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cursedyuri · 2 months ago

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WILL YOU SHUFFLE ME, SPREAD ME APART?

summary: in the slums of zaun, you’ve carved out a life for yourself which not many would envy. you spend your nights in the arms of strangers, trading coin for hasty touches and labored breaths. and since such a line of work isn’t always enough to keep yourself fed and clothed, you have a second service to offer: fortune telling.

or... two times vi comes knocking, and a third time you let her in.

18+ only! smut below. cw for fingering (r! receiving), cunnilingus, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of blood. 7k words.

The heels of your boots click against damp cobblestone, wet thumps echoing through the dingy alleyway leading to Babette’s brothel. It’s a particularly humid night, even despite the chill in the air - the humidity makes it worse, you think. It feels like the cold is seeping into the very marrow of your bones.

You pull your cloth coat tighter over your torso, thankful when you rap on the brothel’s wooden door and are allowed in almost instantly. One step through the threshold, and the biting cold melts like early-spring snow. The air is thick here, too, but warm and smoky. Tobacco stings sweet in your nose, a cocktail of too-strong perfumes mixing with ribbons of incense that linger suspended midair. It’s an intoxicating kind of smell, one that makes weak women and weaker men feel more inclined to spend their hard-earned coin on a night with a stranger.

Part of you is hoping none will choose you tonight. It’s not that you’re opposed to it - gods know you’d be in the wrong line of work if you were. Rather, you’ve got plans to eat the meager dinner you’ve purchased for yourself, sip some red wine, and rifle through your cards for answers about what’s been going on topside lately. You’ve heard murmurs of an attack, rebellion… You’re not exactly sure what to believe, so as you often do, you look to the cards for clarity.

The deck sits idly by a thicket of half-burnt herbs on your desk, stacked precariously where you’d last used them. You shed your coat and hang it on a brass hook by the desk, then slide into the seat in front of it. Still thawing, you sink into the velvet cushion and reach into your knapsack for the paper-wrapped sandwich inside, also procuring an unmarked bottle of wine from beside it. You’re wiping an iron goblet clean with the fabric of your tiered skirt when a familiar voice calls your name from the doorway. It’s one of the other workers here, Nina. She’s been here just about as long as you.

“You might hate me,” she says, a preface that makes your lips turn downward in a frown.

You grunt, uncorking your wine and pouring a hearty serving into your goblet. By the sounds of it, you’ll need the liquid courage. “I just sat down, you know.”

Nina’s delicate brows pull together; maybe she’s feeling apologetic, or maybe she’s just laying it on thick so you’ll take a job before you’ve even had dinner.

“I thought so, but… I think you’ll like her, peach.” She pauses for a beat. “And if you take her, I may have some chocolate I’d consider parting with.”

“Bribery,” you say, a grin pulling at your lips as you roll your eyes at Nina’s offer. “But fine. Send her in.”

“Will do, peach,” Nina practically squeals, disappearing from your doorway just as quickly as she’d come.

Cursing under your breath, you take a swig of wine and turn to the tarnished mirror behind your desk, examining yourself. By some stroke of luck, you’d had the sense to put on a layer of makeup before you’d gone out earlier. Blemishes are covered, your eyes are rimmed with kohl, and a smear of rouge emphasizes the pouty shape of your lips. That’s all you ever need, paired with the eye-catching swell of your breasts against the low-cut linen of your blouse. This will be easy enough.

You’ve drained half the wine in your cup by the time your client knocks at the open door. You turn your head to greet her and, before you can get a word out, the door slams closed with a heavy thud. At first, you gawk at the client because of her notable entrance - but then, you gawk because Nina was right. You like her.

This girl looks like the undercity chewed her up, spit her out, then chewed her up again. She’s all sharp edges and leather and lipstick, black makeup smeared from her eyes to her cheeks. Her hair’s black, too, though you can see patches of red exposed from an uneven dye job and a few heavy-handed washes. She’s certainly achieved the menacing look she’s sought out, and though it’s a mighty contrast to her pale complexion and piercing blue eyes, it somehow works for her - she’s the kind of girl you wouldn’t mind getting dirty for.

“Good evening,” you say, because it’s all you can seem to think of to break the silence. “Would you like a drink?”

The client surveys you up and down with those icy blue eyes, working her jaw. She nods. “What do you have?”

“Wine, whiskey, gin,” you tell her, gesturing to the makeshift bar cart beside a loveseat at the entrance of your suite. Different colored liquors fill antique, mismatched bottles at different levels. The client glances over at them, steps up to the cart and surveys that, too. Then she turns to you, gestures to your goblet.

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

You nod. “Wine it is, then. Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.”

She obliges, lowering herself onto the plum fabric of the loveseat. Her legs are spread just so - enough to make it obvious that this woman is used to taking up space, and unafraid of what that kind of confidence might imply. Your eyes linger on her parted knees, but not long enough to get caught. After you fill up a goblet for her and refill your own, you glide across the room to hand her the drink. She accepts it with a nod of thanks, her fingertips brushing against yours in the process. You take a seat beside her.

“What’s your name?” You regard her behind fluttering lashes, sipping from your freshly filled goblet. The wine is sweet on your tongue, bitter around the edges. You can already feel it loosening your muscles, relaxing your inhibitions. Piquing your curiosity, even.

The client takes a swig from her own drink and says, “Vi.”

Vi. Her name is tattooed on her cheekbone, you muse, gaze sweeping over her face once again. There’s a silver hoop pierced through her nose, a scar etched into her upper lip. A healing bruise on her left jaw catches your eye, blooming faint shades of purple, yellow, and green. You’re afflicted with an urge to reach out and touch it - to touch her. But when she catches your gaze with those steely eyes of hers, you’re frozen. Like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar, your cheeks flush hot. Vi seems amused by your appraisal, cracks a smile that looks somehow natural on her war-torn face.

She cuts through the tension like a spearhead, one hand reaching forward to readjust the sleeve of your blouse, which had fallen down your shoulder. Her fingertips are cold and calloused, but the touch fills you with uncharacteristic warmth. “What’s your name?”

You tell her and she repeats it, that sultry voice curling around every syllable of your name as if she were tasting it.

However intoxicating Vi’s voice might be, it dawns on you again what she’s doing here. She’d paid for your time, paid to sip your wine and touch you with those split-knuckled hands of hers. You have the sense to wonder why - a woman like Vi should have no trouble warming her bed for free, yet here she is.

“Well, Vi,” you say, pausing briefly for another sip of wine, “how do you want me?”

If your straightforwardness bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She brushes dark locks of her out of her eye-line, seemingly considering your answer. Then: “I heard you tell fortunes.”

You quirk a brow at her. “I—yes. Is that what you want?”

Something flashes in her eyes. “Among other things.”

“It’s extra for that,” you clarify. “The fortune-telling, I mean.”

“I have enough.”

And that settles it. You uncross your legs, stand up and move to retrieve your deck of cards from the desk. There’s a table in front of the loveseat where Vi still sits, and that’s where you lay out an ornate silk cloth to spread the cards upon. You gather the thicket of herbs from your desk, too, along with a match. Vi watches you set fire to the sprigs, a stream of smoke billowing upwards and filling the air with a sweet, earthy scent.

“What questions do you have?” You ask, settling down upon a floor pillow on the opposite side of the table from Vi. After you set down your goblet of wine, you pick up the deck and begin to shuffle; the fluttering sounds of cards fills the silence before Vi can answer.

“Do I need to ask questions?”

“No, I guess not,” you respond, shoulders shrugging. “I can just see what the cards say about you.”

Vi nods her assent, tossing her head back to finish what’s left of her wine. One by one, cards fly out from the deck as you shuffle, some upright, some inverted. When you’ve circulated through the deck once or twice with no other cards presenting themselves, you stop.

“Five of cups,” you read aloud. The card’s illustration depicts a figure in a black cloak, turned away, three emptied cups at her feet. Behind her are two upright cups, unnoticed. “Loss. Mourning.”

Vi inhales sharply through her nose, and when you look up at her, she’s white-knuckled with her hand around the stem of her now-empty goblet. You lift your brows in a wordless question - should you continue?

She nods.

“Something didn’t work out as you’d planned it, and you’re too stubborn to let go. Instead, you lament the loss and let it hold you hostage.”

There’s a sound like Vi humming, a quiet acknowledgement of your words as you move to the next card.

“Four of wands, reversed - this tells me you’ve been separated from loved ones. This is what didn’t work out as planned, maybe?”

When you look at Vi this time, she’s leaning forward in her seat, forearms braced against her strong thighs.

“Maybe,” she echoes. “What else is there?”

You show her the next card, another inverted one. The illustration depicts a man in ornate clothing, a flower plucked between his fingers as he prances confidently towards the edge of a cliff. “The fool, reversed.”

“That’s me?” Vi asks. “The fool?”

“Hm, not always. But with the other cards… You are the fool, Vi, I’m sorry to say it.” You hope she catches the tinge of playfulness in your tone, serious as the reading feels. Heavy as the tension feels.

“Well,” she starts, “the cards don’t lie, I guess.”

You hum in agreement. “The fool, reversed this way, tells me that you’re reckless. Lacking caution, you’ve opened yourself up to betrayal.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Vi laughs without humor, tries to drink the last crimson drops of the wine in her goblet. “Can I get some more?”

You move to get up and fetch her the bottle, but she waves a hand to dismiss you. She’s up and across the room in a flash, refilling her cup and taking a swig before she’s even made it back to the loveseat.

“But…” You hold up her final card - judgement. The art depicts an angel blaring into a trumpet from the heavens, the humans below rejoicing. Her eyes assessing the card, Vi looks to you for an explanation.

“Judgement tells us that renewal and transformation is possible,” you finish

“Renewal, transformation... Right. What’s the catch?”

Smart woman, you think. There’s always a catch.

“You have to be willing to let go of what’s held you stagnant. Accept what’s behind you and focus on what’s ahead, because wallowing in misfortune does you no good.”

That seems to resonate, because Vi’s expression turns shadowy, thoughtful. She drinks again, her lips nearly purple from the wine. You take a moment to drink from your own cup, ready to ask Vi if she wants you to undress yourself, or if she’s the kind of client who wants to do it for you.

Instead, you’re stunned into silence when she polishes off her drink, slams the cup down onto the table, and stands. Her jaw is locked again, tense.

“Vi?” Your brows lift in question.

“Thank you,” she says. She moves towards the door, then stops when she seems to remember something. One bandaged hand digs into her jacket pocket, emerging with a handful of coin. She places it on the nearest surface, a small table with a lamp glowing atop it, and only glances back towards you before she vanishes out the door.

There’s a draft in the room, suddenly. You curl into bed, pull the covers over your goosebump-afflicted skin, and think.

The days following Vi’s visit dawn bleak and cold as ever. Nina asks about your client the following morning, and you let her bask in the satisfaction that you had liked her, but you politely break the news that she’d been nothing particularly special - a white lie to keep the questions at bay. You’re not one to run your mouth; besides, rumors spread through Babette’s brothel like wildfire.

Some of the latest rumors? There’s a man with magical abilities lurking in the shadows of Zaun, with a touch that heals the sick. There’s a blue-haired revolutionary forming a significant following in the undercity, those of whom claim she’ll free them from Piltover’s brutality. You’re not sure what to believe, but there must be some truth to the rumors, because your cards sense something afoot: the tower, ten of swords, ace of cups.

Still, business continues as usual. Degenerates and saints alike seek your company, and you need the money to survive, so your bed is always warm.

Because you’ve had dozens of clients over the years who visit and never return, you don’t expect to see Vi again. Still, your mind keeps returning to her - you wonder why she’d stormed out so suddenly, why she’d paid you for sex without laying a finger on you. The curiosity lingers in the back of your mind, but you counter it with reality: she’d probably chickened out. Heard something too striking in her reading and couldn’t follow through, but decided to pay for your time anyway. At most, it was a kind gesture.

So why can’t you stop thinking about her?

Weeks pass, and your routine continues. Tonight’s another late night, and you’re relaxing after several clients in a row. You’d bathed in water treated with salts and oils, the scents still clinging to your skin as you rub salve into your aching muscles. The last few clients had been rough - twisting your limbs, working you into positions that tested your flexibility and endurance as they used their tongues, fingers, and other appendages to chase their pleasure through your body. None of them had made you come, though, so in the momentary solitude of the bath, you’d slipped your hand between your legs until your release pulsated through your tired frame. Now, you’re feeling pleasantly warm and at ease, perfumed and ready if there may be a late-night visitor. You’d be grateful for the extra money, if you’re being honest.

When there’s a steady knock at the door, you saunter over to answer it in nothing but your lingerie, lacy black and surprisingly comfortable. Who knows? They might pay extra for such ease of access - and a nice presentation.

The flirty smile on your lips disappears when you realize who’s on the other side of the door.

“Gods—Vi?” You try not to express your shock, schooling your features to the best of your ability. Vi, however, turns a pretty shade of pink when she takes in the sight of you: tits pushed together and decorated in delicate lace, the soft hair over your sex barely obscured with thin fabric. Your thighs are plush and glowy with moisture, hips hugged beautifully by the high-waisted panties that match your elaborate bra.

Vi’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. “I’m… Sorry to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting,” you assure her, opening the door all the way to allow her entry. You try to ignore the way her gaze first moves to the empty bed, something like relief washing over her features before she turns back to you. The door shuts with a soft click.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I thought you were a client.”

After wrapping yourself in the first robe you find by your bedside, you move to the bar cart to pour Vi a drink. She scoffs, an almost-laugh that’s low and soft. “Well, I am a client.”

As the wine sloshes into her goblet, you fix her with an admonishing look. “A client looking for sex, Vi.”

That shuts her up. Her cheeks are still pink, you notice, as you take in her appearance: most of the dye has faded out of her hair, leaving it a patchy canvas of black, maroon, and fuschia. She’s still sporting a cut and a bruise here and there, but more wounds are covered with bandages than last time. Notably, she’s not drenched in black paint, though there is a ring of liner around her eyes.

“Thanks,” Vi says when you hand her a cup of wine. She shoots back a mouthful and moves to the loveseat, lowering herself into the same spot as last time.

“So?” You arch a brow at her. “Here for another reading, I take it?”

She nods. “Yeah, sweetheart. If that’s okay.”

“I thought I scared you away last time,” you reply with a smirk. There’s a hint of truth to the statement, though, teasing as you might be - you hadn’t expected to see her back so soon, if at all.

“Oh, you did,” she admits. “But things have changed, and now… I’m curious what you have to say. I could use some advice.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Just as it was last time, Vi’s attention is honed in on you. You shuffle the cards with expert precision, and she watches the way your hands dance over the deck, fingers grazing the careful illustrations of each card with easy familiarity. This time, five cards leap from the deck: seven of cups, the chariot, eight of wands, four of wands, eight of pentacles. It’s a story unfolding beneath your fingertips, all the more interesting when you think back to Vi’s last reading.

“You’ve made progress,” you tell her. “But the hard work isn’t over. You’re prone to wishful thinking, which is a good thing, sometimes, because your determination is a powerful force.”

Glancing up at Vi, you offer her an encouraging smile. “When you fight, I get the sense that you almost always win.”

Vi snorts, wiping a burgundy smear of wine from her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s what the cards say?”

“Not exactly, but, well… I’ve gathered some things for myself.” You hold up the chariot card. “This one tells me you need an ironclad will to move forward. One I don’t doubt you have.”

Is it just your imagination, or does Vi turn pink again?

“And these,” you say, holding up the two cards from the wand suit, “show me fire. Creation, destruction, volatility. You’re dealing with something that can be useful or detrimental, depending on how you proceed.”

Vi’s eyes are alight, not unlike the fire you’ve just discussed. What you wouldn’t give to know how her life aligns with these cards - what fire is she playing with? What challenges is she facing?

“And the last one?” Vi’s voice cuts through your internal musings as she gestures to the final card on the table. You pick it up and show it to her - the eight of pentacles, depicting a man hard at work, hammer in hand.

“It’s very much in line with the others,” you explain. “Diligence, focus, hard work.”

She hums, nodding. “Got it. So, any chance there's a card that’ll tell me what I should do?”

Her tone drips with sarcasm, but you can tell there’s a glimmer of sincerity in the question - and in those pale blue eyes, swirling with emotion.

You press your lips into a firm line, setting the eight of pentacles card down. “I wish I could tell you exactly what you want to hear, Vi,” you say honestly. “But that’s not how the cards work.”

“Yeah,” Vi responds, voice bitter around the edges; somber. “I figured as much. Thank you, uh, for the reading.”

In the silence that follows, you imagine a braver version of yourself: one that isn’t too hesitant to ask questions. One that would feel comfortable offering a listening ear to this riot of a woman, whose scars and bruises tell you just as much as the cards you’ve splayed out for her. You wonder where she goes after she leaves here, if that home holds a family, friends, a lover. But all you can do is wonder. You don’t go sniffing for information - like the brothel dweller you are, information finds you. And if it doesn’t, perhaps it’s better to wonder.

Vi rises from the loveseat, readjusting one of the tattered blankets strewn across its surface. She finishes the remainder of her wine and, gently, sets it on the table.

She says, “I’ve gotta go.”

Her hand dips into her jacket pocket and emerges with far too much coin, which she sets out on the table for you.

“That’s too much,” you counter with a furrowed brow. “We didn’t—you only had your cards read.”

You reach forward to collect the extra cash, ready to push it back into Vi’s palm, but she backs away with her hands in her pockets.

“Nah, sweetheart,” she replies, ambling towards the door and prying it open. “Keep the change.”

The next time you see Vi, her knuckles are bleeding.

It’s been weeks, maybe even months, and you’re surprised to find her at your door again, much less in her current state: battered and bruised, her knuckles raw and red. Her shoulders sag, that proud, confident air about her entirely deflated. She’s a shell of the woman you’d first met months ago; all that brazen confidence she’d once had has burnt down to dying embers.

When she looks at you, her eyes are forlorn, watery. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Vi…” You open the door further, ushering her in with a gentle hand at the small of her back.

Inside, you pour her a drink - water, this time - and instruct her to lie down on the bed, draping a thin blanket over her frame.

“You’re hurt,” you say pointedly, gesturing to her bleeding knuckles. “Can I help?”

Vi’s expression doesn’t change; her eyes are distant, her skin so pale it’s almost grey. But she nods her assent, so you get to work - you swipe a wet cloth over her knuckles to clear away the blood, then cautiously apply a salve to her wounds. Through it all, Vi hardly even winces, a fact that doesn’t exactly surprise you. Even now, with her brazen confidence stripped away to the bone, she’s tougher than most. It’s an attribute that runs through her to the core.

“Don’t you want to ask what happened?” Vi asks, suddenly. Her voice is raw, and to avoid looking her in the eye, you focus on wrapping her knuckles with layers of soft gauze. “Wanna know how I fucked up this time?”

You frown. “I’m not one to pry.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause before Vi speaks again. “That’s what’s different about you,” she says. “Everyone else just… Wants something from me.”

Brows knitting together, you fix Vi with a look that you hope reads less as pitying and more as understanding. You’re certainly familiar with catering to other’s desires over your own; it’s been this way for longer than you can remember.

“I’m sorry,” you say, genuinely. Finished dressing her wounds, you let go of her hands, still kneeling at the side of the bed. You stand up with the intention of refilling Vi’s water, but as you reach for the cup, she catches your wrist in one bandaged hand.

“All those times I saw you,” she starts, “when I had you read my cards… You never asked about my life.”

You nod, wrist burning from her touch.

“Why? You never wondered?”

“It’s not my job to wonder.” You swallow. “Just to give people what they want.”

Vi’s gaze is intense, holding you in a trance. You’re frozen there, standing at the side of the bed, entirely in her grasp. “But do you ever get what you want?”

Do you?

You’d been working for Babette for years, longer than most - and before that, even as a child, you’d always understood that bending to the will of others is the easiest way to move through life. You can slip through the cracks that way, get enough coin or food or clothing to live another day. You wanted that, you suppose. To live.

But you’re not sure that’s what Vi’s talking about.

“I have enough,” you say. “There’s not much I want.”

Vi nods. “But there’s something.”

You smooth your free hand over hers, and she lets go of your wrist. “I’ll get you some water.”

As you refill her cup, you feel her eyes on you, and your mind races. Why does she care about what you want? You’re a stranger to her, a fortune teller living on scraps in an undercity brothel. First, she’d paid you for sex she’d never had, and now she’s in your bed, asking you questions you barely had the wherewithal to ask yourself. Gods, this woman is something else. You wish you could read her mind - crack open that beautiful skull of hers, sift through her thoughts, learn what had led her to you not once, not twice, but three times. You wish you could know everything about her, read her like your favorite book with its pages dog-eared, its cover well-worn.

Maybe that’s what you want, after all.

Returning to the bedside, you hand Vi her cup and stand by as she takes a long drink, then sets it on the nightstand. Her hair has grown a few inches since the first time you’d met her, you muse, and you like it this way - long locks of pink-crimson fall in jagged layers just past her shoulders, her bangs framing her face nicely. You wonder what it would feel like to reach out and run your fingers through that hair, to brush it free of knots, to hold the back of her head in your palm.

“It’s late,” Vi says, interrupting your train of thought. “I should go - you should get some rest.”

She peels back the blanket you’d settled over her, sitting up. You hesitate, then reach forward to touch her forearm. “You can stay, I don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you up,” Vi says, “or… Keep away any business.”

Something in your chest tightens. “You won’t.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“I want you to stay,” you interrupt. “You need rest, too.”

Vi’s mouth hangs open for a moment, stormy blue eyes assessing you. Then, she settles back into bed, pulling the blanket up over her chest again. There’s a long pause, only the muffled sounds of laughter and salacious moans from other rooms filling the silence. You’re debating setting yourself up on the loveseat when Vi murmurs a quiet hey to capture your attention, then pats the space beside her in bed.

There are candles still burning on desks and tables and dressers throughout the room, lamps shining in shades of yellow and orange. You’ll lie down for only a moment, you tell yourself, long enough for Vi to doze off. Then you’d turn off the lights, blow out the candles, maybe sneak off to find a client looking for a fortune teller. You sense that Vi needs someone beside her for now, though, so you climb into bed, wrapping your frame in a velvety purple blanket.

Once you’ve settled in next to her, Vi turns on her side to face you. Her lips, rosebud pink, are chapped, and you watch her moisten them with a swipe of her tongue.

“Thank you,” she says, voice hushed. “For letting me stay here.”

I didn’t know where else to go.

You turn over to face her, too, the corners of your lips pulling upwards. “Of course. I’m glad you’re okay, Vi.”

There’s a softness in Vi’s expression, now - one that you hadn’t seen before. The tough facade has melted away, as has the hurt, the pain. All that’s left is her rounded, wide eyes, her relaxed jaw, the curve of her lips. You catch yourself staring too long, and when you look up again, Vi’s already watching you.

She raises a bandaged hand to your face, where it hovers an inch away. Her expression asks for permission, and when you lean into her touch, Vi’s hand cups your cheek with a gentleness you’d never think her capable of. Not with those scars, not with the cuts and bruises that have become a permanent fixture on her skin. Her thumb skates over your cheekbone, and the touch feels electric.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

Your breath hitches; you hope she doesn’t notice.

“I’m sure you hear that a lot,” Vi adds. And it’s true, you do.

You hesitate. Then: “Not from anyone who matters.”

Vi smiles - it’s a soft kind of smile, one that you wish you could take a photo of, frame it and hang it on the wall to return to when you need a reminder of the warmth in this moment. Her hand leaves your cheek and travels down to your arm, then finding your hand beneath the blankets. Your eyes feel heavy, suddenly - so must hers, because she doesn’t speak again. You fall asleep next to her, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, her hand warm and heavy in yours.

When you wake up again, the room is a dark, inky blue.

You sit upright, back straight, memories of the night before slowly filtering into your mind. Half-expecting an empty space where Vi had once been, you glance to the side, finding her sleeping figure curled under the blankets. Chest tightening, you look down at her in the black dark, eyes straining.

Her eyes open, lashes fluttering, and you gasp.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Did I wake you up?”

“I’m a light sleeper,” she murmurs back to you. One of her arms snakes around your waist, encouraging you to lie back, and you oblige. You’re closer than you were when you fell asleep, Vi’s steady breaths tickling at your shoulder.

You’re suddenly very aware of her skin on yours; your shirt has ridden up your stomach in your sleep, and Vi’s arm, wrapped around you, burns against you. Your stomach is warm with something delicious, something dangerous.

It doesn’t help when Vi pulls you closer, palm opening against the flesh of your hip. You’re frozen for a moment, wondering if she’s still sleeping, somehow.

“Vi?”

“Hm?” You feel her draw back, as if waiting for you to turn over, so you do. Eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, you peer up at her.

“I think I know what I want.”

Vi’s quiet, her gaze steady on you. You’re about to take it back, whisper never mind and turn to sleep again, when she brings her hand back up to your cheek, cupping it in her hand the same way she had the night before.

“Tell me,” she whispers in the dark.

“I…” You hesitate. “I want you to touch me.”

There’s a long pause, Vi’s eyes flickering over your face, analyzing your expression. Your body is tense with anticipation, and when she finally, finally leans in to press her lips to yours, the tension seeps out of every muscle.

Like everything about her, Vi’s kiss is different - her touch is different. She holds your face as her lips move against yours, soft and wet and sweet, thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek as her tongue traces the part of your lips. You open your mouth for her, let her lick into you to deepen the kiss.

It’s been a long, long time since you’ve been kissed like this. You’ve grown accustomed to hasty, messy kisses, foul breath and rough touches, far too many clients eager to skip past the kissing and get to the fucking. But Vi tastes like heaven as she takes her time with you, tongue soft as it pushes against yours. Every kiss leaves you aching for more, the warmth in your lower belly growing hotter with each smack of your lips against Vi’s. You pull back, catching your breath, and Vi peers at you with bleary eyes.

“You okay?” She asks, thumb still stroking at your cheek. You nod and pull her in for another kiss, drawing a soft moan from the bottom of her throat - one that goes straight to your cunt.

You’re not sure how long you continue like that, trapped in a heated kiss, bodies moving closer with every languid sigh and pleading moan. But eventually, the layers of clothing between you is a burden you can no longer bear. You pull back to work your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor before Vi tugs you close for another searing kiss. Your hands slip beneath the thin fabric of her tank, and she shivers, a full-body chill that makes you flush impossibly hotter. Once her shirt is discarded, too, Vi gently pushes you to lie flat on your back, climbing over you in nothing but a thin pair of shorts. You realize through the haze of lust clouding your mind that she must’ve woken up before you - she’d turned the lights off, taken off the stiff pair of pants she’d arrived in the night before.

Hovering over you in the dark, Vi’s an absolute dream. Tattoos decorate her pale complexion, inked into her arms, her shoulders, her neck - you’d already noticed that she’s heavily inked, but it’s more striking when she’s half-naked like this. You don’t have much time to look, though, because Vi leans over to tuck her face into your neck, warm lips latching to the sensitive skin and littering kisses in an imprecise path. You keen high in your throat, leaning the opposite way to grant her more access, your hands finding purchase on her narrow hips. When you dig your nails into her skin, hissing as she parts her lips over your neck and sucks, her hips buck forward, grinding her thinly-clothed heat over your pelvis. You nearly see stars.

There’s always been a cold draft in your room, in the brothel, and in Zaun as a whole. But here, now, you’re on fire. You lift your hips and push Vi down against your pelvis again, encouraging her to find that friction again, and she emits a muffled moan against your neck when she does. It’s heavenly, that sound - you want to hear it again and again and again, until it’s forever etched into your memory.

“Gods, Vi,” you gasp, her teeth scraping against your neck. She works her way further south, leaving kisses and bites in her wake, until she reaches the peaks of your breasts.

“You’re so pretty, fuck,” she murmurs, dazed. Both hands cup your tits and squeeze, her thumbs playing with the buds of your nipples until they’ve hardened from her touch. She then leans over to take one nipple into her mouth, moaning around the flesh as if she’d been dying for this. Her tongue draws wet circles over the sensitive bud, her cheeks hollowing out when she sucks at it until you’re gasping and writhing. You need her further down, where your cunt throbs and gushes in anticipation, but she takes her time with your other tit before she even considers undressing you further.

Still straddling your waist, Vi sits up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She flashes you a wicked smile, eyes twinkling, and lifts her hips to reach for the waistband of your shorts.

“This okay, pretty girl?”

You nod, biting your lip. Pretty girl.

Vi rolls your shorts down your thighs, pulls them off with ease and sets them to the side. Your panties are next - a simple, cotton pair that wasn’t anything flashy - and she tosses those to the edge of the bed, too distracted by the sight of your naked body to care much about where they landed.

Typically, you weren’t shy about your body. In your line of work, you couldn’t be shy - you had to know your features and work them to your benefit. But with Vi eyeing you like you’re a meal and she’s a woman starved, your stomach flutters with excitement and, somewhere, a glimmer of insecurity. The need to impress her.

And gods, does she seem impressed. She curses under her breath, her rough hands smoothing over the curves of your body, squeezing your hips and your thighs and your ass, licking her lips like she’s parched. You realize, as she settles her hands on your knees and works them apart for you, that she’d taken off her bandages, too. The thought evaporates as quickly as it had come, though, because now Vi’s settling between your spread legs, peppering kisses along the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” she tells you between kisses. “You gonna let me eat you out, sweetheart?”

The question sends another cascade of butterflies through your stomach. You take in a deep breath, enjoying the sight of Vi between your legs, looking up at you with pleading eyes. You might die if she doesn’t make you come soon.

A whispered “please” from your lips is all Vi needs - her mouth is on you in a moment, tongue splitting through your folds, warm and firm and wet. She licks at you languidly, takes her time spreading your arousal from your hole up to your clit. You’re drenched, you just know it, and Vi moans as if to confirm your suspicions, lapping up your wetness with every flick of her tongue. Just like she’d taken her time with her mouth on your tits, she takes her time with your cunt, sucking on the swollen bead of your clit until you’re whining her name between sharp breaths. It’s all you can manage to say, your hand tangled in her scarlet locks of hair, tugging at her scalp each time she circles your clit with her tongue. After she’s worked you up enough, you’re suddenly so empty - you need more, and you tell her as much, chest heaving.

“Vi, I need—fuck, I need your fingers,” you cry out.

She answers with a gratified hum, and the vibrations have your eyes rolling back into your skull.

Just as you’d asked, though, Vi swipes a finger through your wetness; there’s hardly any resistance when she sinks the digit into your entrance, groaning again at the feeling of your walls around her.

“So wet for me,” she comments, grinning. “This what you needed?”

You nod, face twisting with pleasure. Vi just chuckles under her breath, working her fingers up to a steady pace. Once she has you moaning again, all high-pitched and needy, she latches her mouth back onto your clit, and you’re gone. You come hard, clamping down on Vi’s fingers and tossing your head back, eyes squeezed shut through every wave of pleasure - it’s only once you’ve come to that you finally open your eyes again, gazing down at Vi starry-eyed.

“Can I be honest, sweetheart?” She sits up on her heels, licking her lips. “That was hot.”

“You think so?” You ask, reaching out for her. She moves closer and kisses you, lets you taste yourself on her lips.

You pull back only to murmur, under your breath, “I’m not done with you, Vi.”

You’ve had sex with plenty of women in your lifetime, but few have made a real effort to make you come - and none have done it so fast. You’re determined to return the favor. So, with a pointed glance, you instruct Vi to lie back on the pillows, plucking one from behind her to set under her hips.

Vi had called you beautiful, but she’s utterly divine. All sharp edges and lean muscle, she’s a vision, and you’re almost convinced you’re dreaming as your hands smooth over the tattoos inked into her arms. You imagine yourself tracing each of those tattoos with your mouth, sucking bruises into the dark ink - but you’d do that later. Right now, all you want is to bury your face in the patch of red hair between her legs, lose yourself in the taste of her arousal.

Vi’s vocal, you conclude, because as you prod your tongue inside of her, nose bumping against her clit, she won’t shut up.

“That’s it, fuck, you’re so good,” Vi moans, sitting up enough to allow her to watch as you lap at her pink cunt. An endless chorus of praises and curses leave her lips, punctuated with wanton moans. She’s needy, too - before long, she’s gripping a fistful of your hair and directing you with it, tugging you closer, to the side, to the other side, as she grinds her cunt down against your mouth. You revel in the way she’s using you, pleased when her stomach tenses and your name spills from her lips, warning you of her impending orgasm. She rides it out on your face, and when you finally pull back, you’re wet with her from nose to chin.

“You’re way too good at that,” Vi tells you when you crawl up beside her, rubbing the wetness off your nose.

“You’re just as good,” you respond. You move to lie down beside Vi, but when you see her frown, you arch a brow at her.

“Hm?”

“Sweetheart,” she coos, “I’m not done with you.”

She pulls you into her lap, lets you straddle the toned muscle of her pelvis. And after you’ve ground your pussy against her until you’re shaking with another release, she’s still not done. It’s a long night.

At the table in the corner of your bedroom, your deck of tarot cards lies spread face-down. There’s one card upright, though: two of cups.

#vi x reader #vi x reader fic #vi x reader smut #vi x you #vi x y/n #vi fic #vi arcane #vi arcane fic #vi arcane fanfic #vi arcane x reader #arcane fanfic #arcane fic #my writing

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ac1dmeow · 3 months ago

Note

Quick question… could you maybe do a g!pJinx X femreader! And like it’s super soft and all of that? 😮‍💨🤭

pls don’t hate me for making jinx have a bionic strap instead. sorta the same thing anyways right

notes: nsfw, bionic strap-on sex, men & minors dni

jinx x female reader smut ᰔᩚ

jinx has you on your back while she nestles herself between your thighs. you can tell by her heavy breaths that she’s eager—eager to find out how this toy will work. if it will work. the amount of times she’s gotten penis envy over her regular strap is almost embarrassing.

“takin’ it slow with this one alright?” she murmurs, grabbing the shaft of the toy and lining herself up to your entrance. she’s taken by surprise at how she feels her own touch. it makes you giggle at her silly expression.

“where’s the fun in that? c’mon jinxie~” your sultry tone bleeds into a small whine. jinx sighs and smirks, teasingly rubbing the tip between your wet folds before fully burying herself in one go.

the air is knocked out of you and your thighs immediately tense. jinx on the other hand is paused above you, hand clutching tightly on the flesh of your plush thigh while the other holds her up beside your head.

“hooly shit~” she groans at how sensitive she is. she never imagined a day where she’d get to feel you like this. the sensation of your velvety heat wrapped around her so perfectly has her mind reeling to the point she has to refrain from just relentlessly pounding into you.

you cradle the blue haired girl’s face to pull her into a kiss, wanting her body closer against you. “how is it?” you murmur against her plump lips. as much as you want to tease her right now, you also just want to enjoy this new moment with her—even though it’s technically more new to her.

“you feel fucking good.” jinx starts moving, slowly pulling her hips back and sliding back in. she bites her lip with a grunt while your hands caress every ounce of her exposed skin. that compliment washes over you as a wave of desire, making your hands tighten on her waist.

your breathing starts getting faster and more laboured with every stroke, the roll of her hips against yours stimulating your pulsing aching clit. jinx, holding herself up by her forearms, let’s out grunts and moans into your parted mouth, making your tongue dive into her mouth in a heated kiss. the heat of your bodies cause you both to sweat and dampen the bedsheets, but neither of you notice.

jinx parts with a curse, stomach muscles jumping. the feeling of her moving inside you has you spreading your legs wider wanting to take her deeper—soft moans dripping from your swollen lips. giggling, you reach a hand up and brush some of jinx’s blue hair behind her ear, eyes watching her every expression of pleasure and storing it as memory for safe keeping in your brain. “you can go faster babe… harder…” you quietly suggest, running your lips across her faintly freckled cheek and placing a kiss beside her ear.

jinx huffs and smirks. her body buzzing with excitement at that confirmation, even though she had said in the beginning she would take it slow. she wastes no time and picks up the pace. this time pulling back and ramming back inside repeatedly rather than just the rolling of her hips that she had been mostly doing. this way makes you feel every inch of her leave and enter you, and the the squelch of both your combining slick to sound quietly in the small room.

the blue haired girl above you whimpers, fingers tightening around the pillow above your head—the hitch in your throat and the tight clench of your pussy makes her flutter her eyes open to look down at you. your saliva coated lips are parted in an “o” shape while your eyes have closed with furrowed brows, cheeks flushed and neck glistening with sweat. paired with your moans that get louder and more frequent, the sight is sure as hell one to behold in jinx’s opinion. although she’s technically seen it before, being able to actually feel you at the same time has her feeling like she’s even higher than cloud 9.

“ohh fuck, right there.. just like that..!” your moans get higher in pitch, nails now scratching up and down jinx’s back, hands tightening on her hips that show no mercy in holding back. jinx wants to scoff in sass but her face instead fills with pride and slight amusement. “you wanted me to go faster just for you, huh? so fuckin’ needy.” she rasps. she should’ve expected this from you, and she knows it was right of her to when she sees the toothy smirk spread across your flustered face. “maybe… jus’ wanted us t’ both feel good.” you finish lamely defending yourself with a close mouthed moan, gently tugging on her soft hair that’s been let loose. she looks so hot and pretty above you—hair down, face flushed and naked from the top down—her most vulnerable form.

“oh yea i’m sure you did.” jinx chuckles deeply. she spends the rest of her time in your neck occasionally planting hot kisses and mumbling sweet praises into your ear whenever she isn’t whining and moaning at the toe curling pleasure your pussy provides her. and when she gets close her hips stutter, breathes turning throaty while she curses. “shit! ‘m gonna cum. god…” her words trail off into incoherent babbles when her face pressed into the crook of your neck, body going tense above you.

you feel yourself being pushed closer to the edge as well, bringing your hand into her hair while your arm cradles her head. the girl’s whines as her hips desperately rut against yours makes you melt in an odd sense of affection, full body heating up at knowing just how good you’re making her feel. “makin’ me feel so good, j. don’t stop..!”

and she doesn’t. not until you’re both moaning and whimpering messes in the sheets, even if that means having to sacrifice overstimulating herself a little when having to keep going to let you finish too. by the end of it, you’re both slumped against one another, sticky flesh against sticky flesh.

jinx sighs happily and lifts her head to gaze down at you with a lopsided grin. “we’re doing that again.”

#૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა #jinx x reader smut #jinx x female reader smut #jinx x fem!reader smut #jinx smut #arcane jinx smut #jinx #arcane jinx #jinx x reader #jinx x fem!reader #jinx x female reader #lesbian

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mrsfancyferrari · 12 days ago

Text

A Lover's Touch

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one.

Song: After Hours · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 12.9k

MASTERLIST - F1

Charles sighed, another wave of that dull, persistent ache washing over him. It was the kind of feeling you attributed to a long day, an early morning, anything but the truth: a hollow space where his soulmate should be.

In this world, finding your soulmate was practically a given. A man simply had to pay attention to the pervasive sense of well-being that blossomed the closer he got, like basking in the sun after a long winter. Women, on the other hand, experienced the opposite. A gnawing anxiety, a yearning that intensified with proximity, only to be extinguished by the kiss that confirmed the connection.

Charles had always envied the ease with which others navigated this aspect of life. He'd seen friends practically vibrate with happiness as they zeroed in on their matches, their faces glowing with a newfound understanding.

He’d witnessed public displays of affection, the relief on the woman’s face palpable as the kiss settled the tremor in her soul. But for Charles, nothing. Just the ever-present, low-grade ache.

He was currently seeing Alexandra, a vibrant artist with paint-stained fingers and a laugh that could fill a room. He liked her. A lot. They shared a passion for old movies, bad puns, and late-night talks fueled by cheap wine.

But there was no soul-deep connection, no magnetic pull, no burgeoning sense of peace. And, crucially, no agonizing need emanating from Alexandra.

They had been upfront with each other from the beginning. A pragmatic agreement born from a realistic understanding of their world.

“If one of us finds their soulmate,” Alexandra had said, swirling the wine in her glass, “we break up. No hard feelings. Friends, maybe? If that’s not too weird?”

Charles had agreed, the thought of losing her already a small pang in his chest. The potential for a real connection, even if not the connection, felt too valuable to pass up.

He was at Alexandra's apartment now, ostensibly to help her hang a new series of paintings. The walls were already a riot of color, abstract swirls and bold strokes that somehow managed to create a sense of harmony.

She was humming softly as she fiddled with a level, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Looking at her, bathed in the afternoon light streaming through the window, Charles felt a surge of affection. He appreciated her easy smile, her quirky sense of humor, the way she always seemed to see the best in him.

But still, the ache persisted. Proof, if he needed it, that she wasn’t the one.

He handed her a hammer. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "how are you feeling? Any, you know… existential dread?"

Alexandra snorted, a smudge of paint adorning her cheek. "Existential dread is kind of my default setting, Charles. So, no. Nothing specific." She hammered a nail into the wall with practiced ease.

He felt a pang of guilt. He was testing her, probing for signs, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe… But he knew it was futile.

Over the next few weeks, Charles found himself increasingly preoccupied with the idea of soulmates. He started paying closer attention to the people around him, subtly observing couples, searching for that telltale glow of contentment on the men's faces, the relieved serenity settling on the women's.

He noticed that happy couples were everywhere.

Everyone had found their soulmate somehow, except him. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles clenched his jaw, the familiar sting of frustration pricking at his temples. "Carlos, you better stop asking that question," he warned, his voice tight. He hated this. Hated the constant reminder of his perceived failure.

Charles grimaced, shoving a forkful of carbonara around his plate. "Carlos, you know the answer to that. Lay off, will you?"

Carlos just grinned, a smug, infuriatingly happy expression plastered across his face. "Just checking in, mate. You've been at this for years. How many 'almosts' are we up to now? Thirty? Forty?"

He gestured across the Ferrari cafeteria with his fork towards Rebecca, his soulmate, who was engrossed in a conversation with a mechanic.

They looked sickeningly content.

Charles felt a familiar pang of envy. In this world, finding your soulmate was supposed to be easy. A biological compass, really. For men, the joy, the sheer rightness of being near your soulmate was unmistakable, a balm to the soul.

The further away they were, the heavier the weight of longing became.

It was a system that supposedly guaranteed happiness. Supposedly.

He hadn't felt that blissful uplift even once. He'd chased fleeting moments of "almost" – a slight lift in mood, a subtle easing of his constant, low-level yearning – only to be disappointed.

A waitress at a local trattoria, a tourist sketching the Duomo, a woman he’d helped carry groceries – all dead ends.

"It's not exactly something you can force, Carlos," Charles sighed, pushing his plate away, the carbonara suddenly tasting like ashes. "It'll happen when it happens."

Before Carlos could launch into another unsolicited pep talk, the cafeteria doors swung open, letting in a gust of warm air and a whirlwind of nervous energy.

A woman stood there, slightly breathless, your cheeks flushed with a nervous energy that radiated across the room. You were… striking.

Charles immediately felt… lighter. The persistent, low-level hum of anxiety that usually buzzed beneath his skin seemed to quieten.

He felt a sense of ease he hadn't experienced in years.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," you said, your voice laced with a genuine apology. "Traffic was a nightmare. I'm… I'm the new social media manager."

You swiped a hand across your forehead, a gesture that only amplified Charles's initial assessment: you were flustered, stressed, but undeniably composed.

For Charles, the world seemed to narrow to just you. The slight tremor in your voice, the way you clutched your bag, the subtle shift in your posture as you addressed the room – it was all acutely, intensely noticeable.

He felt a strange, almost protective urge to reassure you.

But he didn't say anything. Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was just a coincidence, a fleeting surge of positive energy unconnected to anything real.

He looked around the room, searching for any sign that anyone else was experiencing a similar shift. Carlos was grinning like an idiot, but that was just Carlos being Carlos.

No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“Well, welcome!” Carlos boomed, his voice cutting through Charles's internal debate. “I’m Carlos, and this brooding gentleman over here is Charles.”

You turned your attention to Charles, and your eyes met his. He felt a jolt, a small electric shock that ran right through him. Your eyes were captivating, filled with a weariness that tugged at something inside him.

He forced himself to maintain eye contact, searching, hoping for any sign, any flicker of recognition on your face that mirrored the growing certainty within him.

But all he saw was polite curiosity.

"Nice to meet you both," you said, offering a tentative smile. "I'm… Y/N."

"Welcome to the team, Y/N," Carlos said, his smile widening. "We're happy to have you."

You took a seat at the desk opposite Charles, and as you settled in, arranging your papers and fiddling with your laptop, he continued to observe you. The feeling of well-being hadn't dissipated.

If anything, it had intensified. It was like a low, comforting buzz that resonated throughout his entire being.

He stole glances at you throughout the morning, carefully monitoring his own reactions. He felt energized, focused, almost… happy.

This was it. This had to be it.

He'd heard stories, of course, of the almost instantaneous connection, the overwhelming sense of rightness. But he'd dismissed them as romantic exaggerations.

He was a Formula 1 driver, not a fairytale prince.

Yet, here you were.

"So," you began, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickling sensation building behind your eyes. It was a familiar feeling, one that always intensified around... well, around the right person. "Let's talk strategy. We need to ramp up engagement, create compelling content, and showcase the human side of the team."

Carlos, ever the professional, jumped right in. "I was thinking we could do more behind-the-scenes videos. Show the fans what a day in the life of a driver is really like."

"Excellent idea, Carlos," you said, scribbling down notes. "We can also highlight your training regimes, your collaborations with engineers, and your interactions with the team."

You turned to Charles, expecting him to contribute. But he just sat there, staring at you, a strange, almost dazed, expression on his face. The comfortable buzz he felt was almost intoxicating, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

"Charles?" you prompted, the prickling behind your eyes intensifying. You felt a slight pressure building in your temples, a familiar ache that threatened to blossom into a full-blown headache.

"Uh... yes," he stammered, snapping back to reality. "Sorry. I was just... thinking."

You forced a smile, the muscles in your face strained. You needed to get through this meeting. “Thinking about what it's like to be Charles Leclerc?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light and conversational, masking the desperation clawing at your throat.

"Yeah! I think it would be a good idea for the fans, you know? A day in the life, that kind of thing," he commented, radiating an enthusiasm that only amplified your suffering. "You think it would work?"

"Definitely," you managed, the word feeling like a shard of glass caught in your throat. "It's all about connecting with the fans, showing them the human side of the drivers. We could film you training, doing media obligations, even grabbing a coffee." You rattled off the ideas, desperate to keep the conversation flowing.

You continued outlining the PR activities planned for the season, the endless interviews, sponsor events, and social media appearances.

Your voice was steady, your demeanor professional, but inside, you felt like you were teetering on the edge of a cliff. The other members of the Ferrari PR team, seasoned professionals, seemed oblivious to your internal struggle.

"So," you said, finally reaching the end of your presentation, the word "finally" wanting to burst out of you. "That's the general overview. We can discuss specific schedules and logistics later."

Charles and Carlos shook their heads.

"Okay, great," you said, gathering your notes. "Then, Charles, which time are you free?" you asked, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably.

You were feeling faint, the edges of your vision blurring. "For the 'Day in the Life' video, I mean."

Charles was distracted, fiddling with the Ferrari cap in his hands. "Um, I'm free next Tuesday, I think?" he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Good," you said, pushing through the fog in your brain. "I'll come over with a cameraman to record the day in your life, is that okay?"

"Sure," he grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement.

You managed a weak smile in return before gathering your things and making a hasty retreat from the hospitality room. The air outside felt marginally better, but the pounding in your head refused to subside.

You had a brief meeting with the other social media managers and editors, running through the ideas you'd presented to the drivers and outlining the content calendar for the next few weeks.

You felt like an imposter, trying to project an image of competence and enthusiasm while battling a pain that threatened to overwhelm you.

It was a dull, persistent ache, a hollow pit in your stomach that resonated with an inexplicable longing. It was the Soulmate Sickness, as your grandmother used to call it, with a dramatic sigh and a knowing look. Every woman in the world knew what that meant: your soulmate was nearby.

The closer they were, the more intensely you felt the ache. It was a cruel irony of fate: men felt blissful contentment when near their soulmate, a sense of completeness and belonging; for women, it was an agonizing reminder of the connection, a pull toward someone they wouldn't truly be at peace with until that kiss.

You knew the stories. Women driven mad by the constant ache, unable to function, their lives consumed by the desperate need to find, and then kiss, their soulmate.

And now, here you were, feeling the first tendrils of that very despair wrap around your heart on your first day at your dream job.

Lunch was a torturous affair. The Ferrari hospitality room was a vibrant, bustling place, teeming with engineers, mechanics, team managers, even the drivers themselves. Every single person felt like a potential source of your pain.

You picked at your pasta, forcing down each bite as the ache amplified, a constant, throbbing reminder of the unknown man who was probably enjoying the greatest day of his life.

You told yourself it was just nerves from the new job. The pressure of living up to expectations. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn’t just butterflies. This was something far more profound, far more insistent.

You were close to him. Very close. Whoever he is.

You leaned back in the seat, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths, trying to regain control. The ache lessened, but it was still there, a dull background hum that buzzed beneath your skin.

You must have found your soulmate, you thought, the idea settling in your stomach like a lead weight.

here was no other explanation for it. And that terrified you.

It could literally be anyone in the Ferrari hospitality room. An engineer with grease under his nails, a stern-faced strategist, a camera-shy photographer, or even… Don’t even go there.

You didn’t need this right now. You were just starting your first day at your dream job. A job you’d worked years for, poured your heart and soul into. You couldn't let some primal, biological imperative derail your career before it even began.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, starting the engine. “Okay. You can do this. You’re strong. You’re capable. You’re going to ignore this feeling. You’re going to focus on your work. You’re not going to let some random guy you haven’t even met ruin everything.”

Easier said than done, of course. . . . .

Charles felt it the moment you walked out the glass doors of the Ferrari factory. A dull ache, a low thrum of dissatisfaction that had been a background noise in his life, suddenly amplified, blossomed into a full-blown longing.

It was a feeling he instantly recognized, a feeling every man in their world was intimately familiar with.

The closer you were to your soulmate, the better you felt. The farther, the worse.

And this… this was the worst he’d ever felt.

He’d only met you a few hours ago.

He'd found you intelligent, quick-witted, and surprisingly unfazed by his fame. He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Hadn’t needed to. He'd always assumed his soulmate would be… obvious.

A grand, sweeping feeling, not a dull ache that exploded into unbearable yearning the second you left his sight.

Now, driving home through the winding streets of Italy, all he could think about was you. Your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the intelligent questions you'd peppered him with.

The longing intensified with every mile he put between them. The confirmation was undeniable.

He practically threw open the door to his apartment, the silence amplifying the hollow feeling in his chest. He needed to figure this out. He needed to figure out you.

He spent the bulk of the next few hours running through other possibilities, but it all kept centering on you. He felt an energy and inspiration around her that he didn't feel with anyone else. As his thoughts grew chaotic, he realized he needed to talk to someone.

Someone who knew him, who understood him, and who wouldn’t dismiss this as some fleeting infatuation. He needed to talk to his mother.

He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found her name. He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

“Hi, maman,” he said, when she answered, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Charles! Mon chéri, how are you? It’s been too long.” Her voice was warm and full of genuine affection.

“I’m good, maman, busy, as always. But I wanted to ask you something. It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated? Is this about a girl other than Alexandra, Charles?” There was a knowing amusement in her voice.

He hesitated. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Look, you know about soulmates, right? About the feeling men get when they’re close to theirs?”

“Of course, I know. Why? Have you… found the one?” Her voice was laced with anticipation.

“I think so. But it’s… intense. I barely know her, but the feeling is overwhelming. It's all I'm constantly thinking about. Have I ever mentioned her? Her name is Y/N, she's new to the social media team.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

There was a pause. “Someone from your work, Charles? How long has she been working there?”

“I think today was here first time. And no, I've never mentioned her to you. I didn't think anything of it before."

"And you're sure? You truly feel the ache and longing? It is not just a passing infatuation?"

"Maman, I'm sure. I can barely function."

His mother sighed softly. "I see. Well, mon chéri, I don't know her either so I won't know much. This is uncharted territory for me. But you know the rules. You know what women experience with their soulmates."

Charles groaned. "Don't remind me. The poor girls--having to deal with the pain until they get rid of it with a kiss? And if she is my soulmate and I'm just making assumptions, I'll look like a complete idiot."

"That is a risk you will have to take, mon chéri. But if it is truly meant to be, it will all work out. Perhaps you should take a chance? Is she single? And do you even know if she's interested?"

Those were good questions that Charles didn't know the answer to. "I haven't got a clue."

"Then you must find out, Charles. Do not let fear hold you back. This could be the most important thing you ever do."

He knew she was right. He couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. He had to find out if you felt it too. He had to know if he was right.

"Okay, maman," he said, a newfound determination entering his voice. "I'll do it. I'll talk to her. I'll find out."

"That's my boy," she said, her voice full of pride. "I have faith in you, Charles. Now tell me more about this (Y/N)..."

They talked for another hour, his mother peppering him with questions about you, your personality, your work ethic, your smile.

He described you as best he could, trying to convey the spark he felt whenever you were near.

The sterile white of the break room seemed to press in on you, mirroring the suffocating feeling in your chest. You clutched your phone, the cool plastic a small comfort against your trembling hand.

"Dad, I think I found my soulmate," you whispered into the receiver, the words heavy with a sadness that threatened to consume you.

"Really, baby? Why do you sound sad then? Do you not like them?" His voice, warm and familiar, crackled through the speaker, a stark contrast to the icy fear gripping your heart.

"I don't even know who they are," you muttered, staring blankly at the faded motivational poster on the wall. “I was just working, it was my first day, and I just… felt it. This horrible, gnawing ache. It’s constant, Dad. Like a phantom limb screaming for connection. I’m terrified."

A pause stretched between you, thick with unspoken memories. "Is it because of what happened to Mum?" he finally asked, his voice laced with a cautious tenderness.

"Yeah," you managed, the single syllable choked with emotion. The ache in your chest intensified, a physical manifestation of the dread that had been your constant companion since your mother-

"Look, sweetheart," your dad continued, pulling you back from the abyss of memory, "I know this is hard. But you can't let what happened to Mum. This is your soulmate. Maybe… maybe things will be different. You owe it to yourself to find out."

You knew he was right, logically. But the knot of fear in your stomach refused to loosen. "I don't know, Dad. What if… what if it's like what happened to Mum? What if it makes me miserable?"

"Then you walk away. You're strong, Y/N. You're smart. You can handle anything life throws at you. Just… don't let fear paralyze you."

His words, as always, offered a sliver of hope. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "Okay," you said, the word barely audible. "Okay, I'll… I'll try."

"That's my girl. Now, tell me about this job. How was your first day?" He deftly steered the conversation away from the soulmate dilemma, a tactic you were grateful for.

You spent the next few minutes recounting the whirlwind of activity that defined your first day as a social media manager for Scuderia Ferrari.

You’d always been passionate about racing, and landing this job was a dream come true. The adrenaline-fueled atmosphere of the paddock, the roar of the engines, the sheer dedication of the team – it was intoxicating.

Your responsibilities included managing their social media presence, creating engaging content, and interacting with fans. It was a demanding role, but one you were eager to excel at.

As you spoke, you deliberately pushed the unsettling ache to the back of your mind. You focused on the thrill of the job, on the excitement of being a part of something so iconic.

“It was insane, Dad. Honestly, I felt like I was dropped into a beehive. But everyone was so welcoming. And the cars… they're even more beautiful in person."

By the time you hung up, the edge of panic had dulled. The ache was still there, a constant reminder, but you felt a renewed sense of resolve. You would face this, whatever it was.

You wouldn't let fear control you. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The heat of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit presses against you, even in the relative cool of the Ferrari garage. You lift your camera, framing Carlos as he adjusts his racing gloves.

“Looking good, Carlos! Give us a little intensity for the fans.” He throws you a practiced, smoldering glare. Perfect.

Your job is straightforward: capture the behind-the-scenes energy, the pre-race jitters, the quiet moments of focus before the storm.

You’re Ferrari’s social media manager, tasked with humanizing the drivers, making them relatable, building that connection with the tifosi. You love it, most days.

You pan the camera towards Charles' side of the garage. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, stretching his neck, a tiny, nervous habit you've noticed over watching him on the TV. “Charles, a word for the fans? Pre-race thoughts?”

He stops, turns, and that devastatingly charming smile flashes across his face. “Just focused, ready to give it my all for the team. Forza Ferrari!” He winks at the camera, and your stomach does a little flip. Annoying.

You’ve felt it more and more often lately, especially around Charles. That…ache. A dull, persistent anxiety that settles in your chest, a yearning that tugs at the edges of your awareness.

And it's happening with Charles Leclerc.

You lower the camera, forcing a professional smile. “Thanks, Charles. Good luck out there.”

“See you after the race,” he says, the words laced with a casual warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

He gives you a fleeting glance, something almost…knowing in his eyes, before turning and heading towards his car, disappearing into the controlled chaos of the pit lane.

You flush, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. This can’t be happening. You know Charles has a girlfriend. You’ve seen the pictures splashed across the internet, the Instagram stories.

It's a glamorous, very public relationship. And the rules are clear, etched into the very fabric of your society: your soulmate is someone available, someone unencumbered.

You can't steal someone else's. It's just not done.

The starting grid is announced over the loudspeakers, and the garage erupts in a flurry of activity. You busy yourself with filming the mechanics' final checks, the engineers hunched over telemetry screens, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your chest.

You’ve always taken the soulmate phenomenon for granted. It’s just a fact of life. Everyone experiences it, this biological imperative designed to ensure connection, stability, the continuation of society.

You’ve felt the faintest twinges before, in passing, around men you’ve met briefly. Dismissible, almost forgettable. But this…this is different. This is a constant, throbbing ache that threatens to consume you, particularly around Charles.

You meticulously avoid thinking about it, focusing instead on your work. You rule out the possibility entirely.

Charles is taken. End of story.

You even make a mental list of all the other eligible men in the paddock, mechanics, engineers, even other drivers – anyone but Charles.

The race begins, a blur of roaring engines and screeching tires. The giant screens in the garage display every angle, every overtake, every heart-stopping moment. You film the reactions of the team, the collective held breath as Charles and Carlos battle for position.

The final laps are agonizing. Charles is leading, but Max is closing in. The tension in the garage is palpable. You find yourself gripping your camera so tightly your knuckles turn white.

Then, it happens. Charles crosses the finish line. Victory.

The garage explodes in cheers, shouts, and high-fives. You film it all, the raw, unadulterated joy of the team, the shared sense of accomplishment. The crowd is ecstatic.

Charles, still helmeted and dripping with sweat, is guided into parc fermé. You film him climbing out of the car, pumping his fist in the air, soaking in the adulation. He looks…triumphant. Magnificent.

You jostled for position, aiming your camera, capturing his big smile as he hugged his race engineer and the rest of the team. He moved with an exhilarating energy, a palpable buzz of adrenaline that rippled outwards.

He was a magnet, and you found yourself drawn closer, your professional detachment wavering.

And then, he saw you.

His smile widened, somehow becoming even brighter. Before you could think, could prepare, he was striding towards you, his arms outstretched. The awareness hit you like a physical blow.

The gnawing anxiety, the sharp, almost unbearable yearning that had been quietly simmering beneath the surface for weeks, now flared into an inferno.

The closer you were to your match, the more intense the yearning became. And right now, the intensity was almost unbearable.

He pulled you into a tight hug. Your phone, trapped between the two of you, emitted a muffled squeak as it was squished against his chest.

His smell, a heady mix of sweat, gasoline, and something uniquely Charles, filled your senses. It was intoxicating, addicting.

He was feeling it too. The way he squeezed you, the pure, unadulterated joy radiating off him in waves. He was basking, thriving, feeling the best he'd ever felt.

It was confirmation. Undeniable, irrefutable confirmation.

He was your soulmate. But how was that possible? He already had a girlfriend.

Your head swam. The crowd roared, but it sounded distant, muffled. The ache intensified, threatening to overwhelm you. You felt like you were going to faint.

He let go, and your legs momentarily forgot their job. You stumbled, your balance completely gone.

Charles reacted instantly. He reached out, his hand gripping your arm, effectively blocking you from the view of the nearest camera. His grip was firm, supportive. He pulled you closer, shielding you from the prying eyes.

"Sorry," you mumbled, finding your footing. Your voice was shaky. You needed to get out of here, to process this, to… to breathe. The feeling was too much.

He searched your face, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you alright? You went a bit pale there."

You plastered on your most professional smile, even though your insides were screaming. "Just a bit overwhelmed. It's… it's a big win."

He didn't seem entirely convinced, but he let it go. "You were filming everything?"

You nodded, holding up your phone. "Got some great shots. The team's going to love it." You forced yourself to meet his gaze, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Congratulations, Charles. You deserved this."

His smile returned, genuine and warm. It sent another jolt through you, tightening the knot in your stomach. "Thank you. And thank you for everything. You do an amazing job."

"It's my job," you said, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

"Exactly," he said, his eyes twinkling. "And you're very good at it."

He turned back to the crowd, basking in the cheers, signing autographs, and accepting congratulations. You took the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed, swallowed by the throng of red-clad fans.

You needed to escape.

You found refuge in the relative quiet of the Ferrari hospitality suite. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversation were a welcome change from the sensory overload of the garage.

You found a quiet corner and sank into a plush armchair, your phone still clutched in your hand.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. This was a disaster. A beautiful, glorious, terrifying disaster.

Your mind raced. What did this mean? What were you supposed to do? Did you tell him? Did you pretend you didn't know? How could you possibly continue to work alongside him, to maintain even a semblance of professionalism, with this knowledge hanging between you?

Your phone buzzed. It was a text from your boss.

"Amazing content! The fans are going wild! Get some shots of the podium ceremony and then meet me in the strategy room. We need to plan the social media blitz for the next 24 hours."

Right. Back to reality. Back to work.

You took another deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. You could deal with this. You had to.

You grabbed your phone and headed back into the fray.

The podium ceremony was a whirlwind of confetti, champagne, and roaring cheers. You filmed it all, capturing Charles's triumphant grin as he hoisted the trophy high above his head.

You interviewed team members, capturing their jubilant reactions. You worked on autopilot, pushing down the anxiety, ignoring the ache.

Later, in the strategy room, you sat around a large table with your boss and several other team members, brainstorming ideas for social media posts, videos, and live streams. You contributed your suggestions, focusing on data, engagement, and trend analysis.

You were a machine, efficient and effective.

You glanced at your phone. A notification from Instagram. Charles had posted a photo of himself on the podium, holding the trophy. The caption read: "Forza Ferrari! Grazie Mille!"

You quickly liked the post. You had to. It was your job.

As you worked late into the night, crafting social media posts and scheduling content, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had irrevocably changed.

You were no longer just a social media manager. You were… something more.

“Dad, I think I’m broken,” you mutter into your phone, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why is that, baby?” your father replies, his tone tinged with concern and curiosity, a familiar warmth that reassures you even now.

You sit up, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. “I think Charles Leclerc is my soulmate,” you explain, your heart thudding heavily in your chest, “but he already has a girlfriend.”

“So?” he asks, as if trying to sift through the fog of your anguish.

“What do you mean, 'so?' He already loves someone else,” your voice rises slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You’ve dated other people who weren’t your soulmate, didn’t you?”

“Well…” You fall silent, realizing he has a point, but it’s not just about dating. You’ve been aware of the perfect connection that exists out there—an electrifying touch that ignites the air around you as you near your true soulmate, a sensation that you’ve yet to experience despite countless suitors.

“But this feels different, Dad,” you finally manage to articulate, your voice cracking. “I’ve felt it—this allure, this pull whenever I'm near him. It’s like I’m supposed to be drawn in, but I can’t get close enough. And now he’s with someone else.”

Your father exhales softly, and for a moment, you think he's contemplating your plight. “Sweetheart, sometimes soulmates have their own timing. Life isn’t always a clear path. It can twist and turn in ways that feel frustrating.”

You groan, flopping back down onto your bed, the familiar nagging feeling in your chest intensifying. “But it’s not fair. I don’t want to wait. What if he’s never free?”

You hear him sigh. “You’ll find your way, darling. None of this is broken. You’re simply allowed to feel.”

But feeling is exhausting. With a grumble, you hang up the phone and toss it to the side.

You pull the covers up around your shoulders, your mind spiraling into thoughts that latch onto one another like tangled threads. . . .

In a world where finding your soulmate was practically a given, it felt ludicrous to deny the truth that lingered like an uninvited guest in the back of your mind. You had tried everything to resist.

The tingling sensation of well-being that blossomed in Charles’s presence was undeniable. Every crease in his smile felt like warmth on a cold winter day, and yet every time you were near him, you felt a gnawing anxiety that scratched away at your insides, waiting for that inevitable kiss that would confirm what you both already knew.

But you avoided Charles at work—until that dreaded Tuesday arrived.

As the clock ticked toward your call time, dread clawed at your stomach. You were tasked with interviewing Charles for a video segment about his recent successes in racing, a seemingly innocent job that had broader implications—one of which was unveiling the truth of your connection.

The whole ordeal left you on edge, not just because of the content of the interview but because of the man you were supposed to be interviewing.

You arrived at his house in Monaco early, fidgeting nervously with the equipment, tapping your foot against the polished floor.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" your cameraman, Mark, asked, sensing your anxiety as he set up the camera. "It's just a video. You could probably wing it."

"You don’t understand," you said, crossing your arms tightly. “It’s not just about the interview.”

As if the universe had conspired to gift you a moment of reprieve, you heard a distraction—a small bark followed by the sound of paws padding against the floor.

You took a deep breath, prepping yourself for whatever awaited you beyond the door.

“Alright, let’s do this,” you whispered to yourself, trying to muster confidence.

You knocked, and after a heartbeat, the door swung open. There stood Charles, his tousled hair glowing softly in the morning light. Cradled in his arms was Leo, who seemed just as excited to see you.

“Hey there, superstar!” Charles greeted, his eyes sparkling with warmth as he shifted Leo to his side. The dog wagged his tail furiously, seeming to sense the tension in the air. “You made it early!”

“Yeah, um…” you fumbled your words, trying to navigate the delightful familiarity of his presence. “I figured it would be good to start on time.”

“Of course!” Charles stepped aside, allowing you into his immaculate home. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the air, and as you entered, you could feel that familiar sense of well-being swelling inside you.

It was infuriating how easily it came.

Leo plopped himself at your feet, looking up at you with expectant eyes. “He likes you,” Charles commented, chuckling as Leo nudged your shoe with his nose.

“Who wouldn’t? He’s a sweetheart,” you replied, squatting down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, trying to mask the flutter of emotions that rose within you. “You’re the lucky one, huh, Leo?”

Charles laughed, a rich sound that sent butterflies tumbling through your stomach. “He’s definitely the lucky one in this household. Come on, let’s get the cameras rolling before I lose my nerve in front of you.”

He led the way into a cozy living room adorned with art and memorabilia from his racing career.

As you settled in, you realized that despite your intentions, you could feel that gnawing anxiety creeping in. It was as if every question you planned to ask was swiftly brushed aside by the rush of feelings that accompanied Charles’s presence.

With Mark now behind the camera, you cleared your throat. “Uh, so, how does it feel to be one of the top drivers in the world?”

Charles shifted in his seat, looking relaxed but attentive. “Honestly? It feels unreal every time I put on that helmet. The roar of the engine, the thrill of the race—it’s like this exhilarating dance with danger. But, you know, having my family and a strong support system means the world.”

The sincerity in his voice stroked against your heartstrings. “That’s incredible. Speaking of support, who do you think has had the biggest impact on your career?”

He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aside from Leo?” he teased. “Honestly, it’s you. Your support during last week was amazing.”

Your heart stuttered, and you choked on the words that caught in your throat. “Me?”

“Of course! Whenever you’re around, things just feel easier. I can’t quite explain it,” he said softly, leaning forward as if he was letting you in on a profound secret.

The air crackled between you, and suddenly, the interview felt less like a professional exchange and more like an uncharted territory. You knew you had to breach the elephant in the room, but unease held you back.

“Charles, I—”

Just then, Leo sprang up and knocked over the camera, causing a flurry of laughter to erupt as Mark jumped up to steady it. “Leo! Not now!”

You glanced back at Charles, heat flaring up your cheeks. “Why must you distract us like that?”

Charles grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “I think he senses the chemistry.”

You shot him a skeptical look, but there was no denying the truth in his words. As the camera slowly righted itself, Charles turned serious for a moment.

“Maybe he’s trying to help,” Charles replied, gesturing toward Leo, who had taken residence in your lap, wagging his tail like a flag of friendship.

“Right, because if there’s one thing a dog knows, it’s romance,” you quipped, eliciting a chuckle from Charles that warmed you from the inside out.

“Well, he definitely knows love,” Charles said, a softness returning to his tone as he reached out to scratch Leo behind the ears.

The gesture was so tender, so effortlessly intimate, that you felt a familiar gnawing in your chest, the yearning that intensified with each stolen glance at him.

After a moment, you resumed the interview, Leo settling in your lap like a warm blanket. “What inspired your latest project, Charles? Is it something personal?”

Charles leaned back, a thoughtful expression clouding his features. “Honestly? It’s more than just art for me. It’s about connection. I want people to feel understood. When I see someone looking at my work and they smile, or their eyes light up, it makes everything worth it.”

You nodded, engrossed in his words, but all the while, the underlying tension was like a thread unspooled, weaving a fabric of dubious comfort.

“That’s admirable,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “But do you think art can replace human connection?”

His gaze sharpened, the levity of a moment ago dissipating into something contemplative. “I think art can enhance it,” he replied. “But at the end of the day, it’s about the people in our lives. The ones we cherish. The connections we nurture.”

A hint of unease slithered through you at his answer. The thought of deep connections—those that sparked a sense of well-being—made your heart race, but the yearning you felt, a subtle gnawing anxiety, was just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.

You shifted your gaze, avoiding the intensity of his eyes.

“So what else does Charles Leclerc do in a day?” you asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

Charles's expression lightened as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I hope you brought your running shoes because I have to take Leo for a walk,” he said, glancing at his dog, who perked up at the mention of his favorite word.

Leo barked, his tail wagging furiously against your lap.

You looked at Mark, the cameraman, who was observing the interaction with a knowing smile. “You up for some running?” you asked him, half-joking, half-earnest.

“Sure,” he replied, his enthusiasm infectious.

Charles rose from his chair, and Leo leapt to the floor, ready for action. “Let’s hit the trail then! I know a great path nearby that winds through the park.”

The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden hue over the park where Charles and you had decided to take Leo for his much-needed walk.

The vibrant greens of the grass contrasted with the vibrant colors of the flowers that had begun to bloom, a perfect backdrop for the evening. Leo bounded ahead, his tail a blur as he explored the scents of the world around him.

Charles chuckled as he watched Leo dart after a butterfly. “He’s like a kid, isn’t he? Full of energy and wonder.”

You smiled, glancing at the exuberant dog. “He definitely knows how to enjoy life. It’s contagious, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Charles agreed, turning his attention back to you. His eyes sparkled with a warmth that sent that familiar sense of well-being blooming in your chest, an unmistakable sign of his connection to you.

Mark, the cameraman, adjusted his camera, capturing the scene. “This is great! The light is perfect here. Just keep talking; I’ll get some candid shots.”

“Sure thing,” you said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the persistent sensation of gnawing anxiety that accompanied you whenever you got closer to someone like Charles.

“So,” you began, trying to shake off the nervous energy, “do you take Leo on walks like this often?”

“Whenever I can,” Charles said, his smile widening. “He’s my little buddy. It’s good for both of us. You know how it is—work can get hectic, but he reminds me to take a break and enjoy the simple things.”

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his sentiment wash over you. “I get that. Sometimes I feel like I’m so caught up in deadlines and projects that I forget to take a moment to breathe.”

“Hey, we should do this more often then. Get out, walk, enjoy nature,” he suggested, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

“Sounds like a plan! I could use some fresh air,” you said, a little lighter now.

As Leo darted back to your feet, his wet nose nudging against your leg, you bent down to give him a scratch behind the ears. “Hey there, buddy! How’s my favorite dog?”

Leo responded with a happy bark, and you looked up to see Charles watching you, his gaze soft and appreciative.

“You’re great with him,” he said. “It’s nice to see.”

“Thanks! I just love animals. They have a way of making everything feel less complicated, don’t you think?”

Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Totally. They don’t judge or overthink things. They just love.”

You felt a twinge of vulnerability, the familiar yearning in your chest growing more intense as you met his gaze. “And what about people? Do you think we overthink love too much?”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging lightly. “But it’s hard not to, especially when you know what it feels like to find your soulmate.”

“Right,” you said, your voice softer. The weight of his words settled over you, a mixture of warmth and anxiety. “But what if it’s not as simple as it seems? What if we’re all just…lost?”

Charles moved closer, his expression earnest. “You’re not lost. You just need to follow your instincts. Pay attention to what makes you feel good. That’s the key.”

“Easier said than done,” you replied with a teasing smirk, but inside, the knot of anxiety twisted tighter.

Mark was busy adjusting his lens, trying to catch the candid moments. “You two are great! Just keep being yourselves. The chemistry is palpable!”

You felt a rush of warmth at the compliment but also an echo of that gnawing feeling, the sense that something was waiting, just out of reach.

“Hey, how about a little race?” Charles suggested, glancing down at Leo, who was now eyeing a distant squirrel.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you can keep up?”

“Bring it on!” he grinned, playfully nudging you. “I’ll give you a head start.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. Let me know when you’re ready.”

As he counted down, you took off, your heart pounding not just from the run, but from the thrill of the moment. You could hear Leo’s paws thumping behind you, the sound of Charles’s laughter ringing in your ears.

You didn’t want to think about the anxiety, the longing, or what it might mean. You just wanted to feel free, even if just for a moment.

You reached the far end of the open field, glancing back over your shoulder to see Charles and Leo closing the gap.

Charles had an effortless grace to his stride, and even as you stood there catching your breath, you felt that familiar warmth radiating from him.

Charles caught up to you, his chest heaving with laughter. “You’re faster than I expected!”

You grinned, your chest rising and falling. “You underestimated me!”

His eyes sparkled, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. “I did! You’re like a gazelle out here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “A gazelle? Really?”

“Okay, maybe more like a clumsy gazelle,” he corrected, grinning as he bent over to pet Leo, who had finally returned, panting with excitement.

“Hey, no need to insult me!” you laughed, and the familiar warmth of his presence wrapped around you, banishing the anxious thoughts—if only for a moment.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark, the cameraman, calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

You glance back at Charles, who has a boyish grin plastered on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. His exuberance is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to forget the gnawing anxiety that usually accompanies your moments with him.

“You ready?” Charles asks, his breath coming in light pants as he straightens up, brushing stray leaves from his shirt.

You nod, the sunlight dancing in your chestnut hair as you brush your fingers through it. “Let’s go finish this.”

But as you start to walk, the gnawing anxiety returns, creeping in slowly like a shadow. The closer you get to him, the more palpable it becomes, a reminder of the connection you cannot seal. It’s a force you can’t escape.

For him, it’s a sense of peace, a warmth that envelops him, but for you, it’s an unbearable longing that only seems to worsen.

You carry Leo in your arms, feeling the comforting weight of his playful exuberance. He wriggles, trying to escape your hold to chase after a butterfly.

“Alright, alright, little buddy,” you say, gently setting him down. He takes off, bounding with enthusiasm.

“Seems like Leo has no problem being carefree,” Charles muses, watching the puppy chase the flitting insect.

“Yeah, if only we could take a page from his book,” you say lightly, but your heart feels heavy.

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment.

You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment. You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

As you walk back toward the bench, Leo frolics in the grass, tumbling and rolling as if to illustrate pure joy. Charles kneels beside him, scratching his ears, and you feel an unshakeable pang in your heart.

“Alright, you two, let’s wrap this up!” Mark calls, gesturing for you to take your places.

As you settle down beside Charles, you can’t help but feel the weight of your feelings bearing down. You catch his eye, and there’s something electric between you.

“So, coming to the end of this interview, do you think you’ll win the championship this year?” you ask, your voice a mixture of professionalism and underlying affection.

“I’m confident that me and Ferrari can achieve big things this year,” Charles replies, his expression earnest, his eyes sparkling with hope.

“That’s what we like to hear,” you respond, letting the moment linger just a second longer than necessary. Your heart races, and not just from the anticipation of the race season ahead.

There’s an unspoken rhythm between you, pulsing in the air like a melody only you two can hear.

You ask more questions, the interview flowing smoothly. Charles speaks with passion about his dreams and aspirations, his love for the sport evident in every word. But all the while, you feel the gnawing anxiety that accompanies your every interaction.

You want to close that distance, to extinguish that yearning, and the idea of a kiss hangs in the air like a tantalizing promise.

“Okay, that’s a wrap! This has been ‘A Day in Charles Leclerc’s Life.’ I hope you guys enjoyed the video and enjoyed me beating him in a race,” you say, your voice light and teasing.

“No way! I gave you a head start,” Charles shoots back, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“There’s no proof,” you shrug, a playful smile spreading across your face.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, shaking his head with a smirk. “But one day, I’ll challenge you to a real race. And I won’t let you get away with a head start.”

“Is that a promise?” you counter, your heart racing for reasons beyond the thrill of competition.

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that wraps around you. “It’s a promise. But let’s not forget—every time we race, you have to hold my hand as we get started. You know, for luck.”

You both laugh, the sound filling the spacious area, weaving through the barking of Leo, enjoying his carefree afternoon. Mark flashes a thumbs-up, signaling the end of the scene.

You grinned, a surge of pride warming you.

“Leo, it's time to go home!” you called, your voice laced with playful exasperation.

The miniature dachshund, a furry, low-slung missile, ignored you completely. He zipped across the grass, your ID lanyard dangling precariously from his mouth like a hard-won trophy.

Charles was doubled over, his laughter echoing through the spacious park, a sound that made your heart skip a beat.

“He really likes your lanyard, I think,” Charles chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye.

“He likes anything he can chew on,” you retorted, but your voice was light, your frustration dissolving in the warmth of his amusement. You resumed your pursuit. “Leo! Come back here, you little menace!”

The chase continued, a comical dance of wills. Leo, fueled by mischief, weaved between trees and benches, the lanyard flapping like a tiny, rebellious flag.

You were gaining on him when he veered sharply, heading straight… for Charles’ legs.

Charles yelped, a surprised sound that only made you laugh harder. Leo, triumphant, dropped the lanyard at his feet and sat, panting, tail wagging furiously.

“Traitor!” you declared, feigning offense. You scooped up the lanyard and clipped it back onto your shirt. “He’s clearly playing favorites.”

Charles knelt, scratching Leo behind the ears. “He has good taste, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes met yours, a mischievous glint in their depths.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. “I… suppose so.” You busied yourself with putting the lanyard away, avoiding his gaze. “We should probably get going. Mark’s almost packed up.”

Mark was indeed packing up, efficiently dismantling the equipment, blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging within you. The relief of leaving this park, this proximity, was almost palpable.

The walk back to the car was a pleasant one, objectively speaking. The air was cool and crisp, the scent of freshly cut grass lingering in the breeze.

Charles walked beside you, Leo trotting happily at his heels. It should have been idyllic. Instead, it felt like walking a tightrope strung precariously high above a chasm of suppressed emotions.

“I really enjoyed today,” Charles said, his voice soft, breaking the comfortable silence. “It was… relaxing.”

You forced a smile. "I'm happy I was able to make you comfortable," you said, the words feeling hollow even to your own ears. Comfortable for him, maybe.

He stopped walking, turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn't quite decipher. "You know," he began, tilting his head slightly. "Most interviewers just ask questions. You actually listened."

You swallowed, the anxiety tightening its grip. "That’s… kind of the point of an interview," you managed, trying to laugh it off. "Besides, it's your life. It’s fascinating."

"Is it?" He stepped closer, and the internal hum escalated into a full-blown alarm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drummer urging you to flee. "Or are you just being polite?"

You averted your gaze, focusing on a distant tree. "I wouldn't waste my time if I wasn't genuinely interested," you mumbled.

Charles chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting his. The amusement was gone, replaced by an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Before he can respond, Mark’s voice cuts through the tension. “Y/N! Am I still giving you a ride home?”

“Uh, oh yeah…” You falter mid-sentence as a wave of panic washes over you. The realization hits you like a cold shower, drawing your attention away from Charles and back to the alarming truth.

Your bag—your essential items, including your keys—are still at Charles’ house. “Shit,” you mutter.

“Um, you can go without me,” you say, mortified now, as a flush of embarrassment floods your system. You can’t even look at Charles. “I left my bag in Charles’ house.”

A flicker of something crosses Charles’ face that you can’t quite decipher—concern? Amusement?

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” Mark calls as he turns on the ignition in his car and pulls away, leaving you alone with Charles.

Now that the silence has settled around you like a thick blanket, you feel the gnawing uncertainty of your emotions wrapping tighter.

Your conflicting instincts tempt you to stay, to dive deeper into the maddening connection of your fate and his, while another part of you urges you to run—run far, far away from this simmering tension and the anxiety that burns you from within.

“You’re okay with walking there, right?” Charles asks, his brow slightly furrowed, eyes searching yours for affirmation.

“Yep,” you manage to reply, though the word barely escapes your lips.

As you walk, Leo, Charles's loyal dog, bounds between you, a bright streak of fur and happiness that somehow lightens the weight pressing on your heart.

You steal a glance at him, noting his handsome features, the way the light catches his dark hair, and the tension in the air thickens—a familiar feeling that both excites and scares you.

The awkward silence envelops you both, filled with unspoken words and parallel thoughts. You’re lost in your own mind, analyzing what Charles meant earlier, wondering if he sensed the connection your heart insists is there.

You catch a glimpse of frustration flickering in Charles's eyes; he’s wrestling with an internal battle of asking if you feel the same, if you both belong to this invisible thread of destiny.

Before long, you arrive at his house—a cozy, unassuming space that feels utterly alive with its charm. Charles opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first while he carries Leo in his arms.

The familiar scent of cedarwood and freshly brewed coffee envelops you as you step inside.

“Just grab your bag and let’s get out of here,” you say to yourself, trying to mask the heaviness that clings to your heart.

But as you move towards the living room, Charles’s voice halts you, a note of sadness threaded through his tone. “Could you please stay for a while? Leo really likes you.” Leo barks in enthusiastic agreement, his tail wagging furiously.

Your resolve begins to soften at the sight of Charles's hopeful expression, the way his eyes shine with an almost childlike earnestness.

You look down at Leo, wagging his tail expectantly, and your heart sinks a little further. “Okay,” you finally say, a reluctant smile breaking through the anxiety.

You both settle onto the plush sofa, Leo scrambling onto your lap, his warm presence comforting against the storm of emotions inside you.

As you play with Leo, tossing a soft toy for him to chase, Charles watches you with an intensity you can hardly bear. His admiration for you lingers in the air, and you can’t ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Leo thinks you’re the best,” he says, a gentle laugh escaping his lips. “I think he has good taste.”

You chuckle, trying to mask the heat rising to your cheeks. “If Leo approves, then there must be something good about me.”

“I do think you're wonderful,” he comments, and for a moment, the world around you fades. His sincerity wraps around you, igniting that undeniable pull between you both.

“Thank you, Charles,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing, betraying the wall you had built around your heart. If Leo had any say in the matter, he certainly seemed to be steering you in Charles’s direction.

Leo decided he was ready for some action again, leaping from your lap to chase after the soft toy you had tossed across the room. The joy on his face was immeasurable, a reminder of life’s simplest pleasures.

You wondered if it was too late to change the subject before you allowed yourself to drown in the depths of connection that was blooming—an uncharted territory you feared to venture into.

“May I take a picture of you and Leo for my ‘Cute Leo’ folder?” Charles asked, his eyes sparkling like the stars. Before you could respond, he pulled out his phone, and you found yourself nodding, an odd mixture of excitement and dread flipping your stomach.

The click of the camera sounded as you smiled down at Leo in your arms, your affection for the dog pouring out in earnest.

“Perfect,” he m, glancing at the screen before a look of longing crossed his features. You caught a glimpse of the image—your face beaming with love and happiness, a stark contrast to the inner turmoil festering inside you.

“What do you think about soulmates?” Charles asked suddenly, breaking the momentary silence, the question landing heavily between you like an anchor.

You froze, your heart pounding as you looked up into those earnest eyes. “What do you mean?” you asked, trying to read his expression, warm curiosity mingling with something deeper.

“Like, just your opinion on them,” he rambled, the casualness of his tone masking the weight of the subject. “Do you think you have one? I’m curious.”

You hesitated, the words wrapping around memories you had tried to suppress. “Well, I think everyone has a soulmate, but for me, I don’t think I want to meet mine,” you said slowly, drifting your gaze to Leo, who was now engrossed in an imaginary chase.

“Why?” Charles’s question was soft yet insistent, a kind invite for you to unfold the truth. You could feel the warmth emanating from him; it was a stark contrast to the chill that had purposefully wrapped itself around your heart.

You took a deep breath. “An accident happened in my family. It changed my thoughts about soulmates. I believe they come with too much trouble and pain,” you explained, the words flowing out before you could even think them through. In that moment, you realized you were baring a part of yourself that you rarely shared, but perhaps the weight of your thoughts would be understood—especially if he might be your soulmate.

Charles’s expression fell, and you felt your heart splinter as he absorbed your words. Did he not understand the implication behind them? Did he not know that you believed the tether between you was fraught with risk?

“I see,” he said quietly, but the shift in his demeanor was palpable—the distance grew between you, as if an ocean had poured in to separate your worlds.

“Your thoughts are different, of course,” you attempted to lighten the mood, forcing a strained grin. “You’ve already found your soulmate, right?”

He nodded, but the agreement held a quiet hesitance that did not escape you.

“… with Alex.”

His heart sank as he grappled with the realization. “You think Alex is his soulmate?”

He froze, his eyes wide with realization, as if the universe had just collapsed around him.

Did you—could you—really believe that Alex was truly his soulmate?

Before he could muster a response, your phone rang, jolting you both from the oppressive silence. You glanced down at the screen to see your dad’s name flashing.

“Oh! I forgot I was getting dinner with my dad! I have to go, sorry,” you said hurriedly, shoving your phone back in your pocket, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the air.

“Do you need me to drive you there?” Charles asked, glancing at you with sincerity.

“It’s not necessary; it’s just Cantinetta Antinori,” you replied, adopting a nonchalant tone that didn’t quite mask the tightness in your chest.

“Right. No problem,” he murmured, but you caught the muted disappointment in his voice, a low tremor that tugged at your insides. It felt like a tether unraveling, and you hated it.

You stood up from the couch, leaving Leo behind as you tossed your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for letting me play with Leo a little. See you tomorrow, Charles.”

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, his tone infused with an aching bittersweetness as he followed you to the door and opened it.

You hesitated for a moment, caught by the sight of him standing there, hands tucked into his pockets.

You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and you walked away, fighting the urge to turn back and reassure him, to do anything to stop that look of muted disappointment from settling in his features.

“Right, Leo, let’s go visit Maman,” he sighed, trying to infuse a sense of normalcy into the moment, the dog wagging its tail in response.

Charles shrugged off his coat, the familiar scent of lavender and simmering herbs enveloping him. “Maman! I’m home,” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the cozy, book-lined hallway.

A moment later, a woman with kind eyes and a flour-dusted apron emerged from the kitchen. “Charles! You’re back early. Did the interview go well?” Pascale pulled him into a warm embrace.

“It was… great,” Charles said, carefully avoiding her gaze.

“Great, eh? That’s good. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Why don’t you relax?” Pascale patted his cheek. "I'm making your favorite."

He managed a smile. “Sounds wonderful, Maman.”

Pascale then looked at Leo, his dog, a golden retriever, on the floor. "How have you been?"

Leo barked happily, running around her feet. Pascale laughed, stooping to pet Leo before returning to the kitchen. Charles followed, leaning against the counter, his mind replaying the events of the afternoon.

"So, what are you thinking about? Y/N?" Pascale suddenly asked, startling him.

He jumped. “Um, yeah, I told you she interviewed me, right Maman?”

“Yeah, you should be happy then,” she said with a knowing look in her eye.

“I was, and I still am. She’s amazing, beautiful, and funny but…” he paused, a shadow falling over his face.

“But?” Pascale asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I asked her about soulmates, and she said something about having an accident in her family which made her not want to find her soulmate. She also thinks that Alex is my soulmate, but I couldn't say anything because she had to meet her dad at some restaurant,” he ranted, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

Pascale looked at her son with sympathy. "Okay, fils, breathe. Now, I'm curious, do you have a picture of her?"

“Um… yes, I do,” he said, fumbling for his phone. He pulled it out and showed his mother the picture he’d taken of Y/N holding Leo in her arms earlier that day. She had an easy smile and her eyes sparkled.

Pascale smiled as she looked at it. "She is very pretty. She looks familiar, but from where?" She handed the phone back. "What restaurant was she going to?"

“She said Cantinetta Antinori,” he replied.

Pascale’s brow furrowed. "I've been there a few times." She paused, a distant look in her eyes.

Charles, seizing on this new thread of conversation, asked, “How do you get a soulmate again?” He needed a refresher, a grounding in the established reality that you seemed determined to ignore.

Maybe if he understood the mechanics better, he could understand her resistance. He knew the theory, of course, but hearing it again, reaffirmed, might help.

Pascale considered his question carefully. "You meet them around the age of 12-13," she said slowly, her gaze drifting off as she mentally scanned her memories, searching for any significant event or interaction from that period.

"You have an instant connection with the person, at least that's how it was with me and your father," Pascale smiled, thinking about her late husband.

Charles thought about any girls he had met at that time. Was it anyone in school or any girls who were in karting? He had always been passionate about racing, and it was through this hobby that he had met many of his closest friends. But as he went through the list of girls he had known, none of them seemed to fit the bill.

"What if you don't meet them at that age?" Charles asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What if you don't feel that instant connection?"

Pascale shook her head. "It's not always instant, Charles. Sometimes it takes time for the connection to develop. And sometimes people meet their soulmates later in life. It's not a hard and fast rule."

Charles nodded, taking in this new information. He had always thought that finding his soulmate would be a simple, straightforward process. But now he was beginning to understand that it was more complicated than he had initially thought.

"How do you know when you've found them?" Charles asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Pascale smiled, her eyes softening with affection. "You just know," she said, her voice filled with certainty. "It's like a feeling of completeness, of wholeness. It's like you've found a piece of yourself that you didn't even know was missing."

He smiled too, thinking about her. "Well, it definitely feels like that," he admitted, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Oh maman! The food!" he exclaimed, jolted back to reality by the pungent smell of burning garlic.

He leaped up, rescuing the pan just as Pascale shrieked in mock horror. "Charles! You scared me! And look at what you almost made me do to dinner." She chuckled, waving a wooden spoon at him playfully.

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Maman. Lost in thought."

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles, still buzzing from his go-karting victory, walked along the familiar street towards home. The plastic trophy, a symbol of his triumph, felt warm against his palm.

His family had promised a celebratory barbeque, and the aroma of grilling burgers already tickled his senses.

He was twelve years old, practically a teenager, and life felt good.

As he passed Cantinetta Antinori, the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes usually a comforting aroma, was overridden by something else: the unmistakable sound of crying.

It was a soft, muffled sound, but persistent enough to slice through the celebratory bubble he'd been inhabiting. Charles, usually one to avoid emotional entanglements, found himself drawn towards the source.

Behind the restaurant, tucked between the brick wall and a overflowing dumpster, sat a girl. She was about his age, maybe a little older, with long, dark hair that obscured her face. Her shoulders shook with each sob.

Even from a distance, Charles could tell she was pretty, the kind of pretty that made him feel a strange flutter in his chest he couldn't quite decipher.

Ignoring the nagging voice in his head that urged him to keep walking, to focus on the promised party, Charles approached cautiously.

The stories his older brother, Lorenzo, told about girls – complicated, dramatic stories – flashed through his mind. But he couldn't just leave her there.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little higher than usual, "are you okay?"

The girl froze, her sobs abruptly cut short. Her head snapped up, and she blinked at him, her eyes red and swollen. She frantically wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the remnants of her tears.

"Um, I'm okay," she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

The lie hung in the air between them. Charles wasn't stupid. "You don't sound okay," he countered gently, edging closer. "Is something wrong?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering between Charles and the ground. He noticed she was wearing a simple blue dress. He also felt a… something. A strange pull, like a gentle current tugging him closer.

It was faint, barely noticeable, but definitely there. It was a warm, comforting feeling, like wrapping himself in his favorite blanket on a cold day.

"It's nothing," she insisted, but her voice cracked on the last word. More tears welled up in her eyes.

Charles, emboldened by the strange comfort that emanated from her, sat down beside her on the cracked pavement. He kept a respectful distance, unsure of how close was too close.

"Everyone cries sometimes," he said, trying to sound wise beyond his years. "It doesn't mean it's nothing."

She finally met his gaze, her dark eyes filled with a vulnerability that tugged at his heart. "It's my mom," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "She passed away."

Charles's own breath hitched. He didn't know what to say. He'd never experienced anything like that. He just sat there, silent, feeling utterly helpless.

"It was really sudden," she continued, the tears flowing freely now. "She was fine one day, and then…she just didn't wake up."

Charles reached out and awkwardly patted her arm. "I'm really sorry," he said, the words sounding inadequate even to his own ears.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Everything feels…wrong."

"I can't imagine," Charles said, wishing he could offer her more than just empty words.

Then, an idea sparked in his mind. He held up his tarnished trophy, a shy, hopeful smile gracing his face. "My family are celebrating my win. Do you want to come and celebrate with me?"

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering within their depths. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Charles smiled, a genuine, bright smile that chased away some of the shadows in his own heart. "It's okay, it's my party! Come on," he said, standing up.

He held out his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment, then wiped her tears and took his hand. He pulled her up gently.

"Well, we have to be quick, my brothers might finish all the food," he said, grabbing her hand and starting to run, a playful grin on his face.

She stumbled a little at first, but soon matched his pace, a faint smile finally gracing her lips.

The aroma of barbeque hit them long before they reached the house. The air thrummed with laughter and music. A string of brightly colored lights crisscrossed the backyard, illuminating a scene of chaotic celebration.

Charles' family was large and boisterous, a whirlwind of hugs, loud conversation, and the constant clinking of glasses.

"Hi, Maman!" Charles called out, not letting go of her hand.

Pascale, his mother, a woman built like a sturdy oak tree with a smile as warm as summer sunshine, turned towards them. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in her, still clinging to Charles' hand.

A knowing smile spread across her face.

"Charles! Congratulations, mon chéri!" She engulfed him in a bone-crushing hug, then turned her attention to her.

"And who is this lovely young lady? A friend from school?" Pascale's eyes were knowing.

Charles' eyes widened in embarrassment. He hadn't even properly learned her name! He'd been so caught up in the simple, radiating joy that had bloomed within him ever since she'd agreed to come to his party – a joy so potent it felt like sunshine warming his bones.

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "What's your name?"

"Y/N L/N," she whispered back, her voice barely audible above the party noise.

"This is Y/N, Maman. She's celebrating with us!" Charles beamed, squeezing her hand reassuringly. The feeling of rightness was almost intoxicating for him.

Y/N offered a small, hesitant smile. "Hello, Madame." The gnawing anxiety felt almost unbearable, a constant flutter in her chest like a trapped bird.

And yet, underneath, something felt… safe when she was with Charles. It was a faint, unfamiliar sensation, easily drowned out by the anxiety, but it was there.

“Please, call me Pascale,” his mother’s smile never faltered. “Come, come, you must be starving! Let me get you something to eat.” She steered them towards the barbeque, where Charles's father, Hervé, was presiding over a veritable mountain of grilled meats.

The rest of the evening was a dizzying swirl of faces and food for Y/N. Charles, radiating an effortless confidence he'd never possessed before, introduced her to his boisterous brothers, Arthur and Lorenzo.

“So, Charles, finally found a girl who can tolerate your driving?” Arthur teased, ruffling his younger brother's hair.

“Yeah, she must have a strong stomach!” Lorenzo chimed in, winking at Y/N.

Charles flushed with embarrassment. He was too busy beaming at Y/N to notice the heat creeping up his neck. "Leave her alone," he mumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. He was just too happy.

Y/N managed a weak smile. She felt like she was walking through a dream. The anxiety never truly left her – it was a persistent hum beneath the surface – but it was tempered by the genuine warmth and acceptance she felt from Charles's family. They didn’t treat her like an outsider, but welcomed her into their midst with open arms.

Charles, for his part, never left her side. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out funny anecdotes about his family, explaining the rules of karting, and generally just making sure she felt comfortable. The warm, happy feeling never left him, growing stronger with each passing moment.

As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the fairy lights began to flicker, Y/N felt a sharp pang of sadness. The thought of going back to her quiet, often lonely, existence was almost unbearable.

She’d never experienced anything like this before – a feeling of belonging, of being seen, of being… important.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Charles as they stood by the gate, the last of the guests drifting away. “For inviting me. For everything.”

Charles blushed, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. He was suddenly shy, the carefree confidence of earlier replaced by a nervous energy. "It was nothing. I had fun."

He looked up at her, his eyes earnest and a little vulnerable. "We should do it again sometime."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. The anxiety spiked again, almost overwhelming her, making her breath catch in her throat.

But beneath it, that faint sense of safety flickered, growing a little stronger. She managed a small, hesitant smile. "Maybe."

Charles, feeling braver than he had ever felt before, reached out and gently touched her hand.

His entire body thrummed with contentment, a feeling so pure and untainted that it made his head spin. "I hope so."

Y/N, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions swirling inside her, acted on instinct. She leaned forward and quickly pressed a kiss to his cheek, the briefest, lightest touch.

Then, before he could react, she turned and ran, disappearing into the night.

Charles stood there, stunned, his cheek burning where her lips had touched. The simple joy was now charged with something else, something electric and confusing and intensely exciting.

He touched his cheek, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Though he never saw her again after that day. . . .

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lost-romantique · 4 months ago

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Ghostfuckers Massive Lore Dump & More...

I'm stuck at work doing the graveyard shift, so I decided to make a list of all the lore that we learned in Ghostfuckers. Plus some extra cuz my fave character is Blitz, and I love him...

It has been one month since the events of Apology Tour. Blitz and Stolas have been NO CONTACT for one whole month.

I.M.P is on the verge of bankruptcy due to Blitzø’s poor spending habits. Past Due Notices are pasted on the whiteboard. Millie confirms later on that Blitzø has not paid her in a month.

(Honestly same, I also cope by buying stupid shit, but sweetie you gotta pay your employees)

Confirmation that Blitzø (at least by the beginning of Ghostfuckers) has given up on pursuing a relationship with Stolas.

Millie confirmed that there is only Heaven or Hell, there is no such thing as Purgatory. And there is no such thing as Ghosts.

The fact that Millie had to stress it out several times, even to Blitz that ghosts don't exist... is insane.

Confirmation that Blitzø is still following M&M on their dates, and that once again... Blitz sees love and relationships as a transaction.

Blitzø’s illiteracy and possibly having dyslexia is the gift that keeps on giving.

(Fun fact: Brandon Rogers is confirmed dyslexic)

Confirmation that Blitzø has genuine fears of M&M getting hurt when they do go on missions.

Blitzø’s mom is confirmed to have died from the fire, just in case it wasn't obvious already.

Confirmation that Moxxie met Blitz before he met Millie, and by extension, Blitzø adopted Loona before he met Moxxie.

Further confirmation that Blitzø owning his own business as an imp makes him an outlier.

The fact that Blitzø has to stress to Millie that he does in fact own his own business, but she keeps denying the possibility that, that even exists is insane.

Confirmation that I.M.P began the moment Blitzø was in possession of the grimoire. Therefore, Blitzø had Millie, Moxxie, and Loona to provide for by the time he met Stolas

So much of Hell's Hierarchy and the suppression of imps in general, is ingrained into Millie that she genuinely believes that she isn't deserving to work in an old ass building located in the Pride Ring (where the sinners live)

Confirmation that imps (and by extension hellhounds) are expected to work for someone higher up, whether it be the Sins, the Ars Goetia, or even other sinners and hellborn

Confirmation once again that Blitzø is genuinely considered an outlier among imps. Him owning a business gives him a sense of prestige among others of his own kind.

Confirmation that Millie's entire life is all thanks to Blitzø: a husband, a career, a future, a best friend. ❤️

Further confirmation of the existance of Blitzø’s mask. (People were genuinely surprised when they realized that there was more to Blitzø than asshole)

Confirmation of the existance of infestor demons that are presumably from the Envy Ring.

Confirmation that Cash Fuckzo was an abusive piece of shit that not only manipulated his own child, but physically abused him when he had fresh burn marks on his wrist

Confirmation that Cash Fuckzo was the man that kept Blitzø and Fizz apart for so long, essentially the reason why these men hated each other for 15 years.

Confirmation that even seeing M&M happy and in love genuinely hurts him because (in his mind) he could never have what they have.

Confirmation that the events of Seeing Stars hurt Blitzø’s feelings and reignites that fear his daughter hates him.

The amount of remorse, guilt, and regret this man feels is so palpable that it can power an entire fucking city.

By the end of the episode Blitzø makes a promise to Millie to stop trying to become their "third". Millie is shocked by his answer and genuinely did not expect it.

Blitzø confirms to Millie that he does indeed have feelings for Stolas, but he's aware enough to know that he still fucked things up with him.

The character development that Blitzø showed this episode was actually insane, and I am so proud of him. He has a long way to go before he could forgive himself for the fire and hate himself less, but nonetheless I am so proud of him.

Also, in case you were wondering my favorite part of the episode was Millie's apology to Blitzø.

#helluva boss #blitzø #blitzo #helluva boss blitz #ro rambles #stolitz #helluva blitz #millie helluva boss #helluva millie #Ghostfuckers #Helluva Boss spoilers #helluva boss moxxie #loona #helluva boss verosika #fizzaroli helluva boss

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occamstfs · 4 months ago

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What You Really Want

Milo mouths off about a man dating his long time crush before immediately learning the lesson that he should be less trusting of strange voices promising to fulfill his desires

Pretty standard straight to gay himbo/jockification! It will also be my final story for some time I believe, so I do hope you enjoy! -Occam

“It’s no fair that they literally have it all.” Like many a ‘nice guy’ Milo has spent an inordinate amount of time skulking social media and disparaging more physically gifted men as he stumbles across them. The root of his despair is not difficult to ascertain, his eyes burning with envy make quite clear the inner monologue of ‘girls always date assholes.’ He sneers as he comes across the most recent post of his friend and crush, Juliet. The jealous man of course knows next to nothing about the character of James, the jock-type now dating her, but judging by the gleaming smirk and the bulky arms of a killer hanging from his shoulders, the judgemental dweeb has more than enough evidence to speculate.

Delving into his memories, Milo’s face burns with embarrassment as he recalls mentioning his crush to Juliet, ‘Oh!’ her bright eyes shift uncomfortably and her cheeks begin to blush enough to match the pink tint she threw on this morning. Milo’s fist clenches as she almost giggles in her discomfort, ‘sorry Milo I guess- Well, I guess I just thought you were gay?’ After this Milo played it cool, he thinks. Hand scratching the back of his head as he asserts his straight identity and the two go on to have a meal far more quiet and awkward than usual. When new-boyfriend James comes to pick up Juliet, Milo forces a smile before staring daggers at his back as the pair walk away.

This brings us to the present hate scrolling session in which Milo is more than absorbed. Lips curl into a sneer as he traces the impossible to ignore curves of this must-be dullard’s defined body. Milo scoffs as he sees the litany of women that must make up the man’s dating history. “Bet they won’t even last a week, ha! I mean judging by how much the douche spends in the gym I bet he’s just using her as a beard anyway.”

With this final rather homophobic assertion, the nerd’s phone flashes before going dark, “What the-” before he has to determine whatever caused this, he goes stiff as a strange voice resounds through his head. ‘Tired of all the big boys getting what they want, hmm?’ Immediately concerned he’s lost his mind, Milo gets to powering back on his phone to call for help. ‘Now now, Milo. Do not worry your little head. I am here to help. Would you not like the chance to be just like them?’ Just like them. Envy burns through his veins greater than anything. Sensing this immediately, whatever this voice is seizes upon his clearly fragile psyche, its laughter steely and alien, ‘Ah ha ha. I thought so.’

Dropping his phone once more, Milo tries to drill the voice, “Wh- what are you exactly. Are you a dem- hm, an angel?” The voice answers almost before he even finishes the thought, ‘It matters not what I am. All that matters are your desires. Now. Do you wish to be all you desire, all this James embodies? All that he is in your head.” Miles gulps and almost starts drooling at the idea, just like James. Women at his fingertips whenever he wants, a body sculpted by the gods while keeping a far better mind than that oaf could ever afford. With next to no hesitation or forethought, Milo nods and the world goes dark.

When he awakens the poorly mannered man finds it’s the next day. His phone rests in his hand and when opened he finds it zoomed in on a picture of James’ meaty bicep. Milo rolls his eyes and tosses his phone aside before going to stand. Making it halfway up he grunts in pain as he only then discovers morning wood more pressing and turgid than he’s ever encountered. Falling back down he clutches at the pain in his crotch from his cock being forcibly yanked by his underwear. Hands now grasping it he gasps as he finds it filling them far more than it has any right to.

Well now, while they’re already down there he might as well have some fun right? After briefly struggling to get his waistband over his swollen package his mouth falls open in shock as he’s finally able to appraise the almost unrecognizable cock hanging from his crotch. It’s like none he’s seen before, not that he generally observes dicks of course. Far more impressive than he imagined a dick could be. His fingertips can scarcely meet his palm when he tries to grasp it, and as he begins rubbing it it feels leagues more sensitive than it has before now, as if nerve endings are multiplying. Looking to his awaiting phone he sees the photo of James and what’s her name as he begins masturbating outright.

Seeing a bulge in James’ strained pants he grunts as he returns to stare at his own suddenly substantial cock. More like him. The already thicker rod strains as he reflexively humps into his hand, forcing his grip wider as it expands to simply need more room. The new veins painting the length of his nascent ten inch dick surge higher up its length as he swears he can see them pulse and bulge with each racing heartbeat. Beneath his thrusting hands, bouncing as his hips continue to forcefully thrust with more strength than he has, his balls similarly grow heavier, larger as they send hormones flowing through him enough to metamorphosize and, more immediately, cause pre to stream and coat his fingers.

Milo leans his head back as he is bursting with a need for release greater than he can understand. He shifts his jaw as it twinges with the pleasure of growth, widening and strengthening into one fit for titan. Below his newly defined chin, his neck thickens and moans grow deeper as an Adam's apple bulges out of his throat. Hearing his voice echo deeper throughout his bedroom, his heady pleasure comes to a head as he is struck with the bizarre urge to lick the pre off his fingers. Before he’s able to acquire or express shock and disgust, his eyes blast open and he is again staring at the image of James, more like- and he blows his load.

The moment of release may as well have shut him down once more, pleasure overloads him like a flashbang as every inch of his body feels at once. Drool drips from his plumper lips as his mind is fried and his hips continue to thrust without any input or awareness, sending stains across his wall and splattering into his darker hair as it begins to pull shorter and tint darker. Eyebrows thicken and cover more of his forehead as his brow hangs lower over his eyes staining brown and growing duller.

His whole form tenses as he finally achieves release, staring at the image of his, uh, competition. Arms flex as his hands crack wider, fingers stretch longer, skin grows rougher. For the first time in his life definition appears on his arms, biceps and triceps compete for which can increase faster, which can catch more eyes, which can rival those alluring arms of James. Beneath shoulders packing on weight are pits that darken with curls now thicker, a deeper brown nearing black as the forest strives to prevent any light from breaking the canopy. Similarly they moisten with the masculine heady musk that they are perfectly designed to disseminate, powerful enough to allure any twink towards his dick, or uh, huh.

Milo moans as this seemingly intrusive thought makes itself at home in his morphing psyche. Barely returning to sentience enough to realize the stray gay thought, he arches his back and stretches as if he were waking up. Mindlessly he wipes the cum staining his larger hands on the new dark treasure trail as it itches and slowly inches up from pubes unshaved. Feeling the hint of an Adonis belt he sits up with a shock, the feeling of something he has long envied bringing back his awareness.

Despite the obvious differences it takes far too long for him to be aware of, to truly notice what has become of him. He struggles to make sense of the effort it takes to move his new larger limbs. He grabs at his new hair and sucks drool through his teeth as he tries to understand how it’s changed texture and color so totally, did he dye it and forget or what? The gears in his mind slowly turn as his fingers move to scratch an itch under his arms, struggling through the dank jungle of curls. Thoughtlessly he brings his sweat-wet fingers to his nose and grimaces. “Fuck man, I smell like an, uh, like a, unnh-” he moans quietly as he’s unable to even finish the sentence, instead an image of James forces its way to the front of his mind and two now-malnourished brain cells spark together and strain to form a thought.

“Oh fuck I’m turning into a imbe-, an uh imbekle? Ugh, an uh- a dumb jock.” Milo bites his lips and flexes an arm to try and assuage his nerves, to get his attention focused on anything but his anxieties. Fortunately to this end, seeing his bulging biceps he feels his larger cock begin to stir. Some semblance of rationality knows ceding to his wanting package is probably what led to this encroaching fog over his mind. His skin begins to prickle as all-around it grows more sensitive. Beyond these skin deep sensations it also seems as if darker hairs are beginning to spread out wherever his follicles will allow.

Seeing hair beginning to prickle his chest and blanket his legs his mind produces images of hairy men he has leered at through the years. His neck twitches as whatever dregs of the pathetic skirtchaser he once was rise up and try to combat his new predilections. He’s straight, he’s always been straight. Right? His mouth goes dry as he tries to remember ever having dated a woman in the past. Barring that, only just able to recall that something is happening to him, only just able to remember that he is transforming into some alien self, Milo tries to produce an image of what he used to look like. And he cannot.

His mouth falls open as it often does whenever he struggles to produce a thought, making it almost his default state. Mouth-breathing mouth ajar he fully experiences the thick air of his bedroom as it fills with his new musk. The room around him begins to dissolve and reform into surroundings that reinforce who he is now, that prove this is who he has always been. Clean pressed laundry dirty and shift into unwashed gym clothes that help cloud the room with his stink. Posters of whatever movies and video games he enjoys corrupt into images celebrating the impressive male form, all distinctly stained from the years of hanging on Milo’s bedroom walls. He hears clanking outside of his bedroom as bookshelves collapse and reform into weights heavier than he would be able to lift.

Milo stumbles to his larger feet and ignores the hefty weight of his balls and cock bobbing in the air as he drags himself out of his bedroom to find a mirror. He leaves sweaty footprints larger than any shoes he owns on the tile of the bathroom as he bumbles in. Leaning over the sink his lips quiver as he sees a razor clogged with hair darker than he feels he should have. Sooner than the doubts arrive they vacate as a thick, stubbled beard rapidly bursts onto his face. Looking up he smirks as he sees a thick mustache surges over his upper lip, looking just like the ones he appreciates, just like he has always been into. His eye twitches and he grunts as his hair retracts once more into something far more intentional and stylish. At the same time pecs suddenly bulge larger and hang lower as Milo leans heavier over the bathroom sink.

His eyes glaze over as complex thoughts once more become too elusive in the face of his rising lusts. Muscles bulge larger as his back and legs creak, stretching him taller as thighs and shoulders widen and continue putting on mass. Feet spread like fins on the floor as his hands widen and sweatily slide on the ceramic sink. His mouth continues to water as he inspects all these increasingly masculine changes and his cock continues to throb. Milo bites his lip as new sensations arise from his cock once more, this time the change is apparent as his foreskin regrows, making his cock look even thicker as its head grows hooded and he struggles not to immediately break into masturbation at the powerful image of his own seductive form.

Milo’s barely functioning mind struggles to argue for any reason to not just return to the immeasurable delights of gratifying his all-encompassing urges. He stays his hands for a moment before the greatest horror yet rears its head. A monologue begins in his mind that is not his own, that cannot be his own. Dull laughter echoes through his increasingly vacant mind as a voice even slower and deeper than that which sounds from his new vocal chords, “Yooo broo come onnnnn. Give up, give in. This is what you wanted, ‘s what we wanted huhuhuh.”

He feels a pressure in his balls as they almost churn with the otherworldly need that seemingly always flows through him. He can’t help but imagine the men he’s going to bed with his new endowment, how many cocks he’s going to take in his new powerful ass. Drool trickles from his lips through the dense black stubble that coats his face denser with each second, with each breath. Spit continues down the length of his more defined face before dripping onto weighty, similarly furred pecs. His heavier hands slowly creep towards the hardening cock standing tall and long from the jungle of pubes. Before he’s able to assist his thrusting hips however, his lusty haze is interrupted by his phone chiming. His mind immediately thinks it must be James which fills him with conflicting emotions of rage and giddiness. “Ohh bro maybe he’s inviting us over. It’s been toooo long since we fucked huhuh-”

Milo pointedly tries to ignore his hairier, bulkier reflection as he stumbles out of the bathroom to check his phone. Unfortunately he catches a glimpse which makes it all the more difficult to ignore the throbbing weight dripping, almost pouring, pre onto the floor. Despite it all he stands strong, quieting this other voice as it urgently tries to convince him to give in before he’s able to pick up his phone. In a final act of resistance, or perhaps impotence, he has the lofty idea of calling for help before his mind goes completely blank and, seeing the notification, he instinctually goes to his messages to find who texted him. It’s Juliet!

First his heart flutters before he’s absolutely confused at the sensation. She’s just his bestie? Weird. He shakes off whatever that was and gets on to reading the message, “heyy girlie- which of these do you want me to post? Oh ya and lmao, are you and james cool if I do the last one?” At the mention of James his pulse again races and there are butterflies in his stomach far more powerful than whatever bizarre feelings he had but moments ago. No time to dwell, Milo starts swiping through the images sent. They’re a photoset of their little group outing to a halloween party last week, the trio, Milo, James and Jules dressed up as a group, as X-men! Respectively dressed as Wolverine, Cyclops and Jean Grey.

He smirks as he starts chubbing up again thinking of how easily he was able to pass as the hairy beast. His eyes then return to see James’ bubble butt in trademark spandex, which only makes it harder to not lose control then and there, moaning as he imagines playing with that ass. Holding to whatever well of willpower remains within him Milo holds strong and keeps his hands above waist level. Finally he gets to the specific image Juliet mentioned, one of him and James messily making out on the dance floor. James yanks at the hairy Milo’s hair, visor half hanging off as Milo reciprocates by shoving his hand into James’ pants. Fuck that’s hot.

Without even touching his needy cock, without any pleading from the new voice in his head, without a single chance to hold back. Simply from seeing the steamy image of him and James, Milo’s mind is overrun with memories and desires of the new man he is. The man he ever was and always will be. And for the second time today, but not the last, he loses control. Cum splatters against his phone as his mind goes blank anew with rushing pleasure. Painting himself once more with his most-used utensil he laughs dumbly as he realizes how swiftly he just came. Almost with pathetic haste, though now he’s quite unfamiliar with any sense of shame. The voice that only just wormed its way into his head spills from his mouth as it fully and forevermore wrests control as the true Milo.

“Huhuhuh guess I should work on my hair trigger,” He grunts as he looks at his phone and texts back some variation of ‘girl that’s porn you can’t post that!!!’ he turns his mind where it goes more often than anywhere in his new life. He wonders what James is doing and immediately texts him. Waiting for a reply Milo heads off to the gym to get a pump in before presumably going to meet him, not worrying about cleaning up or covering his scent. The gym’s for smelling like a man right? He certainly wouldn’t mind if everyone else followed his lead huhuh. Milo bites his lip trying to ignore his hardening cock as he makes his way out of the apartment clad in too-tight, stained gym clothes.

Before he even makes it out the complex he gets a text from James and promptly changes course. Immediately Milo’s racing down the street to his lover’s apartment. Cock already snaking down his shorts and creating a stain at its nadir, Milo hopes he can keep his needy cock at bay until he makes it. Thinking of the alternative work out he’s to enjoy in bed with James, Milo struggles to not moan obscenely as he waddles as quickly as he can into the lobby of James’ building. Heart racing with excitement he can’t wait to see James in person. Jittery with nerves, it feels like he’s going to meet the man for the first time. Hah! Milo promptly ignores the idea and starts to get some stretching in before their session. Trying to practice mindfulness with a mind thicker than mud he quickly finds himself possessed with memories of their countless times fucking in the past. Easy enough as the pair have been doing so for years. Still nerves assail him as his cock continues to strain his shorts. As the elevator doors click open he smirks as he was able to make it this far without blowing his third load of the day. His cock throbs with anticipation for its release soon to come, and impatiently awaits each and every similar session to follow.

#male tf #mental change #straight to gay #male transformation #hair growth #muscle tf #jockification #dumber #reality change

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dolicekiss · 8 months ago

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♡: i got this request but i accidentally deleted it :[ thankfully i took a screenshot so ill post it here n get to it. also love the idea of hannigram murking alana as a display of affection

Delicious Envy

PAIRING: Yandere!Hannigram x Jealous!Reader

CONTENT WARNING: SMUT (18+, mdni), unprotected sex, threesome, oral (male receiving), fingering, hair pulling, throat fucking, murder, slight gore, blood mentioned, dominant hannibal, soft dom will graham, sick murderers who only care about their darling, usage of petnames; (darling, bunny, bun).

SYNOPSIS: When your lovers began to show more attention to their colleague under the name of manipulation, you couldn't handle it but somehow Will always comforted you though one day, enough is enough and you snapped. Attempting to leave, your lovers show you just how obsessed and in love they are when it comes to you, going as far as to getting rid of the only problem between the three of you.

Envy had overwhelmed you like it was the only feeling you had known ever since your birth.

To be honest, you were a little creepy and too possessive when it came to your two lovers but to them it was perfect. You were perfect.

They didn't mind when you expressed your urges to kill everyone and anyone that even laid their eyes upon them or when your clinginess to them grew in heft amounts — to the point you had accidentally expressed your wish to live inside their skin.

Will was slightly take aback but Hannibal fell more in love with you. The idea of cherishing you inside their skins was captivating to them, all the more fascinating.

Things were going good for the three of you, so when Alana Bloom entered the picture, things went haywire. You'd never liked how she flapped her wings like an eager little butterfly around the two men but what you hated the most that now both your lovers were playing more attention to her than they were to you.

It angered you.

Will had comforted you.

That this was all to toy with her, mess her up between Hannibal and Will. Break apart the layers of her mind and confuse her to ridicule her. All in attempts to draw her attention farther from the murders commited by your lovers.

It worked.

For a short period of time, Will’s comforting words worked like magic and he serenaded you but it didn't last long. You'd grown restless, not liking how both arrived late at night. At times Hannibal would be nowhere to find and he'll tell you he was out having a fucking beer with Alana to steer her attention from the drink of suspicion she'd pour over them.

After a heavy amount of restlessness and patience, you snapped and here you were — standing outside Will’s office. Eavesdropping on the conversation as someone had told you that I could find both Will and Hannibal in Will’s office with Alana fucking Bloom.

“Alana, the killer is sharp. Look at these pictures, look at the way he has performed pieces of art with his victims.” Your stomach flipped with jealousy, not fond of the way Will spoke to her. Carrying such gruesome discussions with her.

When was the last time the man took you hunting? Teaching you how to lure in your prey, haunt them, catch them, all of the rules that lead to gaining a prey.

You could hear a sigh. It was Alana.

“Will, if there is a killer and he kills with such passion, he is not only dangerous but should be caught as soon as possible.” Palms becoming sweaty, you swallowed as your fingers ached with proper need to go inside the room and smash Alana’s head against the table and break her fucking skull.

But you controlled your impulses.

Feeling neglected, abandoned and ignored.

You turned around on your shoes and made your way back home. Holding back your tears was a difficult task but you still managed ti pull it, as you made it across the rout which lead to your apartment — or Hannibal and Will's. It didn't matter anymore.

As soon as you made it inside the apartment, you began to pack your items. This behavior was not normal, leaving over something so minor, you knew that deep down but you felt like you were betrayed. Lied to. There were other ways to get rid of Alana, why dedicate all their fucking time and effort to manipulating her and playing mind games with her?

Why play games with her when they had you?

Willing and pliant?

Submissive and eager to please them.

Angrily, you tossed your little frill skirts and dresses into the suitcase sprawled across the bed. Eyes continuously glossing over and over again, lips shivering from multiple times to keep your tears at bay. You heard the front door open and realized it was probably your lovers, coming back after being in Alana’s company for so long.

Two hours.

Two fucking hours.

Discussing what? Murders? Why the fuck did it matter so much? Why were they giving your share of attention to her too? It bothered you, displeasure coursing through you like rippling water. You continued packing your stuff, not bothering with the men who's presence was all powerful behind you.

“Going somewhere?”

It was Hannibal, his tone impassive. You continued rummaging through your closet, packing your items in a hurry and giving them silence. Your chest was rising up and down from how swiftly you were moving around the room, Will and Hannibal watching you almost in awe but also confusion.

“I asked you something.”

You didn't respond.

Will had enough of this so he reached over and grabbed you by your arm, pulling you with the force pull of one arm. Your body collided against his and you looked–no, glared up at him. Seeing the anger be this alive and incinerating in your gaze was a heart gutting sight for them both.

“Let me fucking go.” Your fists were quick to slam down on his chest and Will only tightened his hold around you. “Hey, what's wrong? Talk to us, pretty girl. There's no need to throw such a fit.”

Your brows furrowed. “Throw a fit? A fit? You're kidding, right?”

You were close to breaking apart. Eyes glossing and both men took notice of that, exchanging glances between them and communicating silently. You pulled your arm out of Will’s grasp and continued throwing your items messily into the suitcase. Having had enough of this back and forth situation with Alana. Just how much did they need to manipulate and gaslight her?

“She's jealous, Will.” Hannibal stated, with utter confidence. Like he'd sniffed the envy boiling inside you. Will tilted his head to the side, confused for a split second, before realizing that you indeed were envious.

“Just go to her. Next thing I know you'll both be fucking her under the name of manipulation.” Your tone was spiteful, your little dress bunched up in your fist. You tossed it inside the suitcase and swallowed, to preas down the tears.

But they flowed like a waterfall.

“We would never do that, bunny. You know that. We could never touch anyone other than you.” Inside you there was a heart and that soft heart wanted to believe the gentle words of your lovers but your evil brain didn't allow you to. Holding you hostage as you didn't listen to them.

Your teeth sinking into your lip.

“Shut up.” You spat, fingernails grazing against the bottle of perfume which belonged to you. “I heard you in the office with her. Why do you speak to her, why do you speak to her like that?”

Your gaze laid upon Hannibal, who stood there in complete silence as if he was waiting for you to calm down. Your tears fell in tiny streams and the moment he took notice of that, he walked over to you. Arms extemded to circle around your small waist, face burying in your shoulder.

“Darling, relax a little please.” Hannibal’s voice was so sweet, his words almost working like magic on you. Before you could throw more profanities of anger, Hannibal had already pressed his lips against the apex of your shoulder. One hand unwrapping around your waist and trailing up to your hair, to brush away the locks behind and expose more of your skin.

“You can't leave us.” He murmured, his eyes shut as his gentle kisses of love evolved into bites on your skin. “You know we won't let you, so why even bother.”

Your body shuddered, Hannibal’s kisses left goosebumps in its wake as he unwrapped the arm around your waist. His hand reaching for your hair to slide it back, revealing more skin for him to kiss. You shook your head and tried to step back, but you hadn't realized Will had slid himself behind you, trapping you between the two.

His chest pressed up against your back.

“She means absolutely nothing, especially in comparison to you. You're always going to be above everyone else for us.” Hannibal muttered, fingers clasped around the curve of your waist while leaving kisses up to your exposed neck. Will from behind kissed the other side of your neck, his hand roaming all over your body.

You didn't want to give in.

Especially when you were mad.

But it was difficult not to give in when you were sandwiched between two, beautiful men who you loved. You felt Will slowly drag you back, whilst taking a seat on the bed. Settling you across his lap. Hannibal kneeled before the two of you on the bed, his brawny hands finding your thighs and caressing them.

Will grabbed you by your neck, forcing you to face him and captured your lips in a rather passionate and fierce kiss. His soft lips were in stark contrast to his prickly stubble against your chin when he kissed you. You could feel Hannibal pry your thighs apart, palms settled over your knees. Your eyes opened and saw him already staring at you as his hand inched closer and closer to your seeping cunt.

Hannibal felt the arousal — the proof of your desire and allure. He brought your panties down in a single tug and discarded them aside, along with his own blazer. Your back arched into Will’s chest when the Lithuanian man entered his finger into your opening, your desperate hole clenching around that single digit.

Will’s hands fell down to your breasts, fondling with them. Thumb and fingers tugging at the hardened nipples through the knitted fabric of your dress.

“Filthy girl. Walking around without a bra, hm?” Will purred like a seductive animal against your lips and you whimpered. Fully reveling in the sensations these two men were bringing you.

Will’s one hand crawled back upto your face as he tapped his two fingers on your lips, a innuendo for you to open up. You parted your lips and his fingers entered your mouth, swiftly trailing along your tongue. He pressed onto your flaccid tongue and you stared at him, lips agape and teeth grazing against his fingers.

“Want me to fuck your little throat, slut?”

You nodded desperately, panting like some fucking dog in heat. Will grinned and began to slip his fingers past the little piece of flesh hanging from the roof of your mouth. You whimpered upon feeling his fingers enter the sensitive area.

You wanted to cough out.

But you didn't.

Tears emerged on your waterline, a few rolling down. Hannibal added another finger and then curved it, fucking into you deeply. His aim was to make you cum, right on his fingers before fucking you. Both men were fucking you, one fucking your cunt while the other fucked your throat.

Will loved the feeling of your tight throat against his fingers, feeling the flesh everytime he caressed your gummy walls when he fucked your throat. Enjoying the way it felt. Like he was intimate with you beyond average human understanding.

“Hannibal her throat feels so nice, so fucking delicious.” Will commented, staring at Hannibal who plunged his fingers inside you with utter determination. “Almost makes me want to cut it open and peek inside.”

Your thighs squeezed at that, cunt squeezing in Hannibal’s fingers. He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “You won't believe it. She squeezed me in when you said that, Will. Our girl might be as filthy as us.”

Will laughed, mocking you in a way. You choked around his fingers when they slipped deeper, coughing out but that didn't stop Will from ramming his fingers inside your tight little throat. Hannibal fucked you, coaxing a releas out of you and soon you came.

Your thighs squeezing shut, cunt pulsating as tears and sobs escaped you. Such a pretty vision you were and the two couldn't wait to ruin you more, to prove it to you that they only had their eyes for you.

There was no one who could take your place, ever.

You came down from your high soon and as Will retrieved his fingers, you immediately voiced out your despair at that, whining desperately. He smiled at you, running that same wet hand over your cheek. “Patience, baby. You'll get what you want soon.”

You nodded your head obediently.

“Will, put her on the bed. Let's show our pretty girl how much we truly love her.”

The brunette nodded and pulled you on the bed, after sitting down against the headboard of the bed. Hannibal crawled between your thighs and unzipped his pants, pulling out his cock. Will stripped himself, removing his shirt and pants — exposing himself to you. Your face immediately nuzzled against his revealed, hard cock.

Cheek brushing against it.

“No, she doesn't get to suck you off. You want to see how much we love you, right? Today will be all about appreciating you.” Hannibal’s strict words not only made you pout but even Will was a little disappointed. As he was looking forward to your mouth wrapped around his cock.

You whined, knowing that this was all a subtle way to reprimand you for the way you'd behaved with them both, while also appreciating you and showing you they loved you. Hannibal was a cruel, cruel man but somewhere you loved how domineering he was.

Hannibal aligned his cock against your hole and then slowly sunk in. Your lips parted and you nearly had wrapped them around Will’s cock but Hannibal didn't allow you. Fists curling your locks around it, tugging your head back. You stared at Will, his large hand moving to cup your face.

“Our beautiful darling.” Will swiped his thumb over your lower lip while Hannibal continued to sink into you. His cock caressing the inside of your pussy as he fucked himself into you. His hips moving in a gentle rhythm, delivering the most sensual of thrusts to your frail little body.

You parted your mouth open, an invitation for Will’s thumb. He slid it in, pressing it along your tongue. There was desperation swimming in your blurred gaze and Will knew exactly what you craved. What your sweet little mouth craved.

So he used his own pretty privilege to his advantage.

“Hannibal, let me fuck her throat.” He said, looking at him. “Need to show her that her throat is the only throat I'd fuck. The only tight little throat I want my cock in.”

Hannibal’s grip tightened on your locks at Will’s sensual words. He couldn't help but already imagine you making the prettiest of gagging sounds on Will’s cock while he fucks you like a beast from behind.

You felt him thicken up inside you.

With a nod of approval, Hannibal started to pick up his speed. His thrusts grew more violent and firmer — as Will rubbed his thick cock head over your glossy lips. You parted open and immediately tightened your lips around his cock, sucking him in.

You hollowed your cheek but allowed Will to use your mouth however he pleased to pleasure you.

“Yes—fuck. I'm barely down your throat and I already feel like I'll cum anytime soon.” Will said through gritted teeth, open palm laying atop your head to force it down on his cock.

Hannibal dug his nails into your waist from behind, making sure to leave bloody crescent moons into your flesh. Every time Hannibal thrusted forward, your mouth inched closer and closer. Taking Will’s cock down your throat, feeling it slip past that forbidden barrier.

Will loved it when you sucked his cock.

His little cocksucker Darling who swallowed his dick like her life depended on it. You were usually so pliant, so obedient and well mannered but your envy always got the best of you.

He enjoyed this side of you though.

You were better than them. Possessed far more self control than they did. If someone had even tried to breath the same air around you, Hannibal and Will would've buried them ten feet into the ground.

They wouldn't bother serenading their death.

You sputtered around his cock, feeling saliva accumulate at your lips mixed with the salty taste of his precum. Hannibal violently used your cunt, his hands releasing your hips to move to push your head down over Will’s cock. Pressure so tight and firm, he drove your nose right into Will’s pelvis — feeling his neatly trimmed hair tickle your skin.

You tried to breathe through your nose as Hannibal fucked you from behind, akin to a wild beast. Each thrust was delivered with the potent intention to make you feel loved, wanted and needed by him.

You gagged around Will’s cock and he lost restraint, finally taking control and fucking his cock into your mouth. Repeatedly snapping his hips up and feeling his thick cock caress your gummy, wet walls. His veins sliding over your saliva tainted tight throat.

Tears slipped out and made more of a mess on your face. Will extended his hand, brushing a tear away with his finger before holding your face with both his hands, driving himself deeper into you.

“Oh her throat’s so fucking good. You take me so well, bun. You're made to take my cock.” Will panted out, teeth grinding together as he felt his stomach flip.

Hannibal drove his cock right into your stomach, hitting that bundle of nerves over and over again. You sobbed, small hands pressed tightly into Will’s clothed thighs for some support. Both men took you like beasts but you felt truly loved and needed.

This is what you wanted.

And only you deserved this.

Not Alana, not someone else.

Hannibal lifted your hips up, bringing you on your knees. It was so easy for him. You barely weighted anything for him, akin to a small pillow he could easily toss around. His chest rumbled with pure desire as he felt his cock twitch and his balls throb.

Your own stomach was flipping like crazy, shoulders taut and thighs bearing a tremor in them.

“I'm gonna cum, gonna cum in this tight little throat and you better swallow it— you're gonna swallow it, yeah bunny?”

You nodded your head, staring at him through your saturated lashes. Tear drops sat like tiny pears on your lashes, sliding down each time you fluttered them.

Will was fucking obsessed with you. A delicious sight you were. His stomach tightened as he finally spilled his cum into your mouth, forcing it down your throat. You closed your eyes, flushed cheeks hollowing to milk him dry. The act of suction made Will whine out — back arching as his hips stuttered.

His fist grabbing a hold of your soft hair, tugging on the roots tightly to release all of his load into your mouth.

When Hannibal heard Will’s moans and how you gagged around him, his own thighs shivered and he felt himself near.

The fact that they both had taken you at the same time made you feel giddy, even a little dizzy. Like some teenager who's crush had finally noticed her.

Will pulled his cock out. “Open your mouth. Show me, my beautiful Darling.”

You quickly nodded, parting open your mouth and sticking out your pink tongue. You'd swallowed all of his cum and he let out a satisfied hum, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your nose.

“I'm not done yet.” Hannibal said, rolling you over with his arm. You landed right on your ass and he was quick to pick up your thighs, bending them and entering you back in.

A whine erupted from you as Hannibal rammed his cock into your little cunt, all while Will watched. Your tears continued rolling as your little hands reached for Hannibal, to wrap around his nape.

“Feel loved now, d-don't you, Darling? Told you, we loved you and you only." Hannibal was unstoppable. He tore you apart, showing you no mercy. He loved you, he adored you, obsessively but your bratty behavior was anything but polite.

You dug your nails into his nape, leaving red marks of your upcoming climax and your thighs shivered. “H-Hanni, ‘m close. Please, please. I'm-I'm so close.”

Hannibal’s balls slapped across your cunt as he finally pulled your orgasm out of you. You let out a whine as your eyes rolled back to your skull — body nearly ascending to the false incarnation of heaven. Your orgasm blurred everything out, only the panting of both men could be heard.

You felt Hannibal fill you up, his load heavier than Will’s. His cock pumping you full of hot cum and you sniffled, feeling it just reach your womb. Hannibal wasn't satisified so he started to fuck into you again, all while releasing rope after rope.

“Oh my god—” You cried out, moving your head to glance at Will who looked completely awestruck. Like you were some painting hanging in a museum. Made with love and passion.

When Hannibal was done, he pulled out of you and fell right next to you. Your frail body could only take so much, especially when they were this determined to express their profound love for you.

You felt Hannibal’s arms crawl over you like vines of nature, pulling you in his warm and sweet embrace. You buried your face in his chest and then another pair of arms found their way around your waist, holding you from behind. Will’s dark curls tickled your nape and you let out a exasperated giggle.

The three of you still tried to catch your breath.

“We love you, Darling.” Hannibal whispered and you felt a smile break out, cheeks warming up. “I love you both too. I'm sorry, I couldn't control my jealousy.”

Hannibal delivered a chaste kiss to your head and tightened his hold. “Don't you worry, she will not be an obstacle anymore.”

You raised your gaze. “What do you mean?”

“He means we'll be giving you a present soon.” Will responded, glancing at Hannibal and nodding his head.

— ♡ —

You watched Alana, from behind the wall of Will’s hallway as the two men engaged in a conversation with her. They'd told you to stand there and watch and you could already feel your restraint slipping away, not liking how she accidentally crashed into Hannibal and touched him.

You bit on your lower lip, peeling off the skin while your nails tugged at the skin around them in sickening anticipation.

“Alana.” When she turned around, Will slammed a baseball bat down her head and immediately the frown disappeared from your face.

Replaced with a bright smile.

You watched as the blood from her cracked skull splattered over Will, staining his face and glasses. You wrote down a mental note to clean both of your lovers after they were done getting rid of the woman.

You stepped from behind the wall and Alana looked at you, still conscious. Her blood had made a mess everywhere, droplets staining the furniture though you knew how to rid the interior of her blood. It wasn't the first time you had taken part in the bloody dates your lovers had taken you on.

“Y-You.” Alana stuttered, eyes still wide open from the blunt force of the baseball bat.

You only walked over to Will, to hug him tightly. The blood were not an obstacle as it didn't bother you. Hannibal squated down next to the writhing woman, staring at her before raising his eyes to you.

“Do you want us to kill her or make her suffer, precious?”

You contemplated.

For a moment and then you shook your head.

“Kill her. Don't waste your time on her.” Your wish was Hannibal’s command. He retrieved a blade from his pocket and stabbed it into Alana’s neck — sliding it across and watching the woman finally succumb to her pain and injuries.

You leaned forward, still In Will’s embrace to press a kiss to your lover's lips. “Thank you, thank you. I love you both so much.”

You were a giggling mess. Cheeks red from how much you were blushing and clothes splattered with blood but it didn't matter. You had your lovers by your side, nothing else mattered anymore.

And they had proved their loyalty once more by getting rid of someone for you.

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #will graham #hugh dancy #mads mikkelsen #hannibal x reader #hannigram x reader #tw yandere #tw murder #will graham x reader #hannibal smut #hannigram smut

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agentzedbooks · 11 months ago

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Different kind of bimbo

I see so many posts about being a bimbo for Him, for men, for the patriarchy, and that's cool if that's your thing.

But if I may offer an alternative... Be the kind of Bimbo that makes straight girls into lesbians who want to be just as free and happy. Be the kind of bimbo that brings joy to everyone. Be the kind of bimbo that offers kindness and soothing presence even when there's no sex involved. Be the kind of bimbo that stands up, puts on her big pink heels, and struts all over the haters and the hateful.

Be the kind of bimbo that dances when it rains.

Be the kind of bimbo that will break a nail knocking down a fascist.

Be the kind of bimbo that men fear, women envy, and the world isn't ready for. ❤

#bimbofied #bimboification #bimbolife #bimbo girl #bimbocore #bimbo doll #bimboization #bimbo training

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sunkissed-psyche · 2 months ago

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THANATOS: AN INFODUMP

Thanatos (Θανατος) known to the romans as Mors is the god or daimon (personified spirit) of non-violent death. He is a chthonic deity residing in the underworld.

This post covers his family, symbols, notable myths, epithets, orphic hymn, and my favourite passages about him.

PARENTAGE AND SIBLINGS

His parentage and family can be understood through Hesiod’s Theogony (A Greek epic written in the 8th or 7th B.C)

And Nyx (Night) bare hateful Moros (Doom) and black Ker (Violent Death) and Thanatos (Death), and she bare Hypnos (Sleep) and the tribe of Oneiroi (Dreams). And again the goddess murky Nyx, though she lay with none, bare Momos (Blame) and painful Oizys (Misery), and the Hesperides . . . Also she bare the Moirai (Moirae, Fates) and the ruthless avenging Keres (Death-Fates) . . . Also deadly Nyx bare Nemesis (Envy) to afflict mortal men, and after her, Apate (Deceit) and Philotes (Friendship) and hateful Geras (Old Age) and hard-hearted Eris (Strife).

— Parents: Nyx with no father (Roman versions of his birth name Erebus the father)

— Siblings:

Apate (deceit)

Eris (strife)

Geras (old age)

Hesperides (nymphs of the evening)

Hypnos (sleep) Ker (violent death)

Keres (death-fates)

Moirai (fates)

Momos (blame)

Moros (doom)

Nemesis (retribution)

Oizys (misery)

Oneiroi (dreams)

Philotes (friendship)

SYMBOLS AND APPEARANCE

SYMBOLS

— inverted torch → represents a life being extinguished

— butterfly → symbolises the soul

— sword → indicates his authority to sever the thread of life

— poppies → as a symbol of eternal sleep

— wreath → suggesting eternity, or the cyclical nature of life and death

APPEARANCE

Greek vase paintings depicted him as a winged, older man with a beard and rarely as a young, beardless youth.

Roman sculptures portrayed him as a youth holding an inverted torch and a wreath or butterfly

NOTABLE MYTHS

— THANATOS AND THE BODY OF SARPEDON

As seen in the Iliad, Thanatos and Hypnos are tasked to carry the body of Sarpedon away from the battlefield to Lycia so his brothers and countrymen can give him a respectful burial.

Homer, Iliad 16. 453 ff (trans. Lattimore) (Greek epic C8th B.C.) : "[Hera speaks to Zeus about the approaching death of his son Sarpedon :] ‘But after the soul and the years of his life have left him [Sarpedon], then send Thanatos (Death) to carry him away, and Hypnos (Sleep), who is painless, until they come with him to the countryside of broad Lykia (Lycia) where his brothers and countrymen shall give him due burial with tomb and gravestone.’"

Homer, Iliad 16. 681 ff : "Then [Apollon] gave him [Sarpedon] into the charge of swift messengers to carry him, of Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), who are twin brothers, and these two presently laid him down within the rich countryside of broad Lykia (Lycia)."

— THE CAPTURE OF THANATOS BY SISYPHUS

Sisyphus was the (possibly) founder and king of Corinth and was known as ‘the craftiest on men’ in texts by Homer. In the myth, Thanatos was sent to carry Sisyphus into the underworld. Upon Thanatos’ arrival, Sisyphus who was hiding chained him and in doing do, suspended death across the entire world. Thanatos was later freed by Ares who had noticed an absence of death from the battlefield

Alcaeus, Fragment 38a (trans. Campbell, Vol. Greek Lyric I) (Greek lyric C6th B.C.) : "King Sisyphos (Sisyphus), son of Aiolos (Aeolus), wisest of men, supposed that he was master of Thanatos (Death); but despite his cunning he crossed eddying Akheron (Acheron) twice at at fate's command."

Aeschylus, Sisyphus the Runaway (lost play) (Greek tragedy C5th B.C.) : Weir Smyth (L.C.L.) quotes from Pherecydes, a C5th B.C. mythographer, in his discussion of the plot of this lost play: "The drama was satyric; its theme, the escape from Haides of the crafty Korinthian king. According to the fabulous story told by Pherekydes (Frag. 78 in Müller,Fragmenta Historicum Graecorum) Sisyphos made known to Asopos that it was Zeus who had carried off his daughter Aigina; in punishment for which offence the god sent Thanatos (Death) against the babbler; but Sisyphos bound Thanatos (Death) fast, so that men ceased to die, until Ares came to the rescue, released Thanatos, and gave Sisyphos into his power."

— THANATOS WRESTLED BY HERACLES

In the Euripides, a Greek tragedy written in the 5th C B.C. Thanatos is wrestled by Heracles to save the life of Alkestis. Heracles does this to repay Admetos, Alklestis’

Euripides, Alcestis 839 ff : "Herakles : I must save this woman who has died so lately, bring Alkestis back to live in this house and pay Admetos all the kindness that I owe. I must go there [to the funeral at the graveside] and watch for Thanatos (Death) of the black robes (melampeplos), master of dead men (anax nekrôn), and I think I shall find him drinking the blood of slaughtered beasts beside the grave. Then, if I can break suddenly from my hiding place, catch him, and hold him in the circle of these arms, there is no way he will be able to break my hold on his bruised ribs, until he gives the woman up to me. But if I miss my quarry, if he does not come to the clotted offering, I must go down, I must ask Kore (Core, the Maiden) [Persephone] and the Master (Anax) [Haides] in the sunless homes of those below (domos anêlios)."

EPITHETS

Greek

- Paean -> the healing (delivers men from the pains and sorrows of life)

- Melampeplos -> of the black robes

- Anax Nekron -> master of dead men

English (these are ones I've derived from text so partial upg)

- insatiable

- dreadful/dreaded one

- awful god

- with a heart of iron

- without mercy

Latin

- Acherontis - inflicter of Acheron (woe)

ORPHIC HYMN

The Fumigation from Manna. Hear me, O Death [Thanatos], whose empire unconfined, extends to mortal tribes of every kind. On thee, the portion of our time depends, whose absence lengthens life, whose presence ends. Thy sleep perpetual bursts the vivid folds, by which the soul, attracting body holds: Common to all of every sex and age, for nought escapes thy all-destructive rage; Not youth itself thy clemency can gain, vigorous and strong, by thee untimely slain. In thee, the end of nature's works is known, in thee, all judgment is absolved alone: No suppliant arts thy dreadful rage control, no vows revoke the purpose of thy soul; O blessed power regard my ardent prayer, and human life to age abundant spare.

MY FAVOURITE MISC. COLLECTION OF TEXTS

Hesiod, Theogony 758 ff (trans. Evelyn-White) (Greek epic C8th or C7th B.C.) : . . . These are Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), dread divinities. Never upon them does Helios, the shining sun, cast the light of his eye-beams, neither when he goes up the sky nor comes down from it. One of these [Hypnos], across the earth and the wide sea-ridges, goes his way quietly back and forth, and is kind to mortals, but the heart of the other one [Thanatos] is iron, and brazen feelings without pity are inside his breast."

Aeschylus, Fragment 82 Niobe (from Stobaeus, Anthology 4. 51. 1) (trans. Weir Smyth) (Greek tragedy C5th B.C.) : "For, alone of gods, Thanatos (Death) loves not gifts; no, not by sacrifice, nor by libation, canst thou aught avail with him; he hath no altar nor hath he hymn of praise; from him, alone of gods, Peitho (Persuasion) stands aloof."

Aeschylus, Fragment 141 Philoctetes (from Stobaeus, Anthology 4. 52. 32) : "[The wounded Philoktetes (Philoctetes) laments :] ‘O Death (thanatos), the healer (paian), reject me not, but come! For thou alone art the mediciner of ills incurable, and no pain layeth hold on the dead.’"

#solaris writes ɞ #hellenic polytheism #thanatos deity #thanatos worship #helpol #theoi chthonoi ɞ #resources ɞ #lord thanatos ɞ

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dolliestfairy · 2 years ago

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𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦 𝅄ֹ ׅ♡ ೀ ʚĭɞ ‌ིᨴּ ˒˒۪

(Crazy) Yandere [Nerd] Boy x Soft!Chubby!Fem!Reader ༢𓏲๋ ⊹ ֢

𔓘 Tw : Kidnapping, Extreme Noncon (y'all are strangers bro), Rushed Fanfic, Mentions Of Blood, Virginity-Take, Extreme Somnophilia, Stalking, Extreme Obsession, Impregnate, A little of Bondage, Seriously dude you're fucking with a crazy nerd boy who is a freaking stranger to you like y'all didnt know each other but this madman is really know you to the soul from all his stalking and stuff. this fanfic is quite the Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Chubby reader fics with no skintone of reader mentioned.

𔓘 A/N : y'all.. this are f***king insane bro.. like this is kinda disturbing imo as a writer of this and also a lot of suffocating. Read at your own risk. me myself actually like the extreme yandere fics but this is still the prefix of it. stay safe while reading this because again; y'all are a stranger!! if a dark content yandere isnt your cup of tea then i highly recommend you to spend your shit at other blogs!! ty.

W/C : 6,4K for Stranger Fucking 💀

Currently thinking abt nerdy men who looks like they would shit in their pants when someone raised their voice at them, but the truth is; he's really really quite the strong. he's a nerdy man who arent shy at all (or maybe just a little) and he's simply just dont like to be bothered by anyone else. he's also a nerdy man who told himself countless time to just focus on studying and studying, and at the first moment; he actually manage to do it within his daily life, well until he met you.

You; plump, soft looking girl with chubby cheeks and doe eyes. you dont even know how much you affect him didnt you? arent you just dumb? walking there and then with such a tiny skirt that almost showed up your plump ass cheeks. walking down in the hallway with such dress that hugged all of your curves together perfectly. oh if only you find out how every night he would spend his time in his bedroom alone while his hand thrust his own cock up and down, thinking about you. he would be drown in his thoughts about how you would find out all his dark fantasy about you. but.. he do realize he shouldnt be doing this actually, no really, he should just be studying, but the soft laugh and those.. those whimpers terror you gave him just drove him to his edge.

And the fact that he masturbate about you when you both are clearly still stranger - is fucking crazy. he mostly had heard of how'd you talk, whimper and moan (wait.. how did.. he know?) and stuff like that while your own self being completely un guard around him. he swear to his thumbs he hated you for making him felt like this, i mean how could you?? a plump girl just trying to get into her daily life as normal as usual can make some nerd dude mad in love with her without her being aware at all?! he cant do this.. he cant do this anymore..!

And he really cant do it anymore. as he go to your apartement at midnight after finding out where you live. peeking through the window to what you were doing only to find you dressing in a short pastel rainbow dress lingerie with big bows placed in the back of your hair, dancing to some songs.. and oh my god he cant even explain how much he want to ripped those colorful dress lingerie off your body. he has no doubt at all that you have the most beautiful body he would ever sees in his entire life.

As he drown himself in his own thoughts until he heard a telephone ring -- it was your friend! your male friend! as you picked the phone up, talking with your friends, while he sees with his own eyes about the way you laugh softly at what-god-knows your friend was muttering to you. he doesnt and he would rather bury himself alive than admitting about the fact that he was really, really, envy and jealous. as he harshly breath at you, while all his body is literally focus with you. his eyes seeing you from head-to-toe, his ears listening carefully about the conversation you're having as his mouth try to resist to open it again because well um -- he is quite the drooling over there. that was it until you start to walk towards the front door where he was outside!!

As he sees you carefully, while hiding himself in the corner, and focused on the door handle you're about to open. until........

Until he quickly enough to put his arms and placed it onto your mouth, shuting you up until you passed out and bring you to your new home his home. as he open the bondage he placed at your mouth, and pinch your chubby cheeks until he sees your whimpering again. thats it! thats the thing that always drove him mad everydsy everynight. thinking about you whimper at whatever he was doing was like a holy candle for him. he then stood himself up, looking at your half unconscious body, and then start to strip you... to naked.

As he softly ripped all the dress lingerie you weared, and after he got the look at your boobs, he slowly put his hands up at where your nipples on, and start playing with it. while his eyes focused on your face, waiting the reaction he have been wait. and until then... you are moaning. honestly he have been thinking that he was in a dream that time. i mean -- he do have seen you moan by the way he always check on you secretly.. but he never except his own self to be the only one who could capable enough to hear your soft moan. as he sped up the phase of his hands playing your nipple, while his own other hand strat to undress himself.

And until he and your own finally completely naked. and... oh god to be damned. he swear he always sees you at some kind of whore while your other friend sees you just as an innocent normal girl, and he always have no doubt about his feelings That you have such an erotic body and at the end.. he was actually right. you do have a very very.. pleaseable body. as he placed his hands into your half unconscious body, lowering it until his hands touch your private part -- your pussy. he slowly but surely put his 3 long fingers in to play with you, and to be surprised or.. shocked even, that you are so so fucking damn tight! he even sure that your pussy is one of the most tightest thing he'd ever placed his hands on, as he quickly sped-ing up his pace at playing your pussy, watching you moan and whimper become one, he cant believe what he saw. you're literally still half unconscious! but yet you somehow still manage to bring out the sound he would die for with! at this rate he doesnt know if he wants to wake you up or just let you still be half unconscious so when you wake up, you're gonna have a some extra surprised with your naked body that has been covered with his cums. as he thinking about it while he placed his (quite big) cock at your pussy. trying to rip those tight wall of your pussy off. thats what he was trying to do until your pussy start showing a little drop of blood out of it.

Oh.. he get it.. yeah he actually get it. You're a Virgin arent you? oh.. such sweet cheeks.. well too bad yoi're going to give all of your innocents left as his own hands and dicks. the body of someone you dont even know at all. he actually felt (just a little) bit of guilt. but who cares anyway? you're literally still half unconscious! as he said it to himself while he tried his possible to pound your ass up at your fat pussy. going in and up in every corner. at first it was slowly, but then he start to change the position into a mating press just so the cums and the blood are still there. as he quickly but surely speeding his pace up like a mad man. at this rate he was at the edge of doesnt gave a fuck about the fact that you're still half unconscious but then he's also at the edge of shock and unbelief because of how you are still not waking up at his pounding.

And all of those pounding ends when his cock start to dried out with how your fat pussy suck all his cums and sperma in. pulling his cock out of your pussy only to see the view of the inside of your pussy, being drown with his cums. as his hands hold your body up just so all the cums he had restored isnt goung to spill. and until then he slowly put his hands down, letting your body down into the mating press position, watching your pussy spilling all of his cums like a fucking waterfall. (his cum waterfall) and then he placed his palm hands at your cheeks softly, while quietly muttering about how he would take care of you, and keeping you safe and that you wouldnt need to be scared of him (even after all his done to you) as he placed his other hand at your undressed belly, and then stroke it with such gentleness because he knew that right now, right at the almost-morning time, that you're going to be swellen with thousands - thousands of his sperm, and at the end of the month, he would see you placed your own hands at your bellies who at that time was full with his kid. oh how he cant wait... he just hope that you wouldnt be freaked out about the fact that you just found yourself in a unrecognizeable place with a literal fucking stranger who is now has placed a baby inside of you. yes, a baby -- his baby.

TSUKISHIMA KEI, ITOSHI RIN, MEGUMI, Itachi, Shikamaru, Nanami, Neji, Tobirama, Deku, KUNIMI, Muichiro, SEMI EITA, Konoha Akinori, Venti, XIAO, AL-HAITAM, Akaashi, KOZUME KENMA, & hatake kakashi.

did i forgeting anyone? insert ur fav!

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rosenclaws · 5 months ago

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obsessed with your ex || Worst!Logan Howlett smut

summary: In his world you were his wife and he loved you and then you died. In this world you're his girlfriend and he loves you. At least you think he does. Still you can't help the voice in the back of your head telling you that you're nothing but a sad replacement.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI!! 18+ ONLY. insecure + jealous!reader, a very very toxic mindset, the reader's mind is very mean to her, reader is a mutant that can make objects disappear, angst, happy ending, rough sex, riding, french kissing, oral (f!receiving), a slight breakdown, soft sex, missionary, Logan is kinda a softie, cockwarming, fingering.

wc: 2.5k

a/n: Okay so it's here!! I need to make this clear that the readers mindset is NOT healthy and that relationships need good communication. That being said here's my fic idea that I've been thinking about for a bit. I love Olivia Rodrigo sm (I even saw her in concert!!) and this song was just begging to be written into a fic. Anyways I really hope you like it and that it's not too insane lmao. Also i made the graphic but i kinda hate it but i dont wanna change it so here we are I know it's ugly but its FINE

How long have you been here? Staring. Observing every little thing about you. Your nose, your eyes, your lips, your hair, your chin. The way your arms fall by your sides. Every. Little. Detail.

Did she have the same colored eyes? Did she talk like you? Was she smart? Was she powerful? Did he look at her the same way? Did he fuck her like he fucks you?

You clench your fists as you stare angrily at the mirror. He loves you. He says he loves you and yet it feels like you can never compare to her. She was the love of his life. She was an X-Men. She died. She was you. You're his dead fucking wife in his universe while you were nothing to the Logan in this one.

He looked at you like a kicked puppy that first day you met. A lost little pet that had been searching for its owner. Dragged through hell and back just to get to you. It was easy to fall for him. Handsome, a little rough around the edges. You hadn’t even been dating for that long but it didn’t matter right? He worshiped you. He loved you. He promised he loved you.

But sometimes in the back of your head you wonder if when he's kissing you, does he imagine her? Does he close his eyes while he's pounding into you and imagine it's her? How could you ever compete? She was perfect, she was kind, she was everything to him. Spiraling deeper and deeper into a whirlpool of doubt and envy. There's a heavy pounding on the door but you choose to ignore it. Too wrapped up in your twisted mind to care.

"Sweetheart, let me in." Logan's gruff voice was slightly muffled by the door.

You clench your jaw as you finally tear your eyes away from the mirror. You slam open the door taking Logan by surprise. His eyes scan yours for injury, a worried look in his face as he steps into the bathroom.

"I got worried, you were in here a long time." His arms wrap around your waist.

He's looking at you with pity. At least that's what your brain tells you. Was he worried that you were hurt because he loves you or because he was thinking of her death again? You know he still dreams of her. He can hide it when he's awake but the nightmares don't lie. It hurts so bad. Love me. Love me. You're jealous you know. She's dead, she's gone. So why can't he love you. You push him off and storm out the bathroom. Nothing makes sense anymore in your head.

"What the fuck?" Logan follows you and you feel yourself tensing up.

It's a miracle your powers haven't started to go haywire yet. So many different emotions swirl around in your head until it mixes together to form one single feeling.

Need.

You grab Logan's shirt and pull him into you. Smashing your lips onto his with a hunger that you've never felt before. Logan hisses as you bite his bottom lip harshly but you don't give him time to say anything as you slip your tongue into his mouth. He groans as he starts to take some control back. Hands slipping up your shirt and ripping to shreds with ease.

You pull back from his lips, chest heaving for air as you paw at his shirt. Silently demanding he take it off which he happily does. Your lips are back onto his in an instant. He slowly walks you back until you fall onto the bed. You fall onto the bed and lick your lips. The bugle in his pants is evident as you flick your hand and the belt disappears.

"I liked that belt." You pay no mind to his comment as you unbutton his jeans and pull them down, leaving him in his boxers.

"Easy there sweetheart," Logan pushes you back gently and crawls on top of you. Logan kisses down your chest, teasing each nipple with his tongue.

"Let me take my time." He purrs.

His hands touch and squeeze your breasts roughly making you whine. You watch his arms move, god he's so hot. He's close to making you forget. He kisses down, down, all the way down. He sneaks out the tip of his claws to pop open the button of your pants and he yanks them down until they're all the way off.

"There she is, my perfect girl." His girl. That's right your his girl. No one else's.

Logan pulls your panties to the side as he situates himself between your legs. He stuffs his face without shame, licking hungrily and practically moaning at the taste. You arch your back as Logan devours you. Watching his back muscles move are mesmerizing. He's yours. He loves you. He promises he does.

You can't stop the thoughts that begin to invade you. Overwhelmed by pleasure from Logan and pain from the horrible ideas that pop into your head. Did he do this with her too? Did he worship her? Do you taste like her? Is that why he can't get enough?

"Fuck!" You hiss as you sit up and tell Logan to stop. He does immediately, wondering what the hell is going on.

"Can't fucking wait." You scratch down his chest with your nails. He groans and tries to crawl on top of you but you shake your head.

"I'm going to ride you until you can't come anymore." You growl.

You bite his shoulder harshly making him hiss. It heals right up much to your dismay. How badly you wish you could mark him. You make his boxers disappear but before he can make a smart comment you sink down on him all the way. You whimper as you start to bounce on his cock. Loving how much he fills you.

You need to be fucked stupid. You're desperate for Logan to fuck every bad thought out of your head. To promise that he loves you so that you can believe him. You want to believe him. Please, you have to believe him.

"Sweetheart." Logan's breath is labored as you relentlessly fuck yourself on his cock. You feel so damn good but fuck he can tell something is on your mind.

"What do you need, let me help you." He sits up on his hands, placing one on your back as he tries to get you to slow down. His words make you want to scream. What do you need? You look at him and the only thing your rotten brain can tell you is that he is thinking of her.

"I need you to fucking love me!" You yell.

The dam of built up feelings breaks down as tears pour out of your eyes. Ugly, horrible sobs that make your body shake. Logan watches with horror in his eyes as he stills your hips, using his strength to lift you off of him as you continue to cry.

"I do love you." He says softly but you shake your head.

"No!" You shout. You pound your fist against Logan's chest over and over again but he barely moves.

"You love her! I know you do." Logan's heart breaks at the sound of your sobs.

"I'm not your dead fucking wife Logan!" You should regret the words coming out of your mouth but you can't stop them.

"You look at me and you see her. Like I'm just some fucking placeholder!" You let out an anguished scream as Logan captures your wrists in his hands. You know the stories. She was a hero, she was perfect in every single way.

"How can I compete with, with her?" You say completely defeated.

Your head falls against his chest. There's a sense of relief that washes over you. Thoughts that have plagued you for months are finally out in the open. Yet the fear of what comes next overtakes any other feeling.

"Look at me." Logan tilts your head up but you push his hand away.

"Sweetheart." He sighs and lets go of your face.

Logan's never been good at this. Talking. Being vulnerable. Then he lost everything and he hardened even more and he just. This was a new chance at life and even though it's hard he can't lose it all again.

"I know you're not her. Of course I do." Logan presses his forehead against yours, trying to get you to look at him.

"You loved her..." You croak out.

"I did love her. She was my wife. But I love you too. In a different way." He's a different man. Having gone through tremendous loss. It shaped him into who he is now.

"You're different people. Your powers act differently, you talk differently, you feel different. You are not a replacement." He says firmly.

When you finally look at him he feels this horrible pit in his stomach. He wipes away your tears but doesn't make any other move. It's not the right time.

"Would you have even given me a second thought? If I didn't look like her?" You ask, that question has haunted you for a while now but you never asked, too afraid of the answer. Logan is silent, unsure of how to answer.

"When I first saw you it was like a punch in the face." He starts. "For a moment I was 20 years in the past. Then I snapped out of it. You look like her, yes but you’re not her.” He gently traces a small scar on your jaw that you got when you were a child.

“I’m not the same as your Logan right? He was a leader, a hero and I was an angry drunk murderer.”

“I’m not gonna start listing all your fucking differences sweetheart, but I swear on my life that I love you for you.” He pulls you into a tight hug as you start to cry again. You cling onto him as tight as you can. The bad thoughts don’t just stop, even if you want them to but Logans whispering sweet words in your ear. Pushing out every bad thought for now.

“Logan,” You take a deep breath, letting Logan invade all your senses. Tobacco and whiskey.

“I need you.” He’s hesitant, not sure if it’s the right time.

“Please, I just need you.”

“Okay sweetheart, you have me.” He slowly rolls you over and lays you on your back.

He captures your lips into a kiss. His hips rolling slowly making you moan softly. His lips drift from your lips to the corner of your mouth to your cheek, trailing down. Each one so gentle, so full of love.

“You have this spot, righttt here.” Logan nibbles on your neck and you gasp when bites right at this spot that drives you wild. You melt into the mattress as he kisses over it.

“Always makes you relax.” He crawls lower, kissing down your body. He sits up on his knees and grabs a pillow to place under your back.

“I know you like to be slightly elevated because it means I can go just a little deeper.” He purrs as he takes his cock in his hands and gently rubs the tip of it along your folds. He slides two fingers into your cunt slowly.

“Know that my fingers drive you absolutely wild, that you need me to go slow to start.” You nod absentmindedly.

You never realized he picked up on all these things. His fingers start to slide in smoother, your cunt getting wetter for him. He leans down and takes a deep breath, groaning at the scent. He slips them out and licks them clean.

“Relax sweetheart,” He spreads your thighs and slips in all the way. Going slow but unrelenting, stretching you just how you like.

“So impatient, you never let me take it easy on you right? Just wanna be full all the time.” He leans down on his elbows as he rolls his hips nice and slow.

There will be no rough sex this time, this is about love. To show you that he truly does love you for you.

“Look at me,” He tilts your head so that your eyes meet. He smiles at the desperate look on your face.

“You can pretend it makes you all embarrassed, but I know you like eye contact.” He hums as he angles his hips so that he hits that perfect spot.

You jolt as pleasure rocks through your whole body but he keeps you under him. He’s slowly and methodically tearing you apart. Every touch, every word out of his mouth just makes it better. He knows. Of course he does.

“I love you Logan.” Your hands cup his face as you stare into his hazel eyes.

This time not filled with lust, but with a true deep love. He looks at you like you’re everything.

“I love you too.” He kisses you as he starts to pick up the pace of his thrusts. He smirks as he feels you start to squirm under him. You could never help it when you were close.

“Come on sweetheart, just let go.” He whispers in your ear.

His deep voice paired with the unrelenting feeling of his cock is all it takes. He holds you in his firm arms as a warm and wonderful tingling sensation runs through your whole body. A blissful smile on your face as you tilt your head back.

You feel your whole body relax as your mind calms. Logan tries to hide his growls as he fucks into you a little faster, until he’s coming hard and deep inside of you. He sighs in contentment as he stays inside of you. He taps your cheek lightly and you look up at him.

“I love you. No one else. Just you.” He moves to pull out but you whine. You need to be close to him right now. He chuckles as he slowly moves to your side. Spooning you tightly with his cock still deep inside of you.

“Can we talk?” You ask shyly.

“About what?” Logan grunts as he pulls you as close as he can get you.

“Anything?” He’s not much of a talker so he asks the questions instead.

How did you discover your powers? How did you meet wade? Just anything and everything and you tell him.

You talk for who knows how long. Staying wrapped in each other's arms. It helps, it really does. Logan listens, he really does listen. He wants to get to know you. He loves you. You rest your head on his chest, tracing shapes into his palm as you talk.

For the first time in a while your mind seems to settle. Ignoring any thought that may try and ruin your mood. It’s just you and him right now. There’s no looming figure of your alternate selves, not anymore.

Just you and Logan. Forever.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #worst!logan howlett x reader #worst!logan howlett smut

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pearl-nouveau · 7 months ago

Text

A Woman's Purpose - Cregan Stark x Reader [chapter one]

summary: Your mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, has always prepared you to marry and you have always resisted, terrified that you will only ever be seen as a wife. But your heart is torn when love catches you by surprise.

contains: mentions of self-harm, aged-up characters (Jace is ~19 idk)

a/n: wow i have not posted on this blog in YEARS but i lurk in tumblr reader insert oneshots like it's my part-time job, and i wrote this on AO3 so i decided to post here and hopefully get some love. i really love posting my writing even if it is not perfect, it's just a passion. let me know if i should post the second chapter and my asks are always open! xx - pearl🦪

Beauty is power, my mother used to tell me, stroking my silver hair as if it were made of golden thread. She loved my hair. Use your beauty to set yourself free. I had no idea if she meant for her words to bring some kind of comfort to me - they did not.

Sometimes, I hated her for bringing me into the world altogether. While Jace and Luke envied my resemblance to our mother, I detested sharing her light hair and lilac eyes. It seemed to me a symbol of my imprisonment - it became clear to me, hearing all this talk of my beauty and nothing else, that I was never to be loved or seen for anything else.

In my youth, the abstract concept of my fertility and status made me a formidable form of currency within the royal family. Jacaerys, older by one year, made his way as heir by training in combat and dragonriding and studying the history of Westeros and Old Valeria - I, however, was confined to studying the family trees of the realm's powerful houses, to perform the perfect Velaryon princess and eventually be bred like a cow.

I hated my life.

Many attempts were made to rebel against my predetermined future. At ten and two I sliced all the hair from my head, leaving a shaggy, uneven mess of shimmering half-bald patches that took years to grow back. I had never seen my mother so angry until at ten and four I began slicing patterns into my arms and legs to scar the perfect pale skin everyone complimented me on. Soon she required a chaperone with me at all times, which only made me more furious, and I began picking fights with my cuntish uncles and coming back from dragon rides inexplicably soaking or covered in soot. I waited for my mother to attempt to put together the puzzle I had laid out in front of her; to figure me out and decide that her daughter - the strong-willed, intelligent, adventurous one - matters more than the empty shell of a married woman that I will surely become.

At the very least, my mother allowed me the power to turn away whomever I wished. It seemed she hoped I would find someone who struck my fancy. But as time passed and my antics worsened, her grip on me tightened, and I began to fear the wost: an impending betrothal.

She frequently asked me to rack my brain and think of any previous men she had introduced me to who I may want to explore further. But I was stubborn. I maintained that no one had caught my eye, and I insisted that I would never marry. Whenever I said such things, my mother would frown at me in a way that hurt my heart. She was my greatest antagonist, but I loved her, and I knew that it saddened her to put me through such pain.

Even if there was one man who never left an impression on me, whose memory kept me awake in the darkness of night, I would never tell my mother. It was too humiliating after so many years of fighting marriage to be seduced by love.

Every so often I allowed myself to think about him before I went to sleep, to be swept up in the beautiful dream of someone's arms around me. I could imagine him saying to me, I choose you. That was what I always dreamt of hearing. I choose you, as you are. Just you.

Jacaerys tried to sympathize with me but he would never truly understand. He did allow me to partake in his own pastimes to grant me a change of scenery from the walls of King's Landing.

"It infuriates me that she herself is allowed to break barriers as heir to the Iron Throne and I must remain shackled to tradition," I complained to Jace as we sparred in a remote corner of the keep. "She gets to be immortalized as the first of her name while subjecting me to a loveless marriage."

"She was in an arranged marriage with our father." Jace pointed out, sending a particularly hard offensive move my way. I easily thwarted it.

"Well..." I trailed off. There was nothing to say, not in words, about our parents, or our parentage. It was an unspoken issue, even between Jacaerys and I who were nearly as close as twins. We supposed it would always be shrouded in mystery. We were prepared to always wonder. It seemed unthinkable to ask our mother any questions, nor our father, nor...

Strong boys, they said.

Perhaps Jace and I wouldn't speak of it because our difference in hair color had always been a sore subject. I was broken out of my thoughts by another offensive move, this one catching me by surprise. I stumbled back but recovered, moving around the side of my brother as he laughed at me in the way only an older brother would.

"I'll get you back for that," I snapped at him, but grinned. He smiled back, shrugging cockily. Bring it on, his eyes told me.

We sparred a bit more until our breaths were heavy in our throats and our swings became more jests than challenges. Eventually, he tossed his sword on the ground and fell upon a sack of grain. I sat next to him and for a moment we were not prince nor princess. We were just two siblings. I sighed, knowing it wouldn't last for long.

Jace seemed to decide to bank on the moment as well because he looked to me and spoke. "Was there really never anyone who caught your eye? Not in all those years of meeting suitors?" He thought for a moment. "There were some good ones."

"Some good ones?" I scoffed. "Who, pray tell?"

After a few moments of consideration, he began to chuckle and I rolled my eyes. The chuckle became a cackle and at this joke, I did not laugh along. We both knew that most of the options I had been presented with were vapid, shortsighted, insecure children, as were most men.

I was about to hit him to shut him up when he stopped suddenly and his face brightened with realization.

"I know a good one," Jace said, "Cregan Stark."

A flush crossed my face at the name.

Usually, I only allowed that name to cross my mind in the darkness of night, but Jace had disrupted that routine. "What about him?" I tried to ask innocently. This time my brother was the one to roll his eyes at me.

"Don't play the fool, sister," he teased, "when he came to visit those years ago everyone could see that you both took a liking to each other. Even you couldn't fight him." He nudged me playfully with his elbow. "He fights like a Northerner, and he wanted to fight for you."

"Oh, hush."

"Why did you ever turn him away anyways?"

His question silenced me. It was a painful memory. Cregan had come to treat with my grandsire and pledge his support as Warden of the North, and in those two moons he stayed at King's Landing we came to know each other well. Perhaps the reason why I had opened myself to getting to know him was because he had not come for the intention of courting me. In fact, I found him wonderfully ignorant about the social politics of the royal family, and he did not know of my existence upon his arrival.

The day we met, I was in the Godswood with a book and a porcelain cup of candied almonds. A midnight blue veil covered my thigh-length silver hair. I hated my hair, and I hated that my mother would not let me cut it. I refused to have it braided and let it fall unbrushed and wild down my back.

He had come into the courtyard without noticing me tangled in the roots of the tree. He came closer to examine the trunk thoughtfully, allowing me a glimpse of his face through the branches. I had heard of his arrival and listened from behind closed doors at their meeting, intrigued by his deep voice and foreign accent. I listened intently as he spoke a prayer in a hushed tone. All of a sudden, his gaze shifted to meet mine between the leaves as if he had known I was there the whole time.

"Apologies, my lady," he bowed his head slightly. "I did not know the Godswood was occupied."

"There is room enough for two," I said shyly. I was not accustomed to being pleasant towards men. I was known for being a beautiful devil, a menace with a sour tongue. It made me self-conscious to think that I was changing my behavior for a man. But I was merely matching his politeness; and he had no reason to falsify his kindness, since he had no idea who I was.

Luckily for me, I had no reason to overthink my words because he went silent for a long while, lost in a wordless prayer. After a quarter of an hour had passed, he came closer to me, and gestured to the root beside me.

"Do you mind if I sit?" He had asked.

I shook my head and he moved his thick cloak to drop down beside me.

"Pardon my intrusion, my lady, I find myself feeling lonely when I come to the South. The Godswood calms me."

"I understand, Lord Stark."

His eyebrow quirked. "You know who I am?"

"I'm afraid I do." I smiled. I loved having the upper hand. I decided I wouldn't tell him who I was.

"What is your role here in the castle, my lady?"

"To please lords like you." I jested. Cregan leaned back slightly, taken aback. I quickly realized the suggestive wording of my joke. "Not like that," I quickly corrected, "I was just... I mean-"

"I know who you are, princess." He chuckled at me. I was glad to be rescued from the embarrassment of my failed joke. I gazed at him questioningly. He leaned forward and gently removed the veil from my head. "Unfortunately your appearance does not allow you anonymity."

I blushed. "What have you heard about me?"

"Nothing, I admit, until your grandsire told me about you today. He told me of your age, not many years my junior, and I supposed-"

"- That I might make a fine breeder for you?" I snapped. There went the illusion of politeness. This was where they usually ran, when I became a beast instead of a beauty. A piece of work not worth the effort.

Instead, Cregan merely chuckled. "Actually, I sought a companion. A friend. Being here is lonely for me, and I thought you might show me what life in King's Landing is like. If I am to swear fealty to your family, I seek to know your customs. Your mother has told me that you are the most well-acquainted with the keep of her children."

You smiled. Had your mother truly said that? It was true, since you spent so much time darting around the palace avoiding her orders.

"Would you mind giving me a tour?" He asked. His tone was so gentle, so uncomplicated. It was like no man had ever spoken to me before. With respect, as if he were speaking to a friend. It was refreshing.

For the next few weeks, Cregan and I formed a friendship based on mutual respect. He informed me of Northern politics and asked for my opinions on complicated political matters through a Southern perspective. I introduced him to my dragon, Vermithor. Afternoons were spent in the Godswood picnicking for the purpose of introducing him to local cuisine, and evenings were spent in the library discussing literature. The relationship felt as easy as breathing to me, and I could tell he felt the same. After close to two moons, it had begun to frighten me how much I longed for his presence when we separated at the end of the day.

There had always been a tangible tension between us that toed the line between friendship and romance. Lingering gazes, intentional touches, and meaningful words kept me up at night. He opened up to me about the unique grief of losing his wife in childbirth and having to leave his infant son at home so soon afterward. I showed him the scars littered across my body, and explained to him how I hated my beauty.

He had taken my head in his hands and looked through my soul with those gray eyes.

"Your beauty... It is just a fraction of you. What is truly incredible is your kind heart, your wit, your intelligence, your soul..."

I had been unable in that moment to keep myself from kissing him, so I let my mind empty and I surged forward to connect our lips. He responded with fervor, bringing me close, the pads of his thumbs barely grazing the peach fuzz on my cheek. I could not even bring myself to feel ashamed about grabbing his tunic underneath his cloak, my fingers unknowing but desperate. He had taken my hands and pulled back, only to kiss my nose, then brow, then the corners of each eyes, and then my knuckles.

Suddenly I came too. I saw in front of me the path that had been laid for me - a wife, be it to a good man or a bad one. I was still determined not to let that happen.

As I often did, I had fled. I had avoided him until he went back to Winterfell. Two moons later, a raven came from him. I didn't dare open it, too afraid to face my actions. Even if I felt that I knew what the contents were, Cregan was not like other men I knew - thus I had always wondered what the letter said. I wondered if it was true that he truly cared for me and saw who I was inside. The thought made me realize that even I myself did not know what path may be laid in front of me. My feelings confused me, and I decided to shut the Lord of Winterfell out of my mind forever.

Except on some dark nights.

And except for now, when Jacaerys prods my arm and awaits the answer to his question. I realized I must have been silent for a long time as his voice began to register in my head.

"Lost in thought?"

"Ha-ha," I shoved him back. "Sort of."

Jace's face became serious. "I was only jesting, but perhaps I shouldn't have brought it up. I know you truly did care for him."

"How could you tell?" I asked, genuine curiosity lacing my tone. It was past the point where it was worth feeling awkward about the truth of my feelings. I was only human, after all.

"He was kind to everybody, but especially to you." Jace pursed his lips in thought. "Although at the same time, he does not treat you like you're soft. It was like he loved hearing you speak. Like your word was God."

I smiled.

Jace nudged me. "And... he looked at you like you hung the damn sun in the sky."

My heart skipped a beat hearing that. I knew it was true, but I was used to people looking at me in awe. As if I were a ball of light floating in front of them, ethereal, untouchable. Cregan was not afraid to see through me, to touch me. He made me feel held.

Emotion overcame me in that moment. I quickly scrambled up from the bag of grain Jace and I were lounging on, grasping my sword and tossing my hair over my shoulder.

"Well, it's too late now," I quickly said, "He's in Winterfell and it does not matter if he cares for me or not, I do not want the life of a housewife."

Jace stood. "Who says that getting married means you'll become a housewife? You'll be a lady, you could do whatever you please."

"It isn't just the marriage, it's the principle of it!" I cried, moving away from him towards the main training yard. "As soon as I take those vows, it means my purpose is only to bear children." As we entered the larger courtyard and grew closer to other people, he grasped my arm and spoke to me in a lowered voice.

"I know you think I do not understand, but I am soon to be betrothed as well, likely to someone I will never love."

"Well, at the end of the line, you have a throne." I spit at him, spinning on my heel and leaving him staring helplessly after me.

#hotd #house of the dragon #cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark oneshot #cregan stark x you #cregan stark fanfic #hotd imagine #house of the dragon imagine #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan stark fanfiction

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