The thought of his stern, business-like father being a part of their staged nuptials was one thing, but the addition of her mother, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper wit, was another matter entirely.

"Your mother, you say?" he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of apprehension. Y/N nodded, her smile unwavering, and took another sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving his.

The bubbles danced on her tongue, a fizzy counterpart to the dance of emotions playing out before her.

Lewis's mind raced, trying to imagine the woman who had raised the enigmatic Y/N, who had agreed to this unorthodox union for the sake of his own ambition.

He could almost hear the whispers of her reputation, the tales of her social triumphs and the occasional scandal that had graced the pages of high society magazines.

"I see," he said finally, his tone measured. "And what does your mother think of… our arrangement?"

Y/N's laughter was like a chime of fine crystal, delicate and alluring. "Mother is quite thrilled," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "She's always had a soft spot for a man who knows his worth and isn't afraid to show it."

Lewis couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. Her mother's presence would add an unexpected dynamic to the already complex situation. But he knew better than to argue with a woman who could navigate the treacherous waters of high society with such ease.

"Very well," he conceded, his smile forced but genuine. "The more the merrier, I suppose."

The tension between them eased as they delved into their meals, the succulent flavors of their dishes a delightful distraction from the unspoken tension.

Roscoe, seemingly aware of the shift, settled at Lewis's feet, his snoring a gentle bass line to their conversation.

"Your mother is quite…known," Lewis said, choosing his words carefully. "What should I expect?"

Y/N's gaze grew distant as she thought of her mother. "Expect the unexpected," she replied with a knowing smile. "But she has a heart of gold beneath that tough exterior."

They ate in silence for a few moments, the weight of the unspoken contract hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Y/N cleared her throat. “We should probably talk about…appearances. What’s the plan for things like…races?”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate away. "Right. Races. Well, the team and my management have a schedule in mind. They want us to be seen together at as many events as possible. It’s all about maximizing…visibility."

Y/N frowned slightly. “Visibility. Right. Well, my work is quite demanding, but I'll be able to attend at least 3 races at the start before my work starts again.”

Lewis seemed surprised. “Three? That’s…more than I expected, actually. Which races?”

“China, Japan, and Australia,” she replied. “I managed to clear my schedule for them. After that, it will be more difficult, but I can try to make a few here and there when I have more time.”

“Australia is a long way,” Lewis commented, more to himself than to her. “It’s a demanding circuit, and the jet lag is brutal.”

"I'm aware," Y/N said dryly. "I've traveled before."

He gave her a small, apologetic smile. “Of course. Sorry. It's just…it's a lot to ask you to be a part of this, especially knowing you have your own life and career.”

Y/N shrugged. "It is what it is. I agreed to it, didn't I?" she replied trying to stay formal.

Lewis nodded slowly. "Yes, you did. And I appreciate it. More than you know." He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that evening.

He saw a hint of apprehension in her eyes, but also a surprising strength. He wondered, fleetingly, what she really thought about all of this.

“So, Australia,” he continued, breaking the eye contact. “We’ll be traveling on different days, of course. Security and logistics are…complicated. But we’ll be staying at the same hotel. There will be a lot of press events, photo opportunities, things like that. My team will brief you on the details.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Of course. I wouldn't want to deviate from the pre-approved narrative."

Lewis smirked, a genuine smile reaching his eyes for the first time. “You catch on quick. Look, I know this is all…surreal. And probably incredibly annoying. But I promise, I’ll try to make it as…bearable as possible. And I’ll try to be as respectful of your time and your life as I can.”

“I appreciate that, Lewis,” Y/N said, her voice softening slightly. “I’m not expecting this to be a fairytale, but I do expect us to treat each other with respect. We’re both professionals, and we should act like it.”

“Agreed,” Lewis replied, extending his hand across the table. "To professionalism."

Y/N hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. The contact was brief, but a faint spark seemed to pass between them.

It was nothing dramatic, just a subtle shift, a momentary acknowledgment of the strange and uncertain journey they were about to embark on together.

Lewis, observing Y/N stroking Roscoe, his bulldog, said, "So, what about dates?"

Y/N stopped mid-stroke, fixing him with a sharp glare. "Dates? Lewis, we're in a contractual agreement. This isn't real."

"What? I heard married couples still go on dates and we're going to be married soon," he retorted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. What are your hobbies so we can link them to it without making it too obvious that we're reading from a script?"

"Well, I like golfing, surfing, playing the piano…" he started, ticking them off on his fingers.

"Boring," Y/N teased, more out of habit than malice. Lewis didn't seem offended, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Okay, okay. What about you then? Give me something good to work with."

"Easy. Archery, animal riding, shooting…" she said casually, continuing to pet Roscoe.

"Shooting?" he repeated, thinking it was a joke. "Like…guns?"

"Yeah, shooting. I am one of the best shooters in my family," Y/N said matter-of-factly. Lewis looked genuinely shocked. "Guns? Really? You don't seem like a…gun person."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Y/N replied with a cryptic smile. "It's a family tradition. We've been competing in shooting competitions for generations. It's quite exhilarating, actually."

Lewis shook his head, seemingly trying to reconcile the image of the elegant, equestrian beauty with a crack shot. "Well, that's…unexpected. Maybe we could arrange a 'date' at a shooting range. Show the world a different side of you. Spice things up a bit."

Y/N considered this, a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. “Perhaps. I haven’t been to the range in a while. I could certainly give you a lesson. Though I can’t promise you’ll be any good.”

Lewis laughed. "Challenge accepted. But you have to promise not to be too competitive. I'm a champion, you know."

"We'll see about that," Y/N said, a playful glint in her eyes.

The conversation drifted, covering details about their upcoming staged engagement party, the social media strategy, and the general rules of engagement (pun intended).

After an hour, they were both feeling the strain of the pretense. Roscoe, however, seemed to be thriving on the attention.

When they finally finished the catered lunch, Roscoe, true to form, woke up again, demanding belly rubs. It was time for Y/N to leave. Surprisingly, Lewis didn't want her to.

He found her sharp wit and unconventional hobbies intriguing.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asked, walking her to the grand entrance of the restaurant. The question felt surprisingly genuine, a departure from the carefully crafted facade.

"No, my friend is picking me up, thank you for the offer," she said.

They waited for a few minutes, a comfortable silence settling between them. The only sound was the gentle hum of the city in the distance. Then, a car pulled up and honked.

"That's her, I'll be going home now, bye Lewis," she said, her hand hovering for a moment before gently touching his arm.

The contact was brief, almost hesitant, but enough to send a strange flutter in his stomach. She then looked down, rubbing Roscoe's face, who was nestled in his arms. "Bye Roscoe, I'll see you soon,"

Then she walked down the opulent stairs, entered the waiting car, and with a final wave, she was gone, leaving Lewis standing alone in the doorway, Roscoe snoring softly in his arms.

That evening, Lewis found himself thinking about Y/N. He couldn’t deny she was interesting.

Far more interesting than the endless parade of socialites and models he usually surrounded himself with. . . .

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The roar of the Ferrari engine faded, replaced by a dull hum in Lewis' ears. He should have been focused on the intricacies of the new aerodynamic package the mechanics were painstakingly explaining.

Instead, his mind was a runaway train, careening toward a single, looming destination: Y/N.

He was getting 'married' to Y/N. For a year. The absurdity of it all still felt surreal, even after weeks of negotiations, contracts, and carefully crafted press releases. It was a business arrangement, pure and simple.

A calculated maneuver orchestrated by his management team to boost engagement, fan interaction, and ultimately, his brand. A fake marriage.

He hadn't even argued. His career was his everything. He'd poured his life, his soul, into racing. If this…stunt, this temporary charade, helped solidify his position, then he'd play the part.

But that didn’t stop the unsettling flutter in his stomach.

He only half-heard the mechanic's concluding remarks, a jumble of downforce percentages and drag coefficients. He mumbled a thank you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and practically bolted from Maranello.

The image of Y/N in a wedding dress swam in his mind, a mirage both enticing and terrifying.

He gripped the steering wheel, pushing the car to its legal limit as he sped towards the Bridal Boutique. His own suit, a classic black tailored piece, was already sorted.

It had been his father’s, a detail that had felt strangely poignant amidst the manufactured romance.

Pulling up outside the boutique, he took a deep breath, trying to regulate his racing pulse. He stepped out of the car and headed inside, the tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival.

"Y/N's here," he announced to the receptionist, a woman with bright, friendly eyes. He felt a ridiculous need to justify his presence. "I'm…ah…Lewis Hamilton."

The receptionist's smile widened, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Ah, Mr. Hamilton! We've been expecting you. She's over there. You're a very lucky sir, she's very beautiful."

Lewis swallowed, feeling a lump form in his throat. He murmured a thank you and navigated through the maze of tulle and lace.

His gaze scanned the room, passing over blushing brides-to-be and their entourages, until he found her.

Y/N was standing on a raised platform, surrounded by fabric and mirrors. She was facing away from him, but even from this distance, he could see the curve of her neck, the way the light caught in her hair.

She was wearing a simple, elegant gown, ivory silk that cascaded to the floor.

The satin felt heavy against your skin, a stark contrast to the lightness you usually embraced. You stared at your reflection, a stranger in a sea of white lace and tulle. This wasn't you.

This wasn't the free-spirited, motorcycle-riding, target-shooting version of yourself that you carefully cultivated. This was… bridal.

And you were about to be a bride. For a year. To Lewis Hamilton, the racing prodigy whose reputation was as fast as his cars.

You swirled again, the dress billowing around you like a cloud. It was beautiful, objectively. Expensive, undoubtedly. But it felt like a costume, a character you were trying to embody but couldn't quite grasp.

Father would have loved it. Traditional, elegant, perfectly… safe. A sigh escaped your lips. Since when did you care about safe?

You had been trying on dresses for hours, each one more elaborate than the last. Each one failing to capture the essence of you. You knew Lewis was going to be late.

His team meetings always ran long, especially with the season going to be in full swing soon. He’d apologized profusely over the phone, his voice laced with a nervousness that mirrored your own.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Still another hour to go. “Next!” you called out to the stylist, your voice echoing slightly in the opulent boutique.

You needed to get this over with before Lewis arrived. The thought of him seeing you in this parade of frills and lace sent a shiver down your spine.

Dress after dress, disappointment mounted. A mermaid gown that made you feel like you were suffocating. A ballgown that swallowed you whole. An A-line that was simply… boring. None of them felt right. None of them felt like you.

Standing before the mirror, you examined the latest contender – a strapless, heavily beaded monstrosity that sparkled under the chandelier light.

You looked like a disco ball. A very uncomfortable, very expensive disco ball.

“I can’t do this,” you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible. You had agreed to this arrangement – the fake marriage, the orchestrated photos, the carefully crafted narrative designed to boost Lewis’s public image.

You knew what you were signing up for. But seeing yourself in this getup, imagining walking down the aisle towards a man you barely knew, felt surreal.

He cleared his throat. "Y/N?"

You spun around, the heavy dress making the movement awkward. Lewis stood just inside the doorway, his shoulders filling the space.

The breath caught in his throat. The receptionist hadn't exaggerated. You were stunning. The dress, while beautiful, paled in comparison to your natural radiance. Your eyes, usually sparkling with playful mischief, were now tinged with a nervous apprehension that mirrored his own.

"Lewis," you said softly, your voice a low, melodic hum. "You made it."

He managed a weak smile. "Couldn't miss it. The… dress looks amazing on you."

"Thank you," you replied, your fingers nervously pleating the fabric. "Did… did you see your suit?"

"Yeah, it's… it's great. My father's. Which feels… I don't know, significant, somehow. Even though all of this..." He trailed off, gesturing awkwardly around the room.

"Is what it is," you finished for him, a hint of wry amusement in your voice. "A very public, very expensive, agreement."

The silence that followed hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken anxieties and uncertainties. You both knew this wasn’t a real marriage.

It was a business transaction, a carefully calculated move to improve Lewis’s image and, let’s be honest, give your fledgling art career a boost. But standing here, in a bridal boutique, surrounded by the symbols of love and commitment, it felt… complicated.

"So," he said, trying to inject some levity into the situation, "are you ready to become Mrs. Hamilton for the next year?"

A small smile touched your lips. "As ready as I'll ever be. Just try not to crash the car on our wedding day, okay? Think of the engagement rates."

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "Wouldn’t dream of it. My driving is worth more than that." He paused, his gaze sweeping over you. "Is this the dress you're picking?"

You shook your head, the movement causing the beads to clatter softly. "I hate it. It doesn't represent me. It's… too much."

"Maybe your fiancé should pick one for you," one of your entourages said. You forgot they were even there. All this while they were sitting on the couch, probably bored out of their minds.

Lewis seemed surprised by the suggestion, but a playful glint appeared in his eyes. "Sure, I think I know your taste well." Before you could protest, he disappeared into the racks of dresses, a wide grin on his face.

"Don't pick something too girly!" you yelled after him, and you heard his laughter echo from behind a curtain.

You rolled your eyes and turned to your entourage, “I should have never let him do that.”

“But it’s too late now!”

Lewis emerged, holding a dress that was… surprisingly you. It was a sleek, ivory slip dress, with delicate lace detailing at the neckline and a subtle, almost imperceptible train. It was understated, elegant, and undeniably chic.

"Well?" he asked, holding it out. "Think this is more your style?"

You took the dress, running the silk through your fingers. "This is... perfect. How did you know?"

He shrugged, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "I've been paying attention. Besides, anything would be better than that monstrosity."

The fitting room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. You met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. This was going to be a strange year, a year filled with pretense and performance.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of something real amidst the artifice.

"When I go change into this, why don't you go try on your father's suit?" you suggested, trying to break the unexpected tension.

Lewis's smile widened. "Good idea. I'll see you in a bit." He winked, and with that, he left the fitting room, leaving you alone with the dress and your increasingly complicated thoughts.

The ivory silk felt cool against your skin as you slipped the dress over your head. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for you. You looked in the mirror, and for the first time since agreeing to this ridiculous scheme, you didn't feel like you were playing a part.

You felt… like yourself. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

"Lewis? Are you there?" you asked hesitantly from behind the curtain.

"Yep, just waiting for my future wife to be revealed," he joked.

"Okay," you said shyly, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

You could hear the rustle of fabric and a muttered, "Alright, here we go." Then, with a dramatic flourish, the curtains were drawn open, revealing Lewis in a impeccably tailored suit.

It was classic, understated, and undeniably him. In his hands, he held a bouquet of bright yellow and blue flowers.

He stood there, momentarily speechless, his eyes fixed on you. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a palpable tension that both thrilled and terrified you.

"Wow," he finally breathed, his voice a low rumble. "You look… incredible."

You felt your heart skip a beat. "You don't look too bad yourself."

He grinned, handing you the flowers. "Yellow and blue. They're your favorites, right?"

You took the bouquet, inhaling their sweet fragrance. "They are. Thank you."

"Right, we'll leave you alone to suck up the moment," the main entourage, Monica, announced, herding the rest of the entourage out of the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving you and Lewis alone in the opulent room. The weight of the situation settled heavily on your shoulders.

You walked towards the plush velvet sofa and sat down, the voluminous dress swallowing you whole.

"Where's Roscoe?" you asked, referring to Lewis’s beloved bulldog. "I miss him." You’d met Roscoe several times during the contract negotiations and found the wrinkly pup to be far more endearing than his owner, at least initially.

"So you miss my dog but not me, your future husband, your future love of your life, your…" Lewis teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Okay, okay, I get it," you said, slapping his arm lightly. "I missed you too." It wasn't entirely a lie. During the days of rehearsals and media training leading up to this day, you'd found yourself strangely comfortable around him.

He was surprisingly down-to-earth, considering his fame and fortune.

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "So… do you need help getting out of that dress? I'm sure you're dying to take it off."

You laughed, a genuine, bright sound that surprised him. "Actually, I was kind of enjoying it. Makes me feel like a real princess, even for a few hours."

"Well, you certainly look like one," he said, a genuine compliment escaping his lips.

"Alright, enough flirting," you said, trying to regain your composure. "We have a fake marriage to attend."

"Right," he said, suddenly remembering the logistics of the whole thing. "The venue, the vows, the… first dance."

"Don't worry," you said, your eyes twinkling. "I've taken care of most of it. The venue is a beautiful church outside of Florence. The vows are… well, let's just say they're carefully worded. And the first dance? I'm thinking something slow and romantic. What do you say?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Slow and romantic? You think you can handle it, Mrs. Hamilton?"

You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Try me, Mr. Hamilton."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I think… I think I might just enjoy that."

The drive to the church felt surreal. You were seated next to Lewis in the back of a sleek, black car, the Tuscan countryside whizzing by in a blur of vineyards and olive groves. You expected awkward silence, maybe a stilted conversation about the weather. Instead, Lewis surprised you.

"So," he began, turning to you with a genuine smile, "tell me, what do you actually know about Formula 1? Besides the fact that I'm supposedly good at it?"

You chuckled. "More than you probably think. I've been following the sport since I was a kid. My dad's a huge fan, and he practically raised me on a diet of qualifying laps and race strategy."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Most of the 'celebrity' guests I meet at the races barely know the difference between a pit stop and a penalty. It's… refreshing to actually talk to someone who gets it."

He launched into a detailed explanation of the upcoming season, his passion evident in every word. He spoke about the new regulations, the aerodynamic changes, the challenges they were facing with the car's performance.

"We're struggling with the downforce," he explained, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The simulations are promising, but we're not seeing the same results on the track. We're working on adjusting the suspension and the rear wing design to try and find that extra bit of grip."

You listened intently, nodding occasionally, asking informed questions. "Have you considered tweaking the differential settings? Maybe a more aggressive locking strategy could help with traction out of the corners?"

Lewis stopped mid-sentence, staring at you in surprise. "That's… actually a really good point. I hadn't thought of that. I'll bring it up with the engineers. You have to come to the factory in Maranello so you can get to know the team before the season starts."

"I'd like that," you admitted, a genuine smile spreading across your face.

This wasn't the superficial celebrity encounter you'd anticipated. He was treating you like an equal, someone whose opinion he valued. It was… disarming.

As the car pulled up to the church, a mix of nervousness and anticipation fluttered in your stomach. You were about to 'marry' a Formula 1 legend, a man you had met, for the sake of boosting his public image. The absurdity of the situation hit you full force.

The church was even more breathtaking in person. Nestled amongst rolling hills, its ancient stone walls seemed to whisper stories of centuries past.

There were some photographers strategically positioned, discreetly snapping aesthetic pictures of the venue. They were there to sell the illusion, to capture the romance that wasn't truly there.

Lewis left the car first, extending a hand to help you out. "Ready?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You took his hand, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you. You smiled and walked towards the entrance of the church, the sound of hushed chatter growing louder with each step. Your palms were sweating, and your heart hammered against your ribs. You were anxious. Terribly anxious.

Lewis squeezed your hand reassuringly. "It's gonna be great, wifey," he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes.

You nodded, trying to force a smile. "Just…don't call me that in public, okay?"

He chuckled. "Deal. And relax. Everyone here is in on it. It's just us, our friends and family."

The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a small gathering of people. You saw a mixture of familiar faces – yours and Lewis's close friends, the ones trusted enough to keep the secret – and family. All their faces were directed to you.

You and Lewis were immediately engulfed in hugs and pats on the back. Some of your friends were teary-eyed, overcome with emotion, while others offered proud congratulations. The scene was chaotic, overwhelming, and strangely…supportive.

"You look beautiful, darling," one of your friends gushed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I'm so happy for you both!"

You managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Sarah. Don't cry, you'll ruin your makeup."

Finally, you spotted your mom across the room, engaged in conversation with Lewis's father. Your mother was already crying, naturally. She always cried at weddings, even the fake ones. Seeing her emotional state made your own eyes start to sting.

"Mom!" you called out, gently extricating yourself from the throng of well-wishers.

Your mother turned and rushed towards you, engulfing you in a tight hug. "My baby is getting married!" she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart. He seems like such a wonderful man."

You glanced over at Lewis, who was smiling warmly at your mother. He could charm the birds out of the trees, you thought.

"He is, Mom," you said, deciding to play along. "He's wonderful."

She pulled back, holding you at arm's length, and examined your face. "Are you happy, darling? Really happy?"

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting you with unexpected force. Were you happy? You were about to embark on a year-long sham marriage with a man you barely knew. Logically, the answer should be no. But as you looked at Lewis, standing there patiently, a curious feeling began to stir within you. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to this arrangement than met the eye.

"Yes, Mom," you said, surprising yourself with the conviction in your voice. "I'm happy."

Your mother squeezed your hand. "That's all that matters. Now, go get married!" She beamed, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

Just then, Anthony Hamilton approached, his face etched with a nervous concern that mirrored my own. He fidgeted with his tie, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Y/N, dear," he began, his voice a low rumble. "Are you… are you sure you want me to do this?" He gestured vaguely towards the makeshift altar. "It’s not too late to back out, you know. Lewis… he can be a handful."

My heart went out to him. He was a good man, Anthony, despite the pressures of his son's demanding career. He probably felt as uncomfortable with this whole charade as I did.

"Of course, Mr. Hamilton," I answered, offering him my most reassuring smile. "I feel like it would be the best option for everyone." For Lewis's career, for my future, for my mother's peace of mind.

His eyes welled up, and he nodded slowly, his voice thick with emotion. "Alright, alright. But promise me you'll look after him, eh? He needs someone solid in his corner."

"I promise," I said, though I wasn't sure if I was promising him or myself.

"Alright! Everyone go to your positions now!" the videographer yelled, his voice cutting through the emotional tension like a rusty knife. The sound of hushed conversations and shuffling feet filled the room as everyone scrambled to their assigned seats along the aisle.

Anthony, after taking a deep breath, offered me his elbow. I placed my hand there, the silk of my dress cool against his suit. We walked behind the large oak doors that led into the ballroom, hiding from the expectant gaze of the crowd. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears.

Suddenly, the opening bars of "Canon in D" filled the room, a classic choice for a deeply un-classic situation.

"Ready?" Anthony asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I took a deep breath, forcing a calmness I didn't feel. "Ready."

The doors swung open, and I started to walk. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step was calculated, designed to capture the perfect angle for the cameras. The faces of the guests blurred into a sea of expectant smiles and glittering jewels.

She could see her mother beaming in the front row, her eyes brimming with tears. Y/N hoped they were tears of joy, not disappointment that her daughter was entering into such a transactional union.

At the end of the aisle, Lewis stood waiting, looking impossibly handsome in his custom-tailored suit. He caught my eye, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I saw something flicker in his gaze – a vulnerability, perhaps, or just a raw, naked ambition.

We reached the altar, and Anthony squeezed my hand before stepping aside.

"You look lovely, Y/N," Lewis murmured, his voice low and smooth.

"Thank you, Lewis," she replied, keeping her voice equally neutral. "You don't look so bad yourself."

The officiant, a jovial man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice echoing through the hall, "we are gathered here in the presence of God, family, and friends to witness a joyous occasion—the union of Lewis Hamilton and Y/N L/N in holy matrimony."

The ceremony was a blur of rehearsed lines and forced smiles. They exchanged vows that felt hollow and meaningless. They slipped rings onto each other's fingers, the cold metal a stark reminder of the contractual nature of their relationship.

Then came the moment she had been dreading.

"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant intoned.

Lewis turned to her, his eyes searching hers for a moment. Then, he leaned in and kissed her. It was a chaste, professionally executed kiss, designed to elicit cheers from the crowd and likes on Instagram.

But even so, you felt a strange flutter in her stomach, a sensation she quickly dismissed as the product of nerves and exhaustion.

It was all a blur from then on. Walking down the aisle with Lewis in hand, waving at the guests, mostly family and friends, throwing confetti over our heads.

The whirlwind of congratulations, the endless photos, the forced smiles that were starting to ache my cheeks.

Then, suddenly, we were in a room by ourselves, apparently, it's tradition for newly weds to stay in the same room right after the ceremony to soak up the moment.

The honeymoon suite was extravagant, all plush velvet and panoramic views. It felt absurd to be here, pretending, with 24-hour security just outside the door to ensure the “integrity” of our little charade.

My friends, bless their hearts, had noticed my tense demeanor and, with a knowing wink, had slipped two glasses of wine into my hands. "Relax a little, Y/N," Maya had whispered, "You look like you're about to explode."

I took a tentative sip. The wine was crisp and refreshing, a welcome distraction from the buzzing in my head. I was a lightweight, a fact I had conveniently neglected to mention to Lewis. He stood awkwardly by the panoramic window, his perfectly tailored suit looking even more impeccable against the velvet drapes.

He turned, his expression hesitant. "That kiss was... nice," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of my wine. "Well, I'm happy you enjoyed it because that's all you're getting from me today," I said, leaning back against a ridiculously ornate chaise lounge.

He frowned slightly. "We do have to kiss more during the first dance and the reception party."

The wine had officially loosened my inhibitions. A mischievous glint sparked in my eye. I found myself leaning forward, a dangerous smile playing on my lips. "Is that an order, Mr. Hamilton?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "It's…a suggestion. A highly recommended suggestion."

I burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. He looked even more uncomfortable. "Alright, alright. A suggestion it is. But tell me, Lewis," I drawled, tilting my head, "how passionate are we talking? A quick peck for the cameras? A lingering lip-lock for the tabloids? Or perhaps a full-blown, movie-style makeout session to send your fans into a frenzy?"

He gaped at me, his usually composed facade cracking. "Y/N, are you…teasing me?"

"Maybe," I said, grinning. "Consider it a rehearsal. For the sake of public perception, of course. We have to be convincing, right? This isn't just about boosting your engagement numbers; it's about protecting your reputation."

He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. "Fine. Let's…rehearse." He approached me cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal, his eyes locked on mine. "Just…remember it's all for show. This is purely professional."

"Of course," I whispered, the wine singing in my veins. "All for show. Completely professional." My heart, however, seemed to have missed the memo. It was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He placed his hands on my waist, his touch surprisingly gentle. He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek, and I suddenly found myself struggling to remember my lines. "Ready?"

My voice caught in my throat. I managed a shaky nod, my heart suddenly pounding a rhythm that had nothing to do with wine and pretense. As his lips met mine, a strange sensation washed over me. 

 He hesitated, giving you a moment to back out, but you didn't. Instead, you raised a hand and rested it on the back of his neck, your fingers threading slightly into his short, dark hair.

It started slowly. A tentative brush of lips, a polite greeting. He tasted of mint and something else, something subtly powerful and undeniably Lewis. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Is this… believable?"

"Believable enough to fool millions?" you countered, your voice a husky whisper. "Probably not. Try again. Think longing, think desperation, think… you're about to lose the most important thing in your life."

Lewis frowned. "That's a bit dramatic, even for this."

"Welcome to acting, darling," you said, your smile widening. "Now, try again."

This time, he didn't hesitate. He leaned in, his lips claiming yours with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. This wasn't the gentle, chaste kiss from before. This was raw, demanding, and surprisingly… good.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you found yourself responding without conscious thought. Your fingers tightened their grip on his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, tongues dancing, breath mingling. It was a whirlwind of sensation, a delicious chaos that blurred the line between rehearsal and reality.

For a fleeting moment, you forgot this was all a performance, that you were just pawns in a PR game. You were just two people, caught in the heat of a kiss that felt anything but fake.

He finally broke away, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and intense. "Okay," he said, his voice raspy. "That… that was better."

You were still trying to catch your breath. "Better indeed," you managed to say, your voice slightly breathless. "But was it believable? Or just…intense?"

Lewis looked away, running a hand through his braids. "It was…both. Maybe too intense."

"Too intense for a fake marriage?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Before he could answer, I noticed the smear of red on his chin. "Oh, you've got my lipstick all over your mouth," I said, a mischievous glint in my eyes.

Before Lewis could touch his face, I held his hand, preventing him. "Leave it there, at least that will convince people that we were kissing," I said, letting go of him.

He stared at me, a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn't quite decipher flickering in his eyes. "You're… surprisingly good at this," he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"That's my job," I replied, a smile playing on my lips. "But you're a quick learner, Lewis. I'll give you that."

The large hall was bedecked in a symphony of white roses and crystal chandeliers that cast a soft glow across the polished floor. The moment you and Lewis stepped in, the buzz of conversation hushed and all eyes turned to you.

The crowd erupted in applause, a wave of congratulations that made you blush despite the artifice of it all.

You took Lewis's offered arm, his grip firm and surprisingly comforting, as you both glided towards your sweetheart table at the center of the room.

The scent of his cologne mingled with the floral bouquets scattered around, creating a heady aroma that was at odds with the butterflies doing somersaults in your stomach.

Your hearts beat in sync with each step, echoing the rhythmic thump of the bass from the live band playing in the corner. The dress you wore was a vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the nervous energy thrumming through your body.

You felt like a moth drawn to a flame as you approached the table, the spotlights seemingly highlighting every imperfection, every lie. Yet, as you sat down, the plush chair enveloping you in a gentle embrace, the weight of the moment lifted slightly. You exhaled and offered him a tentative smile.

"Well, we've made it this far," you murmured under the guise of the applause.

"Barely," he quipped, a playful glint in his eye.

As the applause died down, a server appeared, filling your glasses with champagne. The cool liquid was a welcome relief against the dryness of your mouth.

You took a sip, feeling the bubbles tickle your nose. The room was alive with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, a cacophony of happiness that seemed almost surreal.

"To us," Lewis said, raising his glass. His smile was perfect, a masterpiece of diplomacy. You mirrored the gesture.

You clinked glasses, the sound resonating in your ears like a toll of fate. "To the most convenient marriage of the year," you toasted, trying to keep your voice steady.

The liquid slid down your throat, a potent symbol of the agreement you'd made. You felt the warmth spread through your body, loosening the tension slightly.

The dress, a creation of satin and lace, whispered against your skin with every movement, a silent reminder of the part you had to play.

As the applause faded into the background, the first course of the meal was served. The table was an opulent display of gourmet delights, each dish more tempting than the last.

Lewis picked up a piece of hors d'oeuvre, a dollop of caviar perched atop a tiny cracker, and held it out to your lips.

"Open for me," he said, his voice low and playful.

You parted your lips and allowed him to feed you, the salty fish roe bursting on your tongue. The sensation was oddly intimate, and you watched his eyes darken as he observed your reaction.

The taste was decadent, a delightful assault on your senses that made you want to moan. You chewed slowly, savoring the richness.

You returned the favor, plucking a strawberry from the fruit platter with your fingers and bringing it to his mouth.

The fruit was ripe, the juice staining your fingertips and leaving a sweet trail across your skin. He took the berry with a smoldering look that sent a bolt of heat through your core.

You picked up a piece of chocolate-covered fruits, the dark chocolate shimmering with edible gold dust. You held it to his mouth, watching as he took it with a bite, the gold leaving a glittering trail on his bottom lip.

Leaning in, your heart racing, you couldn't help yourself. You licked the remnants of sweet chocolate from his lips, the taste a tantalizing mix of the rich confection and the salt of his mouth.

You blamed it on the alcohol, the way it loosened your inhibitions and made everything feel more daring, more alive. His eyes searched yours for a moment, and you realized with a start that he wasn't objecting.

The room spun slightly as you felt his hand come to rest on the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the bare skin exposed by your dress.

"You're doing great," he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand spreading like a brand across your skin. The champagne had done its work, the tension giving way to a pleasant buzz that made everything feel a little less forced.

You turned to face him, your eyes locking for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate through the room.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you.

But instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable.

The band struck up a tune, the sound of instruments swirling around you like a warm embrace. You felt a sudden pressure to perform, to be the bride everyone expected you to be.

Maya bustled over to your table. "Can you guys cut the cake now, or do you need more time for yourselves?" she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

The question was like a splash of cold water, reminding you of the façade you were maintaining. You laughed, a little too loudly, and nodded.

"We're ready," you said, standing up. Lewis's hand was at your elbow, guiding you through the crowd towards the grand, multi-tiered cake.

The cake was a masterpiece, a cascade of white fondant adorned with intricate lace detailing and delicate sugar roses.

You felt a strange sense of detachment as you both took the knife, your hands shaking slightly.

As you made the first slice, the sound of cameras clicking filled the air. The flashes were like stars in a night sky, blinding you to everything else.

But all you could see was Lewis's profile, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand held the knife with surprising tenderness.

He took a piece of cake and offered it to you, a silent question in his eyes. You took it, feeling the soft cake crumble against your teeth.

The sweetness was overwhelming, a metaphor for the situation you found yourself in.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to be the poised and elegant wife Ferrari required.

The spotlight was on you, but it was the pressure of his hand against your back that kept you from crumbling like the dessert in your mouth.

"Move closer," you whispered, holding out a dainty slice of the heavenly cake to him. The scent of vanilla and buttercream filled the air as you brought it closer to his lips.

The moment was charged with a current that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

With a gentle nudge, you coaxed him to open his mouth. His full lips parted slightly, and you placed the cake on his tongue.

His eyes never left yours as you traced the outline of his mouth with your fingertips, catching the crumbs that clung to his perfect smile. The warmth of his breath danced across your fingertips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You watched as he closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. His Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, and you felt a sudden urge to trace the path the cake took down his throat with your own mouth.

As the music grew louder and the flashes grew more insistent, Lewis leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

"Dance with me?" His voice was a velvety rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded, and he took your hand, leading you to the dance floor.

The lights dimmed, casting the room in a romantic glow. A slow song began to play, a classic ballad about love and commitment. Ironic, you thought, given the circumstances.

Lewis placed his hand on your waist, and you reluctantly put yours on his shoulder. The fabric of his bespoke suit felt smooth beneath your fingers.

He pulled you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body. You avoided looking at him, focusing instead on the swirling patterns of the projected lights on the ceiling.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath tickling your ear. "It's just a dance."

But it wasn't just a dance. It was a performance, a charade, a carefully constructed illusion. Every step, every sway, every glance had to be perfect, believable.

You caught the eye of someone, notebook in hand, eagerly observing your every move. You forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine.

As the song continued, you found yourself slowly starting to relax. Lewis was a surprisingly graceful dancer, guiding you effortlessly across the floor.

The rhythm of the music, the warmth of his body, the soft lighting – it was all strangely seductive.

"You look beautiful," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the music.

You finally met his gaze, and you were surprised to see genuine warmth in his eyes. Was it possible? Could there be something more to this arrangement than just business?

"Thank you," you whispered, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face. "You know, this isn't so bad."

"What isn't?" you asked, confused.

"This. Us. Pretending to be in love," he said, his eyes twinkling. "We're pretty good at it, don't you think?"

You laughed. "We are, aren't we?"

As the song ended, he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours.

"You know what would make this even more believable?" he whispered.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"If we kissed," he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You looked up at him, your pulse racing. The idea was ludicrous, of course. This was a marriage of convenience, a contractual agreement to help him secure his engagement at Ferrari.

Yet, as his eyes searched yours, you found yourself leaning into the moment, curious about the sensation of his lips on yours.

The music swelled around you as his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. His other hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your skin.

You felt the electricity crackle in the air between you, and without another word, he closed the gap, pressing his mouth to yours.

His kiss was gentle at first, exploratory, as if he too was surprised by his own actions.

But the alcohol was really hitting the both of you, and with it, your inhibitions began to melt away like candle wax in the heat of desire.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer, your body responding instinctively to his touch.

Lewis's hand slipped down from your waist to the curve of your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your dress.

You held back, though, coming back to your senses. This wasn't what you had signed up for. You were supposed to be his beard, not his lover.

You stiffened in his arms, and he must have felt the shift in your demeanor because his hand stilled.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and thick with a hint of regret. "I didn't mean to cross a line."

You took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling against his firm embrace. "It's okay," you managed, even though your body was screaming for more. "We just need to remember what this is."

He nodded, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. "Right," he murmured, his grip loosening slightly. "A marriage of convenience."

The music had changed to something faster, a pounding bass that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. You stepped back, trying to compose yourself and smiled for the cameras.

"We should focus on the wedding," you said, your voice shakier than you would have liked.

Lewis's hand remained at your waist, his thumb continuing to stroke your skin in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern etched into his features.

You took another deep breath, willing your racing pulse to slow. "I'm fine," you lied, plastering a smile back onto your face. "We're just playing our parts, right?"

He nodded, his eyes lingering on your mouth. "Right."

The music changed again, the tempo quickening. The DJ announced that it was time for everyone to join in, and the floor flooded with guests eager to dance. The pressure of the moment was lifted as the spotlight shifted away from the two of you.

The crowd grew thick around you, a sea of bodies moving in a harmonious wave of color and sound. Lewis's hand remained at the small of your back, his fingers splayed possessively.

You felt a thrill of excitement as you realized that in this chaos, you could be anyone, do anything, and no one would question it.

And then, through the kaleidoscope of faces, you saw her. Your mother, standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching you with a knowing smile.

She had always had a knack for reading your expressions, and even from this distance, you could feel her approval. It was as if she knew the secret desires that had blossomed in the warmth of Lewis's embrace.

Her eyes sparkled with a mischief that told you she wasn't fooled by the pretense of your union.

You felt a sudden rush of heat, remembering the way Lewis's kiss had made your knees weak. You hoped she hadn't seen that.

"I'm going to talk to my mother," you murmured into Lewis's ear, your voice low and urgent.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before you slipped away from the dance floor and made your way through the throngs of partygoers.

Your mother's smile grew wider as you approached, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you feel both cherished and exposed.

She knew you so well, and as you reached her side, you were acutely aware of the rapid beat of your heart, the warmth still lingering on your cheeks from Lewis's kiss.

"Having fun?" she asked, her voice a sweet symphony of teasing and concern.

"Mother, let's talk outside," you suggested, gesturing to the balcony, desperately needing a moment of respite from the pounding rhythms and probing gazes.

Her smile never wavered as she nodded in agreement, placing a hand on your forearm. "Lead the way, dear," she said, the warmth of her touch grounding you amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

The cool night air hit you like a breath of fresh oxygen as you stepped out onto the balcony, the sound of laughter and music muffled by the thick double doors.

The moon cast a silvery glow over the cityscape, painting the buildings in a soft, ethereal light. The distant sounds of traffic were a faint reminder of the world beyond the bubble of the penthouse suite where your lives had suddenly become a performance for the paparazzi.

Your mother looked stunning in a midnight-blue gown that accentuated her figure, her eyes dancing with curiosity. She took a sip of her champagne, her gaze never leaving you.

"What's on your mind, darling?" she asked, her voice a gentle coo that could melt the coldest of hearts.

You leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing through your veins from Lewis's kiss.

"I just needed a break," you replied, hoping she wouldn't push further. The night air kissed your skin, sending goosebumps along your arms.

Your mother's eyes searched yours, a knowing glint shimmering in her gaze. "You seem…flustered," she said, her tone light but her words carrying the weight of a thousand unasked questions.

You took a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs and calming your racing thoughts. "It's just…Lewis," you began, struggling to find the words.

"What about your fake husband?" your mother said, her voice dripping with playful accusation. She had always been perceptive, and she knew you better than anyone.

You felt a blush creeping up your neck, and you took a sip of the cool, bubbly champagne to buy yourself some time. "What do you mean?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Your mother raised an eyebrow, the gesture so familiar it was as if you were a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. "I saw the way he was looking at you during the first dance," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "And the way you two were just…dancing."

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pulsing heat between your legs, the phantom feeling of Lewis's hand on your hip. "It's all for the cameras," you protested, even though the words felt hollow.

Your mother's smile grew knowing, and she leaned closer, her perfume a faint whisper of gardenias in the night air. "Is that all it is?" she murmured, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you squirm. "Or is there something more going on between you two?"

You took another deep breath, the coolness of the air doing little to ease the heat pooling in your belly. "Mother," you began, feeling the weight of her gaze on you, "I've only known him for less than a month."

Her smile softened, the playful glint in her eyes fading to a look of understanding. She leaned closer, her voice a warm, comforting whisper. "Sometimes, love doesn't care about time, darling. It just happens."

You stared out into the night, the city lights blurring as you replayed the last few minutes in your mind. The feel of his lips on yours, the gentle caress of his hands, the way your body had responded so instinctively.

Was it possible to develop feelings so quickly, so intensely, when the foundation of your relationship was nothing but a business deal?

The question lingered in the air as you watched Lewis mingle with the other guests, his charisma lighting up the room. His laugh was infectious, his smile captivating, and the way he moved through the space was like watching a panther – sleek, powerful, and utterly in control.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue as you contemplated your mother's words. Love? In a marriage of convenience? The very notion seemed absurd, and yet, you couldn't deny the undeniable pull you felt towards him.

The way your body had responded to his touch, the way your heart had skipped a beat when he looked at you – it was all too real, too potent to dismiss as mere infatuation.

"Just remember what you said three weeks ago, that 'it's all just for show. And it's not like you're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing, that you're just going to pretend.'"

Her voice, usually a soothing balm, was sharp with an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place. "Don't break your own promise, but I wouldn't mind it. Lewis will take good care of you."

Her words hit you like a ton of bricks. Was she…encouraging you? But before you could respond, she had already turned away, leaving you alone with the night's whispers and the tumultuous dance of your thoughts.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzling down your throat, and tried to convince yourself that it was just the alcohol playing tricks on you.

But deep down, you knew it was more than that.

Sighing, you set the champagne flute down on the railing and smoothed your hair back, trying to regain your composure. The chilly breeze whispered across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

With one last deep breath, you pushed away from the balcony and turned to face the warm embrace of the party once more.

As you stepped back into the penthouse suite, the heat and the music enveloped you like a lover's arms. The lights danced over the guests' faces, casting a spell of excitement and anticipation.

The DJ announced that it was time for the welcome toasts, and a hush fell over the room. You searched the crowd for Lewis, your heart skipping a beat when your eyes met his across the sea of bodies.

He offered you a smile, his own eyes a storm of emotions that mirrored your own.

Making your way to the makeshift stage, you took your place beside him. The spotlight was hot on your face, and you could feel the eyes of the guests on you, eagerly waiting for you to speak.

Lewis took your hand in his, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt of electricity up your arm.

You cleared your throat, the words of your toast already written but feeling so insignificant now. "Thank you all for joining us tonight," you began, your voice steady despite the tumult in your chest. "This is a very special occasion."

Lewis squeezed your hand, his thumb stroking the back of your palm in a silent message of support.

You glanced at him, his eyes locked onto yours, and felt a jolt of something primal, something that had nothing to do with the contract you'd signed.

"We're here to celebrate the beginning of a new chapter in our lives," you said, your eyes never leaving his. "One filled with adventure, success, and," you paused, feeling the weight of his gaze, "passion."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and Lewis stepped up to the microphone, his hand still wrapped around yours. "Thank you," he said, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to resonate in the very air around you.

"To my beautiful wife," he turned to you, a smoldering look in his eyes that sent a delicious shiver down your spine, "Thank you for agreeing to this crazy adventure."

You leaned into the microphone, the warmth of his body against yours a potent cocktail of desire and nerves. "And to my dashing husband," you said, your voice a purr, "Thank you for making this marriage of convenience feel like anything but."

The crowd gasped, and a smattering of laughter filled the room, but you didn't care. You knew you were playing with fire, but the heat was too tempting to resist.

As you finished your toast, Lewis leaned down and whispered, "You're going to pay for that later." The words sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you couldn't help but smile.

You took your cue, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging inside you. "To our friends, our families, and Ferrari," you said, raising your glass, "Thank you for bringing us together."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the success of your ruse.

But as you watched Lewis, the way his eyes sparkled with mischief, you knew that this marriage of convenience was about to take a very inconvenient turn.

"Now, it's time for the parent dances," the DJ announced, breaking the spell of the moment. You felt a knot in your stomach. You had lost your father years ago, and having your mother dance with Lewis was the closest thing you'd ever get to a traditional wedding dance with a parent.

"Mrs. L/N," Lewis said, extending his hand towards your mother with a charming smile. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

Her eyes sparkled with delight as she took his hand, the same hand that had sent shockwaves through your body just moments before. "Why, Mr. Hamilton, I'd be thrilled," she replied, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

You watched as they swayed to the music, the connection between them palpable. The sight was bittersweet – a reminder of what you had lost and what you never had.

But as you observed them, the tension in your chest began to ease. If Lewis had to dance with someone, you were happy it was your mother.

She deserved this moment of joy and glamour, even if it was all an act.

As the song came to a close, Lewis guided your mother back to her seat and returned to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your turn," he murmured, extending his hand.

You nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up residence in your stomach. This was your job, to make this marriage look believable, and part of that meant playing the role of a loving wife to a tee.

As the music changed to a slower tempo, Lewis' father, Anthony, made his way over to you, his smile warm and welcoming. He took your hand in his, his grip firm but gentle, and led you onto the dance floor.

"Thank you for being here, my dear," he said, pulling you closer into his embrace. You could feel the strength in his arms, a stark contrast to the softness of his voice.

His cologne, a rich blend of leather and sandalwood, wrapped around you, a comforting scent that reminded you of the safety and protection a father's arms could offer.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hamilton," you replied, your voice a soft whisper against his chest. You felt a strange comfort in his arms, a sense of belonging that you hadn't felt since your own father had passed away.

The music washed over you, a gentle symphony that seemed to be composed just for the two of you. You moved in sync with him, his steps guiding yours with a grace that could only come from years of experience.

His hand rested at the small of your back, the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric of your dress and setting your skin alight.

You looked up at him, his eyes crinkling with kindness. "You know, you're quite the catch," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "My son is a very lucky man."

You blushed, your heart fluttering at the compliment. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the music. "Lewis is… quite the catch himself."

Anthony chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yes, he is," he agreed. "But I can see the way he looks at you. There's more to this than just a business deal."

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, you didn't know what was happening between you and Lewis. It was like you had stumbled into a fairy tale, except the prince was a billionaire race car driver, and the marriage was as fake as the smile you painted on every day.

"You don't have to tell me," he said, as if sensing your discomfort. "But just remember, love has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it."

His words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your chest. Was that what this was? Love? The very thought was terrifying, and yet, as you watched Lewis across the room, his eyes never leaving yours, you couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to it.

The dance ended all too soon, and you found yourself back in the swirl of the party, the music and laughter a cacophony around you. You searched the room for Lewis, needing to be near him, to feel the reassurance of his presence.

Then, you heard a mic being tapped, and the volume of the room dropped like a curtain. You looked at the stage to see Maya and Miles with grins on their faces that could only mean one thing – they were about to give their speeches.

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew Maya all too well; she was the kind of friend who had a knack for speaking her mind, especially when it came to juicy secrets.

Miles took the mic first, his voice smooth and charming. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I'd like to start by saying how honored I am to be standing here today, witnessing the union of two of the most amazing people I know."

"Now," he continued, "I know we're all here to celebrate the love between Lewis and his beautiful bride," he said, pausing for effect. "But what I'd like to remind everyone is that this isn't just a marriage – it's a partnership that's going to be taking the racing world by storm. And speaking of storms, I've got a little something for you two,"

Maya strutted up to the podium, the mic in one hand and a glint in her eye that had you on the edge of your seat. She tapped it, the sound echoing through the room, and announced,

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to share a little story about how our dashing couple met. It's not your average love at first sight tale, oh no."

You felt your face heat up as the room grew quieter, all eyes on Maya. Lewis's hand tightened around yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a silent message of reassurance. You could see the curiosity in his eyes, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

Maya began, "Picture this: Two strangers, thrown together by fate, or should I say, by Ferrari. A billionaire playboy, and a girl with a heart of gold. They say opposites attract, but in this case, it was more like a collision of epic proportions!"

The audience chuckled, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of dread and excitement. You knew Maya had a wild imagination, and she wasn't one to shy away from spicing things up.

"They say love is a wild ride," she continued, her voice taking on a dramatic tone. "But let me tell you, when these two hit the track, it was nothing short of explosive! The chemistry was palpable, the tension could have fueled a race car!"

Your heart raced as she painted a vivid picture of your whirlwind romance, embellishing every detail and adding a steamy twist here and there. You shot her a glare, but she only winked back, reveling in the moment.

Miles took over, his deep voice a stark contrast to Maya's. "But what you don't know," he said, leaning into the mic, "is that there was a secret deal made, a deal that would change the course of their lives forever. A marriage of convenience, you say? Pish-posh!"

The crowd leaned in, eager to hear the juicy details. You held your breath, waiting for the inevitable revelation of your arrangement with Lewis. But instead, Miles spun a tale of a daring bet between the two friends, one that had led to a year of adventure and discovery.

"They said they'd keep it professional," Miles said with a wink. "But when love enters the race, all bets are off!"

You felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. It wasn't the truth, but it was close enough to keep the secret intact. The crowd roared with laughter, and you couldn't help but laugh along, the tension in the room dissipating like mist on a warm morning.

As the applause died down, you leaned into Lewis, whispering, "Your friend is something else."

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "He does have a way of keeping things interesting," he murmured, pulling you closer.

The rest of the reception was a blur of laughter, dancing, and whispered secrets. The speeches had been a wild ride, but somehow, you found yourself enjoying the thrill of it all.

The way Lewis looked at you, the way his hand never left your side – it was as if you had stumbled into a love story after all.

As the night went on, you were able to relax, a glass of champagne in hand, chatting with your friends who had flown in for the occasion. They were all buzzing with excitement, eager to hear every detail of your whirlwind romance with the infamous Lewis Hamilton.

You felt a thrill run down your spine every time they talked about your "true love," knowing that it was all just a well-orchestrated facade. But the way he made you feel, the way he looked at you – it was easy to get lost in the fantasy.

You took a sip of the bubbly liquid, the coolness of it spreading through your body like a gentle caress. The alcohol did its work, loosening your inhibitions and making you feel light, like you were floating on air.

The room was warm, a cozy cocoon of friendship and goodwill that enveloped you, making the weight of your deception feel a little less heavy.

Your friend Laura leaned in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "So, what's it really like being married to a superstar?" she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial. You giggled, feeling a little tipsy and more than a little bit naughty.

"Well, it's not all fast cars and glamour," you said, your voice a purr. "But the perks aren't too shabby." You shared a knowing look with her, and she squealed, her hand flying to her mouth. You had always had a flair for the dramatic, and tonight was no exception.

As you talked, the room grew hazier, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and cologne mingling with the aroma of fine wine and rich food.

The music was a sensual backdrop, the rhythm pulsing through the floorboards, inviting you to move. You felt the warmth of Lewis's hand on the small of your back as he joined your circle of friends, his presence a comforting warmth that seemed to drive the chill of doubt away.

"Let's dance," he whispered in your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded, placing your hand in his, and allowed him to lead you into the throng of bodies, each swaying to the seductive rhythm.

His hand slid to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the smooth fabric of your dress, and you felt a thrill at the possessive way he held you, his other hand cradling yours.

The music was a slow, sultry number that seemed to resonate within the very core of your being. His thigh brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

His touch was like a brand, leaving a trail of heat wherever it went. You looked into his eyes, and for a moment, you forgot about the cameras, the guests, the lie. It was just the two of you, lost in a dance that felt all too real.

The conversation with your friends was lively, their questions about married life to the legendary Lewis Hamilton met with your playful evasions and coy smiles. The champagne bubbled in your veins, making you feel more daring, more alive.

You caught Laura's eye, and she winked, a knowing smile playing on her lips. The tension between you and Lewis was palpable, a secret only the two of you shared, and it was intoxicating.

Suddenly, the music shifted to something softer, a classic love song that seemed to beckon for a more intimate moment.

You felt Lewis's hand tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, your bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle you never knew you were meant to complete.

His breath was hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Let's take the family picture."

You nodded, allowing him to lead you off the dance floor and towards the small area designated for family photos. Your mother sat watching, her eyes filled with a warmth that seemed to say she knew more than she was letting on.

She patted the seat beside her, and you sat down, feeling a sudden vulnerability that the alcohol hadn't quite prepared you for.

Lewis's father, Anthony, took a seat. The sight was surreal, a makeshift family portrait that was as beautiful as it was unexpected. The photographer, a friend of the Hamiltons, approached with a professional smile. "Ready?" he asked, holding up the camera.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic beating of your heart. Lewis sat beside you, his hand reaching for yours, and you felt a rush of affection that was as surprising as it was overwhelming.

The camera clicked, capturing the four of you in a moment of forced intimacy that somehow felt more genuine than you had anticipated.

The flash illuminated the room, freezing the scene in time – a snapshot of a life that wasn't quite real, but felt more right than anything you had ever known.

The picture was taken, and the moment passed, but the warmth lingered. You couldn't help but look at the image displayed on the camera's screen – the four of you, a small but significant representation of what could have been.

Your mother's smile was wide, her eyes sparkling with happiness, and you realized that maybe this wasn't just about the Ferrari deal. Maybe, just maybe, it was about creating a new kind of family, one born from necessity but blossoming into something more.

The photographer handed the camera to Lewis, who studied the picture with a thoughtful expression. "It's perfect," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the image of your joined hands.

"Yes," your mother agreed, her voice thick with emotion. "It's like looking at a real family."

The words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your throat. This was supposed to be just a year of pretending, but the lines between reality and the role you were playing were beginning to blur.

As you looked into the camera lens, you realized that the love in your eyes for Lewis was no longer just an act.

It was a tangible thing, a living, breathing entity that had snuck into your heart without you even noticing. . . .

His eyes scanned the room, finally settling on her. Y/N. Even her name felt foreign on his tongue. She was surrounded by her friends, a vibrant group of women who punctuated her words with laughter. He watched her, a strange curiosity washing over him.

She seemed… lighter, more at ease than he’d ever seen her with him. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile that never quite reached him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. His father, Anthony, stood beside him, a proud smile plastered on his face. "Son, I've gotten you and your wife a present."

Lewis braced himself. He knew his father’s “presents” usually came with strings attached.

Anthony gestured towards a nearby table. On it sat a framed picture. Lewis's breath caught in his throat. It was a photo from the ceremony, taken just as the priest declared them husband and wife.

In the picture, he was kissing Y/N. The angle made it look passionate, intimate. A lie meticulously crafted for public consumption.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Anthony beamed. “A perfect memento of your special day. I’ve already had copies made for all the papers.”

Lewis forced a smile. “Right. Perfect.”

He took the frame, the cold glass a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand. The kiss in the photograph was nothing more than a well-rehearsed move, a performance for the cameras. Yet, looking at it now, with the love in her eyes captured in that split second, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of something akin to regret.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite identify.

Anthony clapped him on the back, his eyes gleaming. "Remember, son, this is just the beginning. You two are going to be the golden couple of the racing world. A powerhouse team that can't be beat."

Lewis nodded, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. He had agreed to this sham of a marriage for the sake of the Ferrari deal, for the sake of his career, but seeing the hope in his father's eyes made him feel like a fraud.

Anthony leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, I know this isn't the way you planned your wedding night," he began, "but I've got a little surprise for the two of you."

Lewis's heart skipped a beat, his mind racing with what his father could possibly mean.

"Dad," he began, his voice tight. "We've talked about this. It's just for show."

Anthony's smile never wavered. "Of course, of course," he said, patting Lewis's back. "But a little bit of authenticity goes a long way, doesn't it?" His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Besides, I've got a feeling that there's more to this arrangement than meets the eye."

Lewis felt a sudden heat rise to his cheeks. His father had always had a knack for reading him like a book, and it was clear he wasn't fooled by the façade. But before he could protest, Y/N's mother called Anthony over, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Goodbye son," his father said, his grip firm on Lewis's shoulder. "I hope you can enjoy this new chapter in your life."

The words echoed in Lewis's ears as he watched his father walk away, leaving him standing next to the framed photograph.

He glanced back at Y/N, her laughter filling the air like music. Her eyes caught his, and she offered a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a smile for the cameras, a smile that said, “Everything is fine.”

But Lewis knew better. He could see the shadows that lurked beneath the surface, the doubt that she kept so well hidden.

He made his way over to her, the floor seeming to tilt beneath his feet. He had to admit, the champagne was hitting him harder than he'd expected.

The warmth of her hand in his was like a lifeline, grounding him in a reality that was quickly becoming more tangled than the vines that adorned the walls of the venue.

Their guests began to file out, their laughter and chatter fading like the last notes of a symphony. The grand ballroom grew quiet, the only sound the soft clink of crystal and the rustle of fabric as they moved together.

The first guest approached, an older woman with a cackle that could cut through glass. She leaned in, her breath hot with whiskey, and whispered in his ear, "A little something to keep you both warm on those cold nights, dear."

With a wink, she handed him a velvet box that was surprisingly heavy. He took it, feeling the weight of her assumption pressing down on his shoulders.

The next was a burly man, a sponsor for the racing team, who clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Here you go, champ," he said, his meaty hand palming Lewis a bottle of cognac.

"Keep her happy, yeah?" The bottle was cold, the condensation already forming on the glass a stark contrast to the heat of his cheeks.

A procession of well-wishers followed, each with a gift more extravagant than the last. A set of silver cufflinks that weighed down his wrists, a leather-bound book of love sonnets that smelled faintly of cigars, and a sculpture of a Ferrari that was so intricately detailed it looked as if it could drive off the table at any moment.

Each time, the guest would lean in and whisper something about the marriage bed, their eyes glinting with knowing amusement, as if they were all in on a secret that was anything but secret.

The weight of the gifts grew heavier with each addition, until Lewis felt like he was carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. The room spun around him, the lights playing tricks on his vision as he tried to keep his smile in place.

Finally, the last guest had gone, the caterers had cleared away the last of the dishes, and the music had faded to a dull throb.

The only people left were their closest friends, the ones who had known them before the racing world had claimed them, before the Ferrari deal had turned their lives into a performance.

Lewis placed the last gift on the pile, his heart racing. He could feel the eyes of their friends on him, the same friends who had seen them through the ups and downs of their careers, who knew that this marriage was a sham.

He approached Y/N, who was still sipping on her champagne, surrounded by her giggling friends. The way they leaned into her, whispering sweet nothings, made him feel like an outsider in his own wedding. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions that surged within him.

As he drew closer, the scent of her perfume reached him, a delicate blend of jasmine and vanilla that had haunted his dreams for weeks. It was the same scent she'd worn on their first time meeting each other.

He wrapped his hand around her waist, feeling the smooth fabric of her dress give way to the warm, supple flesh beneath. Her breath caught in her throat, the sudden touch sending a tremor through her body that made him tighten his grip, if only to steady her.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching, and for a moment, Lewis wondered if she could feel the storm of doubt and desire that raged within him.

He leaned closer, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a seductive embrace.

Her breath hitched, the soft fabric of her dress whispering against his fingertips as he pulled her closer. He felt the warmth of her skin through the gossamer material, her body responding to his touch with a delicate shiver.

Their eyes locked, and in the silence of the emptying ballroom, the truth of their arrangement danced unspoken between them. The air grew thick with tension, the only sound the erratic beating of their hearts.

"Are you ready to go?" he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips.

The music had stopped, the laughter had faded, and the only sound left was the erratic thumping of their hearts. The question hung in the air, a silent plea for a connection that went beyond the script they'd been given.

Y/N's eyes searched his, a mix of confusion and something else, something he hadn't anticipated. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the heat of the room but from the potent cocktail of emotions that swirled within her.

The champagne had done its work, loosening her inhibitions and leaving her vulnerable to the storm that brewed in her chest.

"Tired?" she murmured, her breath warm against his neck. The word was a question and an invitation, a gentle challenge to his intentions.

Her pulse quickened, a silent rhythm that matched the tempo of his own heartbeat, echoing through the sensitive skin of his neck.

Lewis nodded, the simple gesture loaded with a world of meaning. His eyes never leaving hers, he felt a strange thrill at the thought of her submission, her willingness to follow him into the unknown.

He wasn't tired in the traditional sense; he was weary of the charade, the endless masquerade that had become their lives.

"Let me say bye to my friends," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed to hang in the air, a declaration of intent that sent a shiver down his spine. The room swirled around them, the faces of the remaining guests a blur of pastel colors and forced smiles.

He nodded, his hand still clutching hers, the heat of their connection a stark contrast to the cool air conditioning. The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse in time with their racing pulses.

Y/N turned to her friends, her smile a practiced mask that didn't quite reach her eyes. She whispered her goodbyes, each word a silent promise that she'd return to them, unchanged by the whims of fate that had brought her to this moment.

The women hugged her tightly, a few whispering words of advice or congratulations that she barely heard over the roar of blood in her ears.

As she moved from one friend to the next, her mind swirled with the gravity of the situation. The warmth of their embraces was a stark contrast to the icy grip of doubt that had taken hold of her heart. Each goodbye felt like a final farewell, a symbolic cutting of ties to the life she knew.

When she finally turned back to him, her eyes searched his for reassurance. The intensity of his gaze made her knees wobble, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"I'm ready," she murmured, the words a soft caress against his skin.

Their friends had formed a corridor, cheering and showering them with the remaining confetti as they walked hand in hand towards the exit.

Each step felt like a leap into the abyss, the weight of their decision pressing down on their shoulders. Yet, with every footfall, the tension grew more electric, the anticipation more potent.

The confetti fluttered around them like a blizzard of colorful secrets, whispering sweet nothings of passion and promise.

Each piece that stuck to their skin was a silent testament to the excitement of the night to come. The cheers grew louder, the claps more insistent, as if the very air was urging them onward.

Y/N felt a strange mix of exhilaration and fear. The confetti stuck to her lashes, her hair, the fabric of her dress, a glittering reminder of the happiness they were expected to embody.

His grip on her hand was firm, grounding her in the present, as the cacophony of their friends' celebration grew dimmer with every step.

As they passed the threshold, the confetti cascading down like a glittering waterfall at their backs, the weight of their decision settled over them.

The cool evening air kissed their flushed faces, a stark contrast to the heated passion that awaited them. The world outside the ballroom felt alien, a place where their roles could be shed like the very confetti that clung to their clothes.

Their eyes met, a silent promise exchanged, and the cheers of their friends faded into the distance. The night was theirs, a canvas upon which they would paint their desires without the judgmental eyes of society watching over them.

He led her to the limo, the driver holding the door open with a knowing smile.

The cool leather of the seat was a stark contrast to the heat that emanated from their bodies, their hearts beating in unison like a primal drum.

As the car pulled away from the curb, the city lights danced across their faces, casting shadows that played upon their features like lovers' whispers.

The confetti that clung to them fluttered in the breeze from the open window, a gentle reminder of the world they'd left behind.

Y/N leaned back into the plush seat, her eyes closing for a brief moment as she allowed herself to be enveloped by the sensation of the cool leather against her skin. She was tired, but it wasn't the physical exhaustion of the wedding that weighed her down.

"Wake me up when we get there," she muttered, the words slipping out of her mouth like a soft sigh.

Lewis chuckled lowly, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," he murmured, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

The idea of staying at his house had been a fleeting thought, a secret fantasy that had danced at the edge of their consciousness since the moment they'd met.

The car's smooth ride seemed to mimic the rhythm of his breath, deep and steady. The scent of her perfume filled the space around them, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

Lewis hummed but discarded that thought immediately. He wasn't going to wake her up.

The gentle vibrations of the car's engine lulled her into a deep, peaceful sleep, her head resting against his shoulder. Her soft, even breaths brushed against his neck, sending waves of warmth through his body.

He felt a primal need to protect her, to shield her from the world outside, even if just for this one night. His eyes remained on the road, but his mind was lost in the sweetness of her presence.

When the limo arrived at his house, he thanked the driver with a nod and a tip that conveyed the depth of his gratitude.

The engine's purr grew quieter as the car came to a stop, and the world outside seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The headlights cast an ethereal glow across the manicured lawn, illuminating a path that led to his front door.

He turned to her, the soft curve of her cheek still pressed against his shoulder, her lashes fluttering with the beginnings of a dream. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a precious treasure that had been entrusted to him.

Her eyes remained closed, but a faint smile played upon her lips as if she knew she was safe, protected in the cocoon of his embrace.

The cool night air kissed her skin as he carried her up the stone steps to the grand entrance of his house. The weight of her was comforting, grounding him in a way that his vast wealth and power never had.

The door swung open, revealing a warm, inviting foyer that was a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal hotel suite they had just left behind.

Inside, the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen, a welcome greeting that seemed to have been orchestrated by some invisible hand.

He kicked off his shoes, the sound echoing through the hallway, and carried her to the living room. The crackling fireplace cast flickering shadows across the floor, dancing over the polished hardwood like a living tapestry.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she took in her surroundings with a sleepy smile. "This isn't the hotel," she murmured, her voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate with the warmth of the room.

He chuckled, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "No, it's not. This is my home," he said, his voice thick with the promise of what the night would hold.

He lowered her onto his plush bed, her legs draped over his as he sat beside her, one hand never leaving her waist.

Her eyes searched his, the sleepiness replaced by a spark of excitement. She knew this was a pivotal moment, one that would change their dynamic forever. "What are we doing?" she whispered, her heart racing.

With a knowing smile, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. "Whatever you want," he replied, his voice a seductive whisper that seemed to coil around her like a lover's embrace.

He kissed her again, more insistent this time, his hand sliding up her side to cradle her neck, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned into him, her body responding instinctively to the heat of his touch. The weight of his hand on her neck sent a shiver down her spine, and she could feel her skin prickling with anticipation.

His thumb traced the outline of her ear, sending a cascade of sensations through her, making her squirm with pleasure.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the soft recesses of her mouth, tasting the sweetness that was uniquely hers.

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if to hold onto him, to never let go. . . .

[rabbidrabbitt]

Explaining why Sebastian Solace may be part blue whale

I have so much to say about this guy and his anatomy…

(Disclaimer: I’m not in the Discord, I won’t touch it with a ten foot pole, and I don’t follow the Twitter, so if this is something that’s been mentioned or explained uh. Idk ignore??? Or read for fan interpretation)

Okay. So I was just thinking over Sebastian’s file again when I remembered this little blurb here regarding the actual goal of his experimentation

Interesting, something very very peculiar stood out to me when reading this… and then I realized

One of these things doesn’t belong here

I read it again

Well that can’t be right. Your goal is to give him gills, so why on earth would you mix him with an animal that breathes air???

Well there had to be a reason, so I have two running theories on why.

Theory 1

Sebastian was the first to undergo the experiment, which is why he ended up looking the way he does. It could be that when his body started to change, they used Whale DNA to help his body adapt and evolve to the fish DNA being put into it.

Whales are mammals yes, and they do breathe air, so it would in no way have helped him in that regard, but whales were also once terrestrial animals that evolved to once again live in the ocean. Therefore perhaps the DNA was used to help ease his body into those changes, like his legs becoming a tail, similar to what happened with whales.

Theory 2

This relates back to my last discussion post where I talked about how due to his anatomy, Sebastian would actually have a difficult time swimming.

I did say it was done on purpose, and I know his mutations were not planned so that seems unlikely. But it could’ve been added afterwards in order to keep him from being able to swim normally. Once they realized what was happening, they quickly found a way to create a body difficult to swim with to slow him down. The flukes on his tail would create a lot of drag if he used lateral movement, and vertical movement would probably take a lot of energy for a tail of that size and length (as said in that last discussion)

So yeah, I don’t really know why else he’d have Blue whale DNA but I do think it’s super interesting. I’d love to hear others thoughts and opinions on this as it’s really fun to get everyone’s point of view on the lore. I love the lore of this game

[mullermilkshake]

Stinging nettles.

Toji plays a game with you.

Yandere!Toji Fushiguro x Fem! Reader DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT,Non con,Forced,Forced oral sex,Knife play,Spitting,Hunting you,Confirmed Toji is a panty sniffer. (This should be cannon :)),Graze, cuts, injury,Hair pulling,Degradation,Stalking

“Now. If I take the gag out, you aren't gonna scream, are you?”

Shaking your head didn't seem to please him. 

“Make me at least believe it. This is just pathetic.”

You shook even more, like your head would unscrew if you kept up. But the display of effort earned you a slow forming smile and tilted head in return. 

“Good girl.” 

He ran his fingers through a loose strand of hair. The material of your own panties dried your tongue like sand, soaking up any moisture left, damped by your tears. Pulling them out, he held them to his nose, taking the cloth in like an inhaler. A groan escaped him, a sigh of an addict. He tucked them back in his pocket.

He had a knife slung across his shoulder. A knife that had no business being that long, but was no less terrifying, sitting there in two parts. The negative space in between was where he placed your throat once he’d taken you.

“I think we should play a game.” 

He stood up, the leaves of the forest crunching under his shoes, belittling you. Haunting you. Even the crows in the trees were laughing. “Poor little you. Can't do anything without crying. That’s why he chose you.”

“You were quite adept in avoiding me for a while. I wanna see how well you can actually do it with your life on the line.”

My life?

The rope binds came loose, blood flow returning to your arms with pins and needles made you tremble. He even freed your legs, pulling the cable ties and cutting them away. You weren't sure whether this was another trap like last time. He toyed with you, making the world seem brighter by letting you go, letting you run for home.

But this was where you ended up. In the forest, in broad daylight, hoping, praying for a passer by to find you. Not that they would be able to fight him off, but the sentiment kept your will stronger than it should have been.

“How about…” He crouched down in front of you, his fist firmly planted on his knife. “You run, and if you win, I’ll let you go.”

He’d never just let you go. Would he?

“W-what- what would happen if I lose?”

“Sweetheart.” Scooping up the loose hair, he tucked behind your ear so lovingly. “You don't want to know what I’ll do with you if you lose. But I'm counting on it, so try your best and fight back.”

It could have been the cold, but you believed in that moment, when goosebumps raided your entire body with a shiver, that it was his words that did it instead. His eyes, body language all pointed to his seriousness, and his smile showed he was going to enjoy it too. 

 He’s going to skin me, isn't he?

“Get up then, go on.” He stood back for a moment and paused. He understood. “Here, let me help you. The feeling probably still hasn't returned yet, right?”

In any other situation, someone might have thought he was a concerned lover, caring for his wife, like he actually cared for you. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t have taken you the first time if he did. Maybe like a fucking human being he could have asked you out at one point. 

The person you were then, probably would have said yes too.

“There we go. All better now.” 

To be honest, you looked like you’d been dragged through a bush backwards, hair matted, dress crumbled full of dirt. He must have seen that because he straightened out your dress like it meant something. 

He paused and glared at you up and down. “Don’t look at me like that. All doe eyed. Some people will actually think you’re trying to turn me on.”

It was just a look. Nothing more. Perhaps more so terrified of the man, than his delusion of seduction. You just didn’t want to die and he wanted to play a game. A man you tried so hard to stay away from, and he found you all away across the continent.

He left you bare foot, quivering in the autumn breeze, circling you in a way he’d devour you. “I’ll give you…” He stopped for a moment in contemplation before continuing. “An hour head start?”

The knife made a horrifying cling as it scraped a rock nearby. A knife he would skewer you on. An hour. Where could you get in an hour? You had no idea how big the forest was, nor where you even were. But how would you fair with no shoes on?

He whistled and sang his words. “You better run.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice. You took off, the rough, coarse dirt already burning the soles of your feet. Your misty breath filled your vision as you climbed over a fallen tree, laying in your path to graze your bare thighs. 

“Shit!” You tried your best to keep quiet, but the burn singed, it was dry and grazed your inner thigh, so close to your exposed sensitive area.

You wished that psycho hadn’t of taken your underwear. 

You scrambled off of the ground because you landed with a hollow thump, your bare foot almost caught itself in the exposed tree roots, cutting your hand up in the process. It stung, it really fucking stung, but the pain, you know would worsen if Toji got a hold of you. 

You never saw if he had a temper, but you didnt need to, he was fucked up enough on a good day. For a moment you thought about giving up, letting him take you home and do whatever he wanted to do, it would take less energy that way.

How the fuck do I get out of here?

Parts of the forest looked the same, it was a big bowl of trees, hills here, hills there, one big rock, another big rock, a stupid rope swing, a drizzle of water flowing downhill. It all looked the fucking same, what were you going to do?

Then, your foot slipped, sending you rolling down the incline you had just climbed. Rocks, sticks, tree roots, they all cut into you, scraped or dinged you on the way down, the spinning ground was a blur visually disturbing how it was going so quick. All you could do was protect your head until you stopped. 

And then you were dizzy, the world spun so much, you didn’t notice the large wolf sneaking up behind you, you just fell over. The growl clued you in on the situation, it was fucking huge, low to the ground with its teeth showing aggression. 

“Fuck.” You breathed, stepping back slowly, but there was nothing you could do. “Good dog.” 

Like that was going to make the thing sit and wait for a stick. 

Your only option was to close your eyes and wait, maybe it was better this way, then you wouldn't have to deal with Toji anymore. That would be nice. You didn't even know where you were, it’s not like anyone was going to be able to find you in this maze.   

So you closed your eyes and sat down in a ball, and waited.

There was a cut, a whine and a slice. The thud made you look up, the wolf was dead, beheaded where it stood and Toji put his foot on top of it like a superhero. But he wasn't your superhero, he was your villain.

“If I weren't here, you would have died. Can’t have that.” He noticed your lost expression and it made him chuckle. “I lied. I couldn’t wait an hour. You’re so pathetic, I had to make sure you didn't die.”

You lost. No, no you didn't lose, he cheated. You got up and gripped at the loose dirt to get away, but you didn't get far, his hand was already gripped tight in your hair, pulling back to hold you where he wanted you. 

“Where are you going? I found you, remember?” He tugged so hard, it sent you crashing to the floor in a heap, he never let go of your hair.

You tried your hardest to claw at his hands, maybe that could have made him drop you, but his grip was like a machine, it didnt react to the hurt you were giving it. 

“Now what should I get because I won? Your legs are pretty beat up, so I guess I can’t fuck you.” He studied you, undressed you. “I know, your pretty, little mouth is working just fine. I heard you moaning when you hurt yourself, shall we put it to good use?” 

Toji pulled you up so you were in your knees, his fingers still wedged in the curls of your hair, your scalped burned like he could scalp you at any moment. 

You were so close to his crotch and you watched his free hand unzip his pants, the outline of his hardness came through as he exposed his boxers. Toji pulled out your underwear from his pocket and took a whiff again. 

“Shit, I can still smell you. As soon as your legs are better, I’m going to destroy you. I’ve always wanted to.” 

He fished out his throbbing member from his boxers and wrapped your panties around the base, like a fabric cock ring. It twitched and looked at you, pre come already dribbling out of the tip. 

Seeing you like this had already turned him on so much, it was so fucked, so absolutely fucked. 

“Toji I-“ 

You didn’t get to finish your plea, he grabbed your chin and forced your mouth open. “Open wide baby, I’ve got a present for ya.” 

He spat into your open mouth, the warm spit landed on your tongue, going cold instantly, like the weather, with your knees on the damp soil. It was disgusting, but he didn’t even give you that to think about before he held you there, pushing the tip of his length past your lips. 

“You’re going to suck me good and dry. I earned this because I won our game. You look so pretty on your knees for me, your eye makeup is all smudged.”

You couldn’t respond, by now he had pushed as much as he could inside, the tip pushed the back of your throat like it would tear a hole in it, he grabbed the back of your head and held you there, twitching away inside you. 

“Look at you taking all of me, I thought I might need to use my knife to get you to behave, but you learn quickly, you’re so obedient.” He grunted as he pulled out slowly. “I bet if I sat you on my cock right now, you’d bounce on it without me even asking.”

“Keep your eyes open.” There was frustration in his voice as he struggled to speak, he started to thrust your mouth. “Watch me, I want to see those glossy eyes tear up when you gag.” 

Making eye contact with his was hard, much harder than what was in your mouth, it made you angry, you wished that fucking wolf had eaten you, that Toji had left you to die. The bastard didn’t deserve anyone in his sad little life even though he was taking it. 

He noticed your mood change eerily fast. “Don’t frown at me, are you getting stroppy because I’m not doing what you want? I’m sorry baby, but I’m not paying you attention because you lost, we had a deal.” 

He picked up the pace, pumping himself into your mouth, making you gag and retch, he kept going, moaning away and cursing under his breath. It made your eyes water, the motion causing sloppy squelching loud enough over the breeze through the trees. 

You were basically his fuck toy now. And he knew that.

“I could fuck you anywhere I want and you’d do as you were told, wouldn’t you? Shit, now I know why guys get married-we should get married- ah fuck that’s good.”

He face fucked you, giving you no room to move or breath, you tried your best to steady yourself, but he was thrusting himself like a machine, the raw strength he had, there wasn’t a thing you could do.

“Yeah, you’d look so good in white, walking down the aisle or somethin’. And I could take you infront of everyone to show them whose name you took.” 

He cursed under his breath, you only hoped he was close so this could be done. And he confirmed that the grip on you was so tight, his nails dug in and stung. 

“I’m close, baby, you ready to take this? Because it’s all for you- just for you because you’re perfect- this is gonna be a big one.”

In another world, you would have said his moans were angelic, so soft they were almost unnatural. But looking up at the man with his cock rammed down your throat, ejaculating so much it was choking you, it made it sound so disgusting. 

“Oh fuck- holy shit!-“ He jerked and jutted, coming off of his orgasm. “You take that so well. I’m surprised actually. I thought you would at least try and spit.” He pulled out and kneeled down to you. “At least it’s one thing you didn’t give up on.” 

He pocketed the panties again, but not before he inhaled them one last time, and the peck on the lips he gave you was soft, firm and maybe even loving, but you knew it wasn’t, it was a cruel joke that you would endure for god knows how long, until you had another chance to get away.

You didn’t know if you would get another chance again, but there was hope. 

The bastard even took you hand in his. “I’m done with this game already. Come on. Let’s get you home, you must be freezing.”  

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[ajastu]

this is a blog made specifically so i can ramble, so time for another one. Been thinking on n off about the concept of a new game in a beloved franchise letting you down in some way, and when expressing that disappointment crosses a certain line.

Like, from personal experience: i was disappointed by dishonored 2. i swear this has something to do with dragon age, bear with me for a moment. The plot fell flat for me, the trailer basically tells you everything that happens in the game, and it really pales in comparison to the way the narrative was crafted in the first game.

HOWEVER, no matter how much of an essay i could write about the shortcomings i, personally, see with dh2, i can still acknowledge that it was a solid fucking game, with care taken in the production of it, and that a lot of people loved it for the exact things that disappointed me, and they are not in the wrong for it.

this got long, unsurprisingly, so the rest ill put behind a read-more 👍

Whenever i talk about what i think could have been done better in the sequel, it is more of a....thought exercise. Because the fact is, we're never getting the dh2 i really wanted, and so there is no need to get upset or frustrated about it. Might as well have fun analyzing it n getting to the core of what it is exactly that felt off, but not in an angry way? more like....having a fun discussion with a friend. pulling a puzzle apart kinda deal. make it Productive, and not just a feedback loop of negative feelings. Find good things in it, even.

So, when i still see people foaming-at-the-mouth mad about veilguard, im not gonna lie, i feel kind of concerned about the mental well-being of some of them.

The fact is. Veilguard is a solid fucking game. Just, objectively speaking. The level design is (to me, at least) intuitive and fun to explore, it does not feel like a slog (looking at you, dai. that one's open world design gave me the most mind-numbingly boring fever dream once), the battle mechanic doesn't make me want to download a 'skip combat' mod, the faction mechanic is fun and closer to the spirit of dao that dai was*, the plot is coherent and has a Theme, and, despite what people like to say, the lore reveals make sense and are consistent with the previous lore in the series 🤷‍♂️. I genuinely do believe that the whole blight origin thing was already thought out before dao came out. thats just how worldbuilding works, usually.

I have a ranking of the DA games in my head, based on how much i liked them. Before datv, it was as follows:

dao (a game of its time, but one i love immensely)

da2

dai (its decent enough, but it never really grabbed me like the other two)

I expected datv to take 4th place. As it currently stands, it might just share the first place with dao, for me personally.

I remember exactly the moment when it clicked for me that playing datv felt like playing dao (it was the first blackthorne mission). And that moment was very special to me. It is also, perhaps, the only game in the series which really actually made me lose my entire mind during certain story missions, but that one might just be because i saw no spoilers before going in.

It is also so so so important to me because of the way they handled the trans and specifically nonbinary representation.

It might not have been exactly what people wanted, but no game will please every single person. like, i am sure that some people dislike the game for exactly the reasons i like it. And the thing is, neither of us is in the wrong. It all comes down to expectations, and how people handle it when something does not meet theirs.

When i went into dh2, it was after a several years long wait for a sequel. I was so excited! I built up this idea of what the game would be like, and i looked forward to seeing it become real. I had Expectations! And the game did not meet most of them. It does not mean it was a bad game. It was just not what i was expecting. I could sit here and pick at it until i start despising it, but that would be a disservice both to me and to the people who put their time and passion into making it.

Before datv's release, my expectations were as low as they could possibly be (because dai is my least fav game in the series, so i was wary about the next one, and because ive heard of the development hell and the fact they were planning to add micro-transactions to the game at some point etc etc). And i do acknowledge that this played a part in how much i ended up enjoying the game. I gave it a chance while not expecting anything, and it let me see it for what it is: a solid fucking game. a good one, even.

I can absolutely see how someone with certain expectation for da4 could be disappointed by the game not addressing the things they wanted to see addressed, or addressing them in a way they don't agree with. I've been there, even! And the fact that i personally liked datv doesn't mean other people can't or shouldn't criticize it.

The difference here lies in where exactly that criticism comes from, and what it hopes to accomplish, and whether or not at some point it becomes more harmful than useful.

When caught up in the spiral of disappointment, it is important to stop and think about whether this is productive. whether this is contributing something to your life. I am no stranger to chewing a bone**. in fact, i am very predisposed to it. Which is exactly why i make an effort to reflect on whether or not it is worth it.

Because, at the end of the day, no matter how much criticism is being put out into the world about datv, or dh2, or what have you, the simple fact remains: it won't change anything about the game that got released. The effort and emotional turmoil is, ultimately, wasted. It is always better to turn that passion into something productive: fanworks, or an essay (in good faith!) that analyzes your own feelings on the topic and what you would want to see differently, or a whole another game/piece of media entirely. It is important to stop coming from a place of vitriol and hatred, because that will burn you out and leave you feeling worse. You have to make a choice to choose joy in your life.

When you see someone enjoying a game you didn't like, and your first reaction is seething hatred and/or a desire to send death threats, you have to ask yourself: is this really worth it?

You're not going to convince people to stop liking a game. Frankly, why would you Want to do that? What will it accomplish in your life? What will it contribute? In the grand scheme of things, a crusade like that is a very foolish thing to burn yourself out over. Put the bone down, and go get a proper meal 🤷‍♂️

________________________________________________

*i dont think that, with the state the current game industry is in, we will ever get another game with a similar bg mechanic like origins had. too many resources needed for that. but the factions are as close as it gets, in my personal opinion

**meaning, fixating on a topic, especially one that causes some kind of negative emotion

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

In the Devil's Den

[retrosabers]

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐌𝐄’𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌.

logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: the scent of you is driving logan crazy.

contains: mild 18+ content. MINORS DNI. mentions of masturbation (m&f), a steamy little make out, and implications of future smut

word count: 1.8k

a/n: not me trying to capitalize off the hugh jackman renaissance and revive my dead blog…anyways, this is my first time writing for logan! hope you all enjoy <3

i feel like we don’t talk enough about logan’s enhanced sense of smell.

the man can catch a whiff of someone the second they walk into the room, even the building sometimes if their scent is strong enough. it’s especially heightened when he realizes he’s attracted to you. at first he thought maybe it was because you were always wearing perfume, the aroma lingering around the mansion wherever you traveled. but then it became such an intense, all encompassing sensation that he knew it was something deeper.

his suspicions are confirmed one night as he walks past your room. if the faint whimpers he heard weren't enough confirmation of your activities, then the scent that fills his nostrils seals the deal.

you’re touching yourself. and he can smell your arousal.

it makes something stir in his stomach. the animal-like urges he always tries so hard to keep at bay threaten to make their way to the surface the longer he stands frozen in the hallway. logan attempts to shake the heat that spreads across his skin as he makes his way back to his own room, but it only ends with him cumming hard into his hand an hour later.

the next day, when he catches you on your way out of charles’ office, you offer him the same kind, beaming smile you always did. then that damned smell fills his nostrils again and his fists curl at his sides once you’re out of eyesight.

there’s only one explanation for it.

you’re ovulating.

which means there’s no escaping his desires unless you stay out of reach.

so for his sake and yours, he decides to just avoid you completely until the week is over. he can’t risk caving to those urges and doing something stupid and irrational.

of course you’re completely oblivious to it. you think that he’s just being weird, going through another rut of being a standoffish loner like he was when he first arrived at the mansion. because after about a week, he’s back to being a bit friendlier, to being the logan you had grown to call a close friend.

then the cycle seems to repeat itself and you notice it’s just you he’s avoiding.

you try and wrack your brain to think of anything you could’ve done to warrant this kind of isolation. you hoped if something upset logan he would just talk to you about it instead of playing this childish game of hot and cold.

after a couple months, you decide you’ve had enough.

cornering him was a difficult task. but you were observant enough to know certain parts of his routine, including exactly when he would be lingering in the common areas after all the kids had gone to sleep. after two failed attempts of trying to catch him in the kitchen, you finally managed to find him alone and unsuspecting.

“why have you been avoiding me?” you blurt, wanting to cut right to the chase. you’re expecting him to flinch a little bit, perhaps even be stunned.

but he knew you were coming. logan knew it was only a matter of time before you noticed his schtick.

still, he decides to look for an excuse, any excuse, to cover up the real reason.

“m’not avoiding you” he grumbles halfheartedly around the rim of a beer bottle. taking an extra long swig, he finally turns to look at you; leaning against the doorway with your arms folded and a look akin to annoyance plastered across your pretty face.

you cock your head to the side, clearly unimpressed with his answer.

“a few days ago, i watched you back out of a room the minute you realized i was in it,” you start to list off, counting with your fingers. “last month you avoided the wing where the gym was altogether while i was going through a new training regimen.”

logan winces at the memory. the scent of your pheromones was intoxicating. so much so that he couldn’t step foot anywhere near the gym without feeling like he needed to rub one out.

“and the month before that,” you huff out a sad laugh, voice suddenly soft and quiet. “you didn’t even say goodbye before you went off on that mission with scott and jean.”

guilt overtakes him quickly at the pain in your tone.

you’ve never looked smaller as you pick at a loose thread on your sweatpants. “did i do something wrong?”

“no,” logan reassures, jumping out of his seat at record speed, though still trying to maintain some distance. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“then what is it? you sigh exasperatedly, desperate to put an end to this nagging feeling that’s been eating away at you. “logan, you know if something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

and he wants to. he so badly wants to, maybe even see if you’ll offer to help him out. but you’re you. the sweetest, kindest thing he’s ever known and he’ll be damned if he lets his curse of a mutation ruin whatever relationship the two of you have.

but then you’re inching closer and his skin starts buzzing again. his senses are consumed by you. by the way you look up at him with big, wide eyes, the softness of your skin as you reach to place a comforting hand on his forearm. it's all too much, and he finds himself pulling away from you with a grunt.

it hurts to see him retreat from you so aggressively. his jaw is clenched tight, his fists at his sides even tighter as the veins in his arms bulge bigger than you’ve ever seen before. he looks pained. like he’s fighting something internally.

“logan,” you approach him cautiously, unsure of what exactly to do. “what’s going on?”

his eyes squeeze shut at the sound of your voice. “just, please go back to your room.”

“i’m not leaving you like this.”

“m’not asking you,” he grits out, almost like a growl. “i’m telling you. go back to your room.”

now he was starting to piss you off. you narrow your eyes, leaning your hip against the counter.

“or what?”

suddenly he’s crowding your space, chest heaving up and down as he stares at you with pupils so wide his eyes are nearly black. logan’s voice is scarily level when he utters his final warning.

“or i’m gonna do something i regret.”

when you shift closer to him, his nose twitches with a sniff. the raise of your brow doesn’t go unnoticed, and he knows that you’re not leaving this room until you get to the bottom of what he’s been hiding.

that’s when something inside logan decides to throw caution to the wind, just for a minute.

“i can smell you.”

curiosity morphs into confusion at his admission. you shake your head.

“i don’t understand.”

then, the man’s gaze travels to the waistband of your pajama pants, the tension in his jaw growing more taught by the second. his hands flex at his sides, trying to keep him grounded and calm as he finally admits what’s been driving him mad.

“i can smell you.”

the emphasis on the last word takes a minute to register. logan watches as the gears turn behind your eyes, catches the exact moment of realization as your gaze softens and your lips part.

oh.

oh.

slowly things start to piece together. how logan’s behavior seemed to fall around the same time these past couple months. a few weeks before your cycle.

he wasn’t avoiding you because he was angry, or upset. he was avoiding you because you were fucking ovulating.

logan expects you to flee, to be completely weirded out and steer clear of him for the foreseeable future. what he’s not expecting, is the words that come out of your mouth.

“i can help you with that if you want.”

you say it with such nonchalance, such casualness that he wonders if you’re even really grasping what you’ve said.

the wolverine shakes his head. “trust me, you don’t want this.”

he doesn’t quite believe his own words as he watches you close the distance between your bodies. something you’ve been desperate to do for as long as you can remember.

the thin fabric of his tank top and the soft cotton of your t-shirt is the only thing standing between you both. your chests are mere centimeters from touching and logan can feel the heat radiating from your bodies as his confession hangs heavy in the air. then that fucking smell comes back tenfold and he groans.

“you don’t get to make that choice for me,” your voice is sickly sweet, dripping with desire as your fingers ghost over the waistband of his jeans. he feels like a horny teenager as he preens at the barely there contact.

logan breathes your name, a last stitch effort to get you to run, though he knows it’s futile. if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that you're stubborn. unmoving in your ways.

and that when you want something, you don’t stop until you get it.

your hand comes up to cradle the side of his face, a rather gentle touch he wasn’t anticipating. his eyes flutter shut as you swipe your thumb over the expanse of his cheekbone.

your words are barely above a whisper. “i trust you, logan. completely.”

that’s all he needs to hear before he throws any sense of self control out the window.

he surges forward and captures your lips in what is possibly the most heated kiss you’ve ever experienced. you nearly stumble over at the sheer force of it. logan’s large hands fly to your waist, yours to the back of his neck as his tongue prods for entrance into your mouth. it’s messy, almost primal as you let him ravish you like he’s been thinking about for weeks.

you moan and he swallows the sound greedily, desperate to hear it again, and again, and again. when his lips move to press against the column of your throat, you know this is going to escalate into exactly what you hoped it would.

“logan,” you breathe out as he focuses on your pulse point, his hands wandering further south to knead at the globes of your ass. “not here.”

“why not?” he mutters, all smirky and smug as he continues to press wet hot kisses against your neck.

“because i would prefer if you didn’t fuck me where our friends eat.”

he laughs, a deep vibration felt against your chest as you absentmindedly grind your core against his. it makes him bring his mouth back up to yours, stealing one final kiss before he pulls away.

looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. and by god you might just let him.

pressing a playful smack against your backside, he gently nudges you in the direction of the corridor.

“lead the way sugar.”

thanks for reading! <3

[curryshesus]

jeon jungkook fics that had me going feral

hi guys, here's a part 2 to my favorite jjk fics on tumblr! note that many of these fics contain 18+ content. you are responsible for the content you consume! as always, if you enjoyed any of these fics as much as i did, please take a moment to send some love to the authors! part 1 | other bts members

➺ cold nights & blurred lines - by @awrkive

summary: jungkook and you have been in a sexual relationship with each other for four months now, and it’s casual for the most part. but as time passes, you can’t help but feel that some of the lines suddenly got blurred in the process. is it a cliché to blur the lines with your fuck buddy? it definitely is. will you do something about it? both of your emotional constipation have a hard time saying yes.

➺ night crawlers - by @alphabetboyluvr

summary: jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

➺ this is how you fall in love - by @jeonqkooks

summary: after years of drinking and clubbing most days of the week and leaving every gig with a different girl on his arm, jungkook feels what it’s like to want someone with his entire being.

➺ the dilf installments - by @mercurygguk

summary: this series follows jungkook’s life as a divorced father. but wait, how exactly does one balance being a father, a boyfriend, a friend, and a respectable boss at the same time? read the installments below to find out!

➺ ultimatum - by @parkmuse

summary: your pervy, idiotic boyfriend just so happens to also be your friendly neighborhood Spider-man (in bed).

➺ a hero's journey - by @hansolmates

summary: jungkook and jisoo are the mightiest power couple. however, one drunken confession and that whole facade fades in an instant. you realize that maybe you need to break from your unvaried life for a bit and be the hero of your own love story

➺ tempest - by @kooktrash

summary: you’ve always considered your life to be more mundane than you would like to admit. it was a constant cycle of the same things over and over again that when you meet jeon jungkook at a bar, of all places, you didn’t expect to see just how much he would change your life and those around you. he’s got an air of mystery around him with his charming good looks and a violent past that you slowly begun to unravel when it feels like everything is going perfect.

➺ by its cover - by @gimmesumsuga

summary: the one where Jungkook makes a horrifically bad first impression.

➺ slow dancing - by @yoonia

summary: when your countdown appeared on your wrist right in the morning of your eighteenth birthday, you had thought that perhaps the universe was on your side, especially since the final seconds were already ticking so soon. You just never expected to have your first meeting with your soulmate to be the day when you had to let him go. But hope was not lost when you still found love without the bond, and Jungkook showed you that it was possible to find happiness beyond the system that was written for you. Except that the universe doesn’t seem to have enough of its game, when your past sacrifice comes back hitting you straight in the face, just when you had believed that you had written off the perfect ending to your bittersweet tale.

➺ e s p r e s s o - by @joonberriess

➺ hold me closer - by @ahundredtimesover

summary: when you're asked to look after your parents' house and meet them before they go on vacation, you, Jimin, and Jungkook take the trip to your hometown of Busan and relive memories of your youth. While your new relationship has you feeling like a lovesick teenager with all the affection that Jungkook shows you, you're still you - a professional trying to make it in the corporate world, and an eldest child trying not to disappoint her parents. And that turns out to be your undoing, as a little blunder causes a rift between you and Jungkook, resulting in a trip that you might as well have messed up… Not if your brother can help it, though.

[januaryembrs]

CROSS MY HEART | Spencer Reid x wife!Reader

Request: read here

description: Spencer's wife struggles with the aftermath of JJ's confession

length: 1.5k

warnings: JJ's 14x15 confession spoilers (big ick, pull yourself together Jennifer) infidelity, thoughts of worthlessness, reader thinks Spencer is going to leave her for JJ.

authors note: I have loved JJ for all of fourteen seasons and fourteen episodes. this was a BIG ICK for me watching this won't lie

She should have known something was wrong the minute they left that damn store. 

It took her all of two seconds to throw herself into her husband’s arms, her voice choked with tears that had threatened to spill when she’d seen the video of Casey shooting at him, and she swore Spencer had never grabbed her so tight. 

“I thought you,” She sniffled, running her fingers through the back of his scalp, the entire spanse of his huge hands ran along her spine, counting every vertebra to make sure she was still intact, despite the fact he had been the one held hostage, “I thought he’d shot you- it came so close,” 

He hushed her mewls, a hand reaching to the back of her head and tucked her into his neck further, the sob rattling through her ribcage almost, almost, taking his mind entirely off what JJ had said in that stupid game of truth or dare. 

What the fuck did she mean she had always loved him? She had a husband and children who doted on her; Will, who loved every shred of her being like it was his only purpose in the world. His godsons who had known him as uncle Spencer since he’d held them in the hospital, covered in goop and looking like the cutest little aliens he’d ever seen. 

And yet JJ, his friend, perhaps one of his longest friends, was willing to throw it away for him? He, who had a wife he adored more than there were birds in the wind, leaves on an Autumn floor, more than there were galaxies in the damn cosmos. His wife, who had been there for him since the moment they’d met, who he’d known was the one since that first day she’d ran into him in the lobby, their files mixing together because neither of them had been watching where they were going, like one of those romcoms she forced him to watch and he pretended to hate, or like the silly thing she called fate that she insisted was very much real. 

Spencer was a man of statistics and numbers and facts; things he could see. But he was sure there was nothing in any textbook that could have ever made sense of how the one person so perfectly created for him, the blob of cells that made up his wife that seemed to call to his own as if they were coming home to one another, would have just so happened to bump into him on a random Tuesday in August. 

Most people waited decades for that kind of love, or something close, and he’d managed to get it at the ripe age of thirty three. 

And yet in the space of ten seconds, of four little words in a wretched game, he felt like the carpet had been pulled from beneath him. Because why would JJ, who saw as clearly as anyone else how much he cherished his wife and the future they were planning together, try to take that away from him?

And as if his own odd spiral of thoughts wasn’t a kick to the gut enough, his sweet wife had quickly released him from her grasp and thrown herself at JJ, who seemed to just now be understanding the gravity of her words as she looked around with wide eyes, tear stains wetting her cheeks, the guilt gnawing in her gut already. 

“JJ! Are you okay? Oh, you poor thing, you must have been so scared,” She sobbed, wrapping her friend in a loving hug that was shakily reciprocated, like JJ was waiting for the second she would get a fat shiner to the nose for confessing such a thing. 

But that never happened. Instead, she pulled away from the frozen blonde woman, who looked like she could burst into tears then and there and apologise for everything until her face turned blue, and ran a kind hand over the JJ's hair, stroking it behind her ear tenderly as she tried to quell her cries because she wasn't the one who had been held at gunpoint. 

She didn’t know. It hit them both at the same time. She didn’t know what JJ had said, hadn’t even got an inkling into what had happened, and god did it make the sinking feeling in Spencer’s chest swallow itself up into something the size of the Mariana Trench. 

And what was left, what had for a second been a horrid mix of confusion, shock, fear and then another big dollop of confusion for good measure, quickly was dragged away by the current and replaced with anger. 

Anger that JJ could do something like this to his wife; he frankly didn’t care how her words had affected him, that if he had been single he would have been left feeling unworthy of her affection the first time it had been offered around, like there was something so disgustingly wrong with him this was what it took for her to say anything. He didn’t care about any of that. He cared that this would absolutely destroy his wife. 

And it was for that reason Spencer hurried the paramedics into fixing the small graze on his palm as he watched with boiling blood his wife tend to JJ like she would any other time her close friend was hurt in the field. He seethed whenever Jennifer would simper and avoid her friend's eyes, how his beautiful, caring, devoted wife would stroke the woman’s back and will her to talk, to tell her what to do to make it better.

Because it was her who should be fussing over his sweet wife, certainly not the other way around. 

But he couldn’t say that, not there at least, and so he didn’t, not until he had got the greenlight from the medics to leave and he had all but cut off the circulation in her fingers with how tight he’d held her hand as he led her to the car. 

Spencer said nothing, not wanting to fight when she forced him to sit shotgun as she climbed behind the wheel, not wanting to cause a commotion when there was a much bigger bombshell he was sitting on that he knew would change her feelings entirely. 

-

“What?” Her voice was soft still, a murmur in the quiet night air of their bedroom. She sat, fresh faced, minty breathed, kevlar vest long gone and replaced with one of his old Dr Who shirts and comfy bottoms.

She said the word again, like she hadn’t heard him, but judging by the way her expression had fallen into something dejected, he knew that wasn’t the case. 

Sighing, drawing gentle motions up and down her legs with his warm hands, shuffled closer where he kneeled down in front of her submittingly. “JJ said that she has always loved me; that was her ‘truth’ in the game,”

“Well, she-she was lying right?” His wife said quickly, her voice shaking, trying to make sense of it herself. She didn’t get an answer right away, just her husband’s eyes casting down as he tried to think of the best thing to say, “Right, Spencer?” 

“I don’t know,” He said earnestly, and he saw immediately the way tears sprung to her eyes, her bottom lip trembling, her face warming in wet-anger, “But it doesn’t change anything, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter, to me- baby, please don’t cry,”

“Ofcourse it changes things, Spencer, it’s JJ. She’s literally the hottest woman to walk the earth, Pen said you were like in love with her when you started the BAU, and now you have your chance,” She whimpered, fat tears rolling over her freshly moisturised cheeks, and he swore he felt his chest concave at her words. 

“My chance? I don’t want a chance, I want you,” Spencer said in earnest, his hands rubbing further and further up her legs until his hands went under her night shirt, grabbing onto the soft of her hips with pleading tenderness, “I want you forever, no matter what JJ or any other woman feels about me,” 

She sniffled pitifully, her eyes still unsure and he took it as a sign she needed more, so he leaned in fully to hug her to him. 

“But it’s JJ,” She said again, like that was going to change anything, and he shook his head, stroking over the back of her hair softly.

“I don't care,” He said, and she sniffed gently into the crook of his neck, his skin wetting with the contact. She finally wrapped her arms around him, and he knew he was close to getting it through to her, “I had the smallest crush on JJ, what, fifteen years ago? Honey, I want you for the rest of my life, and nothing and no one is going to change my mind about that, not even you.” 

“Really?” His sweet wife whispered tearfully, and he chuckled sadly, hating how hard she had cried that it had ripped the life from her voice. 

“Cross my heart,” He kissed her hairline softly, tipping her head upwards with one long, warm finger under her chin, pressing a gentle kiss to her wetted lips, “Hope I never die,”

She smiled sorrowfully, kissing her husband as if it was the last time she could ever do so, hoping it made up for how puffy and ugly her tears had made her face. But he didn’t care, he never had, he thought she was perfect just the way she was.

And he’d remind her of that any time she thought otherwise. 

–

[lavnderwonu]

So High School | Kim Mingyu

pairing: fiancé!mingyu x pregnant!fem!reader

rating: fluff, mature

genre: non-idol au, slice of life, established relationship

summary: you and your fiancé haven't discussed the idea of you having children, but with your wedding approaching, the idea of starting a family with him has been on your mind.

warnings: please read ALL! contains smut! not much but a little! (!!!) some time skips, reader gets pregnant, planned pregnancy, reader's mom loves mingyu, reader deals with morning sickness (for my fellow emetophobics this may be triggering!), minwon coworkers mentioned, smut warnings: creampie, unprotected sex, multiple rounds mentioned, backshots, fingering.

word count: 3k

AHEM! go listen to so high school by taylor swift (perhaps while you read!)

author's note!: i listened to taylor waaaay too much while i was writing this, as you can probably tell by the title 🫣 what can i say! guilty. my first time writing slice of life au! i had fun lowkey. AGHHH i just love writing cute mingyu esp when it involves future dad mingyu. the song lyrics are meant to be spacers for the time-skips btw! shoutout to @jenoslutie for also supporting my vision with this 💋 muah xo

click here to join my taglist!

I feel so high school every time I look at you, I wanna find you in a crowd just to hide from you...

Mingyu was your dream man in many ways than one. The perfect boy to bring home to your parents, cooked delicious meals for you, and overall made you feel safe. 

You two had been engaged for months now, and wedding planning was well underway, the date set for early into the new year. As if it wasn’t stressful enough, your mom had already started questioning whether the two of you had wanted children, or planned to in the future. The answer was always the same,

“Mom, I don’t know… we haven’t talked about it into a lot of detail… maybe later on…” or “C’mon, we’re still young, Mom!” 

Mingyu didn’t know any of this, and you’d probably never tell him, not wanting him to feel pressured by your badgering mother. You both knew you wanted children eventually, but you never talked that far into the future.

But… you also thought… maybe you would want to have children, if it was with Mingyu. 

Mingyu would be the father to play dress up and makeovers with your daughter, have tea parties with her, or play with faux tools with your son and pretend to fix things, and play with plastic dinosaurs.

You couldn't picture anybody that would be more perfect to do it with than him.

Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me? It's just a game, but really I'm bettin' on all three for us two...

Mingyu stands at the kitchen counter, cooking dinner like he usually does, and he usually insists since he gets home a little earlier from work than you do most days. 

You come from the kitchen after changing out of your work clothes to see him chopping garlic as a pot is boiling on the stove. 

“What are you making?”

“Agio e olio,” Mingyu responds, looking up to smile at you briefly. “I know it’s your favorite, and you said you were craving it.”

You smile, coming over to kiss him on the cheek quickly. “Thank you, you make it so good anyway.” You chuckle as he playfully rolls his eyes. 

He tosses the garlic in a pan on the stove, stirring it a little, then adds the pasta to the boiling water.

You decide now is the time to break your silence, and tell him what’s been on your mind lately.

“Gyu,” You speak up. “… I think we should talk about something.” 

“What?” Mingyu’s gaze turns to meet yours, a concerned look on his face, and you immediately want to kiss him and make it go away.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been thinking…” You pause, racking your brain on how to word what you’re about to tell him, also given that you didn’t want to scare him. “What do you think about us… having a baby?” 

You look up at his undeniable surprised expression; after all you did come out of nowhere with that statement.

“I mean, I know we haven’t really discussed it much, and we’re getting married in a few months… but I have been thinking about it a lot, and I want to, we’re at that age-“ You break out into a nervous ramble before he cuts you off.

“I’ve thought about it too. I thought it should be something that we should…you know… talk about.” Mingyu says.

“I don’t want to put any pressure on you, or I guess, on us.” You continue. “I know we’re not married officially yet, and our wedding isn’t until a few more months, but I don’t know, I think I want to.” 

Mingyu turns to you, smiling ear to ear in the adorable happy puppy way he typically does when he’s over the top excited about something. “I know, me too.”

“Does this mean… we’re trying?” You can’t even hide your smile, your cheeks hurt as you attempt to be the least bit nonchalant.

“Yeah… fuck… c’mere.” Mingyu pulls you closer to him, kissing you fervently.

You pull back, releasing his grip from your waist.

“Hey, after dinner,” You smirk, giggling at his eagerness. “You’re gonna burn your garlic.”

“Mingyu… I can’t, fuck-“ You whine, your face nearly buried into the pillow underneath you.

“Yeah you can baby…” Mingyu grunts, his hand slides up your back to push you down even more. “Taking it all like a good girl…”

You nearly collapse as you can barely hold yourself up anymore, and you’re being pushed forward almost to the headboard from the force of him behind you.

“I’m gonna come, ‘gyu.” You cry, your hand trailing down to rub tight circles on your clit, making your thighs tremble as you push yourself closer to the edge. 

“Go on baby…” Mingyu groans, feeling you get tighter around him. “Cum all over my cock like a good girl.”

You cry his name again as he pushes you over the edge, white-knuckling the sheets as he keeps thrusting inside you, almost even harder.

“Fuck…”  He groans as he slows down, stilling before he comes inside you.

He pulls out, watching himself drip out of you briefly as he curses under his breath, before he pushes it back inside you with two fingers, making you whine.

“Sorry, baby…” Mingyu sweetly apologizes.

You flip over on your back, pulling him down to kiss him.

“I wanna go again…” You say against his lips, pushing his sweaty long hair back.

“Really?” He asks sweetly, leaning down to kiss your neck a few times. “Wasn’t too much?”

“Never…”

Truth, dare, spin bottles, You know how to ball, I know Aristotle Brand new, full-throttle, Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto...

The next few weeks were just the usual. Going into work during the day, shopping for the wedding with your sister, … Mingyu practically never leaving you alone, but that you wouldn’t complain about.

“What kind of flowers are you guys doing?” Your sister asks you. The two of you made plans to get coffee, and you guys typically talked about whatever. She always voiced her opinion on your life whether it was boyfriends, career moves, and now: your wedding.

“White lilies; one of my favorites. Mingyu said I could just pick what I wanted, he’s happy with whatever I choose.” You say.

“That’s sweet,” She smiles, stirring her matcha latte. “Even though, he probably doesn’t care.” She chuckles.

“You’re probably right, I think he has other things on his mind other than flowers.” You laugh, only you know what you mean by that. 

You never told her the both of you had been trying to have a baby.

“I’ve always liked him, though, you know that.” She smiles. “If there’s anybody you marry and spend forever with, i'm glad it’s him. He’s just right for you.”

You smile, glancing down as your gaze flickers on your sparkling engagement ring under the coffee shop lights.

You’re definitely glad it’s him.

“Do you mind if we go into the grocery store down the street? I need to just run in and get a few things.” She asks you.

You nod. “Yeah, that’s fine. I could probably use a few things too.” 

“How do you know if a watermelon is a really good one?” She asks you, as the fruit by the entrance catches her eye.

“You’re asking me?” You laugh. “I have no idea, I have heard though if they’re a dark green, it’s too watery.”

“You were always good at picking them, I know Mom used to always say that.” She replies. “Maybe I won’t get one, are they even in season?”

“Probably not, it’s November. Anyway, what did you need here?” You say, grabbing a hand basket for yourself.

“Just usual stuff, yogurt… eggs, oat milk, some strawberries… whatever else I find that I think i need.” She says, placing strawberries and avocados in her cart. Already straying from the list. 

You follow her, bagging up some apples, cucumbers, and brussel sprouts into your basket. 

You’re both wandering down the ice cream aisle, as you’re grabbing whatever pint of peanut butter ice cream you can find, when your sister speaks up.

“Oh! Let’s go to the hygiene section, I need to get some tampons. That time of the month soon.”

You pause, ice cream in hand, suddenly racking your brain trying to remember when the last time your period was. A few weeks ago? Last month? Were you supposed to get it? Were you late?

“Y/n…? What’s wrong? Everything okay?” She asks, seemingly able to read your inner monologue going on in your head. 

“Y-yeah…” You reply, placing the ice cream in your basket, all while your heart is still racing. Was it joy? Nervousness? “It’s just… I can’t remember the last time I had my period…”

I'm watching American Pie with you on a Saturday night Your friends are around, so be quiet, I'm trying to stifle my sighs 'Cause I feel so high school, Every time I look at you...

“I feel bad doing this without him,” You say, staring down at the two blinking pregnancy tests on the counter. “Mingyu should be here…”

“He’ll be home from work soon won’t he? You’ll tell him then. C’mon, he’ll understand, practically sister code for me to be the first one to know.” She replies, checking the time on her phone. 

It’s true, you both always did tell each other everything before you told anybody else. 

“It’s almost time.”

“I can’t look.” You anxiously turn away. “It’s killing me.”

“How did this happen?” She asks. “I mean… not to be nosey….”

“Well we talked about it, and we’ve been kinda… sorta, trying to get pregnant.” 

“What?! How come you didn’t tell me you were?” She exclaims, playfully shoving you.

“We decided to about a little over a month ago. We talked about it, we decided it was something we both wanted,” You start, just as her phone timer goes off, you quickly turn around from the counter. “Oh my god, oh my god, I can’t look.”

“I’ll do it first,” She says, shoving her way in front of you. “Oh my god… y/n…” You can hear the excitement and smile in her voice.

You turn around, facing the two tests.

You see it, “pregnant”, displayed clearly on both.

“Oh my god, I don’t,” You almost stutter, lost for words. “I- I don’t know what to say.”

“Good news?” She asks.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” You smile, suddenly becoming teary, feeling a bunch of emotions at once. Excitement. Nervousness.  “I just- fuck… I wish Mingyu was here. I didn’t want to find out like this.”

“Relax, you’ll tell him later,” She laughs. “Especially ‘cause I know you won’t be able to keep this from him long.”

“No, you’re absolutely right. There’s no way I’m holding it in.”

And in a blink of a crinkling eye I'm sinking, our fingers entwined Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me...

You spend the evening trying to decide elaborate ways that you’ll tell him. 

Putting a test in a gift bag as a present? Corny.

Hiding it somewhere and letting him find it? Too lame.

You decided to literally just come right out and tell him, especially because you didn’t want to figure out some cliche way of getting it out.

Mingyu comes home from work, greeting you as he walks in the door, adorably kissing your forehead as he wraps his arms around you, perfectly engulfing you.

“How was your day, honey?” He sweetly asks you, genuinely curious as he’s awaiting your answer. 

“It was good actually, I had coffee with my sister, then we went to the grocery store, doesn’t sound like much but we had fun.” You lean up and kiss his lips, smiling.

“But it’s better now that you’re here.” 

Mingyu smiles, kissing you again.

“I’m going to get changed really quick, okay?” Mingyu says.

You jokingly pout. “Aw, but you look so nice in your slacks and button up shirt… at least let me savor it.” You reach up, undoing a few buttons on his shirt.

“Enjoying this?” Mingyu chuckles.

“Yes, very.” You smile.

“Well I was gonna ask you, if you wanted to, Wonwoo and Seungcheol asked if we wanted to go out and get dinner with them, and hang out maybe get some drinks.” He continues, before he starts walking off to your shared bedroom to change, as you follow him. “Wonwoo asked me before I left the office.” 

“I don’t know… maybe?” You reply, hesitating a bit.

Meanwhile your mind works a mile a minute trying to think of how to break this news of yours to him.

“It wouldn’t be until a little later, if that’s better. No rush.” Mingyu says, nonchalantly unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off. What a distraction. 

He slips on a white t-shirt , and gray sweatpants; his usual after work attire. Suddenly you wonder if whatever you have to tell him is really that important anyway, and you immediately consider just saying “forget it” and fucking him right here in the early hours of the evening. What’d be the big deal? You were already pregnant, anyways.

No! You quickly shake that thought from your mind, refocusing.

“Gyu,” You start, getting his full attention. “There’s something… I have to tell you something.”

“What?” 

“I’m not even really sure how to tell you, um hang on,” You continue, leaving the room quickly to retrieve one of the pregnancy tests you’d left in the bathroom. 

You come back, very obviously holding something behind your back.

“I guess I should say I kind of have a surprise to tell you.”

“What? What?” Mingyu asks, eager already by the way you’re already smirking, unable to contain yourself.

“It’s, um, this…” You start, pulling the test from behind your back. “I didn’t know how to tell you, I was gonna plan something but I couldn’t wait.” You laugh, smiling ear to ear.

Mingyu takes it from you, seemingly uncaring, or forgetting, that you literally peed on the thing. His mouth drops opened, in awe.

“Oh my god…” He speaks, beaming. “When did you find out?” 

“Today, actually.” You say. “I wound up taking a test, and… yeah.” 

You sigh. “I feel so weird about it, I know I was expecting it but I feel so excited and nervous at the same time.”

You glance up at Mingyu, and you see him still examining the test in his hand.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mingyu nods, his eyes meeting yours and you see he’s now smiling. “I’m just… happy, surprised..”

“I mean, cmon, what were we really expecting…” You joke, blushing.

“You know what I mean, it’s still crazy to me.” Mingyu comes closer to you, kissing you. 

“Yeah, it sure is…” You smile up at him. 

“It’s okay, honey,” Mingyu reassures you, speaking softly. “Just get it out…”

Mingyu kneels behind you on the cold tile floor, holding your hair back as you’re hanging your head over the toilet as your stomach empties its contents.

“There you go…” 

You wonder how he can even stand to be in the bathroom with you, if the roles were reversed, you’d be outside the door nearly gagging.

“Are you okay?” Mingyu asks, helping you sit up, as he wraps his arms around you to keep you steady. 

You slowly nod as you flush, still feeling a touch of nausea. “Yeah, can you just- just stay here for a little bit.” 

Mingyu sits on the tile floor as he leans against the bathtub, and he guides you back to sit in front of him.

You lean back into him, and he leans down and kisses your shoulder. You catch a glance at his watch on his wrist even in the dim light of the very early morning.

“Oh my god, Gyu, is it really 5am?” You groggily ask, feeling sorry. “You have to work in the morning, don’t you?”

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s not a big deal.” Mingyu reassures you. “I can always go in a little later, I wanna make sure you’re okay.” 

“…I think I’m good now,” You say, starting to stand up slowly, as Mingyu helps you all the way. “…You know, I have heard that the more nauseas you are, it probably means you’re having a girl. And if you have none at all, it’s probably a boy.”

Mingyu chuckles, “Where do you come up with this? Is that even a thing?” 

“The internet… you know, social media. Everything’s on there.” You protest.

“You’re delirious,” Mingyu playfully rolls his eyes. “Cmon, let’s go back to bed.”

“Gyu, we have to leave in like an hour,” You say, as you’re getting ready in the bathroom, finishing up your final touches on your hair. “I don’t want to be late for dinner at my parents house.”

Mingyu stands in the doorway now, “This okay?” He shows off a navy blue polo shirt and black jeans. 

“Yeah, honey, you look nice.” You smile. “Besides, you could wear anything around her, she adores you anyways.” 

It was true. Your mother would always be calling Mingyu to help around the house when your Father was away on a business trip. She needed help fixing something? She’d call Mingyu. She needs help building a side table? You bet she’s calling Mingyu. His height was also a bonus, being able to reach things stored higher up.

Mingyu smiles at you adoringly, as his eyes trail down your body.

“What?” You ask when you notice him.

“You’re starting to show a little,” He smiles. “You look cute.”

You giggle, placing your hands on your stomach. “Yeah I know, she wants to be seen now, she’s done hiding.” 

“Well, are my girls ready to go?” Mingyu smiles, kissing you. 

“Yeah,” You giggle, smiling as you kiss him again. “Let’s go.” 

It's true, swear, scouts honor You knew what you wanted and boy, you got her.

tags: @jenoslutie @wonuwrites @aaniag @cosmojinyoung

[tender-rosiey]

Hii!! I would like to request a Sukuna x Reader, bcs I just love how you write him:))

The Reader gets jealous/upset because Sukuna gets Concubines, with a happy ending though please!

Hope you have a great day!!:))

to provoke — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: glad you like him! <3

you had always known that being with sukuna meant navigating through a maze of power plays and manipulation. his affection—if it could be called that—was far from simple.

but nothing had quite prepared you for this.

the concubines had arrived without warning, and with them, an unsettling shift in the atmosphere.

it wasn’t just their presence—it was the way they paraded through the palace, casting knowing glances in your direction, their soft laughter echoing behind closed doors.

at first, you’d ignored it, pretending their arrival hadn’t bothered you. after all, sukuna did what he wanted—always had. you were no stranger to his need to push limits, to test you.

but the whispers, the sly smiles, the way they flaunted themselves in his presence—it wore on you. each teasing glance felt like a needle, pricking at the thin veil of composure you were desperately trying to maintain.

one night, as you passed a group of them in the corridor, one of the concubines stepped forward, her lips curving into a smirk.

“he’s quite fond of us, you know,” she murmured, her tone almost sweet, but dripping with venom. “you must feel so… left out.”

her words struck you. it is one thing for sukuna to do something, but for them to think that they can even talk to you?

it seemed the bitch forgot who her queen is.

her impudence was the reason why her head was separated from her body and laid on the ground. you let out a breath, as the rest of the concubines fled the scene.

you wiped the blood of your face, eyes boring into the woman’s lifeless eyes. if sukuna wanted his concubines, fine. you wouldn’t fight for his attention. you wouldn’t play his games.

days passed. the concubines roamed the halls freely, their shrill laughter occasionally filtering through the walls as they entertained him. you found solace in avoiding them all—avoiding him

perhaps, you thought bitterly, if you stayed out of sight long enough, he'd forget you altogether. but sukuna, being who he was, had no intention of letting that happen.

“you’ve been quiet,” his voice cuts through the air one evening, startling you from your thoughts.

he stands in the doorway of your chambers, his presence filling the room with that suffocating air of dominance that never fails to make your skin prickle.

“I have nothing to say,” you reply, not bothering to look up from where you sit. your voice is even, but you know he can hear the tension lying just beneath the surface.

“oh?” he steps closer, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “and here I thought you might have something to say about the new additions to my palace.”

your hands tighten in your lap, but you force yourself to remain calm. “they’re none of my concern, husband.”

sukuna’s laugh is low, mocking. “really? you’re not even a little bit jealous?”

you clench your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. this is exactly what he wants—he brought them here to provoke you, to see how far he can push before you break.

but you won’t break. not this time.

“they’re beautiful, aren’t they?” sukuna continues, his voice a lazy drawl as he leans against the wall, watching you closely. “so eager to please. so quick to obey.”

your stomach twists, but you remain silent.

“and yet…” he trails off, his gaze sharpening. “you’ve been avoiding me, wife.”

“I’ve had no reason to be around,” you mutter, finally meeting his gaze, the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on you. you scowl. “and my pride will not allow me to be around a man who does not respect me.”

sukuna’s expression darkens, the amusement slipping slightly as he straightens. “is that what you think?”

you stare at him, defiant, but he only smirks again, his eyes glinting with something more dangerous now. without another word, he turns, motioning for you to follow.

confused, but unwilling to let him have the upper hand, you rise and trail after him, your steps hesitant. sukuna leads you through the palace, deeper into the dimly lit halls until you reach a secluded chamber.

he pushes the doors open with a casual flick of his wrist, revealing what lies inside.

you freeze, breath catching in your throat.

the concubines—every last one of them—lie lifeless on the floor, their bodies unnervingly still. blood pools beneath them, staining the once pristine floor. the air is thick with the scent of death.

sukuna steps inside, his voice disturbingly casual. “they served their purpose.”

you can’t speak. your mind reels, torn between shock and something else—something dark and twisted that tells you this is sukuna’s way of proving something to you. it’s not that you’re unused to carnage.

hell, you even killed one yourself.

but their bodies are so deformed beyond comprehension, they no longer look like humans.

“they were never meant to last,” he says, glancing at you with a bored expression, as if the carnage before him is nothing more than a trivial inconvenience. “did you really think they meant anything?”

the words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“you killed them?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

sukuna’s smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “of course. they were disposable.”

a twisted part of you wants to feel relief—relief that they’re gone, that the torment is over. but another part of you feels sickened by the sight, by the casual cruelty of it all.

“you’re the only one deemed my queen,” sukuna says, stepping closer until he’s looming over you, his hand gripping your chin with just enough force to make you wince. “remember that.”

his words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something else pooling in your stomach. sukuna is many things—cruel, violent, unyielding.

but in his own twisted way, this is his version of loyalty. his way of showing you that no matter how many games he plays, you’re the only one who truly matters.

you swallow hard, meeting his gaze. “and what if I leave?”

sukuna’s grin widens, his eyes narrowing with dark amusement. “you won’t.”

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[urbeachboy]

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇

⋆˙⟡ — req : hey,, psst,, you got any.. leona kingscholar x reader..? with maybe.. a dab of fluff.. and maybe.. something with napping together.. a dash of yearning.. maybe.. (from whomever you desire).. plz and thank u.. also!! can i be 💀 anon?

⋆˙⟡ — synopsis : Leona Kingscholar does not have a soft spot. Not for his brother, for his sister-in-law, for his nephew, nor for anyone. And then you came along.

⋆˙⟡ — content : Leona Kingscholar (twisted wonderland) x gn!reader. Reader is a people pleaser. Cuddling. Kiss kiss fall in love!! Inexperienced Leona. Fluff. Lots of fluff. Some hints of angst.

You’ve always been a giver. It’s essentially instinctive- second nature, really.

Perhaps it started at the age of four, when you cried crocodile tears over a wounded bird. A bird that you had tried so desperately to save, yet alas, fate hadn't been so nice to poor little young you.

Or maybe rather, it was at the age of seven, when you had refused to step a single foot out the threshold of your room when your pet hamster, Squibbles, had passed away.

And it may have been the idea of losing anyone else- or standing by watching as someone else lost someone- that truly clung to you. That feeling of despair you felt like claws scraping down your back, all while the ugly dread clung to you like a leech, only truly letting go when you had ensured that nobody got hurt.

Maybe it was a bit selfish- just a small bit. For you knew best that you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself knowing you’d let someone down, even if they weren’t quite counting on you to keep them up.

So to say, Twisted Wonderland was a nightmare for you.

Little boys who thought themselves men, and men who thought themselves little boys. They scrambled, reaching for any semblance of control, for any semblance of comfort. 

You're not quite certain if it was the first overblot or the second, but by the fourth, you’d already made quite a preceding reputation for yourself. You’re not sure if there wasn’t anyone in Night Raven College who was not aware of your name or your game. I.E: Save the School from going up into flames once or perhaps even twice a month at times.

In fact, many people knew you quite well–with the becoming ribbon you twisted your striped tie into, and with your nature; approachable and sympathetic, it was difficult to not get acquainted with you on more levels than simply knowing. A few of these people? 

Ace Trappola, the boy from Heartslabyul with cards and tricks alike up his uniform sleeve.

Deuce Spade, a friend of Ace’s as well, also from Heartslabyul, and having quite an affinity to cauldrons, you think.

Jack Howl, what with all his ivory hair and sun-kissed skin, and that body he’d achieved through tons of rigorous training, no doubt.

Epel Felmier, with a Southern twang that you only ever hear sometimes- though you think it’s especially adorab–no! Very.. very manly. And he’s treated you to apple pie once, as well. Home-made, you think he said it was?

Sebek Zigvolt- you’re unsure how you’d managed to befriend him of all people, but it does not go to say that you enjoy his presence any less. His hair stuck up perpetually as if he had been struck by a lighting bolt, though he may as well be every time he’s asked about his dearest Liege.     

There’s also the strange horned man with dark hair and green eyes that pierce through your soul, but all he ever seems to want is a chat about architecture- mostly Gargoyles and Grotesques and all that- never your soul.

But as strange as he, Tsunotarou, may be–you find one is stranger. Leona. Leona Kingscholar. A prince, you’ve learnt. With his hair that you could call brunette, resembling black coffee, and his eyes like emeralds, which you’re sure he has a ton. 

You’re not sure why he acknowledges you at all, really, but it’d begun ever since after his overblot. It had begun slowly- surely, though-

First, he would fall asleep at the table you and your friends often occupied during lunch, and all of you far too afraid to wake him or make him budge. You found it funny how he always dozed off on the seat just next to yours- Grim’s reserved seat, upon not receiving which he would grow exasperated. He would soon quiet down when offered a seat on your shoulder (which he found much more comfortable than any seat, as irking as it was to have his tail thump against your face or the back of your head every now and again), however.

Then, he would get food for you. You’re not sure if you were to feel humiliated at the thought that he most likely assumed you have no money to get it yourself (he isn’t wrong–you don’t, because Dire Crowley is such a generous man), but it was admittedly nice to have a sandwich sitting on your plate when you got to your table. And a rather sleepy lion. Well, on second thought, would sleepy be the right word if he was already asleep?

And after that, he began speaking to you more. And, trust me on this–Leona Kingscholar does not speak to just anyone. Not the way he does with you, at least.

A tired groan that would escape his full lips as he looked up at you through hazy, lidded eyes. “..Herbivore,” he’d grumble, “Y’changed your hair.”

And…so you did. And no-one’s noticed (which is understandable, because it really isn’t a prominent change- you would barely know it unless you were really looking for it), up until…well…Leona.

Or maybe he’d notice the way you had decided to tie your tie into a bow this time instead. Like Epel (see, you always liked the way he tied it, though you could never get it right. So, your dear friend Epel had provided some assistance).

He’d tilt his head back, just barely skimming his eyes over it before turning his attention back to the very interesting wall. “Your tie’s different.” You would perk up, a smile painted on your lips. “It’s cute, right? I saw how Epel always did it, and I was like ‘aw, that’s cute’—only in my head, though, Epel would kill me if I said it out loud—and I wanted him to teach me, so I asked him, and he said Vil taught him and then he taught me anyways, and–”

“It looks stupid.”

So, obviously, he’s a real charmer. 

And, charmed as you were, you didn’t protest the first time he had wordlessly pulled you into his arms with his eyes still shut after you’d fortuitously disrupted a precious nap of his.

Then he did it a second time, a third, and a fourth.

Since then, it’s become sort of tradition; napping together. The two of you never speak of it, and you’re not certain if anyone else is aware about it at all, either. You think Leona likes it to stay that way.

You still don’t retort, don’t kick and squirm. It’s as if you’re able to see the child in him, the child that only wanted to be seen; to be known. To be acknowledged. What’d he ever do, but ask for love? And is love, if requested of one of the same blood, far too much to ask for?

So you humour him. As you are right now. You’re in Savanaclaw, barely tangled in Leona’s sheets, in Leona’s room, with the aforementioned clinging to you with a generous amount of space (ie: a hair’s breadth, which is technically still generous in terms of Leona) between the two of you.

It’s about six, sunset; the sun is low but you can see the glowing saffron of it just peeking out from behind the rocky mountains, almost shy to show its true self- its true colours, the neon orange as opposed to the usual blinding yellow-white. You think it’s somewhat like Leona, and the thought makes you chuckle to yourself.

“Mmh,” Leona groans, and the sound is a low rumble in his chest. “What’s so funny, Herbivore?” he murmurs, his voice hushed and husky. It’s a wonder how his braids never get messed up by the different positions he sleeps in, every which way his body contorts for the ultimate resting experience. You wish you had half of his privileges- you can’t blame him, you’d lounge around, too, if in his shoes.

You only shake your head at his words, not an ounce of sleep in your eyes (much unlike his), and a small smile playing on your lips. “Nothing. You just…remind me of the Sun.”

He’s silent. His breathing is slow, gentle—he fell asleep. Again. You let out a sigh, playfully rolling your eyes.

His skin is sun-kissed, his eyes (when open), most would say are like jades or emeralds or some other materialistic, shiny object. You, on the other hand, believe they’re like the prickly bushes that, albeit hurt much to get through, bear beautiful blossoms once you’re past the thorns.

His hair is like honey, some parts are darker and some are lighter- maybe it’s more like caramel? Either way, it’s something sweet. And silky. You reach a hand out, beginning to gingerly comb your fingers through his hair.

He stirs then, reaching out just like you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You’re almost afraid he’s woken up, or is in the process of doing so, but his eased shoulders and relaxed expression says otherwise. Leona’s always tense when he’s awake. Even if he doesn’t realise it, his jaw is clenched.

Your smile widens. You curl your fingers into his hair, humming a gentle tune ‘neath your breath. Your eyes continue to rove over him, landing on his lips. His upper lip is fuller, darker. He’s beautiful. He’s beyond beautiful, you can barely describe it in words.

Should one feel such a way for a friend? If you could even begin to consider Leona a friend, that is.

You don’t think so.

“Like what you see?” You almost jump out of your skin, or perhaps go tumbling down the bed if it weren’t for his almost vice-like grip around your waist.

You blink in surprise, taking a bit to compose yourself. You see how Leona maintains his previous expression, though his lips—his very pretty lips—are quirked up at the corners. “You were awake this whole time?” you question, a bit frantically. After all, it would be quite flustering to know that a friend(?) had caught you all but checking them out.

He hummed. That’s a maybe. And then he’s silent again.

…Does he want you to sleep? Usually he’d just chastise you to stop moving, stop breathing so loud.

He doesn’t now.

Maybe he.. wants to talk?

You swallow your spit, your eyes lingering over his face, before beginning earnestly; “You’re very pretty.”

He opens both eyes at that. You absolutely must be in a World-Record book now. Both of his eyes, like lily-pads. Submerged in the water, so close to drowning and yet, holding something so beautiful within. A lotus; tender, soft.

Leona doesn’t look surprised in any usual way, but that’s because he’s Leona, and he’s far from usual. He snorts, keeping his eyes, half-lidded, on you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you respond decidedly.

Silence falls over the two of you like a veil once more. This time, it isn’t so comfortable. His eyes are glued to your face. They drift just slightly lower than your eyes, and they’re, you think, on your lips. Like yours were once on his.

Your tongue subconsciously darts out to swipe at the supple flesh there, wetting it almost like it grew drier than the desert just from his glare alone.

It’s silent, still. You glance away for a second, then back at him, and then you get an idea. You snicker and tilt your head, peering up at him. “You wanna kiss?”

It’s smart, you decide. If he declines and assumes you’re weird (which is likely), it’ll just be a joke. And if he accepts? Jackpot.

He quirks an eyebrow at you, his gaze dragging back up to your eyes.

You’re awfully nervous, you hope Beastmen can’t smell those sorts of things (obviously they can’t—they don’t smell fear, for god’s sake. They’re not demons). You, in turn, raise an eyebrow towards him as well, in hopes of seeming a bit more in control of yourself than you truly were.

Then, Leona huffs. At least, you assume it’s a huff, because it sounds halfway through a huff and a small laugh. You hope he’s not laughing. It’s not that ridiculous of a question to ask, is it?

It is. Whatever.

“What if I do?” You notice he’s completely dropped the ‘Herbivore’ gag, and you’re not sure if you should feel grateful or not. You don’t find yourself having much time to dwell on that, however, for his words peak your interest far more. “Then you should do it,” you test your limits.

He only stares at you. Like a big cat waiting to pounce. You assume he is—that’s what lions do, don’t they? They watch, wait for a moment of weakness.

Your brow twitches.

Then they strike.

Leona leans in quicker than he could call any human being who evidently eats and enjoys eating meat a ‘Herbivore’, pressing his lips against yours (though it’s somewhere between that and smashing his lips against yours).

One hand of his goes up to your chin, the other resting on your waist, still.

He’s inexperienced, that much is easy to tell. You’re not sure why you’d expected him to not be inexperienced. Him. Leona Kingscholar. Infamous for shutting out anyone and everyone who got a millimetre too close.

He’s haphazard and yet it still feels nice, likely because his lips are just naturally made for kissing or something of the sort. They move nicely against yours, and occasionally, the two of you apaty your lips a bit and your teeth clink against eachother’s, and you shoot each-other a glance. A light-hearted glance, as if you’re about to burst into silent laughter.

That’s just what it is, actually. For something so intimate, the atmosphere is so light-hearted. With the half-draped curtains casting bold shadows on your frames in turn, and still leaving space for you to see the Sun (if you were to turn around and look through the window, but with Leona’s lips attached to yours, you’re not sure he’d make that very possible) only showing itself an inch, a little more than halfway below the mountain, and a little less than fully below the mountain.

Leona tilts his head, pulling your face closer to his (almost tugging, really). He seems to forget himself, seems to forget how to be gentle and nice. The only way you can tell he’s apologetic is by the way his grip immediately loosens by a lot, and the pad of his thumb subtly traces along your jawline, rubbing soft circles.

You tap on his shoulder when you feel you’re a few ways from losing your breath, and he seems to get the memo, parting from you with a sigh from his side, and a gasp from yours. His hands don’t leave you, though. Your hands that had settled on his shoulders a while ago hadn’t left there, either.

Leona only stares at you. Not like Leona Kingscholar stares at everyone, no—not sharp and unbothered, finding anyone’s presence to be a nuisance—but like Leona stares at you. Tender and gentle.

His nose twitches. And for the first time, you see a smile on his lips that doesn’t mean bad news. A smile that isn’t filled with malice or vicious intent.

A genuine smile.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who’s like the fuckin’ Sun.”

⋆˙⟡ — a/n : i’m so sorry for not posting often!! i’ve been super busy irl but i promise i’ve been working on stuff 😞

⋆˙⟡ — NOT proofread — wordcount : ?

[monogamia]

not me haunting your asks in every single blog you own 😈 sooo, do you write parents!au? bc I wanted to request some scenario abt how sylus, caleb and xavier would react to their kids telling u to shut up. I KNOW ITS WEIRD BUT ITS A OLD TREND I THINK?? anyway, love ya babe 💘💋💋

੭⠀ A little prank.

⋆⠀AUTHOR'S NOTES: I love parents!au so much 😭

⋆⠀FEATURING: Xavier, Sylus, Caleb.

⋆⠀WARNING: English is not my first language, so it may contain some mistakes.

Your son’s favorite pastime was annoying his father, and he was certainly better at it than anyone else. Not only that, but he also managed to convince you to help with yet another one of his… pranks.

The boy smiled when he saw his father heading to the kitchen and turned back to his video game. Not long after, you walked into the room with something in hand. “Sweetheart, could you take this—”

“Shut up, mom,” he tried to say in an irritated tone, but a smile was plastered across his face.

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀XAVIER

Not even five seconds had passed before your son was groaning in pain, Xavier’s slipper lying on the couch beside him after hitting the back of his head squarely. “Dad—”

Xavier raised the other slipper, pointing it at the boy. “Apologize. Now,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?”

“But I was busy, and she—” Once again, the boy didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, the other slipper flying straight at him. Xavier crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on his son.

You widened your eyes and placed a hand on your husband’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Okay, okay, it was a… joke, just a prank.”

Xavier gave a faint smirk, glancing at you. “…Yeah, I knew that.” He pulled you into a hug, sticking his tongue out at your son. “You think I’d stop at that if I saw him disrespecting you like that?”

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀SYLUS

Sylus prided himself on being an exemplary father. He was patient, fun—or so he thought—and wealthy. I mean, surely his son was already having a better childhood than most people who came from the same place Sylus had, right?

And perhaps it was exactly that freedom and comfort in his presence that made the boy feel confident enough to make that kind of joke.

“I must’ve misheard. Definitely,” Sylus said loud enough for both of you to hear. You turned away so he wouldn’t see your expression, while your son simply grimaced.

“Dad, she could’ve just asked one of my uncles to go—or, I don’t know, gone herself!” the boy said, spinning the pieces of a pistol between his fingers.

Sylus’s steps were almost inaudible; it was as if he had teleported to his son’s side. He crossed his arms, an irritated expression on his face. His son had never seen that look before—at least, not directed at him.

“Don’t you dare talk to your mother like that under this roof,” he said. “I don’t care if she could’ve asked someone else—if she tells you to do something, you do it. She brought you into this world.”

The boy couldn’t hold back his laughter, bursting out in hysterics. Your husband opened his mouth to say something but stopped when he saw you laughing as well. He let out a sigh, rubbing his face. “You too now?”

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀CALEB

Honestly, your son was expecting Caleb to yell at him or chase after him, but it was even more terrifying to see him stay silent, slowly turning to face the boy.

He froze, setting the video game controller down on the coffee table. Caleb’s eyes stayed fixed on him, and his silence lingered just long enough to make the boy shift uncomfortably under the stare.

When Caleb finally spoke, his voice was strangely calm—and that wasn’t exactly a good thing. “You have five seconds to do as your mother said and come back here, and another five to apologize and explain yourself.”

You let out an awkward laugh before wrapping your arms around your husband. “It was just a joke, I swear.” Caleb glanced at you, slipping a hand under your shirt to give you a pinch. “Ouch! It was his idea!”

He rolled his eyes but let out a relieved laugh, despite his irritation with your newfound way of spending free time. “I should’ve known.”

[littlejuicebox]

You'll stay still, won't you, little love?

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F!Reader/Tav

Summary/Setting: Sometime in the beginning of Act 3; you and Astarion are exploring intimacy/sex

Rating/Warnings: M+ / 18+ only please/ Smut with little to no plot / Light BDSM / Soft Dom Astarion vibes / Some mild in game spoilers / PiV / CW / fingering / teasing and overstim if you squint / not beta read or edited too much

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: I'm a degenerate, idk what else to tell you guys. I’m shocked this came out of my brain, but here we are. Enjoy or be totally flabbergasted or avoid it entirely I don’t know about you all but I simultaneously want to do all three. 💀

-----

You suspected Astarion enjoyed exploring intimacy with you, perhaps more than he thought he would. The first few weeks after his confession at Moonrise Towers resulted in a rather chaste arrangement between the two of you. Days were filled with stolen pecks and occasional hand holding between missions; nights were spent mostly cuddling half-naked or sometimes simply making out.

When a situation became particularly heated, he would always break away, panting. The flush on his face and the thrumming of his undead heart told you he enjoyed these moments, and his erection pressing into you always became quite the distraction. 

Gods, how badly you wanted more. But you had to force yourself to pull back and allow him to take the lead, never pushing further than he was willing to give. 

For a few weeks, a bit of grinding and caressing above the waist was as far as Astarion would advance. But shortly after leaving the Shadowlands, something within the silver-haired elf changed. He’d become quite intent on exploring your body almost every night, putting his masterful fingers and tongue to work, almost desperate to watch you come undone.

“You don’t have to, Astarion,” You pant one evening, after a few weeks of nearly daily interactions quite similar to this one. The rogue was working his nimble fingers inside the edge of your small clothes, aiming to delve into your already soaking folds. The bulge of his cock, barely covered by his own underwear, pressed against your rear as he slowly rocked his hips into you.

“I know, my love,” He murmurs, removing his mouth from where it had been tenderly suckling your neck. The vampire licks along the fresh love bite, eliciting a little whimper of pleasure from you. And then he smirks as his fingers find the already engorged bundle of nerves between your legs, causing you to instinctively buck toward him with a whine, “But I want to. I quite like the pretty little sounds you make for me, you know.” 

He continues his ministrations for a few moments, reveling in your desperate keens. Nothing else stroked Astarion’s ego quite like this. 

“Darling, I’d like to try something different tonight, if you don’t mind.” He purrs as his fingers change their rhythm from the languid circles over your clit to gentle, teasing strokes between your folds. The rogue’s hand dips just enough to tease your entrance with two digits before he retracts again, leaving you mewling in frustration.

You need more. He knows it. And he aimed to give you more tonight, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to toy with you for a moment or two.

“What is it, Astarion?” You ask breathlessly, as he pauses his movements entirely. You whine again and then turn your head to look at the rogue, where he is smirking down at you, clearly enjoying the desperation he’s elicited from his lover. You are caught between his cock and his hand, slowly rolling your hips back and forth, practically begging the silver-haired elf to fuck you with his fingers. 

“I want you to come on my cock tonight.” He responds, arching his eyebrow just slightly, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, “If that’s what you want, my sweet.” 

Your eyes widen in shock, and you swear you feel yourself grow more slick at the mere suggestion. You lick your lips, attempting to moderate your own excitement, trying to avoid making him feel obligated in any way. Astarion’s fingers have resumed their teasing movements, and the newly found wetness causes the vampire to chuckle in delight. 

“Judging by the slickness of your perfect little cunt, that certainly is what you want. Am I correct, love?” He purrs into your ear, fangs grazing against your lobe as he rolls his growing erection toward your ass once again.

“Y-yes,” You gasp, and as soon as you do, Astarion rips your underwear from your body before tossing the ruined undergarment across the tent. 

“Then you will get what you want on one condition, darling.” He continues, and you feel the engorged head of his cock stroking between your folds from behind. The sensation makes you shiver in delight; you desire nothing more than to have him buried inside you.

“What is it?” You ask, instinctively rolling your hips back against him again, moaning when his length rubs against your clit.

Astarion grabs your hip firmly, digging his nails into the side of your ass and ceasing your movements entirely. You whine and then he’s practically laughing in your ear, you can feel how entertained he is by your predicament. He places a tender kiss on your neck before he purrs, “You aren’t allowed to move one bit, sweet girl, or else I will pull out and leave you with nothing.”

You groan in dismay at this stipulation, “Astarion! I don’t- I don’t know if I can hold still.” 

“Oh but my love, the choices are simple,” He continues, his voice playfully condescending as his other hand wanders up to lightly tease a nipple, ripping another little moan from you, “You can either be filled by my cock or by my fingers. So which will it be?”

You whine as the male elf uses one hand to stimulate your breast and the other to barely plunge into your sex again.

“Your cock!” You cry, unable to contain yourself any further, “I want your cock.”

Astarion chuckles, quite content with this response. He slides his erection between your folds again, using your arousal to lubricate his length, “And you’ll stay still, won’t you, little love?”

“Yes, I won’t move,” You agree, and this earns you a delighted groan from the vampire. He reveled in the power dynamics of your coupling, and your willingness to surrender control in the bedroom.

“Good girl,” He coos, and then he’s pressing himself into the entrance of your sex. You moan as the head of his rock-hard cock stretches your cunt; there is a bit of resistance at first; it’s been several weeks since more than two fingers have been inside you, after all.

He takes you inch by inch, slowly dragging himself along your velvet walls. Before long, Astarion’s length has filled you completely, and you’re basking in the sensation of being stretched by your lover.

His breath is ragged behind you as he struggles to remain in control, almost entirely overcome with the desire to simply have his way with you. But that’s not the game tonight, he reminds himself. 

In one swift motion he’s rolled you both so that you are straddled over him, your back pressed to his chest. He uses his knees to spread your legs wide, fully opening you up for his seasoned hands to explore. His long fingers drag over your stomach and then travel down between your legs, where they easily find that sensitive nub.

“How does it feel to be sitting atop my cock, darling?” Astarion asks as he slowly, teasingly strokes his slender fingers up and down on your drenched folds. You are seeping arousal at this point, coating him with his well-deserved reward. His cock throbs at the thought.

“Wonderful,” You respond, honestly but breathlessly as you struggle to keep yourself from rolling your hips at all. Your legs are positively shaking with the effort to exert such control, and the little tremors running along your spine are urging the vampire on.

Astarion guides your own hand up to your breasts, where he urges you to tease your own nipple. He palms the flesh of the other breast in one hand as he continues to drag his nimble fingers around your throbbing bud.

You are instinctively clenching around him now, your body desperate to milk every ounce of seed from the vampire. Astarion himself is shaking with the amount of restraint it’s taking him to not lift his hips and fuck up into your warmth. 

You cannot restrain yourself any longer, your hips buck and you’re instantly rewarded with the delicious sensation of Astarion’s length running against your walls. But then a sharp, stinging smack singes the side of your ass, and a shocked gasp escapes your lips.

“What did I say, darling? Be a good girl and hold still. Try that again and I will pull out.” The rogue warns while speeding up his efforts on your clit.

You sharply pinch your own nipple, trying desperately to keep yourself from moving any more. But gods, how badly you want to. You’re so close. Your walls are clenching tighter and tighter, and the sensation is causing Astarion to grunt in response. He’s trying just as desperately to hold back as you quiver around him, tempting him to do the exact opposite.

His hips buck just once before he regains control and stills himself, but gods the walls of your tight pussy wrapped around him felt divine. The sharp thrust made you moan loudly in delight, and your entire body was shivering from the self-control you were using to hold still. He felt you standing on the precipice of pleasure, so close to the edge. You just needed a little push to fall into a world of ecstasy, and that, he could provide.

“Let go, little love. Come for me,” He whispers hoarsely, and the command sends you tumbling over the edge. You feel the wave crashing over you, rippling through your sex and up to your spine. You clasp your hand over your mouth as you whine, signaling your release.

You are mid-orgasm when Astarion roughly grabs both sides of your hips and hisses, “Fuck it.” 

And then he’s thrusting upwards, repeatedly burying himself inside you, intent on fucking you through the second half of your orgasm. You cry out in pleasure as the vampire moans into the side of your neck, continuing to piston himself into you as he chases his own release.

Once again, his fingers find their way to your over-sensitive clit and he’s working at it frantically, in the practiced motion he knows to be your favorite. You keen and try to clamp your legs shut; the sensation is almost too much. But Astarion growls and forces your legs open with his knees as he quickly brings you to the edge of another orgasm.

Your lover is panting with exertion as he holds back his own release. Through gritted teeth he urges you on, using the hand not playing with your clit to grab your hip and slam you down to meet his thrusts.

“One more, darling. You can do one more, can’t you? Let go, I’ve got you.” He coaxes, his voice near breathless but filled with gravel.

“Oh, fuck!” Is all you can respond as the second orgasm rips through you, stronger than the first. You’re seeing stars as your pussy throbs around Astarion’s shaft, rewarding his efforts with a deliciously tight grip and another gush of your delectable juices. The high-pitched, uninhibited whine that escapes you while you’re drowning in ecstasy is music to the rogue’s ears.

As your greedy cunt clenches around him again during that second wave of pleasure, Astarion emits a strangled moan of his own.

He buries his face in your neck as he soon struggles to buck forward, shakily dragging his sensitive, swollen length in and out of your walls just a few more times before he buries himself balls-deep. Thick ropes of his spend shoot up into your warmth as he groans, consumed by his own euphoria behind you. His cock continues to pulse for a few moments longer, urged on by the relentless spasming of your sex around him.

Both of you are heaving and shaking slightly once he finally relaxes his legs. You’re still laying atop him as he slowly roams his hands over your body, idly stroking your curves in soft, soothing motions.

“I thought you said we couldn’t move,” You finally say, voice completely hoarse from the cries of ecstasy you uttered moments ago.

“I said you couldn’t move, darling. I didn’t say anything about me.” The vampire responds with a self-satisfied smirk as he playfully nips at your earlobe, “Are you truly complaining that I did all the work?”

“No,” You respond, finally pulling yourself off of the vampire, releasing the slick combination of your respective arousals as it drips between the two of you. “But at some point I’d like it to be me making all that effort to bring pleasure to you.” 

He pulls you down beside him with a little hum. You pull the blanket over the two of you. No other words are exchanged as you drift to sleep, thoroughly exhausted by the events of the day and this satisfying but unexpected evening. Astarion watches you sleep, and for the first time he allows himself to acknowledge that he might also like to let you have a bit of control in the bedroom… perhaps next time.

[d1stalker]

The Feeling's Mutual | Part One

[Logan Howlett x Mutant!Reader]

Summary: If somebody told you a week ago that you were a mutant, being stalked, and would be teaming up with an annoying, grumbly bastard, you probably would have laughed in their face. Too bad that was last week, because here you are, in that very situation, wondering how in the world things escalated so quickly.

PART TWO PART THREE FINAL PART

Warnings: fem!reader, canon-level violence, reluctant alliance, bickering, not exactly enemies-to-lovers but they don't rly get along, it's gonna be a slow burn y'all WC: 5.7k - MASTERLIST - A/N: If you saw me post this earlier, no you didn't 🤫 i added more hehe

You’ve never been so confused in your entire life.

It all started last week—when you were walking to the grocery store. Just an ordinary day, nothing special about it. You had a list in your hand, some cash in your pocket, and thoughts of what to cook for dinner running through your mind. The route you took had you winding down the usual streets of your neighbourhood, and that’s when you noticed him.

Something about him was different, but you couldn’t quite place your finger on what it was that made you think that. Perhaps it was the way his eyes followed you, stalking you, like a predator its prey.

At first, you thought it might be a coincidence. Maybe he was just another person going about his day, heading in the same direction as you. People share paths all the time; there was no reason to suspect anything sinister, right? But as you continued walking, a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach told you something was off. You decided to test it, making a sudden turn down a side street, one you usually never take.

The street was quieter, less foot traffic, and the late afternoon shadows were starting to stretch across the pavement. You glanced over your shoulder, and there he was, still a few steps behind, his gaze remaining locked onto you with a focus that sent a shiver down your spine. Quickening your pace, you felt an almost paralyzing fear.

This wasn’t just a shared route. 

The more you turned, the more you weaved through unfamiliar streets, the more persistent he became. He never faltered, never hesitated, always keeping just close enough to let you know he was there.

Finally, you reached the store, breathing in short, panicked gasps, your eyes flitting around. You ducked inside, hiding the fluorescent lights and bustling aisles. You tried to calm yourself, telling yourself it was nothing, that you were being paranoid. After all, what were the odds? Maybe he’d walk past, maybe he wasn’t even following you. You spent longer than usual picking up items you didn’t need, giving him time to disappear. 

But when you walked back outside, bags in hand, you saw him again. He wasn’t right at the door, but still, close enough—across the street, half-hidden in the shadow of another building, watching. His eyes locked with yours once more, and you froze, the plastic handles of the grocery bags digging into your palms as your grip tightened in fear. He didn’t move, didn’t smile or sneer, just stood there, silent.

You rushed home, not even bothering to see if he was tracking you down, too scared to find out the answer. Your mind was racing with a million thoughts. Who was he? What did he want? You didn’t sleep much that night, jumping at every creak and groan the apartment made, the image of that man’s cold stare burned into your mind.

The next day, you told yourself it was nothing, a one-time thing, just some creep who had too much time on his hands. A pervert, possibly. 

But happened again. A different man this time, but with the same unnerving intensity. He followed you the same way, mute and relentless, through the streets, to the store, and back home.

Then the day after that, and that, and that. They didn’t approach you directly, just followed, watched, waited. It was like a game, one that you didn’t know the rules to, and the stakes felt like they were getting higher and higher and more time passed. Whenever you stepped outside, you felt their eyes on you, felt their presence lurking just out of sight. It was terrifying.

The fear gnawed at you, growing with each passing day, until it became impossible to ignore. You started taking different routes, avoiding your usual stores, changing your routine as much as you could. Still, no matter what you did, they always found you.

Soon it changed—no longer just silent stalking. One night, as you were walking home, one of the men stepped out from the shadows and blocked your path. His presence was oppressive, the way he stood there, so still, so certain of his power over you. You had no idea what he wanted, but you knew it whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“Why are you following me?” you demanded, trying to muster up all the courage you could, voice shaking slightly despite your attempt to sound strong.

“Because we were told to,” the man said, his voice cold and emotionless. There was no malice, no pleasure in his words, just a chilling matter-of-factness. “You’re coming with us.”

Panic surged through you, a primal instinct to run, to fight, to do anything but comply. You refused to show it, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you spat back, hoping your defiance would be enough to make him reconsider.

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing in them, and before you could react, he lunged at you, his fist swinging with brutal intent. Time seemed to slow as you saw the blow coming, your mind racing, but your body moving almost on instinct. You raised your arms to defend yourself, bracing for the crushing impact that would follow.

You couldn’t explain what happened next. When his fist connected with your arm, the force that should have sent you to the ground, left you unscathed. Instead, it was the man who staggered back, a look of shock and pain twisting his features. He clutched his hand, wincing as if he had struck something far harder than just flesh and bone.

You stared at him, bewildered, before glancing down at your own arm in disbelief. There was no pain, no bruise, nothing to indicate that you’d just been hit. It was as if his attack had bounced off of you, like you were made of steel.

Had you really just blocked that hit? And why did it feel like… nothing?

Before you could process what had happened, before the realization could fully take root, another man appeared out of nowhere, moving with a speed that blurred the edges of his form. Mutant. He was faster than the first, more determined, and this time, you felt your heart stop as he came at you from behind, his hands outstretched to grab you.

But something in you reacted faster than your fear. You twisted out of his grip with lightning speed, with movements so fluid and precise, it was as if your body knew exactly what to do, even if your brain was struggling to keep up. You sidestepped his attack, narrowly avoiding his grasp, and found yourself behind him, safe for the moment.

“What the hell?” you muttered under your breath, your heart pounding in your chest. How did you move like that? How had you known where to go, how to dodge?

There was no time to dwell on it. The fight intensified in an instant, the two men coming at you one after another, relentless in their assault. They weren’t holding back, and suddenly neither were you. You moved like a force of nature, dodging their attacks, striking back when you could. Each punch you threw landed with a power that surprised even you. You watched in stunned disbelief as one of the men crumpled to the ground after a single blow, his eyes rolling back as if he’d been hit by a truck.

You are not a gym regular. In fact, you hadn’t worked out in weeks. You weren’t strong, not like this. So how was it possible that your punches were so devastating, that each one seemed to carry a weight far beyond what you’d ever imagined?

Then, with a flick of his wrist, the first mutant, conjured a ball of fire in his hand, the flames crackling and roaring, craving something to burn. He hurled it at you, the fireball spinning through the air with only one target in mind. 

You barely had time to scream as the flames engulfed your arm, the searing heat burning through your skin. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot agony that made you gasp and stumble back. You expected to see your skin blackened, blistered, ruined.

And it was.

For a minute. 

To your shock—or horror—you looked down, breath catching in your throat as you watched the burn heal right before your eyes. The charred skin knitted back together in seconds, smooth and unblemished, as if nothing had happened at all.

What the fuck? 

It was in that moment that the truth hit you, like a thunderclap in your mind. You weren’t just an ordinary person caught in a nightmare. You were a mutant, with powers that had only now revealed themselves, right when you needed them most.

The men kept coming, but now you fought with a new understanding. Each punch, each dodge, each rapid movement felt more controlled, more intentional, your gym class self-defence courses coming in clutch. You were strong, faster than you’d ever been, and you could heal—regenerate from injuries that would have left others incapacitated.

Finally, the two men laid groaning on the ground, defeated. You stood there, panting, your mind spinning as you tried to make sense of it all. Super strength, super speed, regeneration… these powers, they were yours. And they had just saved your life.

But as the adrenaline began to fade, confusion set in. What did these men want with you? Why had they gone to such lengths to provoke you? To make you discover what you were capable of? 

All you knew was that one thing was clear: this was far from over. Whoever had sent these men wouldn’t stop here. They knew what you were now, and that meant they’d come after you again. You weren’t just an ordinary person anymore. You were something else, something powerful. And that put a target on your back. 

Whatever was coming next, you needed to be ready.

----

That’s how you found yourself here, one week later, crouched on the apartment rooftop, the cold wind nipping at your exposed skin. The dark streets below are eerily silent, save for the distant hum of traffic. You sense them before you see them—another group of male mutants, closing in on your position. You grip the hilt of your knife tighter, feeling the now-familiar twinge of anger and frustration settle in your chest. This is the fifth group tonight. They’ve been hunting you in groups for days now, their numbers increasing as each one goes by, and you’re tired of it. 

You’ve started to get used to your new powers—testing your limits, pushing yourself harder with each confrontation. What started as simple self-defence, a punch here, a dodge there, has escalated into something far more lethal.

You didn’t want to kill, didn’t want to by use your sharpest kitchen knife (your only kitchen knife) as a weapon, but as the attacks became more violent, you found yourself with little to no choice. 

These mutants weren’t holding back, and neither could you.

Within a week, you went from the most average person in the world to what some people might call a vigilante—except you're really only trying to save your own skin.

Leaping off the roof, you land silently behind them. The speed at which you move is almost dizzying, your body a blur as you close the distance in the blink of an eye. 

“Looking for someone?” you call out sarcastically.

They turn, eyes widening in surprise, but you’re already moving. Your blade sings through the air, striking true, as you move like a shadow, taking them down one by one. It’s not easy—these guys are tough—but you’ve become tougher. With each strike, you can feel your strength surging, far beyond what should be possible. One of the mutants tries to block you, creating a forcefield, but you grab the edges before it can fully form, and break through it, the temporary pain vanishing as quick as it came. A solid kick to his face, and he crumples to the ground, unconscious before he even realizes it.

“Is this what you wanted?!” you shout, your voice echoing through the empty street as the last attacker falls to the ground, groaning in pain. “Is this what you came for?!”

The answer doesn’t come from them. Rather, it comes from a low growl behind you. 

You whirl around, heart racing, and there he is—Logan Howlett—the Wolverine himself. The man you’ve read about in every article, every piece of mutant-related news you could get your hands on since discovering your own abilities. He’s infamous, pretty much a legend, and the stories about him are as terrifying as they are fascinating.

Standing there with that scowl on his face, he looks every bit the dangerous figure you’ve imagined. His eyes are blank, calculating, and you can feel the weight of his gaze as it sizes you up. There’s a tension in the air, thick and suffocating, as he takes a step closer.

“So, you’re the one causing all this trouble,” Logan states gruffly, irritation coating his tongue. He unsheathes his claws, the adamantium glimmering under the streetlights. The sound is unmistakable, and it sends shivers down your spine. “Heard you’ve been killin’ off mutants left and right.”

You narrow your eyes, instinctively stepping back into a defensive stance. Your heart is pounding, but you can't show any weakness. 

“Funny, I thought the same about you, Wolverine. What’s the matter? Run out of bad guys to play hero with?”

Without warning, he charges at you, claws outstretched, but you’re ready. You dart to the side, your speed giving you an edge as his claws slice through the air where you’d been standing, making a woosh sound. You counter with a swift kick to his ribs, putting your enhanced strength into the blow. He grunts, stumbling slightly, but quickly regains his balance. The momentary advantage you gained is gone as he storms toward you once more.

You meet his attacks head-on, your blade clashing with his claws in a shower of sparks. The force of each impact reverberates through your arms, but you hold your ground, refusing to back down. His attacks are ferocious, a whirlwind of claws and fury. He's fast, but you’re faster, dodging and weaving with a precision that keeps you just out of reach.

“Look, sweetheart,” he growls between strikes, his frustration evident. “You can make this easy or hard. I don’t care which, but I’m not lettin’ you hurt anyone else.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you deflect another swipe of his claws. “Oh, please. You think I’m the bad guy here? These jerks have been coming after me for days. I’m just defending myself.”

Logan doesn’t look convinced, and that pisses you off more than anything. “Right. And I’m supposed to believe you, why? You’re leavin’ a trail of bodies behind you.”

You narrow your eyes, feeling the anger boil over. “Because I’m not the one who started this! They did! But of course, you wouldn’t know that, would you? You just show up, swinging your claws around like you’re the big savior.”

“You got a mouth on you, don’t ya?” He retorts, snarling as he charges at you again, faster this time. You barely have time to block his attack, the force of his blow sending you skidding back several feet. But you dig your heels in, refusing to give an inch as he continues plows forward. Your speed kicks in, allowing you to duck under his next swing and land a punch to his jaw.

He staggers, but quickly recovers, swiping at you with renewed fury. You're a bit sloppy compared to him, not as much of a seasoned fighter. His claws swipe at your arm, cutting deep and drawing blood, but the wound heals almost instantly, the skin closing up as if it had never been cut. You see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it doesn’t slow him down. He lunges again, becoming a blur of motion as he ups the ante.

You parry with your knife, but this time, you’re on the offensive. You launch a rapid series of attacks, your speed and strength managing to drive him back. In the rush of movement, you're able to see an opening, grasping his shoulder and shoving him hard, sending him crashing into a nearby wall. The impact is enough to crack the brick, but Logan just shakes it off, pushing himself back to his feet.

“Gotta say,” you huff, panting slightly from the exertion, “I’m a little disappointed. I expected more from the you, after all I’ve heard.”

Logan grunts, clearly fed up with the banter. “I'm done talking.”

He lunges at you again, and this time, it’s a battle of wills as much as it is of skill. You don't back down, your knife clashing with his claws in a series of rapid, brutal strikes. The alleyway becomes a blur of movement, metal against metal, strength against strength. Each time his claws find their mark, your regenerative abilities kick in, healing the wounds almost as quickly as they’re made. 

And for a moment, you wonder if you’ll have to kill him too, just to survive. But then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way your attacks grow weaker, less lethal. Or maybe it’s the way Logan’s eyes narrow in realization when he notices your hesitance.

“Wait a damn minute,” Logan says, stepping back just out of your reach, wiping his mouth, then spitting on the ground. He’s breathing hard, just like you. “You’re holdin’ back.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing as they flick down to the knife you’ve been holding, and then back up to you. His expression shifts, a mix of disbelief and exasperation crossing his face. “And is that a kitchen knife?”

You glance down at the knife in your hand, realizing how absurd it must look in the middle of this intense fight. It’s not exactly standard combat gear, but it’s all you had when this started. You can’t help the smirk that pulls at your lips as you meet his gaze again.

“It gets the job done,” you quip, shrugging slightly.

He shakes his head, clearly not impressed. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“I'm choosing to take that as a compliment,” The sarcasm is practically oozing off of you.

He eyes you warily, his posture still tense. “You’re not makin’ this easy, you know. You got me here thinkin’ you’re some crazed mutant killer, but you’re just a girl wavin’ around a kitchen knife like you’re in a bad horror movie.”

You cross your arms. “Well, I didn’t exactly have time to hit up a weapons store. Besides, I didn’t ask for any of this. These guys came after me first.”

Logan studies you. “So you say. But you’re killing dozens of mutants. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘innocent.’”

“Trust me, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t be doing this–fighting… killing–at all. Hell, I didn’t even know I was a mutant until some guy swung his fist at me a week ago.” You meet his gaze, challenging him. “And what about you? You’re not exactly known for playing nice.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, most of my casualties are from the missions I go on, so I'd say it's justified.”

Your eyes narrow, catching the implication in his words. “Oh, am I your mission now? How long have you been tracking me?”

Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a slight shift in his posture, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve hit on something. “Long enough to know you’re not just some innocent bystander caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So, what? You’ve been watching me, waiting for me to screw up so you could take me down?” you demand, the frustration clear in your voice.

“Something like that,” he replies gruffly, “But from what I’ve seen, you’re more reactive than proactive," he looks you up and down. "I can’t seem figure out if you’re the real threat here, or just someone caught in the middle of a bigger mess.”

You let out a slow breath, trying to calm the fiery anger rising within you. “I told you, I didn’t start this. They did. I’m just trying to survive.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, teeth grinding as he considers your words. You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to piece together whether you’re telling the truth or just playing him. He takes a step closer, his claws still out but not as threatening as before.

Finally, he asks, “You got a name?”

You roll your eyes, exasperated. “No shit I have a name.”

Logan huffs, unimpressed by your attitude. “Well, if you’re not gonna tell me, I’m just gonna have to call you somethin’… How 'bout Knifey?”

You stare at him, half-expecting him to crack a smile, but he’s dead serious. “Knifey? Really?”

Logan shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he eyes your weapon of choice again. “Fits, don’t you think?”

“Fine. I’ll tell you my name, alright? Anything but Knifey.” You say, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“... Gotta say, Knifey sounds a little better”

“Shut the fuck up, Wolverine”

“It’s Logan, actually.”

You release a deep sigh. “I know, and I don’t care. I’m telling you I am not the one you need to be going after.”

Logan scoffs, crossing his arms. “I’ve been around a long time. Seen my fair share of people who think they’re doin’ the right thing and end up doin’ a hell of a lot of damage. So, forgive me if I’m a little skeptical.”

“You would know a lot about that, wouldn’t you?” The words come out of your mouth before you had time to think about them, and you regret it immediately. You can see the mutant in front of you’s face darken to a degree bordering murderous, and you think you’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from. Whatever playful banter existed before this is gone.

“Careful,” He growls menacingly, “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You swallow hard. The Wolverine is infamous for a reason, and you just poked at the beast beneath the surface. You briefly consider backing down, but your pride refuses to let you.

“Maybe I don’t,” you admit, “But I do know what it’s like to be hunted, to have no choice but to fight back. So yeah, maybe we’re more alike than you think.”

Logan’s glare softens just a fraction, and he lets out a long, frustrated breath. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do ya?”

“Not when I’m trying to make a point,” you retort.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just stares at you, as if he’s trying to decide whether to continue this conversation or end it with his claws. Ultimately, he shakes his head, the anger in his eyes dimming, replaced by something more akin to weary resignation.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Maybe you’re not the one I should be takin’ down. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna start trustin’ you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” you reply, feeling a bit of relief that the situation isn’t about to escalate into another fight. “But I swear, there’s someone else out there pulling the strings. And I’m not sticking around to be their puppet.”

He nods slowly, crossing his arms again. “We’ll find out who’s behind this, but I’m callin’ the shots. You step outta line, and we’re gonna have a problem.”

You smirk, a little of your bravado returning. “I’ll try not to disappoint you, Logan.”

You can tell he doesn't appreciate your attitude, but he lets it slide. “Let’s get one thing straight. This ain’t a partnership. I’m doin’ this to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on, not because I like you.”

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” you shoot back, though there’s no real heat behind your words.

Logan turns abruptly, not even bothering to beckon you with him.

It makes you roll your eyes but you fall in step beside him anyway, knowing that despite the rocky start, this uneasy alliance might be the only thing keeping you alive. 

“…So… where exactly are we going?”

He sends you a sidelong glance. "Who said I’m takin’ you anywhere?"

You throw your hands up, exasperated. "Well, if you don’t, these mutants are going to keep hunting me, and I’m going to keep killing them…” you shoot him a look, batting your eyelashes innocently. “You wouldn't want that, would you?"

“Fuck off”

"Well, too late for that now."

He grumbles something under his breath that you don’t quite catch, but it sounds a lot like cursing his bad luck.

"We’re headin’ to my place. It’s the safest spot right now."

----

Turn’s out, it’s not really his place. Or at least, it’s what you’d thought it’d be. It’s more of an abandoned warehouse that he just decided to seek refuge in one day, doing the bare minimum to make it feel at the very least, home-y. The heavy metal doors creak open, revealing a chaotic interior cluttered with garbage, old newspapers, and a few scattered items. In the corner, a single bed and a sagging couch that look like they’ve definitely seen better days.

Your nose wrinkles in disgust as you take in the mess. "Seriously?" you mutter, your voice tinged with disbelief. "This is where you've been hiding out? It looks like a tornado hit a thrift store."

Logan, who had been trailing behind you, lets out a low grunt as he shuffles past, not bothering to respond to your jab. His heavy footsteps echo in the otherwise silent space, the sound bouncing off the bare, cold walls. He heads straight for a small, battered table that looks like it's one sharp nudge away from collapsing. On it lies a worn notebook, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges, evidence of extensive use. Without a word, he picks it up and starts flipping through the pages, his expression unreadable.

Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you step closer, peering over his shoulder. "What's this?" you ask, reaching out to take the notebook from him. He hesitates for a brief moment before relinquishing it into your hands. As you flip through the pages, your eyes widen in shock. The notes are detailed, almost obsessively so, listing the names of various mutants, their abilities, and the exact locations where their bodies were found. 

"Oh, great," you say with a sarcastic, half-hearted laugh. "You've been keeping tabs on me. What kind of creepy stalker are you?”

He rolls his eyes and snatches the notebook back, his voice dripping with irritation. "I wasn’t exactly tracking you. I was trying to track whoever’s been killing all those damn mutants."

Logan’s jaw tightens as you just continue to stare, and he lets out an exasperated sigh. "And don’t act all innocent. I needed to know who was causing all the chaos."

Scoffing, you continue to look through the notebook, stopping when you come across a particularly detailed entry. "Wow... 26 kills? Not too shabby for an amateur mutant, huh?"

“Is your mouth unable to stay shut?” he questions, though you know better than to answer that. 

The notebook flops back onto the table with a casual flick of your wrist. "Hey, don’t be mad just because I’m doing a better job than you expected."

He crosses his arms over his chest, his muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt. "I’m not mad," he snaps. "I’m annoyed that you’re making light of this. It’s not exactly a high score to brag about."

"Oh, come on. You’re the one who turned this place into a shrine to my success” you smirk.

"It’s not a shrine," Logan growls, his patience wearing thin. "It’s a record. If you’d been paying more attention to what’s going on, you’d know that."

The playfulness fades from your face as his words hit home. He’s right, but you’re not about to admit it. Instead, you deflect. "Yeah, and if you’d bothered to talk to me instead of playing detective, maybe we’d have figured this out sooner."

"You think you’re the only one who’s had a rough time? This whole situation is a mess, and we’re both caught in it." His eyes narrow.

You cross your arms, mirroring his defensive posture. "You didn’t have to get involved, you know. Unless...what if you’re the bad guy here?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. "Using all these mutants to lure me into your dungeon under the pretense of trying to ‘stop’ me?"

His response is immediate. "I’m way too lazy to think of doing all that."

You can’t help but believe him, especially given the state of the warehouse. He clearly lacks the energy—or the interest—to tidy up his living space, let alone mastermind a complex plot. You let out a sigh and walk over to the sagging couch in the corner. The fabric is threadbare, and the springs groan in protest as you flop down onto it.

"Fine, fine... I trust you," you concede, though your tone is far from serious. "Did you notice anything specific amongst these mutants?"

"Yeah, I’ve noticed somethin’,” Logan says, dragging a hand down his face, now looking more tired than ever. “They’re all pretty low-key. Not exactly top-tier in the mutant rankings. Never caused any trouble before, yadda yadda. If anything, they’re usually on the weaker side."

You furrow your brows, intrigued. "So they’re not a serious threat."

"Exactly," Logan confirms with a nod. "It’s weird. These mutants aren’t the type to just go around being fuckin’ annoying like they have been. Someone—or something—must be pushing them into this."

"You think they’re all being controlled somehow?" you muse, the pieces slowly falling into place. "And that’s why they’re suddenly acting out of character?"

"Seems like it," He replies, rubbing his temples. "Must be powerful if they’re all falling in line like this. We’re going to have to dig deeper to find the source of it.

He moves to sit next to you on the couch, the worn fabric sinking even further under his weight. "Tell me everything you know," Logan says quietly, his voice a tinge softer now, almost coaxing. "Everything that’s happened to you."

You sigh and lean back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as you start to recount your experience. "It all began about a week ago. Just a normal day, I was walking to the grocery store, then I noticed this guy following me. At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But no matter where I went, he was always a few steps behind."

His attention sharpens, his gaze locking onto yours. "And?"

"It started as just stalking," you continue, your voice growing quieter as the memories flood back. "Nothing violent. But then, it started happening with different people. Each time, they were more persistent, more intimidating. It became clear that something was off."

You can feel Logan’s gaze burning into you, his concern evident in the way he leans closer, listening intently. "Eventually, they started getting aggressive," you say. "One night, one of them blocked my path and tried to grab me. I managed to fight him off, but when he hit me, it didn’t hurt. I mean, it should have, he looked pretty strong, but my arm felt fine. That’s when I realized I had powers—some form of super strength, super speed, and healing abilities."

"And you figured that out just from fighting them off?" he questions, somewhat impressed.

You nod, rubbing your arms as if to ward off a lingering chill. "Yeah. I didn’t really have a choice. They kept coming, and I had to use whatever I had to protect myself—including my damn kitchen knife. The more I fought, the more I understood what I could do.”

Logan pauses, his expression unreadable as he processes everything you’ve said. The dim light from the single bulb casts long shadows across the room, emphasizing the lines of fatigue etched into his face. Finally, he stands up, his movements slow and deliberate. "So, here’s the plan," he starts, his voice rough and tired. "We need to figure out exactly where these mutants are coming from. There’s gotta be a main location where they’re getting their orders or some central hub for this control."

You hum in agreement, though a part of you is reluctant to jump back into action so soon. "Alright, so how do we start tracking that down?"

His lips press into a thin line as he thinks it over. "We’ll stake out the rooftops. From up there, we can get a clear view of their movements and see if they’re converging somewhere specific. Maybe spot a pattern."

You stretch, stifling a yawn as you glance around the shabby room. "Okay, but are we doing that tonight? I’m pretty beat."

“Seriously? You want to put this off?" he accuses, face twisting in irritation.

"I’m up for it, but I’d be more effective if I’m not running on fumes. Plus, you look pretty tired yourself," you shrug. 

He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. We’ll do it tomorrow."

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you sense his reluctance to agree. "So you agree with me," you state, not really feeling any real pride, but just wanting to push his buttons.

Logan grumbles under his breath as he starts to clear a space on the threadbare couch, which creaks loudly under even the slightest pressure. "Do you ever shut up? I’m letting you crash in my bed, aren’t I?"

You chuckle softly, watching him arrange a tattered blanket on the couch with exaggerated care. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Goodnight, old man."

"Watch it, Knifey," he mutters, settling onto the couch with a groan as the springs protest under his weight.

You roll your eyes at his choice of nickname, and with a sigh, you make your way over to the bed, which is small and far from luxurious, but it’s better than nothing. The mattress dips slightly as you climb in, and the covers are thin, barely providing any warmth. Still, exhaustion pulls at you, and you barely have time to think about what the covers smell like before sleep overtakes you.

----

pls comment or message me if you'd like to be added to the series taglist!

[stealingpotatoes]

POTES SEMI-LIVEBLOGS KOTOR!

ive been writing my thoughts in the notes app but due to popular demand (one person asked for it) i'm posting my liveblogging DO NOT SAY/TAG/COMMENT SPOILERS PLEASE i read tags

warning im a yapper, im 10 hours in and theres a lot already (separated into sessions):

SESSION 1

whos this clown i thought i would be playing as revan

ive been too spoiled by dragon age origins this character creator sucks ass

only human???? ): fr?? ill just imagine her different in my brain or some shit

my life is being mansplained to me. is this bad writing or do i have amnesiacs

hes meta now??? hes talking abt the screen controls?????

omg a jedi and an evil jediii

omg their asses suckedddd they both died immediately

i <3 bringing a sword to a gun fight

WHY R THERE SO MANY SITH WHERE IS TJE RULE OF TWO

i clicked a workbench and it said lightsaber so either i get a lightsaber or i get a jedi friend whose lightsaber i can steal if im careful

I assume u play as revan in kotor2 so im gonna buy that now so i can play it when im done playing w this clown

i got light side points im getting a good grade in game morality which is something both normal to want and possible to achieve

everyone keeps saying revan is dead but thats my friend revan from tumblr hes clearly alive. or they???

my characters ass is distractingly present onscreen

huge fan of the way everyone collapsed drunk what the FUCK was in that wine

ok these sith ppl might be the bad guys but their armour is DRIPPY AS FUCK

ideologically i dont agree w the sith but they kinda went off w the fits

googling how to become a sith without being evil cause they have Drip

SESSION 2

i paid £1.19 to see revan he better show up in this game at some point

all these sith n i still cant find one revan….. stop faking ur death rn come out n talk to me babygirl this isnt like u….

why can i be light/dark side if im not a jedi. give me a laser sword

maybe this jedi gyal will know where revan is faking his death. or give me a fuckin lightsaber PLEASEEE

was just thinking 'does this game have romance' and then carth called me beautiful. i dont think im gonna romance anyone until i get this amnesia sorted

why is carth questioning me so much abt the crash im pretty sure i have amnesia

why tf did the jedi lady have me transferred to this ship are we in lesbians with each other???

carth's not wrong it is suspicious but i lowkey have amnesia so i coulda done that i coulda not

a lot of clone wars voice actors in this. was lucasfilm so broke in the 2000s that they could only afford the same 3 VAs for every project

mission is 14??????? we need to get my girl back in school

SESH 3

tale as old as time i fucking suck at racing games

ok i didnt realise you had to mash click i won

REVAN!!! REVAN!!!!!!!!!

why am i dreaming abt revan tho. real as hell but ?????

lmao cringe revan getting blown up. i thought the jedi beat rev-meister in a fight but no. accident

"such visions are often a sign of force sensitivity" COOL YAY GIVE ME A LIGHTSABER

BASTILLE LOST HER FUCKING LIGHTSABER??

CARTH IS RIGHT THATS LIKE DAY ONE JEDI SHIT. ok i still love her even tho shes a bit of a bitch and also doesnt have a saber

if we find a lightsaber im taking it first tho

whys carth getting weird abt me being weird that he doesnt trust me. i just wanna be friends mate

SESH IV: A NEW HOPE

'i mean no disrespect, but perhaps one of the male slaves could serve you better' i went in here to start a slave revolution and instead got called a lesbo

LMAO THERES A SPICE LAB???? WALTER WHITE WHERE ARE YOU

thats insaneee they blew up BILLIONS of people to get to one jedi?????? these sith arent fucking around theyre scary

UM THIS IS CRAZY GRAPHICS THE LIGHTING IS CLEARER/DARKER WHEN I COVER THE SUN W THE SHIP EDGE?? 2003 IS THE YEAR OF THE FUTURE

someone just called me padawan i kinda assumed i was in my late 20s do i just have baby vibes

all the jedi in the movies are so chill but every kotor jedi i've met so far has been a bit of a bitch

YO THEY HAVE A YODA!!! its not THE yoda but

cool so these guys are just the regional managers at best. your asses are not the council

why can everyone smell my force juju so strong

THATS STRAIGHT UP YODA'S CLONE WARS VA

why does fake yoda not blink both eyes at the same time. im calling him master tortimer he reminds me of the animal crossing mayor

bastila there was no need for such a fancy bow

malak is like evil aang

revan is so much shorter than malak omg

are me and bastila sharing dreams. are we both obsessed w revan

poor mission ):

WHAT WAS MASTER TORTIMER ABT TO SAY????????? EVER SINCE WHEN??? DID WE KNOW EACH OTHER BEFORE MY AMNESIACS????? DID BASTILA TELL U SMTHN MORE WHEN I WASNT IN THE ROOM???

im intrigued i like this whole hidden jedi shtick its very compelling. so is whatever theyre hiding from me

kinda surprising no jedi found me before tho given my force juju is so strong

IM A LEGIT JEDI NOW??? SICK!!!

does revan rlly not have pronouns i thought that was a tumblr thing but they straight up are a nonbinary icon ive never heard a single pronoun used. revan's pronouns are revan/revan's

damn revan seems so cool in these stories (charismatic war hero that convinced their troops to join them as conqueror?? julius caesar) and yet all we've seen them do onscreen is get blown up and die by accident

A YEAR AGO? the way they were talking i assumed revan died like. a week before the game started

master uh i forgot his name he has martin scorcese vibes said revan was a paragon of the jedi so what im getting is that all jedi gifted kids turn evil

even if i didnt know revan as a tumblr darling id KNOW revan has to be alive somewhere they way everyone talks abt them is too cool for a character who exploded and died. i think. i hope. I PAID £1.19 TO MEET REVAN

'only you and bastila can stop malak' seriously????? just us two?? ive been a jedi for like, 6 minutes and you guys keep calling bastila young???? do you guys not wanna help??

omg im getting carth to traumadump! <3

HE WAS ON REVAN'S ARMY>??

i totally knew the jedi code and did not have to google it whatsoever

they rlly said fuck going to illum heres a crystal from the bin

he told me id be a great sentinel and i was like i know but i want blue cause i dont wanna be matchies with bastila

OGH!!! I HAVE A LIGHTSABER!!!! THIS IS GAME OF THE YEAR!!!!

omg i made my lightsaber perfectlyyy which is rare <3 getting a good grade in jedi

maybe i was a travelling lightsaber salesman before my amnesia

seriously though WHO was i everyone's kinda stopped acting like i have amnesia since the first mission BUT IVE PLAYED DRAGON AGE THAT GIVES YOU OPPORTUNITIES TO RP UR PAST. THIS DOESNT. EITHER THIS GAME IS BAD (but i love it so its not) OR I HAVE RETROGRADE AMNESIA

also everyone keeps being like "Oh ur force juju is so strong" AND NOBODY FOUND ME TIL NOW??? suspicious. did getting a really bad concussion activate the force in me

im too confused and amnesiac'd to think abt anything except the fact i have a glowing stick now

FSESH FIVE:

big fan of using aliens to avoid having to get VAs to read every line

oh so carth's boyfriend saul betrayed him and became leader of the sith fleet so he has trust issues

well he needs to calm down. i can't betray him cause i dont know what the fuck is happening

yooo i love the design differences on the mandalorians

oh my god this lady wanted to fuck her droid cause it was her husband's. and then it killed itself. wtf. game of the year tho

wtf they jebaited this juhani person into going dark side but then i talked her out of it. that seems a bit mean of them

i hope she can join my party she looks too unique to be a random npc

ive been thinking and I might be going crazy but there was a loading screen tip ages ago that said jedis could wipe ppl's mind and all i thought at the time was 'fuck the shitshow acolyte didnt make that up'. but what if one of them wiped MY memory and i used to be a jedi or smthn ????????

cause they keep being like ur weirdly good at this??? did bastila steal my memories??????????

I KNOW I HAVE AMNESIA!! EVEN IF EVERYONE DOESN'T BRING IT UP BC THEYRE PROBABLY TRYING TO SAVE MY FEELINGS

if i dont have amnesia and im just deeping the fact the opening had my life being mansplained then im gonna look real stupid

anyway time 2 go to the fuckshit ruins cave where r-dog and malak went to

"it must be referring to revan. the dark lord and malak--" revan's pronouns are revan/thedarklord

bastila said theres no mention of the Builders in the archives. does she just know every text off by heart

THIS DROID IS 20K YEARS OLD ???

omg i can equip 2 lightsabers at once. game of the year

OK I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING I SAID ABOUT THE AMNESIA BASTILA IS ASKING ME QUESTIONS ABOUT MY BACKGROUND THAT I CAN ANSWER. I REPEAT I DO NOT HAVE AMNESIA

ok i didnt get choices and i didnt really uh… say anything that i didnt already get told im still not ruling out amnesia

also booo i didnt get to find out how old i was

master tortimer rlly looks like the ultimate ketamine yoda

LMAO THERE WAS A DIALOGUE OPTION 2 CALL JUHANI A CATGIRL

omg kashyyk from jedi fallen order!!!

I CAN UPGRADE MY LIGHTSABER THIS IS JUST LIKE JFO

omg this ship is fun i wish everyone had personalised bunk spaces like hfw… a game which came out 19 years after this i should probably just take what we have

im gonna start w manaan cause im p sure thats what B-dog said n its the same language the droid was speakin

omg hyperspace from star wars

THE GUY THE BUILDING FELL ON???

am i having dreams abt revan bc bastila killed revan and im connected to her this is so roundabout

maybe i'd sleep better if my ponytail wasnt clipping into the pillow

[kiwi accent] six

carth needs a xanax every time i think we're friends he stops trusting me

also lmao he actually pointed out how wild it was that a day one padawan is being sent on this uber important mission and HES RIGHT IT IS WEIRD!! i thought it was main character logic but he's calling it out

i really really like the sense of unease that's setting in like at first i thought it was just cause im not used to 2003 games but no this is on purpose bc carth my friend carth keeps calling it out

THERE IS A CHILD ON MY SHIP ??????????????????

lmao the representative for menaan is roland wann. its like poetry it rhymes

there are no cameras in the sith hangar <3 rookie error i can commit crimes now

bastila's favourite hobby is getting shot and walking into my grenades

this isnt a combat system this is a missing system

I GOT ARRESTED???? IM JUST A GIRL

nvm i had a datapad that said the sith were evil so theyve let me go free and we're besties

why do i feel like ive just walked into an underwater horror mission

this suit waddles at the speed of a penguin on fentanyl

i tamed the beastie this is like how to train your dragon

MALAK FIRED ON REVAN?????? WERENT THEY BEST FRIENDS???????

but maybe revan escaped when bastila wasnt looking THEYRE FINE THEYRE OUT THERE SOMEWHERE. I BELIEVE

so hopefully when we run into revan they'll be like agh i changed my ways cause of the being shot thing and they'll be my bestie

great news i successfully communicated w the ship child and gave her back to dantooine. my girl has shockingly good linguisitics skills

bastila is so dour "oh watch out for the dark side" GIRL I AM. I NEED TO GET THE BEST GRADE IN GAME MORALITY

ok OFF TO KASHYYK i hope cal kestis is there… thru the force i guess… bc he wont be born for another 4000 years but its whatever

omg you'll never guess what. another vision. wow its one of the thangs. cool this is a tomorrow me problem

[yanderenightmare]

All For One

TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, captive reader, mind deterioration

fem reader

All For One has a habit of subjugating you for his own pleasure. 

It’s a game he likes to play—quite like chess, only… you start off with a single pawn, and you don’t know any of the rules. And he’s been world champion ten years in a row. And he plays dirty.

Tonight, he’s dressed you up in a costume. Not any old Halloween costume, but a slutty one. Not a playboy bunny or a maid, nor a schoolgirl—this was worse—a sleazy rendition of your old hero uniform.

You’d barely recognized the faintly familiar design when he first laid it out on the bed for you. Silly and naïve, you thought his games of derision would end when you finally offered your submission, but that was a fool’s thought. What fun were you if not proof of his undying victory—a reminder, a trophy, a relic?

It’s beyond degrading. Tight and revealing. Less than an actual costume, it was more something one would wear in the bedroom, cosplaying for some fantasy starring an overly sexualized you. Only God knows where he’d gotten it from.

Your steel armor, once with the dignity of a knight, had instead been swapped out for a silly silver bikini—the shimmery fabric tacky and cheap, allowing your nipples to peak forth. Covering it was a top and a skirt made up of silver chains, which only further mocked the appearance of chainmail—looking more like the jewelry a stripper might wear.

He’d forgone your helmet, boots, and sword entirely. Truly, if it weren’t for the detailing of the pattern making the fabric vaguely resemble plated armor, it wouldn’t have been much different from any other set of lingerie.

And still, it’s just similar enough to make it sting.

“Look at you...” he jeers, his voice sodden with taunt—carmine stare faded and gleeful, thoroughly enjoying it. “What a sight for sore eyes.”

He stands behind you in the mirror, holding you delicately by the hips, intimately close, dressed in another one of his black suits, fully clothed in devastating contrast to you. His smile curls as he roams your ill-covered body, kissed with the flush of chagrin, leering at you in the reflection—his voice slithering right by your ear.

“Though I can’t say I remember it being quite so revealing, can you?” he jokes, running his hands up and down your waist, fiddling some with the intricacies—metal daintily clinking and clangoring. “No, there’s something else that’s different...”

You feel so humiliated, so small—as if he could hold you up by the scruff of your neck with ease. It isn’t just a feeling—you’re well aware that he most likely could.

“Why yes, of course…” he hums with delayed realization—you know he’s faking for anticipation, chittering while wrapping his thick arms around your tiny midsection, giving you a firm squeeze. “You’ve lost all muscle.”

It’s a painful truth. You don’t know how many months it’s been. Perhaps a year has passed already, maybe even more. He keeps you well aware of his triumph in the outside world, but time still eludes you.

You’d tried maintaining it in the beginning, even after he’d taken your quirk. You’d been vigilant, keeping up your workout regimens just as religiously as before. But you couldn’t pick what you ate, nor when—and he’d only feed you cake. It wasn’t long before all your hard-earned muscles had melted away like popsicle syrup off the stick, licked and lapped right up by the man holding you.

“Mmh, yes…” he murmurs gratingly while swaying you back against him, lips pressing against your ear. “And it’s left you oh-so-soft.”

His bulbous crotch slots against your upper ass, resting there as it grows fatter and warm—a sign of his enjoyment. The weight of him makes you feel all but paper-thin.

His voice rasps now. “If I were to give you your quirk back, I wager you wouldn’t even be able to use it anymore—it would sooner rip your poor limbs apart.”

It’s beyond cruel to suggest—as if disgracing your old costume wasn’t enough torment already. You bite your lip, gnaw it harshly—don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t let him see you cry.

“Isn’t that just fascinating?” He gives your earlobe a gentle bite, and the whimper in your throat springs free like prey out of hiding.

A sniffle shortly followed—along the dribble of the night’s very first tears. Your diminished spirit has made you all too prone to cry as if there’s nothing else for you to do but indulge in the small comfort it gives.

“Oh, sweetie—don’t weep over prowess long since lost. It was never enough to challenge me anyway,” he coos, as if consoling you—swaying your smaller brittle body back against his looming chest, a cage that seemed to swallow you whole.

Steering your jaw, he holds your face still before the mirror, unable to look away as the tears dribble down your sorry cheeks—he smears them further with a kiss.

“The world would chew you up as you are now, fragile like glass.” The grin curling his lips makes you resemble prey caught on a predator’s teeth—you can’t help but shiver at the sight of it. You wish he wouldn’t toy with you like food and just kill you already. “Mark my words, hero—the belly of the beast would not grant you as much comfort as I do.”

His other hand slips down to cup your mound—firmly, with a squeeze that has you curl yourself back against him as he presses two tough fingerpads into your clothed clit, rubbing it tightly enough to make your thighs shake.

“You’re better off like this,” he grunts, snickers at how your weak hands clutch the sleeve of his suit, curling the fabric in your palms until your knuckles whiten—watching the furrow further crease between your cinched brows as you try and bite back your pathetic little sounds even as more tears come tumbling down your swollen cheeks. “Mh, my pretty plaything.”

He makes you continue to look at yourself as he simply slides the panty to the side of your cunt. Encouraging you to place your hands flat against the mirror as he bends you forward, then to step back and stand atop his dress shoes.

“Don’t be shy now,” he makes sure to tell you. “You’re as light and negligible as a feather.”

He parts his feet and yours along with them, spreading your thighs enough to accommodate the fat heat he soon slides between them. Rigid and veiny, it competes with the size of your forearm—so thick that when he slaps it up against your slit, your knees buckle from the impact.

His chuckles rumble across your body like an earthquake. You only realize how much it makes you shake when he encloses your hip in his big hand, steadying you. Holding you still as he drags his engorged cockhead through your lips, catching your clit before resting on your entrance.

You’re so sore from prior nights—countless hours locked in this room with his visits the only thing keeping you company—everything has yet to forgive you for the wreckage those visits leave behind. Your sorry little puss rues and dreads another defeat now as he sinks inside the comfort of your battered walls, one unyielding inch at a time. 

You wince and tense, shoulders bracing, and yet he pushes deeper, sliding you down his shaft until you rest at the hilt of his base, kneading the tip into your gummy womb, giving it a deep kiss that bulges out from your poor belly.

The sight in the mirror is morbid, even more so than the feeling—the way he molds your insides to fit him, to cater and house his length and size. 

“Ah—just perfect, isn’t it, hero?” he purrs, chest resting heavily upon your spine while dwarfing both your hips in a firm grip, chin-stubble scraping along your neck as his voice comes out hot against your ear, “Obedience suits you so well, don’t you agree?”

Your knees buckle once he starts the heavy pace—slowly pounding into you from behind, dragging out and pushing deep in womb-robbing thrusts. You pant from the toll of it, feeling your muscles give—too tired and too broken to continue acting tough. He’s the only reason you’re left upright on your feet—keeping you standing with just his hold on your haunches. It seems like nothing to him, though it feels like the weight of the world to you.

“It’s only a shame it had to come with all these scars.” He clicks his tongue, eyes raking across your body as it takes him, resting on each mark disrupting the otherwise milk-smooth skin. “If only you’d accepted your place sooner.”

The ember burning within you is all but a piece of cooling charcoal now. You feel it diminish every day, leaving you even thinner than before.

“But then again, I quite enjoy you like this—littered with my battle scars from your toes up to your crown. It’s rather intimate, isn’t it?” he hums with a smile. “Proof of all the times I could’ve quashed you beneath my foot like a pitiful bug but decided to spare you. Teach you how to worship like the weak ought to.”

There was a time when you still humored the thought of killing him, even with your quirk taken from you. You thought, in your foolishness, that being this close to him must garner an opportunity, any, however slim, just enough for you to take advantage and finish what you vowed to end so long ago.

Now, you almost don’t care anymore. The world had moved on without you, and there was nothing more you could do about it.

You realize your promise had been as cheap as this outfit.

“The greater the fall, the sweeter the surrender, isn’t that right?” he states. “Doesn’t it feel good to finally accept your place in the world, hero?”

You can only nod your head and agree.

♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist