#there is not enough content from this nationals

[plumpybread]

Would love an explanation for your Inazuma cast's weight! I know Itto starts gaining as a sign of rebellion, right? What about the others?

Of course! The Inazuman guys are very interesting, since the nation is infamous in the AU for being extremely anti-obesity and the polar opposite of Fontaine, but most of them have unique reasons behind going against the status quo:

Gorou:

He had always been an extremely disciplined young man and a formidable leader in the troops he lead, but there was something he found out that soon began to challenge his self-restraint; the secret illegal smuggling of Fontainian food conducted by the Fatui to purposefully fatten up and weaken Watatsumi Island's troops without their knowledge. A strange surge of obesity had sparked between the men of Watatsumi as months went by, not understanding why the food they ate was so much more addictive and tasty than they remembered.

Gorou did the best he could to get his peers on the field and to avoid overindulging, but even he had began falling victim to the drastic power of Fontainian food, heavily struggling to get back in shape no matter how much he exercised every day, and starting to get worried on what the future might hold.

Kazuha:

After the decline and fall of the Kaedehara clan, Kazuha escaped from Inazuma, barely making it alive from the soldier's pursuit. With a new outlook in life, he decided he wanted a life full of the freedom he never had. As a temporary member of Beidou's ship crew, he began enjoying the little things in life, such as food and beer, lots of beer.

His belly quickly began bloating in size as months went by, taut and round, a sign of his newfound joy in constant drinking with friends, and he could not care less. If anything, it just made him happy, he'd gotten used enough to his chiseled abs, maybe getting fat was simply more his style now.

Heizou:

I had always envisioned Heizou to be a heavier guy. Although Inazuma has very low obesity rates, it's not 0%, and some guys just grew up pretty fat and never got around losing the weight. He had likely been born with a very slow metabolism, which simply lead to weight piling on easily.

He's a bit rebellious in nature, so he might get a little kick knowing he's way fatter than what people want him to be. He doesn't plan on losing weight nor is he actively wishing to get fatter, he's simply content with his appearance, and if he ends up gaining more weight, so be it!

Wanderer:

Scaramouche, once a puppet of the Raiden Shogun herself, set free to live freely, became a mentally scarred, evil Fatui Harbinger after a life filled with betrayal. After being defeated by Aether and Nahida in Sumeru, he chose to erase his existence from the world and assumed a new identity as a nameless Wanderer, seeking redemption and a fresh start in life.

Though most of his memory of his past life had been completely erased from his mind, he still felt an internal disdain for Inazuma and its values, which is why he felt a very odd, comforting feeling when he looked at his body in the mirror and he noticed he had gained some weight.

Since assuming his new identity as a wanderer, he had allowed his own body to start growing as fat as it wanted. He visited many restaurants throughout Sumeru and did not deprive himself from enjoying good food to its fullest. His fatness brought him a joy and comfort that he couldn't put into words, and he knew he didn't plan on actively gaining weight, but watching his stomach hang lower and his limbs grow plusher month after month made him very happy.

Thoma:

Like most men born in Mondstadt, Thoma was quite heavy since early on in his life, and he was likely going to be just as obese as everyone else in the city when he grew up. Unfortunately, when he went to delivery Dandelion Wine to Inazuma one day at a young age, he became stranded due to unforseen circumstances.

Despite being an outsider, Thoma's sociable nature and adeptness at building connections allowed him to integrate seamlessly into Inazuman society and grant himself some easy jobs. However, due to him being on his own and struggling with money, he lost weight easily, some days even spent starving after not being able to make enough to eat that day.

When he was an adult, he earned the trust of the Kamisato Clan, and was brought on to live with them while he worked as a housekeeper, taking on responsibilities such as cooking, cleaning, and managing household affairs.

Kamisato Ayato, the head of the Kamisato clan and a young man of similar age to Thoma, quickly grew affectionate of him, and wanted to know everything about Thoma. One day, he confessed to Ayato the fact that he used to be pretty big in the past when he lived in Mondstadt, and how his upbringing in Inazuma caused him to lose all the weight as he now had a very lean, toned body. Ayato's interest was immediately piqued. He suggested in that silver-tongued way of his that he might want to look into gaining weight and embracing his Mondstadtian culture, and Thoma simply didn't want to disappoint Ayato.

Some years down the line, Thoma blew up and became undeniably obese. His body was fat all over, and he huffed and puffed and waddled down the halls of the Kamisato estate in a way Ayato could not detach his eyes from. Thoma did not mind his very high weight by itself too much, though it did start to tire him out quite a bit during his day job, something Ayato quickly fixed by reducing his work hours by half and extending his lunch breaks so he could rest (and eat) for longer.

Ayato was utterly fascinated by Thoma and his body. Obesity was rare and socially punished in their nation, but Thoma had the excuse of being an outsider (and one from Mondstadt at that) that allowed him to gain weight without too much judgement. Even so, he didn't leave the Kamisato Estate much for people to see him anyways, always busy tending to important things inside the building, such as private meetings with Ayato every day at tea time where he would be told to lay down next to Ayato as he was hand-fed all sorts of foods and pastries in a silence of mutual enjoyment.

Itto:

Itto was a feared Oni in the streets of Inazuma, not for his fearsome strength, or for his spiky, red horns, but for his annoying habit of stealing people's food when they weren't looking.

The massive Oni only cared about one thing and one thing only; rebelling against Inazuma's societal norms. Mistreated and misunderstood since birth because he was an Oni, Itto simply didn't care or want to fit into Inazuman society anymore because he knew he would never be able to even if he tried, so he set his own path in life.

Early on, getting fat was just one of the many ways to show a middle finger and protest against the Inazuman regime and values, but it quickly stuck, and he wanted more, he wanted to get fatter, not only to make a statement, but because he realized he really enjoyed feeling heavy, and so he began gorging on food for many years to come.

Now, Itto sat comfortably past the 900 pound milestone, and he was amongst the heaviest men in the entire nation. Thanks to his Oni musculature, he was still able to somewhat comfortably move around the streets of Inazuma, but he loved how heavy his massive belly felt, pinning him down no matter if he was standing or laying down. The way it sagged way past his knees, and how it'd slap against his legs through each step, he couldn't get enough of it, and he knew he wanted more. He wanted his belly to reach the ground, to know what it'd feel like to be so obscenely obese his own stomach was so massive it dragged across the floor of every room and every road he walked through, and he was going to work hard to make that his reality.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

⋆ ˚ 🦋 ｡ ICHOR ────── Yandere! Prince ⋆˚

⊹ ٬  Headcanon. Yandere! Prince x Knight! Fem! Reader

In a world marked by betrayal and the struggle for power, two souls find themselves caught between loyalty and desire. As the shadows of tragedy loom, a shared destiny binds them, though the cost of that love may be higher than either is willing to pay.

⊹ ٬  Word Count. 6.5k

⊹ ٬  Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, stalking, cultural exchange, war, dehumanization, loss of loved ones, family conflict, moral dilemmas, betrayal, race conflicts, colonialism.

「 the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods 」

You must be a lady.

That’s what your mother told you when, panting and with dusty knees, she found you wielding a wooden sword alongside your older brother. Her lips would tighten into a thin line, the same one she traced with the needle while embroidering war banners for men who would never return home.

Ladies don’t wear pants.

Your dress had to be long, puffy, of a red so deep it matched the blood that cemented the glory of Vexoria. It didn’t matter that the annals of the continent recorded the name of your nation with equal respect and fear, nor that its military exploits were narrated in the voice of victory and the echo of silenced laments. Women were not warriors but banners waving over the battlefields, prizes for those strong enough to claim them.

Having a daughter was securing alliances, perpetuating dynasties of tough men and well-tempered steel. Having a son was birthing war flesh, blood spilled too soon over distant lands.

Never fight.

Women do not throw the first punch, but they are the ones who end wars. A scratch on a man’s skin was a battle wound; on a woman’s body, it was a portent that war had found its way home.

If they tell you to kneel, you obey and remain silent.

That’s what they taught you from the cradle, whispered among the cold walls of the fortress and repeated by the wet nurses as they wove tales of submissive queens and devoted wives. But that morning, when your father found you among the sons of lords, your feet planted firmly in the training ground sand, you did not obey. You did not remain silent.

You screamed like the bronze of a trumpet in the cornucopia, your voice tearing through the heavy morning air.

—I want to be a knight!

Your trembling fingers gripped the fabric of your dress and tore it in one pull, shedding the cage they had sewn for you. Your father turned red, anger surging like a torrent up his neck. It was the color of shame, of humiliation, of the certainty that his daughter had been born with the tongue of a warrior and not with the smile of a wife.

It was not him who struck you. It was your mother.

Her delicate, cared-for hand cut through the air before crashing against your cheek. There was no fury in her eyes, but something worse: a resigned sadness, a frustration contained in years of drowned dreams. Her face, once smooth and hopeful, was now marked by the invisible scars of obedience.

—You will be a lady —she told you, her voice firm, though her tears betrayed her strength—. You will marry one of the sons of the great lords. You will have children. And that is final.

But you did not yield.

—I will follow my dreams —your voice replied, ignited with the conviction of an oath.

It was too much. Your father could not allow it. He could not bear the thought that his firstborn, his pride, had sown in you the seed of disobedience. So he sent your brother to war. Not because it was his duty, but because he could not conceive that his own son had contaminated his little daughter with ideas of freedom.

No one in Vexoria was free from their fate.

The word fate was spoken in whispers, like a distant echo resonating through the castle halls, but no one dared to defy it. It was not an ethereal concept but an unquestionable truth, an invisible rope binding each person to the role they were to play in the play that their nation was writing with fire and blood. You were eight springs old when the kingdom of Castamar, the ancestral enemy, revealed itself as a shadow that devoured the light.

That night, your skin still bore the softness of childhood, and your dreams were woven with the golden threads of a carefree world. You slept peacefully, under the silk and goose feather sheets that wrapped you in a false sense of security, when the sound of screams shattered the air, tearing it apart with an intensity so harrowing it seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.

Fire consumed everything. Flames engulfed the city, wrapping buildings in a dance of destruction that lit the sky like a hellish signal. Blood flowed in torrents, red and hot, watering the streets that had once been the pride of your family, of your nation. Vexoria, the unstoppable, the invincible, had finally succumbed. For the first time, the kingdom that had always dictated war, that instilled fear and glory, was the one losing.

You were the daughter of a great lord, a noble born under the seal of strength and supremacy of your lineage. Your family had been named for the Golden Bull, that macabre prize awarded to those whose lineage was so prestigious that their fall would serve as a warning to others. It was the most feared death penalty in all of Vexoria, a brutal fate in which the nominees were placed in the golden belly of an iron bull, a searing cauldron, and roasted alive as sacrifices to an ancient power.

You knew what it meant to be part of that list. You knew that, sooner or later, the blade of the scythe would fall upon you, but at that moment, your entire being crumbled before the certainty of condemnation. You were going to die. And there was nothing you could do. It didn’t matter that your mother, with her trembling hands and face marked by years of dutiful submission, embraced you desperately, crying inconsolably as she prayed to your gods. There was no prayer that could save you from that fate.

But something changed in that moment. Something that, though fleeting, altered the course of your existence forever.

He appeared, a man in worn armor and a face aged by the years, but still with the steely gaze of those who have lived to witness death, like a shadow slipping through the flames. Sir Orion Casterly, an elderly knight from the enemy kingdom of Castamar, took pity on you. He did not think, he did not hesitate. He took you from your mother’s arms, who was already undone by helplessness, and pulled you away from her embrace, as if he knew there was no time for tears or empty promises.

She looked at you with the anguish of one who knows she is delivering you to hell. With eyes filled with despair, she told you not to part from him, that this man, this knight, would be your protector, the last vestige of hope in a crumbling world. The uncertainty of that farewell, the coldness of death lurking in every corner, made you feel as if everything you knew was fading into darkness. The weight of your mother’s sacrifice settled in your heart, a weight you would carry for the rest of your days.

You left with him, unable to understand the magnitude of what had just occurred, not realizing that the decision your mother was making would perhaps be the last thing she would give you in her life.

────── 🦋 ──────

Your face was that of millions of battles won, but none satisfying. A face forged in the iron of war, bearing the marks of victories that never filled the void within you. It wasn't trophies or crowns you sought; wars, in all their forms, were merely an endless succession of losses, even if hymns were sung in your honor. You left your horse in the stable, and as you stripped off the reins, a long, heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if it were the last vestige of the fatigue accumulated during the long journey.

It had been two months, two endless months of riding without rest, escorting the king to the kingdom of Valdracia, to negotiate a marriage alliance. You didn’t know if it would be the elder prince, the one with the cold gaze, or the second, whose warm smile did not hide the dark intentions visible in his eyes. Perhaps it was the third, the youngest and least experienced, still carrying his untainted hopes. Which of the three? You didn’t know, and you cared even less. At that moment, the political intrigues, the marriages, and the pacts between kingdoms were just distant echoes that failed to penetrate the wall of exhaustion that enveloped you.

All you desired, all your soul needed, was stillness, rest, even if only for a few minutes. A place where the noise of war, the demands of the kingdom, and despair could finally be silenced. You walked to the palace garden, where the fountain of the seven awaited. The water fell in a hypnotic dance, striking the stones and trickling between them with the serenity of something that needed nothing more than to exist. You sat on a marble bench, allowing the sound of the water to drown out the voices still resonating in your head. It allowed you the luxury of not thinking of anything, for once.

You looked at Vixen, grazing in the nearby grass. The horse had been your only faithful companion for so many years. It was a gift from your father on your ninth spring, twenty winters ago. Back then, Vixen was just an inexperienced colt, with spindly legs and tangled manes, but you loved him with the intensity of a young heart, eager to seal a pact that would never be broken. Now, Vixen was strong and old, with fur hardened by years of battles, yet he remained your refuge. As you stroked his mane, you remembered those moments of youth when the world seemed simpler, when your dreams were not stained by the sweat of war or the thirst for power.

You and that horse had lived through it all: the relentless cold of winters, the scorching sun of summers, the ground soaked with blood and sweat, and the contained rage of a life that, though lived in the shadows of war, never ceased to burn. Stroking his mane was like returning to a time when the purity of loyalty and friendship was not corrupted by politics or duty. The memories you shared with Vixen were, in their simplicity, the only truth that remained. The water continued to fall gently from the fountain, and for a moment, you forgot everything else.

It was just you, the horse, and the stillness of the world.

And then that disgusting laugh of the charming prince echoed like an unpleasant reminder in your eardrum, bouncing in every corner of your mind with the persistence of a plague.

—Lady Casterly! What a pleasant surprise to see you here. I was so worried when I saw you step away from the group as soon as the king arrived in Valdracia.

George of Castamar's voice was like a deafening whisper, smooth and exasperating, the kind of voice that seemed designed to enchant any foolish lady crossing his path, yet for you, it was a constant hammering. It was one of those voices that crawled on your skin, one that seemed to envelop everything, even though there was nothing in him that warranted such attention.

George, bearer of the unicorn shield, second in line to the throne of Castamar, with his prince charming attitude, as unreachable as the reflection of a vain dream, represented everything you disliked about the nobility. He was the headache that never went away, the fly buzzing around your face just when you thought you might finally find some peace. He, with his well-fed boyish face and eyes shining with such crude arrogance that left you speechless, seemed to not understand that not everyone fell at his charming façade.

You were twenty-one springs into the cavalry, but you had seen enough of that world not to be fooled by the facade of youth he so proudly displayed. You had served for years in the Royal Guard, fought and sweated under the blue insignia, in the trenches where loyalty was tested in blood and sweat, not in empty smiles. Yet this young man, who had barely seen twenty winters, followed you everywhere like an unruly dog, always surprised that a woman held a position of power, that a woman was the sub-captain of the blue division, the one tasked with protecting the king.

The same George who, despite having been in the royal cavalry for six months, barely knew how to wield a sword without someone having to put his hands on the hilt, the one who needed a squire to do what a true knight did by instinct. The irony of his existence bit you like a slow and constant poison. You didn’t know whether to be more exasperated by his lack of skill or his tireless insistence on proving to himself that nobility and lineage were all that mattered.

The sun reflected off his armor with the same brilliance as his ignorance, and there he was, in front of you, as if his title and position at court could erase his uselessness.

"Our captain, in his unusual gesture of generosity, granted me a few hours of solitary peace to compensate for the fatigue accumulated from my hard work protecting the king," you said firmly, not even looking at him, lost in the stillness of your own thoughts. Your cold hands, from the spring water, slowly dipped into the fountain, seeking a small comfort in its coolness. The sound of the water falling over the stones was a silent reminder of how fleeting tranquility is in this world that never ceases to revolve around war and politics.

The young man from Castamar approached, his presence as imposing as it was unnecessary. "Lady Casterly," he began with that tone you found so unbearable, filled with forced courtesy, "it is an honor for me to have the opportunity to speak with you at such solemn moments. Your devotion to the king is admirable, as always."

You sighed, looking up at the sky for a moment, seeking some peace in the vastness of blue. Then, without turning completely, you were direct in your response, your voice calm but laden with an authority that needed no backing from titles. "And as I have already mentioned before, young Castamar," you replied, your words sharp as a well-honed sword, "it is Sir Y/n Casterly for you. And if you must address me, I would appreciate it if you did so accordingly."

The young prince, seemingly taken aback by your frankness, hesitated for a moment. His eyes shone with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, as if he truly did not understand why someone of your standing would not be swept away by courtly conventions. "My apologies, Sir Casterly," he said finally, his tone lowering slightly, though still retaining the glow of his unmistakable arrogance. "It is not my intention to offend you."

"I know," you replied with a slight smile on your lips, though devoid of warmth. "It is not my intention to offend you either, but formality is reserved for those who truly deserve it, young Castamar. And at this moment, it seems there is no space for it between us."

A silent tension settled between the two of you. George of Castamar's eyes sparkled with the typical discomfort nobles felt when confronted with something they could not control. There was something in your demeanor he could not decipher, something that bewildered him, as if your position and rank did not hold the same importance as they did for others.

You focused again on the water, letting the gentle movements of the spring allow you a breath. You knew you would gain nothing by arguing with him, that his words would be empty, as they always were. The court's ego war, with its constant push and pull, was no longer something that interested you. Loyalty, true loyalty, did not come from titles or empty smiles; it came from sacrifice, from spilled blood, and from decisions made under the stars, not in palace halls.

Silence stretched between you, dense and palpable, as if words had gotten trapped in the air, fearful of being spoken. George's eyes watched you with that expression that, though masked in feigned curiosity, betrayed the palpable tension between you. He awaited a response, though he was merely a child playing at being an adult in a battlefield where he did not understand the rules.

"I heard about the altercation the king had when we passed through the kingdom of Eldorath," he said, finally breaking the silence, his voice somewhat lower, as if the weight of the question frightened him a bit. "Is it true what Sir Caspian said? That some assassins with a Valdraco accent tried to take the king's life?"

His words collided against your ears like a contained explosion, awakening dark and murky memories of that night, a night when danger lurked in the shadows of the Eldorian kingdom. You took a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs, while your eyes fixed on the horizon, as if there you could find an answer you had yet to formulate.

You finally looked at him, and for an instant, your gazes met with the intensity of unspoken truth. This young prince, with his pristine face and arrogant smile, did not comprehend the magnitude of what had really happened. For him, it was merely court gossip, a story to tell at the next dinner. But you knew that the king's life had been in danger, and that danger did not retreat; it lurked, waiting for the curtain to fall.

"Yes..." you said, your voice calm, but with a coldness that cut like steel. "The king was very frightened throughout the night after that. His men were not enough to protect him at that moment, and despair was reflected on his face."

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if the mere act of recalling what had happened drained you of energy. That night, the king had been vulnerable, his body tired and frail, already too old to bear the blows of a fate that did not forgive the weak. You, however, stayed with him, while the other knights, including men like George, distanced themselves to seek solace in the brothels of Eldorath, forgetting their duty.

The contrast between duty and indulgence was more evident than ever. While they lost themselves in vice, you kept vigil over a man who could no longer hold himself up. But that was not a choice. Not when the king was under your protection, and even less when the echoes of betrayal whispered in every corner of the kingdom.

"But Queen Selenia..." you continued, your voice taking on a darker, more somber tone. "She explicitly asked me not to tell anyone else. To keep silent about what happened." A slight sigh escaped your lips, filled with resignation, as if the queen's decisions were just another burden on your shoulders. "Unfortunately for Queen Selenia, I only serve the king. My loyalty is not divided."

The young prince seemed momentarily disoriented, as if the words could not fit into his mind, but in the end, he nodded with a mix of discomfort and disdain. He knew that this was not a matter he could meddle in, but he also perceived the weight of the loyalty that bound you to the king, something he would never fully comprehend. Loyalty was not something that was negotiated, something that could be asked for in a whisper over cups of wine and empty laughter. Loyalty was proven, and you had proven more than enough during your years in service to the king.

"Really, the Valdracos disagree with my brother's betrothal to the princess, don’t they?" George's voice slid between the shadows of the hall, laden with a rather empty curiosity, as if the intrigues of the kingdom were just a pastime for him. His gaze fixed on you awaited a response, but you already knew he was not seeking understanding, but merely a small glimmer of confirmation for his own conjectures.

The question hung in the air for a moment as you carefully considered your words. "All the kingdoms and noble houses are opposed," you said with a tense calmness, your eyes reflecting a shadow of disdain. "After... the fall of Vexoria, no kingdom has felt comfortable with King Alistair's decisions. Distrust has sown deeply, and few dare to look forward without remembering what happened."

A slight sigh escaped your lips, as if the words themselves weighed down on you. The disaster of Vexoria had left scars, not just physical but deep in the souls of all who witnessed the fall of an empire that was once great. But the consequences of that fall did not limit themselves to a single kingdom. They had reached all, even Castamar, though many insisted on denying it.

George, however, seemed not to grasp the gravity of the matter. His arrogance still failed to see beyond the surface, as always. "That invasion was my grandfather's decision," he said with a shrug, as if the responsibility for what had happened held no more weight than a forgotten story. "I don’t understand why everything keeps coming back to this. What matters now is the future, right?"

"What does it matter what king it would have been?" you retorted, your voice lower, colder, but equally sharp. "Castamar will bear the cross on its back for its disloyalty to its family, for its betrayal of those who once trusted them." Your words cut through the air with the hardness of a well-honed sword, the truth striking with the force of a hammer on the anvil. "The weight of that betrayal cannot be erased with kind gestures or empty promises."

George fell silent, as if the weight of your words began to seep into his mind, if only a little. You knew comprehension would not come easily, not now, not ever. For him, the concept of loyalty was something that shifted with the wind, something that changed according to the convenience of his position. He did not understand the value of spilled blood nor the difficult decisions that marked the lives of those who truly served their kingdom.

"It’s easy to forget what is lost when everything surrounding you remains intact," you continued, looking to the horizon as if the future were there, waiting to be claimed. "But the damage is already done, and alliances, promises, are not easily forgotten."

The young prince, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what true loyalty entailed, remained silent. His face, still marked by youth and ignorance of political complexities, reflected the frustration of not finding the answers he sought. But you already knew there were no easy answers in this game. The fate of nations, the decisions of kings, the betrayals of houses, all that wove into a net so complex it was impossible to unravel with simple words.

You looked at Vixen for a few seconds, his dark coat and robust body, feeling how the stillness of the moment contrasted with the storm of thoughts crowding your mind. Then, your eyes returned to George, who seemed lost in his own thoughts, staring off into the distance without seeing anything in particular. You had no patience for his games, but he, it seemed, did not understand what it meant to be a knight in truth, what that life full of sacrifices represented. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

"Don’t you think about marrying, like your brother Rodrigo?" you asked, letting the question linger in the air, giving it an ironic and biting tone. "You know, to favor your shield, as many do to maintain power in the wrong hands."

George shook his head, as if the idea of marriage were an abomination in his eyes. "No, I swear loyalty to the royal guard," he said with a firmness that seemed no more than an attempt to evade what it truly meant to belong to that order.

"And what of it?" you replied without hesitation, your words falling like a dry blow. "Knight Banneret Orion Casterly is married to Lady Mikaela, and several knights have bastards out there. You wouldn’t be the first or the last knight in this world to fall in love and follow a path not filled solely with duty. Everyone, even those who swear devotion, have their lives, their desires... Why be different?"

The look George returned was one of discomfort, but the conversation was far from over. He seemed to think that with the simple oath of loyalty he had finished his responsibility, as if a mere vow could erase the desires and internal struggles that defined him as a man. But you knew better than that.

"And you, Sir Casterly, don’t you think about marrying?" he asked, attempting to steer the conversation toward your own commitment, or the lack thereof. His tone, a mix of curiosity and disdain, sent a pang of contempt through you. The young man did not know what it meant to be a true knight, what it meant to live a life of sacrifices. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

You looked at him with a hatred as cold as steel, a hatred that needed no words to express, but nonetheless, you decided to articulate it. "The only man I kneel to," you continued, letting your words land as a final blow, "is the king." The silence that followed your declaration was profound, like an abyss that separated you even further, though you needed nothing more than your own duty to feel complete in this world of false promises.

George smiled at that.

────── 🦋 ──────

"I swear by Cica and the king's hand that we did it behind the stable," shouted Sir Dorik, his voice resonating powerfully in the air. He slammed the table with such fury that the echo seemed to thrum against the walls, his frustration palpable. "She may be old, but by the gods, she has a technique that even the youngest courtesan cannot match. The damned woman knows what she's doing!"

The room fell silent for a moment before Sir Clemond, no stranger to fits of rage, let out a bitter laugh. "Don't lie, Doo! Queen Selenia is so arrogant and pretentious that she would never do something so... vulgar. Remember what that old witch told us all, huh? 'You are just worms looking for rain.' Well, if I'm a worm, she’s a cockroach, a damn cockroach who crawls to get what she wants."

Tension grew like a storm about to burst. Clemond, as impetuous as ever, threw his flowery beer to the ground with such anger that the liquid almost spilled across the table. The sound of shattering glass barely calmed the heat that erupted from his words. "How dare she treat us like this? I'm fed up with her poison!"

The annoyance was evident, but you remained seated, calm, your face impassive as you slowly drank from your own beer. Your gaze fixed on the foam in your cup, you took a moment before speaking. The resentment and fatigue of hearing the same old rant often reflected in your eyes, but the discipline and professionalism you had learned over the years kept you steady.

"Please," you finally said, your tone soft but laden with a latent tension. "Even if Sir Dorik speaks the truth, we cannot simply speak ill of Queen Selenia. It’s not our style, no matter how justified our anger may be." You set your cup on the table with a slow gesture, looking at the men present. "It’s not about what we believe or what that woman has done. Queen Selenia has her place, and although we all know what she thinks of us, we must maintain our composure. Loyalty to our king and the realm must be greater than our personal frustrations."

However, you couldn't help but let your words carry a slight bitterness. "And if we ever say what we really think, tremble, for the very Queen you despise is capable of swallowing whole those who dare to contradict her. Don’t forget what we are up against."

Sir Clemond, visibly irritated but still holding a hint of respect, clenched his teeth tightly, biting his lower lip as his eyes burned with contained anger. He knew you were right, though admitting it felt like swallowing ash. Castamar had never distinguished itself for its wisdom in dealing with its subjects, nor for its courtesy towards those who served it. No, the realm was ruled by the edge of swords and the weight of coins, and those who had neither were at the mercy of their lords' whims.

Around you, the tavern vibrated with coarse laughter and words slurred by wine. The knights of the Blue Division, battle-hardened yet fragile before the temptation of a well-served mug, drank with the carefree attitude of those who know war too well and understand that death can come at any corner. The sun had barely reached its zenith, and already the stench of liquor filled the air. They spoke unabashedly, ranting about the highborn nobility, the hypocrisy of great names, about Queen Selenia and her disdain for those who fought for the realm while she paraded in her silks and perfumes.

Such was your group. A handful of men with no loyalty but to their steel and to the king. Rugged men, loyal to each other, yet broken by the reality of serving a crown that rarely showed them gratitude.

It was then that George appeared.

You saw him enter with his carefree stride, that air of nobility contrasting with the roughness of the surroundings. It was not unusual for him to show up at knights' meetings, though he was never truly welcome. He invited himself, as if his lineage entitled him to share the table with soldiers who had spilled more blood than he would ever see. There was a brief silence upon noticing his presence, not of respect, but of resignation.

You, without averting your gaze from your cup, remembered the first time you met him. You recalled his impeccable manners, his easy smile, his exasperating naivety. And you remembered the words you told him then, with the edge of one who has no patience for princes playing soldier:

"This is no place for a prince."

George seemed unfazed by the hostility in the air. He walked between the tables with the same confidence with which a noble walks through his own hall, though everyone present knew this was not his territory. Here, in the dim light of a tavern filled with soldiers hardened by war, his lineage meant nothing. His name could not stop a thrust, nor did his royal blood grant him respect among men who had killed and bled for a king who barely spared them a glance.

And yet, he smiled.

"Sir Casterly," he greeted with that affected voice that so many ladies in Castamar found charming, but which only provoked annoyance in you. His tone, perfectly measured, his posture impeccable... As if he felt no tension in the air, as if he did not notice the wary glances fixed on his back.

"May I sit?"

You did not respond immediately. Instead, you took another sip of your beer, letting the silence weigh heavily. Sir Clemond snorted softly, and some of the knights exchanged mocking glances. They all knew George would stay regardless. He always did.

"Does it matter if I say no, Your Highness?" you finally replied, not bothering to conceal the fatigue in your tone.

George let out a brief laugh, as if he had expected exactly that response.

"It flatters me that you know me so well, Sir Casterly."

With an almost insulting nonchalance, he took a seat across from you, resting an elbow on the table as he scanned the room with his gaze. He examined the men around him, soldiers seasoned by a thousand battles, men who owed him neither loyalty nor sympathy. And yet, he looked at them with that arrogant curiosity that only someone like him could afford.

"Shouldn't you be training?" he asked with feigned innocence, his eyes dancing with barely contained mischief. "Don’t get me wrong, I know a good beer can warm the spirit, but I doubt it does the same for the sword."

Sir Dorik let out a hoarse laugh, slamming his mug against the table with a noise that made the furniture vibrate.

"Bah! We don’t need training to deal with brats like you, prince. Give us a sword and we’ll beat you blindfolded."

"I don’t doubt that," George admitted with an easy smile, as if the comment amused him rather than offended him. "But my duty is to learn from the best, right?"

The tavern erupted in rough laughter and sarcastic murmurs. Men who had known war since childhood mocked the idea that a spoiled prince could understand what duty truly meant.

You, however, did not laugh.

You looked at him intently, searching for the purpose behind his relaxed demeanor. George could be many things: a clumsy noble, an inexperienced soldier, a courtly brat. But he was not stupid. He knew perfectly well what he was doing by mingling with the guard, by sharing drinks with the men his own family considered expendable. He knew what his mere presence provoked, how his words ignited a fire that could be both entertainment and distraction.

"What do you want, George?" you asked, cutting into the conversation like a dagger to the neck.

The prince tilted his head slightly, his smile barely wavering.

"To converse," he replied at last, with a lightness that contrasted with the intensity of his gaze. "To enjoy good company. Yours, specifically."

You said nothing immediately. You let the weight of his words hang in the air, like the smoke from the candles around you. Because you knew, as well as he did, that George of Castamar never did anything without a motive.

The murmur of the tavern continued to resonate around you: the sound of mugs clinking, coarse laughter, and conversations peppered with curses. However, at the table where you sat, a bubble of barely concealed tension had formed.

George of Castamar tilted his head slightly, with that damned smile of his, the one he wore when he thought he had control of the situation.

"I didn't know I had the capacity to leave the legendary Sir Casterly speechless," he murmured with feigned surprise. "I feel honored."

You did not respond. You simply took another sip of your beer, as if his presence were nothing more than an annoying shadow in your peripheral vision. George, however, did not give up.

"I must say it's impressive. Not every knight can drink with such grace after weeks of hard work protecting my father. Although, of course, I imagine for someone with your temperament, that’s just another ordinary day."

You knew what he was trying to do. The flattery disguised as jest, the casual tone with which he wove each word. A clumsy attempt to stroke your pride to gain your attention.

He was failing miserably.

"The next time you flatter me, Your Highness, make sure it doesn’t sound like you’re speaking to a courtesan at a court party," you said without looking up from your mug.

Sir Clemond stifled a laugh in his drink. George, for his part, tilted his head with an even broader smile, as if he found every snub you dealt him amusing.

"Touché," he admitted. "But I'm afraid I don’t have the habit of flattering in vain. If I say it’s impressive, it’s because it is. There aren’t many knights who could do what you do. And certainly no lady in this realm who can match you."

"Because there is no lady in this realm foolish enough to waste her life in the royal guard," you replied indifferently, leaning slightly forward to place the empty mug on the table.

"I wouldn’t say that," he countered, with a look that grew sharper. "I would say there is no lady in this realm who has your courage."

This time you did look at him. Not because the words had caused the effect he expected, but because you wanted to ensure he understood something very clear.

"Courage is a luxury, prince. What I did wasn’t a choice."

The glint in George's eyes intensified, as if your response had intrigued him rather than repelled him.

"Everything in life is a choice, Sir Casterly," he murmured, and for the first time his voice sounded lower, more serious. "Including this conversation."

You stood up without answering, taking your mug and walking away from the table with the same indifference you had received his presence. You could feel his gaze following you, expectant, as if he were waiting for you to stop, to turn back to him.

You did not.

George of Castamar could be charming, persistent, and, deep down, more astute than people gave him credit for. But if he thought he could court you like a lady of nobility, he was wasting his time.

────── 🦋 ──────

The light of the lamp flickered faintly in the barrack, casting elongated shadows on the bare stone walls. The place was devoid of any luxury, as befit a knight of the royal guard, yet it was still your refuge. A place where you could exist without the burden of armor or inquisitive gazes.

And now, he was there.

George of Castamar stood at the entrance, wearing the same arrogant smile as always, but this time accompanied by an unexpectedly soft gesture: a bouquet of Razina flowers rested in his hands. Their fragrance filled the room as he raised them toward you, an intoxicating aroma, a blend of roses and something stronger, almost ethereal.

You recognized them instantly.

Your expression hardened.

“I don’t want them,” you said, your voice sharp as the edge of a well-tempered sword.

The prince tilted his head, unfazed by the disdain in your tone.

“Don’t you even want to know how I got them?” he asked, using that lazy tone he adopted when trying to draw you into a conversation.

Your eyes fell back to the flowers. Beautiful, delicate... and born from destruction. The Razinas only grew in lands that had known ash and blood, where death had fertilized the soil better than any peasant could. They were the flowers that the women of your nation wore in their hair as a symbol of resilience, of mourning, of belonging to a home that no longer existed.

That George would bring you those flowers, here, in the dimness of your barrack, dressed only in a nightgown, on a night he had no right to invade...

It was grotesque.

“Do you know what these flowers symbolize?” you asked, not bothering to hide the contempt in your voice.

“Of course,” he replied, with the confidence of someone who does not truly understand the weight of his words. “They are the flowers of Vexoria, right? A tribute. A gesture of goodwill.”

A tribute.

A humorless laugh escaped your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest, holding his gaze.

“A tribute?” you repeated, with a biting incredulity. “Is that how you see it? As an exotic gift to woo a knight?”

George let out a sigh, but his smile did not fade.

“Not everything I do has a hidden intention, Ser Casterly,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Maybe I just wanted to remind you that, despite everything, you are still more than just a sword in the service of Castamar.”

Silence stretched between you, laden with unspoken meanings.

The flames of the lamp danced in his eyes, reflecting a mix of stubbornness and something deeper, something you were not willing to unravel.

Slowly, you approached him, but not to take the flowers. Instead, you raised your hand and gently pushed them against his chest, forcing him to hold them more firmly.

“If you really want to prove something to me, George,” you said, your voice low, firm, unyielding, “stop treating me like a damned damsel.”

George’s smile faded for just a moment before reappearing on his face, yet it no longer held the same lightness as before. Something in his gaze had changed, as if the mask of the charming noble had cracked just enough to reveal another facet, one less naïve, more aware.

“I’m not trying to see you as a damsel, Casterly,” he said softly, but with a latent edge. “I just wanted to have a simple gesture with you.”

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of Razinas, as if the warmth of the flowers could soften the ice in your gaze.

“King Alistair advised me to give you this,” he continued, “and perhaps... to invite you for a walk.”

The air in the barrack seemed to grow denser, trapped between the stone walls and the flickering dimness of the lamp. You wondered if it was mere courtesy or if the old monarch had a more sinister purpose in mind.

“I don’t want to go with you.”

Your words fell like lead, with no intention of softening the rejection.

George sighed, as if he had expected that response, but that didn’t mean he would accept it.

“Well, then I order you, as the Second Prince of Castamar, to accompany me for a walk through the beautiful gardens of Valdracia Castle.”

His tone remained light, almost playful, but the command seeped into his words like poison in sweet wine.

Your lips curved into a bitter smile.

“Someone like me cannot walk in those places.”

“And who says that?”

“Society.”

George tilted his head slightly, studying you with renewed interest, as if he had just discovered a new piece on a board he thought he knew by heart.

“Maybe,” he murmured, “but the gardens of Valdracia are used to beautiful things born from tragedy. After all, Razinas grow there too.”

His gaze fell back to the bouquet in his hands, and for the first time in the entire conversation, you didn’t know what expression crossed his face.

You looked at him for a long moment, and although your body tensed, you didn’t say a word. Finally, with disdain and a barely audible sigh, you took the flowers and set them on the bed, in a gesture that made your disinterest clear. His presence was unwelcome, but what bothered you even more was that slight smile on his lips, as if he enjoyed your resistance.

“Shall we go, Sir Casterly?” he asked, his voice warm but with a palpable tension that he could barely hide.

His gaze continued to roam the room, though he knew he wasn’t looking for details on the walls. He was watching you, waiting for the silence to force you to respond.

“I’m still in my nightgown.”

George’s laugh was low, almost mocking, but there was something in his tone that threw you off.

“It doesn’t matter, much better,” he said with that unshakeable confidence that usually irritated you.

A slight flush crept up your neck, and you couldn’t help but look at him sternly, though George’s face remained impassive, clearly enjoying the discomfort he had caused.

“Much better?” you asked, with a tone that bordered on acidic, but you couldn’t deny that the idea of going out in your nightgown, under his gaze, made you feel a strange mix of anger and something harder to identify.

George didn’t seem bothered by your response. On the contrary, his smile grew a little wider, as if what he had said had achieved its goal.

He stepped closer to you, his eyes shining under the dim light of the hallway lamps. Without a word, he took your hands gently, as if they were glass, and that gesture was enough for a shiver to run down your spine. There was an obvious contrast between his hands and yours. Yours, hardened by years of combat and sacrifice, were calloused, marked by the scars of the battles you had fought. Each finger was adorned with bruises, each line of your skin told stories of struggle. His, on the other hand, were soft, fine, without marks of pain or effort. They had been shielded from the same fate as yours.

Yet George didn’t seem to notice the difference. He looked at your hands with a smile full of something you couldn’t identify, before gently leaning down to kiss them, with a softness that was almost inaudible, as if he didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. "They're perfect," he whispered, a statement that made you feel uncomfortable, yet something in your chest tightened at the same time.

He gently tugged you along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And although your mind screamed that this was a mistake, that you shouldn't let yourself be swept away, your steps led you outside the barrack, right beside him. The warm darkness of the night enveloped the castle, and the echo of your boots resonated against the cobblestones.

The city of Valdracia seemed to be asleep, but the air in the garden brought with it a light breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees. As you walked together along the lantern-lit pathways, your eyes were drawn to the portraits of the Seven, the imposing statues that adorned the castle grounds. They were the figures of gods, but you saw something more in them. Those stone-carved figures, those faces you had once revered fervently, now appeared colder than ever. It was as if the promises of the gods could no longer save you from your fate.

The night breeze caressed the garden softly, wrapping both of you in its chilly embrace. You moved toward the center of the garden, where, on a stone pedestal, stood the imposing Statue of the Seven. The sculpture, carved with an inhuman perfection, depicted the monarchs of each of the Seven Kingdoms, their eternal forms and fixed gazes looking toward the horizon, as if they could foresee the fate of those who passed before them. The figures, despite their great beauty, showed the wear of time, with cracks beginning to mar the stone, as if the years had left their mark, yet their power remained unyielding.

George stopped in front of the statue, observing it with an expression that could not conceal his bewilderment. The figure of an elderly monarch, with a crown that seemed more a burden than a symbol of power, dominated the center. "I don’t understand," he began, his tone contemplative, almost mocking. "Why do so many people hold these kings in such devotion? They are just... very old people, some almost dead, others already buried in their graves, aren't they?"

The question escaped his lips with a lack of understanding that bordered on insensitivity, and the way he posed it, casual and devoid of any reverence, ignited a fire in your chest. The Statue of the Seven was more than just a monument to you; it was a symbol of rebirth, of unity, of what had been made possible after the wars, the struggles, and the losses that the Kingdoms had endured. What you saw in those figures was not merely the passage of time, but the hope that even in decay and death, the land could rise again, that the people could rebuild.

Your gaze hardened, and for a moment, your fingers clenched against the edges of your cloak as if trying to contain the anger that surged within you.

"What you don’t understand," you began, your voice low but firm, "is that those kings, those men and women you see here, represent something greater than just their years of life. They are symbols of what the Seven Kingdoms were able to build after devastation. Yes, some died in their old age, but their vision, their sacrifice, their struggle, has not vanished. They are the pillars upon which we stand now. Their devotion is not merely a matter of revering their bodies, but honoring the legacy they left behind."

George looked at the statue, puzzled by the intensity of your words, not fully grasping the fervor behind them. His face showed a mix of interest and a hint of amusement, as if he were trying to understand the blind loyalty people felt for those kings of bygone eras.

"So, you believe that devotion to the dead is... necessary?" he asked with a slight smile, as if testing your limits.

"Yes," you replied with a vehemence you hadn’t anticipated from yourself. "It is necessary. What you see as 'the dead' are the foundations of our destinies. They forged the unity of the kingdoms, created the peace that allows us to live in these castles, fight our battles, and sit in these gardens. Without them, there would be no rebirth. There would be no hope of moving forward."

Silence filled the space between you, but you did not step away from the statue. Its empty eyes seemed to look at you, not at George. It felt as if, in its silence, it understood you better than any spoken word ever could.

"Perhaps what you don’t understand," you continued, your eyes fixed on the stone, "is that not everything in this world can be measured by a person's age or their physical presence. People like the Seven Kingdoms... they are ideals, dreams of what we can become when we stop fighting among ourselves and unite our strengths. And although those kings are no longer alive, their influence does not die. It never does."

George watched you for a moment longer, and although his smile remained light, there seemed to be something in his gaze that, for the first time, was not mocking. Instead of responding immediately, he took a step closer, his eyes tracing the lines and details of the statue as if he were trying, in some way, to understand what you had just expressed.

With surprising delicacy, George guided you to a stone bench located right in front of the Statue of the Seven. The night air felt cool, and the crunch of leaves beneath your boots resonated softly in the stillness of the garden as you sat down. He followed suit, taking a seat beside you, and for a moment, the silence between you was only interrupted by the whisper of the wind.

Even with the gentleness with which he had touched your hands, there was something in the tension of his posture that made it clear he was not willing to remain silent for long. Finally, his voice, soft yet inquisitive, broke the calm.

"Why do you hate me so much, Ser Casterly?" he asked with a slight smile, but his eyes, fixed on you, reflected genuine curiosity.

You turned to him, your face still marked by the discomfort his words provoked. His questions always seemed to carry an irreverence that you couldn't overlook. However, you decided not to evade the answer this time. You were too tired of doing so.

"Why do I hate you?" you repeated, almost with a sigh, as if uttering it aloud gave the answer more weight. "It’s complicated, George. I have my reasons. But there are so many that it would be a waste of time to list them all."

George leaned back slightly, not breaking eye contact. His laughter, soft yet sincere, emerged with a teasing tone. "I suppose you have many reasons then," he said, with a spark of amusement in his eyes. "But I, for my part, do not hate you, Ser Casterly."

You turned slightly, surprised by the serenity of his declaration. "Really?" you asked, with a mix of skepticism and a hint of disdain. "Do you not hate the woman who has ignored and rejected you at every turn?"

George shrugged, his smile widening, almost a challenge. "No, in fact... I admire you." His tone was firm, as if he spoke with certainty. "There’s something about you that captivates me, Ser Casterly. That determination, that strength you always carry with you. You have impressed me since the moment we met."

For a brief instant, your lips parted as if you were about to say something, but the surprise held you back. "Admire me, huh?" you murmured with a tone of disbelief, but without irritation. "It’s curious... because that doesn’t change anything."

"What do you mean?" George leaned his head, observing you with attention. "Do you think that my admiration changes who I am or what I do? I wouldn’t, but the truth is, I see no reason why someone like me shouldn’t court someone like you."

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on the garden before you, but no longer looking at the statue. Your thoughts seemed darker, as if the shadows surrounding the Statue of the Seven reflected the reality you saw in the world.

"It doesn’t matter how much you admire me, George," you said with a coldness that left no room for doubt. "It’s not wise for a prince to court a mere knight, even if you don’t see it that way. You are a prince, of royal blood, the future of Castamar. And I... I am just a guardian, destined to protect the king until the day I become cannon fodder. The moment the king dies or Castamar is defeated, I will be nothing more than that, flesh for the sacrifice of some other kingdom, or of our own allies. The life of someone like me holds no value when war and death loom."

Your voice cracked only slightly at the end, but your gaze remained firm, as if resisting the idea that anyone could see you as vulnerable. The wind blew gently, rustling some branches around, as if nature itself were a witness to what you had just said.

George did not respond immediately. The silence between you extended, heavy, dense. He seemed to be processing what you had said, perhaps for the first time looking beyond the nobility that surrounded him, understanding, albeit belatedly, the lives of those who served, sacrificing themselves without receiving glory or recognition.

Finally, in a low, almost whispered voice, he said, "I don’t want you to become cannon fodder. I want you to know that, although I don’t share your view of life, I believe there is something you could achieve beyond this war. You are not just a knight... You are a woman with courage, and perhaps, just perhaps, you could see beyond what you are meant to be."

Your eyes met his for a long moment, and for the first time that night, perhaps for a fleeting second, you wondered if he, deep down, could understand something of what you had just told him. But reality returned swiftly, like a sharp blow. The difference between his world and yours could not vanish with a simple exchange of words.

"It doesn’t matter what you say, George," you replied, turning back to face forward, "you have no idea what that means."

The sky was clear, and the stars, like distant beacons, twinkled softly above them. The night air seemed suspended in time, while the garden of Valdracia, with its long, silent shadows, stretched around. The stillness of the night made even the whispers of the trees sound muted, as if the whole world were watching the two lonely figures beneath the starry mantle.

George remained by your side, and although at first he seemed uncomfortable with the silence, gradually, his presence became more reassuring, like a familiar shadow. Finally, without warning, his hand gently rested on yours. It was an unexpected gesture, yet at the same time, it felt like a natural extension of what had begun between you that night. Without saying a word, joining in that contact seemed the only possible path in that moment.

Your heart raced for a moment, and your mind wanted to rebel, but something in his touch made you pause. George, without taking his gaze off the sky, slowly leaned his head until it rested softly on your shoulder, as if he were seeking comfort or understanding from you in some way.

"For me," he said softly, filled with a sincerity that sought neither applause nor boastfulness, "you are not just a knight."

You tensed for a second, but he continued without withdrawing.

"You are not just the guardian of the king, nor the soldier who faces battles with a strong heart," he continued. "To me, Ser Casterly, you are the most beautiful and courageous knight I have ever known in my life. I truly believe that. My parents... your parents should feel incredibly proud to have you as their daughter."

His words were slow, yet laden with a warmth that you could not ignore. His closeness, his whisper made the air thick, almost suffocating, but not from discomfort, rather from something deeper that seemed to bloom between you, a feeling neither he nor you dared to name.

A tear, treacherous, slipped slowly down your cheek, barely perceptible but enough for him to notice. You did not wipe it away, as somehow you felt it deserved to fall. The weight of his words, so unexpected and so different from everything you had heard before, stirred something in you that you thought had long been buried.

"Thank you," you murmured, unable to help it, your voice trembling, almost choked. "I hope that is true."

The shadow of the Statue of the Seven watched over you in silence, as immutable as ever, while the stars continued their dance in the sky. George did not speak further. In that moment, all that remained in the air was the softness of his presence, the warmth of his words, and the gentle brush of his face against your shoulder.

And for an instant, the outside world faded away. There were no kingdoms, no struggles, no bloodshed. There were just the two of you, beneath the stars, sharing a silence that spoke more than any words could.

The prince, though so distant in his lineage, seemed suddenly so close, so real, so... human, in comparison to the coldness of his position. And you, despite the scars of war, despite your life marked by sword and duty, were not merely what the world thought you were. Not in that moment. In that instant, you were just two souls in the vastness of the night, searching for something that lay beyond everyone else's expectations.

────── 🦋 ──────

The sun, which had once seemed warm and promising, now fell upon the scene with an unrelenting harshness. The murmurs around you seemed to resonate like distant echoes, distorted by the fog of anguish that had taken hold of you. Silent tears fell, heavy but without sound, rolling down your cheeks as though the pain accompanying them was too deep to express aloud. You couldn’t stop staring at the bodies—those who had once been close friends, comrades in battle, and now were nothing but cold corpses, their humanity ripped away by the cruelty of fate.

George, seeing you there, unable to hold back, approached and enveloped you in his arms with a strength only someone who cares deeply can have. He held you with such intensity that, for a brief moment, it seemed like he could stop the pain that consumed you. His hands moved gently across your back, trying to offer comfort, but all he could do was hold you as he felt his heart break with every stifled sob you tried to suppress.

"You’re not alone, Casterly," he whispered in your ear, his voice deep and gentle at the same time. Then, with tenderness, he kissed your cheek, leaving a warm kiss on the skin that pulsed from the tension. A gesture of affection that didn’t ease the weight of the tragedy, but in that moment, it was all he could offer.

You trembled, not just from the morning cold, but from the emotional blow that had shaken you to your core. Your mind struggled to process what had happened. It was as if everything were happening in slow motion, like the pieces of the puzzle were crumbling before you and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

With a broken voice, you murmured, almost without realizing it:

"I’ve never failed... I was always alert... how could this happen?"

The words hung in the air, empty of hope. You couldn’t understand how the tragedy had reached you. In all those years of struggle, sacrifice, and preparation, you had never imagined an end like this. You had always believed that constant vigilance, the strength of your spirit, and your loyalty to your kingdom would protect you from any misfortune. But in this moment, you were being shattered by the weight of the truth: none of that had saved you.

George held you tighter, as if his body could offer you some comfort in the midst of the storm. His face was close to yours, his warm breath against your neck. Despite the pain he felt, he knew his words had to be as firm as possible.

"What happened isn’t your fault," he said, with a deep sincerity. Though he couldn’t erase what had happened, he wanted you to know that you didn’t have to carry the blame. It wasn’t fair, nor realistic, to bear that weight.

You didn’t respond, but your body relaxed slightly, as if his words were a rope to hold onto, even if you couldn’t fully understand them.

In that moment, he gently pulled away from the embrace, guiding you through the garden. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, but George never let you go. He looked at you with an expression full of compassion, but also with a quiet determination.

"Come on, Casterly," he said, almost gently. "You can’t stay here. There’s a future we still have to face, and no matter how hard it is now, you’re still the knight you’ve always been. Don’t let this destroy you."

You didn’t say anything, but you kept walking, your mind still trapped in the horror of what you had seen, of the loss you felt deep within you. However, the fact that George was by your side, in some way, gave you a small breath of relief. At least, for a moment, you weren’t alone.

As you both walked through the garden, the first rays of sunlight illuminated the figures of the trees, making the shadows stretch toward you like spectral fingers. The air felt heavy, filled with palpable pain, as if nature itself mourned what had just occurred. But you didn’t want to look back. You couldn’t. The only option was to keep moving forward, even though you didn’t know where this uncertain future would take you.

"Will you stay with me?" you suddenly asked, your voice broken but determined, as you walked together, your steps resonating on the ground covered with dry leaves.

George looked at you and, with a faint smile that didn’t hide the pain in his eyes, replied:

"Always."

The embrace between you lasted longer than either of you had expected, a silent comfort that seemed to stop time for a moment. George held you with a soft but persistent strength, as if he wanted to protect you from everything that had happened, even though he knew he couldn’t. The air was thick with anguish, and the weight of the pain on your shoulders was palpable. You, with your head resting on his chest, could feel his heart beating fast and hard, as if, in that embrace, you could find some semblance of calm, even if it was momentary. Your breathing, initially erratic, slowly softened.

Yet, the sadness still weighed on you, a cruel reminder of the tragedy that had unfolded. It was he who broke the silence, his voice deep and firm, but also laced with a strange concern that you hadn’t expected to hear.

"There must be an assassin among us... or maybe someone from another kingdom is sending assassins to eliminate the royal family," he said, the tension clear in his words. His gaze was fixed on some distant point, as if he were searching for an answer in the air. Though he didn’t have any concrete suspicions about who might be responsible, the certainty that something was happening left no room for doubt in his mind.

"It’s likely we’re being attacked by other kingdoms... Maybe this isn’t an isolated incident."

You looked up at him, your face marked with concern, but also with a determination that hadn’t been there before. Your eyes, red from crying, still held that spark of fire that had always been yours. You weren’t going to give up, no matter what happened.

"I'll be more vigilant from now on," you reply, your voice firm, though still trembling. You've learned over time to be alert, to detect any sign of danger, but things are never that simple when the enemy hides in the shadows, within your own home. George looks at you with a mix of sadness and gratitude, but his expression is serious, as if he understands that the situation has changed irrevocably.

"It won't be enough, Casterly," he says in a soft, almost desolate tone. "You can't do it all alone. This is bigger than you think. We need to act, and not just you. The whole kingdom is in danger."

You watch him for a moment, feeling the weight of his words sink in. There’s something in his tone that leaves no room for doubt. It’s not just an assassin, nor even an isolated betrayal; it’s something much bigger, a conspiracy stretching across every corner of the kingdom and beyond. Enemy kingdoms could be conspiring together to bring down the royal family, and in the process, you would be the first to be dragged down. The thought chills you, but also makes you more resolute. No matter how many enemies are lurking in the shadows, you won’t let your people fall without a fight.

"So, what are we going to do?" you ask, your voice now harder, more determined.

George looks you directly in the eyes, not breaking his gaze for a second. His words are a promise, a plea, but also a warning.

"Whatever it takes. And we’ll do it together."

The silence that follows is heavy, as if the universe itself is waiting for the decision you just made. There’s no turning back. Both of you know that the path ahead will be long and dangerous, but you also know that the fight for the kingdom, for your family, and for your very life, is about to begin.

You nod slowly, your heart beating fast. Though the shadow of tragedy still follows you, you feel a spark of determination growing within you. The battle for your kingdom has just begun.

The silence that follows your words grows even heavier. George, as if aware of the tension that has grown between you, lets out an enigmatic smile, one that contrasts with the weight of what he just said. The smile is neither comforting nor sorrowful, but one that reflects deep, almost malicious interest.

"Now I’m the heir to the throne," he says with unsettling calm, as if the words are just a simple fact of life. His gaze rests on you, almost challenging you.

"And most likely, they’ll let me court you now, don’t you think?"

You stare at him, as if you've just woken up from a horrendous nightmare. His words make you feel a deep rage, a burn that spreads throughout your entire being. How can he be talking about courting you in the midst of such tragedy? Your brother has brutally died, and he, the man who just lost his greatest rival for the throne, seems to find comfort in the possibility of courting you. You can’t believe what you're hearing.

"Are you serious, George? Are you thinking about that now?" your voice breaks, but the fury you feel is evident. "Your brother just died. He was literally just murdered. And here you are, the only thing you can think about is what they’ve allowed you to do."

George watches you without losing his smile, as if your words are nothing more than a step in the inevitable power game he's trapped in.

"It’s true, his brother has died. But, who was dictating the law until now?" His tone softens, as if explaining a fundamental truth of life. "The king, and now, thanks to his departure, I’m the one in control. So, as the heir to the throne, I have the right to decide who can be by my side. And honestly, I’d like it to be you."

The blood in your veins boils at hearing those words, but you can’t help but feel a strange revulsion, a mixture of disgust and pity. It’s as if your brother’s death had been nothing more than just another piece in a game he has already won. A piece that opens the door to what he truly wants: to have you, as if you were a trophy, another step toward his ambition.

"Don’t forget that I’m still a knight, George. And you... you’re just a prince," you reply with a voice full of disdain, trying to regain control over your own emotions. But the truth is, you feel like you’re fighting against a tide that drags you along, a power play where it no longer matters who has died and who has survived.

George doesn’t respond immediately. He just moves closer to you, his face reflecting an unwavering satisfaction, as if nothing could change his fate. With one hand, he gently lifts your face, his fingers touching the soft curve of your cheek.

"Now, dear Casterly," he whispers, his warm breath brushing against your skin, "I’m the heir to the throne. And my word is law."

You fall silent, a mix of disbelief and fury building in your chest. There’s no doubt in George’s gaze, nor in his voice. He believes that, as the heir to the throne, everything he wants will be within his reach. And you... you can do nothing but listen as your fate, now in the hands of that man, turns into a nightmare.

He smiles again, this time with no trace of doubt.

"So, I ask that you consider what I’m offering you. Power is at my feet now. Don’t you think what binds us is greater than anything else?"

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the wave of emotions that overwhelm you. How did it all get this far? How could the death of one man have become another’s opportunity to take what he wanted? The reality was clear. Your brother’s death, and George’s rise to power, meant that you, as always, were nothing more than a pawn in the kings and princes' chess game. And worst of all, your life, your future, now also depended on the will of the man who looked at you with a smile on his lips, seeing you not as an honorable knight, but as just an opportunity to further solidify his power.

You take a step back, the sharp pain in your chest reflected in every movement you make.

"And if my loyalty isn’t in your hands, George... what will you do?" you ask, your voice dark, almost defiant.

George looks at you intently, the smile never leaving his face. He knows that everything now depends on him, that the final word is his. And he doesn’t plan to let you go so easily.

"You can ask those three"

Note ───── There was a moment when euphoria hit me so intensely that, in less than three hours, I had already created an entire universe. It was a burst of creativity that, while satisfying, I feel ended up being a bit shorter than what I usually do. As always, I tend to expand ideas much more, but this time I kept it more concise. However, even though the result was a bit brief, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this first original piece from me.

As for the character of George, I have to say that my friend was really fond of him. I'm glad to know he made a good impression, although personally, I feel like his interactions were too limited. Maybe I didn’t delve enough into his development or his dynamics with other characters. I’m not sure if you felt the same way, but it’s something I’d like to know. Despite my own doubts, I hope the overall idea was still enjoyable.

As always, any feedback or suggestions are more than welcome. Don’t hesitate to message me whenever you want to share your thoughts or discuss any aspect.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

A friend started watching Miraculous a couple of weeks ago; he was curious, and I accidentally sold it by spoiling him S5's finale. "Oh! I really enjoy the twist when the bad guy wins!" he said... I swear I tried to save him!

Anyway, he went through the honeymoon phase with S1 and S2. Now that he has watched half of S3 (btw, in our country, both Disney+ and Netflix DO NOT have the episodes in order, save for each season's 1st one and the finales), he went on a rant on Kwamibuster saying "c'mon! So, Marinette can hold all the trinkets without any consequence, why they do that?! Is a nice stand alone chapter, but there is no great consequence!" I just told him "welcome to the fandom!" and he went "OMG! I turned to the dark side!"

He still has Gabriel on a 8.5/10 scale, since he finds saving his wife as a noble if twisted reason to turn villian. Though he doesn't understand why Gabriel found Lila useful at the end of Oni-chan. I... don't have the heart to tell him about Chat Blanc nor Gabriel's later actions.

Were S1 and S2 really the best of Miraculous? I remember enjoying S3, but now hearing his fresh pov, I'm starting to have my doubts about when it all went to worse.

I was also relatively late coming to the fandom, so I got to see seasons one to three all in one go. I watched them over a series of a few weeks and my memory of that process is this: I thought season one was mediocre with a handful of truly bad episodes, but the premise was a lot of fun and had real potential. I started reading fanfiction after watching the few episodes because I love identity shenanigan romances and I wanted to see people tell this one without being held back by the show's format and intended audience. This is probably the only reason I finished season one. I didn't like the show so much as I thought it was good enough to watch so I could fully understand the fanfic.

Origins is where my opinion changed. It was legitimately good and even felt like a soft reboot for Alya, Adrien, and Chloe. I thought this indicated that the first season had done really well and so the show had been cleared to have a true overarching plot and serialized elements in the coming seasons.

Season two initially seemed to back that up with the Chloe stuff and Marinette meeting Fu, but then Queen Bee happened. That's the moment when I realized the show was never going to live up to its potential. It was incredibly disappointing to see Chloe go from finding the bee to revealing herself on national television within a few minutes. That is the least interesting way you could possibly play her finding the bee. I have referred to this choice as the canary in the coal mine before and I stand by that. If they couldn't handle something as tried and true as a mean girl redemption or do something interesting with Chloe finding the bee, then we were not in for a good time.

The introduction of Carapace just further confirmed that read. Nino wasn't carefully chosen for his miraculous. He was just in the right place at the right time and got the best miraculous for the situation. Chloe getting the bee felt more fitting and she wasn't even chosen for it! She just got to keep using it for some reason even though identity reveals were supposed to get you benched. It was weird and was also another warning sign of things to come. Identity reveals and their consequences would just become more and more confusing as the show went on.

While all of these things were disappointing, I don't fault anyone for being willing to keep watching because it wasn't all bad. Season two showed us that the show was going to suck from a long-form perspective, but it could deliver solid short-form content. Your friend put it really well:

It's a nice stand alone chapter, but there is no great consequence!

The early seasons of Miraculous had a lot of fun standalone chapters that had no greater consequence. Disappointing for those who wanted a serious story, but you don't need to tell a serious story to be good. If the show had stuck to a more lighthearted tone and just put out disjointed, but fun mini-stories, then it would have been fine. Not amazing, but serviceable. An endless series of writing prompts that don't really fit together, but that allow for a ton of fun fan content as people pick and choose which episodes to play with. I would have still had issues with some of those episodes, but because they didn't actually connect, I would have just shrugged and focused on the stuff that was fun. In fact, that's what I was doing for the first four seasons! There's a reason this blog didn't exist until mid season five even though I've had issues with the show since season one.

For example, does Chat Blanc technically ruin the love square by establishing that Adrien's love for Marinette isn't strong enough to keep him from killing her? Sure, but when it was just a random what-if episode, I could ignore it as one-off bad writing. Season four then chose to have Chat Blanc show up in Marinette's nightmare and also featured Marinette promoting Alya instead of Chat Noir, leading me to assume that Marinette was keeping Chat Noir at arms because of Chat Blanc. This changed how I viewed Chat Blanc. That episode suddenly mattered to the entire show and wasn't a one-off thing I could ignore.

The official word is that Chat Blanc had nothing to do with the season four conflict, but that's really not clear in the actual text to the point where I almost want to call BS. Why did you give Marinette a Chat Blanc nightmare if he doesn't matter to her mental state? That makes no sense!

Even if we embrace that official word, Chat Blanc is still not a one-off episode. It apparently haunts Adrien and kept him from the season five final even though Adrien never actually learned about Chat Blanc, which is frankly even more damning than my initial read of season four. It's now super official that Adrien's love for Marinette isn't enough to save the day and I'm not interested in a show that's sticking to that choice and repeating it ad nauseum (Chat Blanc, Ephemeral, and the season five ending). The one-off bad episode has now poisoned the entire show and it's not the only episode that did this.

We've reached a point where there are multiple choices haunting the show, making it so that there really aren't any more fun standalone chapters. Even if season six is written more like those early seasons, are any of us going to be able to enjoy love square hijinks when we're also waiting to see if Adrien will ever learn the truth of sentistatus or his father's death? And what about the knowledge that love will probably never win? It's hard to forget that, especially as more and more people learn the love square's secret identities, endlessly cheapening that reveal. Combined that with them maintaining the statue quo of Marinette being unable to act normal around Adrien and it's hard to picture season six being anything like a good time.

While I can't picture it, maybe you can! Seasons one to four all had episodes I enjoyed even though I was aware of the large scale flaws. Season five is the one that ruined that for me because, while there is no real overarching plot for the season, there was enough connective tissue that no episode felt like it truly stood alone no matter what the writers say. That connective tissue made the problems impossible to ignore and, now that my brain is in serialized mode, I can't go back to episodic. The season five cliffhanger of the lies is also too serious a point for me to mostly ignore it like I did with the other bad cliffhangers. The lies aren't just a dumb plot point, they're an incredibly serious character beat that I can't overlook. Every time the love square is on screen, I'm going to feel a little sick because I know canon isn't going to give this massive betrayal proper weight.

There's also retroactive rot at work here. Because the show has serialized elements, the more the show poisons its plot and characters, the more the rot creeps backwards, ruining the early stuff to the point where the flaws feel glaring. Knowing Chloe's ultimate fate makes it hard to enjoy her early canon writing. Knowing that Ladybug will fight Gabriel alone makes it hard to enjoy Ladynoir's big "you and me against the world" moments. Knowing that Gabriel will eventually win makes it hard to enjoy more moments than I can count.

So, to answer you question:

Were S1 and S2 really the best of Miraculous?

I'd say that the first four seasons all have good standalone episodes and even some good setups that would just never pay off. Season three and four just feel worse than the first two because that's when it started to become really clear that those payoffs would never come since the show had to finally own that fact with things like Chloe "damnation arc" and the lack of consequences for the mass identity reveal.

They also have more setups than the first two seasons and those probably stand out in your mind as being bad. That's how bad writing tends to work when that writing issues are more structural than scene-based. The longer the story goes, the more the cracks in the foundation show. The writing is rarely getting actively worse, there's just enough of it to properly show just how bad it is.

I do think season five was worse than any of the others, but only because the episodes had that awkward thing where they were try to be both episodic and serialized, really highlighting how bad the show was at long-form content. It wasn't so much that the writing got worse as it was that the show focused on the writing style that highlights its flaws. Season six going back to more truly episodic story telling may make it work for some people even if they hated season five. Only time will tell.

[tutuandscoot]

Where has this picture been all my life 🥺😣😭

[feelo-fick]

it can't be too hard right?

it's easy not to think about things, he tells me i don't think all the time! wait...

—

a scene from a fic that i have no clue if ill finish, let alone post, but look i made fanart of my own thing that doesnt even exist :D

[starpros-sunshine]

What's with all the "Them and Us" stuff I mean. I thought the whole point of this acceptance stuff is realising that despite all the little differences everyone is still kind of similar in the way that they should be granted at least the basic but of respect everyone deserves? Call me naïve and childish but isn't the point of all this to Not have the clear distinction between people who are slightly different? Isn't the whole point to Not have a "Them" and an "Us"?

[fozmeadows]

There's a lot of conversations to be had around the current influx of Americans to Xiaohongshu (RedNote/Little Red Book) ahead of the TikTok ban, many of which are better articulated by more knowledgeable people than me. And for all the fun various parties of both nationalities seem to having with memes and wholesome interactions, it's undoubtedly true that there's also some American entitlement and exoticization going on, which sucks. But a sentiment I've seen repeatedly online is that, if it's taken actually speaking to Chinese people and viewing Chinese content for Americans to understand that they've been propagandized to about China and its people, then that just proves how racist they are, and I want to push back on that, because it strikes me as being a singularly reductive and unhelpful framing of something far more complex.

Firstly: while there's frequently overlap between racism and xenophobia, the distinction between them matters in this instance, because the primary point of American propaganda about China is that Communism Is Fundamentally Evil And Unamerican And Never Ever Works, and thinking a country's government sucks is not the same as thinking the population is racially inferior. The way most Republicans in particular talk about China, you'd think it was functionally indistinguishable from North Korea, which it really isn't. Does this mean there's no critique to be made of either communism in general or the CCP? Absolutely not! But if you've been told your whole life that communist countries are impoverished, corrupt and dangerous because Communism Never Works, and you've only really encountered members of the Chinese diaspora - i.e., people whose families left China, often under traumatic circumstances, because they thought America would be better or safer - rather than Chinese nationals, then no: it's not automatically racist to be surprised that their daily lives and standard of living don't match up with what you'd assumed. Secondly: TikTok's userbase skews young. While there's certainly Americans in their 30s and older investigating Xiaohongshu, it seems very reasonable to assume that the vast majority are in their teens or twenties - young enough that, barring a gateway interest in something like C-dramas, danmei or other Chinese cultural products, and assuming they're not of Chinese descent themselves, there's no reason why they'd know anything about China beyond what they've heard in the news, or from politicians, or from their parents, which is likely not much, and very little firsthand. But even with an interest in China, there's a difference between reading about or watching movies from a place, and engaging firsthand, in real time, with people from that place, not just through text exchanges, but in a visual medium that lets you see what their houses, markets, shopping centers, public transport, schools, businesses, infrastructure and landmarks look like. Does this mean that what's being observed isn't a curated perspective on China as determined both by Xiaohongshu's TOU and the demographic skewing of its userbase? Of course not! But that doesn't mean it isn't still a representative glimpse of a part of China, which is certainly more than most young Americans have ever had before.

Thirdly: I really need people to stop framing propaganda as something that only stupid bigots fall for, as though it's possible to natively resist all the implicit cultural biases you're raised with and exist as a perfect moral being without ever having to actively challenge yourself. To cite the sacred texts:

Like. Would the world be a better place if everyone could just Tell when they're being lied to and act accordingly? Obviously! But that is extremely not how anything actually works, and as much as it clearly discomforts some to witness, the most common way of realizing you've been propagandized to about a particular group of people is to interact with them. Can this be cringe and awkward and embarrassing at times? Yes! Will some people inevitably say something shitty or rude during this process? Also yes! But the reality is that cultural exchange is pretty much always bumpy to some extent; the difficulties are a feature, not a bug, because the process is inherently one of learning and conversation, and as individual people both learn at different rates and have different opinions on that learning, there's really no way to iron all that out such that nobody ever feels weird or annoyed or offput. Even interactions between career diplomats aren't guaranteed smooth sailing, and you're mad that random teenagers interacting through a language barrier in their first flush of enthusiasm for something new aren't doing it perfectly? Come on now.

Fourthly: Back before AO3 was banned in China, there was a period where the site was hit with an influx of Chinese users who, IIRC, were hopping over when one of their own fansites got shut down, which sparked a similar conversation around differences in site etiquette and how to engage respectfully. Which is also one of the many things that makes the current moment so deeply ironic: the US has historically criticized China for exactly the sort of censorship and redaction of free speech that led to AO3 being banned, and yet is now doing the very same thing with TikTok. Which is why what's happening on Xiaohongshu is, IMO, such an incredible cultural moment: because while there are, as mentioned, absolutely relevant things to be said about (say) Chinese censorship, US-centrism, orientalism and so on, what's ultimately happening is that, despite - or in some sense because of - the recent surge in anti-Chinese rhetoric from US politicians, a significant number of Americans who might otherwise never have done so are interacting directly with Chinese citizens in a way that, whatever else can be said of it, is actively undermining government propaganda, and that matters.

What it all most puts me in mind of, in fact, is a quote from French-Iranian novelist and cartoonist Marjane Satrapi, namely:

“The difference between you and your government is much bigger than the difference between you and me. And the difference between me and my government is much bigger than the difference between me and you. And our governments are very much the same.”

And at this particular moment in history, this strikes me as being a singularly powerful realization for Americans in particular to have.

[f1amour]

「 ✦ F1 GRID — LETS GET PHYSICAL

˖ ࣪ 𖥔 navigation. | requests — open | main masterlist (coming soon)

drivers included | max verstappen, charles leclerc, carlos sainz, lando norris, oscar piastri, daniel ricciardo, franco colapinto, lewis hamilton

description | drivers and their favorite kinks

content warnings | mature content ahead — 18+ only, minors do not interact

authors note | hope everyone enjoys reading this one! if you have any requests for drabbles or blurbs involving those i write for please send it in and i will try to get it out as soon as possible <3 *not spelled checked*

─────────────────────────

— 𝐌𝐀𝐗 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍 ¹

҉ PRAISE KINK !

— whether he praised you or you praised him; max verstappen was an absolute whore for praising

— both in public and behind closed doors he would take the praises only from you. being a three time world champion as many reminded him of his accomplishments he’d down play it. but you? oh he loved when you’d sing his praises

— “you did so great out there, maxie. no one does it like you.” praising him in public after a great race would look like that. behind closed doors was another story; “right there, max. fuck you’re doing so well keep going.” “only you know my body, no one compares”

— on the other hand max loved praising you and he was an absolute menace for it when he’d have you bent over the bed fucking you with his hands gripping your hair; “come on, baby. squeezing me so tight you love being handled like this, hmm?” “you’re doing so well for me, baby.” “such a good girl for me.”

҉ QUICKIES !

— max loved taking his time with you but with his busy schedule especially on race weekends he couldn’t give you enough time. however, he always made the most of the 10-20 minutes you had together on any occasion.

— whether it be 10 minutes before he’s gotta go out for the national anthem or 15 minutes before he is due to attend the press conference he would grab you and take you in any room that had a lock. “fuck that’s it, you’re doing so good for me baby.” “gonna have you cum three times before i gotta be out there in ten minutes. you like that?”

— 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐙 ⁵⁵

҉ HAIR PULLING KINK !

— the man has beautiful hair…how can he not have a hair pulling kink?

— carlos loved pulling your hair whether it was while you rode his cock or he was taking you from behind; he loved having his hands in your hair

— but it was when you pull his hair that really gets him going both intimately but whenever you’d be watching a movie or out with friends your hand would go to the nape of his neck and travel up to his hair giving it a soft tug

— between your legs carlos is eating you out both sloppily and hungrily, tongue against your aching core his fingers now at your entrance giving you extra pleasure when they’re stretching you out, “fuck. just like that carlos,” you tangle your fingers in his hair giving it a rough tug when he rubs his thumb on your clit

— every thrust his fingers would give your cunt and tongue giving your folds so much attention you’d tug his hair closer to your pussy if that was possible; “fuck, baby, do that again. harder.” “god, hermosa, gonna make me cum in my pants if you keep pulling my hair like that.” “right there, keep doing that princesa. wanna suffocate in your pussy.”

҉ DIRTY TALK !

— his native language being spanish played a role in his love for dirty talking he loved the reaction he’d get out of you when you’d hear him speaking to you in spanish

— morning, noon, night; carlos fucked you any moment he had some free time which was rare but on those occasions he did he make sure to speak his dirty thoughts of you: and to you

— “fuck, my good girl, chokin’ on my cock” “that’s it, hermosa. let them all hear whose fucking your tight pussy…the only man who makes you cum.” “te ves tan perfecta para mí de rodillas llena de mí. mi bella princesa.”

— 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 ¹⁶

҉ ORAL !

— charles loved having you on your knees mouth stuffed with his cock. your lips showing his tip some extra love with a few kisses after finishing in your mouth and you’d take him once again pulling him in your mouth again for another round.

— what he loved the most though? spending hours in between your thighs giving you multiple orgasms until you are begging him to stop (very rare to want him to stop)

҉ ROUGH SEX !

— despite seemingly carrying a calm demeanor around friends & family behind closed doors charles loved being rough with you in bed. especially after yet another week where ferrari fucks up his race he feels the best place to let out his stress and anger is on you. which you gladly took.

— rough and sloppy kisses you share entering his hotel room to his rough hands pushing you onto the bed and fucking you with his fingers until you’re squirting all over him and the bedsheets.

— your face pressed down on the mattress while he takes you from behind arching your back and yanking on your hair pulling you close to his chest he’d give you another rough thrush while whispering the most vulgar sentences to come out of his mouth.

— 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒 ⁴

҉ COCKWARMING !

— sometimes being weeks apart from each other you wanted to feel as close as possible while catching up on what you’d miss. you’d get settled on his lap moaning at the feeling of him stretching you after being gone for so long. you’d get comfortable and you would both talk about what you had been up to the last few weeks

— streaming with max you’d make sure his camera was off before you climbed on his lap. he would be confused as to what you were doing but the moment you take his cock out of his briefs and sinking down on him he’d hold his moans in and grab your waist pulling you closer.

- turning his mic off he lets out a whine when you rock your hips against him, “fuck, baby, can’t do this right now i’m so close to winning.” you’d agree with him and tell him to finish the game you’ll just wait for him; still sitting on him with his cock deep inside you. safe to say he lost the game just to play again, enjoying the feeling of his cock resting inside you

҉ SHOWER SEX !

— lando loved it when he’d be showering and you’d join him halfway through giving him some extra attention that he desperately wanted. he loved the intimacy about it when you’d help rinse of the shampoo in his hair or how he’d glide the body gel all over your body

— you loved it when it was a post race win or podium and he’d drag you to the small bathroom in his drivers room and shove you against the shower wall giving your pussy some extra love while you pull on his hair before he would have his cock shoved deep in your aching cunt, getting some loud moans out of you which he’d cover up with a kiss

— 𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍 ⁴⁴

҉ PHONE SEX !

— being a formula 1 driver was a demanding job which required lewis to travel almost all year long and you couldn’t always go along with him due to your job. you missed him all the time when he was gone but especially on the days when you were extra needy were the worst

— that’s why he’d stay on the phone with you all day despite his busy schedule. he’d have one airpod in while having to be in a meeting not listening to the less important subjects so he’d listen to you and what you were doing for the day

— but then on days where your vibrator wasn’t enough you’d call or facetime your boyfriend begging him to help you through your orgasm, it also helped that he had the most soothing voice that constantly brought you to tears when he’d have your face shoved on the mattress, ass pressed against him as he fucked you

— “oh…’m so close, lew” you’d whimper through the facetime call, your phone propped against your nightstand while you grind your aching cunt against a pillow. desperately needing more release your reach to rub your clit when lewis’ voice fills the phone, “i didn’t say you could do that, did i?” he questions, he was due to be in the media pen in 10 minutes but he wouldn’t let you take the easy way out to cum before he left

— “please, baby, need to cum please,” you beg lewis as your movements speed up. “don’t use your hand. keep fucking youself on my pillow, i’ll be home in a few days and take such good care of you. that’s it baby, be a good girl and cum for me.” his encouragement is more than enough to have you squeezing your breasts and nipples as your release spills all over the pillow

҉ MIRROR SEX !　

— you weren’t sure if it was you or lewis who decided adding a mirror to the ceiling of your bedroom was the best option for your sex life but either way you were two happy people

— you enjoyed watching lewis fucking you his eyes meeting your through the mirror; he loved having you bounce on his cock watching the way you threw your head back moans filling the room. he loved it so much he requested his drivers room to have a mirror on the ceiling as well. after many warnings not to they finally gave in and gave him what he (and you) wanted

— his hand around your throat with two fingers deep inside your pussy he’d whisper dirty thoughts into your ear, “you look so pretty for me like this. wanna see you cum for me, sweet girl. that’s it you’re squeezing my fingers so good,” you’d bite your lip trying to suppress your moans in the small room knowing anyone walking by could easily hear you

— 𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈 ⁸¹

҉ DRY HUMPING !　

— again, being a formula one driver was a demanding sport. a demanding sport that kept your sex life with oscar very low many, many, many times. so when you had the chance to feel a little bit closer to your boyfriend you took the chance.

— whether against the wall of his drivers room with your clothed pussy rubbing against his race suit or in bed on his lap before ha has to catch a flight to the next race; you were both absolutely infatuated with each other and dry humping

— drivers room; oscar would be leaned up against the wall while your hips grind against his thigh, “osc,” you whine as he moves your panties to the side rubbing your clit while you con the to fuck yourself on him, “shh, be a good girl for me and stay quiet. then after the race i’ll stuff you full of my cock all night.” his words have you biting down on his shoulder as you cum all over his thigh

҉ SQUIRTING !　

— he had discovered this one night while you both watched a movie, laying between his thighs your head pressed against his chest his hand trailed down to your shorts pulling them off with nothing else underneath he worked his fingers inside you. soon enough you had squirted all over his hand and bedsheets; a first for both of you

— that just started something inside oscar which was wanting to make you squirt any chance he got. you could be exhausted from work or a long flight but you’d let him have his way with you. at the end you’d be filling the room with sounds of pleasure as his fingers or cock fucked your tight cunt until he reached the exact spot that had you squirting all over him

— "so wet for me, and so fuckin' tight." "i can feel how close you are baby, gonna make a mess all over our sheets, hmm?" he praises you, his fingers curling deep inside you. his groans and your moans fill the room as you squirt all over his hand and sheets making a mess like he had said. pulling away from you he now plays between your thighs and smiles up at you, “time to clean this mess up.”

— 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 ⁴³

҉ DIRTY TALK !　

— you’ve seen franco in interviews he was a talker so it wasn’t a surprised he was a talker behind closed doors as well. he had a filthy mouth on him when it came to you and he never stopped praising you

— “eso es amor, apretándome tan bien. let me hear your pretty moans.” “cum all over my cock, amor. fuck, fuck—look so perfect for me.” “gonna let me fuck you against the door? gonna make sir everyone hears what a filthy whore you are.” you’d think by now you’d get tired of his constant yapping (sometimes you did) but when he fucked you? you loved hearing his voice the entire time

҉ ORAL !　

— the man was good with his tongue what more could you say? he was infatuated with having his tongue on your pussy for hours on end tasting how sweet you were. buried between your thighs as your hand stung on his hair, whines and moans escape your mouth begging him for more

— “franco, ‘m so close, right there,” you gasp feeling his tongue poking in your cunt as he devours you, “es todo princesa, déjalo ir por mí. mierda. sabes tan dulce.” you cum and he doesn’t let a drop escape his tongue as he licks you clean

— 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐎 ³ [retired]

҉ THIGH RIDING !　

— the man had a tattooed thigh…how could you not want to ride it? it first started on a night out with friends enjoying the sunset at the beach when daniel placed you on his lap your hand traced circles on the tattoos that littered his thigh; one thing led to another and you snuck off to the car and he let your imaginations come to life

— at a club filled with loud music and dark lights you’d take advantage of the moment and grind yourself on his thigh enjoying the feeling, at home while he works on sending out some emails you’d keep him company with your core pressing against his thigh, anyplace and anywhere you were a menace for his thighs

— he loved it too, so much he’d started adding some more tattoos to his collection on his thighs which made you even more excited to ride him only to wait until he was healed to do so. you could ride his other thigh but something about fucking yourself on his tattooed thigh felt so so much more enthralling

— “you look so pretty like this, ridin' my thigh...makin' yourself cum.” “make yourself cum on my thigh right now, good girl. feels good, doesn't it?” his encouraging words bringing you to your third orgasm of the night just form riding his thigh, “come on, honey, gonna give me one more then i’ll fuck you for however long you want”

҉ FILMING !

— daniel loved having videos or pictures of the activities you got up to in the bedroom with each other. he loved watching the videos while he was away from you weeks on end. however, he loved it more whenever you got the chance to film each other especially for fun not because he’ll be gone for a few weeks and needed someone to fill the void

— daniel comfortably laying down between your thighs lapping at you like there’s no tomorrow, “danny, feel so good…oh,” you whine trying to hold the camera that was pointed at him steadily but you were so close. “that’s it baby, cum all over me you taste so fucking sweet. could never get enough of this,” he says only getting a second to breathe before he’s diving back between your thighs to bring you to your second orgasm of the night

— you loved the risk of having an album on your phones that were filled of videos and pictures of the two of you or sometimes of just one of you. you’d created a small album curated for daniel filled of pictures of you in lingerie or fully nude; the videos were another story. filled with you fucking yourself with your fingers, vibrator, a pillow; you made sure daniel was fulfilled for the weeks he wouldn’t have you

— daniel made a small photo album for you as well more so filled of the two of you, he knew how much you loved rewatching the videos of you two fucking. you loved the way he propped the camera against the nightstand and had you riding his cock until you begged him to let you cum or the time he fucked you in his drivers room facing the mirror on his door his hands on your breasts squeezing them while you rode him back against his chest holding onto the camera shakily and almost dropping it when he’d thrust up into your cunt

[meganegatari]

i was busy having a mental breakdown only i saw this art and just about creamed my pj pantaloons so i needed to do something about that!!!!! cait i love you my beautiful princess with a couple disorders but that should be me RAHHH hi vi nation i have something for yall (also written in like 2 seconds be nice)

nsfw drabble—overstimming vi. 18+ content. sub!vi, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, brief mention of masturbation, vi body hair mention (you already KNOWWW) + aftercare.

orgasms climbing high into the double digits—yet you still weren't done with her. actually far from it, you felt like pushing her buttons, both literally and figuratively.

vi is spent, so limp and exhausted laying next to you, powdery blues begging for your mercy. but you didn't falter. you sat on your knees to the fiery haired woman's side, your fingers—coated with her slick from previous rounds—prancing upon her defined abs. you traced from under her ribcage, to each individual muscle on her torso, down to the wispy strands of magenta hair of her happy trail increasing in thickness until you reached the vermillion tangle resting on her mound, but before you could part her swollen lips once more, you heard her wince from above.

“fuck babe— s'too much, im- hahh, i dunno how much more…” she trails off, her whiny voice music to your ears, the sweetest candy to your sadistic soul.

her eyelids fluttered open while her chest heaved and head lolled against the pillow underneath—strings of hair stuck to her forehead. her face was shiny, with sweat or even tears, it made her shimmer. the apples of her cheeks were as crimson as prime picking season, a stark contrast from the vulgar mess between her trembling thighs.

her hips twitch—the smallest jerk upward—paired with a woeful plea from her clenched jaw, she needed you again. enough time had passed, and you were ready to give her everything you had.

“one more?” you quip at her, honeyed voice deepening her blush.

with that, she manages a brisk nod.

and like so, that was your cue to resume your descent.

you watch her like a hawk, grazing her skin with an agonizing feather-light touch, revel in how her breathing visibly quickens—gods this sexual intimacy was otherworldly.

tattooed biceps rise to shield her face, arms crossing and settling atop her eyes, but you still had a good view.

your stare unmoving, you skip down to tease her inner thighs, kneading the flesh lovingly—playing with the webs of essence that decorated her.

a whine fills the air, she was growing impatient.

you comply, finally moving your hand up to where she needs you most, you part her and break your line of sight away from her face to marvel at how she sucks your middle two digits in, her back arching.

she lets out a breathy moan—an unguarded sound that makes your own core ache, and you find her thumping clit and press on the bud with your thumb.

you see her mouth fall open, her shallow heaves quickly turning into animalistic pants, the release was bubbling inside her already.

you begin to circle her bundle of nerves gently, your two digits simultaneously pumping in and out of her quivering walls—her sounds only growing more and more lewd. this was pornographic, but the way she didn't hold back flipped a switch inside you.

you press down harder, then flick her swollen clit up and down until she jolts, your assault on her g-spot inside causing spurts of pearlescent cum to land on your hard at work forearm.

you were so mesmerized, so focused, you could even call it entranced by her. you had to fight the urge to shove your free hand down your own undergarments and soothe the build up there but you resisted, this was about her.

her whimpers and groans came in time with your rhythmic, regular thrusts, you felt her pussy spasming as another orgasm rushed through her, overtaking her entirely.

the sight, the syrupy squelching sounds and the smell of her sex drove you insane.

you continue to fuck her all the way through the high, until her eyes were welling up with tears and her knuckles lost their color from how hard she was gripping at everything around her—her hair, the sheets, you.

when it got too much, she squirmed away from you instinctively, and you obeyed to not hurt her. you'd never do so.

“you're so fucking hot vi, fuck—the things you do to me…” you mutter under your breath, taking in the sight of her fucked out form. she really was ethereal.

you put your fingers in your mouth to clean up, sighing at her sweetness.

she continued to lay there before you, only this time with a faint smile on her pretty lips.

her eyes were closed, and she looked so peaceful. before she fell asleep you dashed to get a damp washcloth and very gingerly wiped up the remnants of her pleasure from her creamy skin, grinning all the while.

when you were done, you tossed it to the side and joined her horizontally, nuzzling into her embrace.

deciding to make a joke, you try, “what do you say, one more?”

luckily you're met with a belly laugh from your love, and a playful shove to your shoulder.

“not a chance. next time it's your turn, i'll make you cum until you cry.”

taglist: @vifilms @ch6douin @aouiaa @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @paqerings @littlefallenangel111 @srooch @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ne @pinkcwake @marsworlddd @caszzine @saturnsdrafts @mascdom @ashaynep @angelynn-nicole @ellabbss @aylabv02108 @lonelyfooryouonly @melsmunch @e11williamsgf @imdrowningindespair @spncrrdlvr @cheyisagirlkisser @thatgyalfisher @eroselless @i-dont-know-00 @ithinkimfuckincrazy @liaponderstings @lesbian-useless @slutzandcuckz @finalgirllx

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

I THINK YOUR LOVE WOULD BE TOO MUCH ; SATORU GOJO

summary; satoru knows that you’re worried about something. he just doesn’t know what.

word count; 4.1k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, sickening amounts of fluff, (that’s literally all. that’s it. thank you for your time), you’re both down horrendous, the ”something” reader is worried about is very very silly <333, mostly satoru’s pov!!

a/n; i love this man so fucking much my chest hurts so i dug up the sappiest wip i could find in my drafts <333 you can tell i completely lost the plot halfway through but just pretend that i didn’t ok. i dedicate this to gojo nation :3

satoru feels your stare prickle at the back of his neck.

he’s rummaging through the fridge, one hand on his hip, grabbing two cans of iced tea from the bottom compartment. peach for him, lime for you. his infinity is down, the pads of his fingers meeting chilled aluminum, condensation licking at his skin.

but the goosebumps that sensation causes is nothing compared to the ones he gets from this — your stare digging into the back of his head, your attention aimed directly at him. when he turns around, closing the fridge with a bump of his hipbone, you freeze. like a deer caught in headlights. 

satoru grins.

”you checkin’ me out?”

”no,” you blurt. his smile only grows.

”aw…” he waltzes across the room, from the kitchen island to the living room, fuzzy socks against the floorboards. ”what’s up, then? something on your mind?”

with a clink, he puts the cans of tea down on the coffee table. you murmur out a breath of thanks, but make no move to reach for either of them.

now that he’s close enough to see you properly — he thinks to himself that you do look a little ill at ease. something in the crease between your brows, shying away from the eye contact he wants. something in the way your voice comes out somewhat strained.

”it’s nothing… i just —” 

you stop. gaze fleeing from his own, slipping down to your lap. he thinks you look particularly small like this. curled up on his expensive couch, curling in on yourself; gnawing at your bottom lip.

”… i’m being dumb.”

satoru hums. tilting his head, taking you in — wasting no more than a mere moment before taking action. 

you feel him plop down next to you, a shift in the weight bearing down on his couch. comforting. when you glance up, he’s smiling, patient and light. hand sneakily slipping between the cracks of your own, squeezing your palm, running his thumb over the ridges of your knuckle.

”wanna tell me about it?”

from behind the black layer of glass obscuring your frame, satoru watches you intently. watches your expression shift, drinking in the twitch of your brows, how the colour of your eyes flickers in the light. the way your soul sulks and sputters under the weight of his all-seeing gaze. 

you part your lips. slowly, searching for the right words — only to close them again.

you try once more. hesitant. 

all you can manage is a frustrated huff.

”it’s nothing, honestly,” you’re quick to backtrack, wincing inwardly. ”i've just… been thinking. i guess.”

a hum. his smile doesn’t waver. ”about what?”

you avert your gaze. biting your lip, again, turning away from him; resting your chin on the heel of your palm. avoiding his stare like it could turn you to stone. he barely picks up on the words you murmur, flowing out beneath your breath.

”i... can't tell you.”

satoru raises a brow. 

a moment passes. two, three — the silence is telling. you can hear the discontentment in his voice, despite his attempts to mask it.

”why not?”

”i… haah.” you scoot away, just a little more, turning away so he can’t dissect your expression the way he’d like to. ”i just can’t, okay?”

silently, silently, he observes you. the little of you he can see, at the very least; fixating on the side of your face, your cheek, those fluttering eyelashes. as if it could tell him something. you can’t see the way his eyes narrow, behind his shades, black glass shielding you from the weight of his scrutiny.

satoru bites back a huff. 

curiosity and impatience aside, he feels offended. thoroughly so. he doesn't like it when you shut him out, like this, when you don’t allow him to soothe you.

your relationship has been a slow one — steady, a kind of settling in he never thought he’d experience. calm waves lapping along the edges of smooth sand, washing away tiny pebbles and handfuls of sea glass; delicately coming closer. getting him used to the sensation before gently urging him to take a dip. 

that’s the kind of love you share. 

so it stings, a little, when you won’t let him return the favour. it stings in the same way his phantom scars itch on cold nights.

he knows opening up isn't easy. for you, for anyone, least of all for him — but he still finds himself feeling a little bit dejected. because he's supposed to be your safe space. the person you can trust with absolutely anything.

(if he can’t be that, for you, then what the hell is he even good for?)

he can’t help but feel the slightest tug of worry, too. seeing the tight line of your closed lips, that hardness of your expression. the unmistakable stress accumulating in the corners of your eyes.

but he doesn’t voice that worry. he simply gives your hand another squeeze, and smiles a little wider.

”try me.”

a sigh flows from your lips. ”you don't get it, satoru.”

your voice has a bite to it, now, just a little harsh. something akin to a soft hiss — defensiveness, he ultimately settles on. but why?

”it’s —” you muster up a glance his way, the slightest little peek, before turning away again. blurting out the words on the tip of your tongue. ”it’s so fucking embarrassing. you’ll laugh.”

satoru blinks.

”… huh?”

”you’ll laugh, and you'll tease me, and — ” he feels your hand slip from his own, muffling a groan as it covers your face. ”i’ll never live it down.”

you’re hiding, squirming, and satoru’s curiosity increases at an alarming rate. he leans forward, trying to catch a glimpse of your face, but you don’t let him. 

now he’s nothing short of intrigued.

”i won't,” he says, simply. voice as clear as glass. you scoff into your hands.

”you will!”

”i promise you i won't laugh.”

”you always say that.” a sigh falls from your lips, deep and heavy, as your hands finally slip down to your lap. ”but you never mean it. you’ll laugh so much. i know you will.”

you bite down on your lip. he wants to cup your jaw and kiss you, mend the bruising with a swipe of his tongue — but he tactfully decides against it.

”it’s — it's so…” you trail off, fidgeting with your hands, nervously linking your fingers together. gazing down with a pout. ”so stupid.” 

”baby…”  his voice takes on a fond tone, tender and patient. everything he strives to be, when it comes to you; you and you alone. ”c’mon. you can tell me anything.” 

with a sense of delicacy, he takes your hands into his bigger ones. tucking them into his palms, bringing them into his own lap — meeting your meek eyes. 

”right?”

through the blue of his gaze, he watches you falter. watches your eyes soften, crumbling a little, as you silently weigh your options. you look flustered.

then you slowly part your lips.

”you’re gonna think i’m just joking, or whatever, but — but i mean it. i’m…” your throat bobs with a shallow gulp. ”i’m seriously worried.” 

satoru nods. ”i’ll take you seriously.”

you look up. all you’re met with is a reassuring smile, familiar dimples, the slightest hint of a kind blue behind his shades.

and you finally give in.

”i… i think i might —”

shifting and squirming, your gaze flits from spot to spot, hands still intertwined with his own. you’re caged in, forced to face him, and it only adds to your nervosity. his eyes never leave your face.

”i think… i…”

your voice comes out sounding tiny. gaze stuck to the couch beneath you, as your lips form around the right syllables, and you finally blurt out out the words you've been trying to keep at bay —

”i think i love you too much.”

…

silence.

you still refuse to meet his gaze. a red hue crawls up your neck, spreading to the tips of your ears, heartbeat pounding under your ribs. the sentence spills out of your lips like an arrow; so rushed he barely deciphers it in time.

before the silence can swallow you whole, you continue. trying not to stammer, holding back an embarrassed wince. pouting softly, brows furrowed as your clammy hands twitch anxiously against his own. ”like... to the point where… it drives me a little insane.”

and then you wait. with bated breath, too embarrassed to look up, bottom lip tensing and softening between your teeth. dreading the explosive reaction he’ll undoubtedly give you.

… except it doesn’t come.

he’s not saying a word. nothing. the silence is so deafening you could cut it in half, lingering, festering in the air around you. all you hear is your own stupid, erratic little heartbeat — refusing to settle down. 

a couple painful moments pass, before you physically can't take it anymore.

as slowly as you can muster, your gaze travels upwards — from his lap to his chest to his exposed collarbone, until his face finally enters your field of vision. you can’t resist the temptation.

(why is he being so quiet? satoru is never quiet.)

you meet his gaze. or what you think is his gaze, anyhow, because you can’t see the way his eyes are squeezed shut. what you do notice is the twitch of his lips, quivering ever so slightly, as if unsure of which direction to go — and you know one of satoru’s sharp teeth must be biting down hard to keep them in place. his shoulders are shaking, only barely, and he breathes out sharply through his nose; in a desperate attempt to keep his promise.

desperately struggling to maintain his composure. 

he makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and all that effort goes down the drain. met with the sight of your flushed face, wide eyes, shining with embarrassment and disbelief. 

like a stack of cards blown over by the wind, satoru’s poker face crumbles. he fails to bite back the wide grin that breaks out across his lips, showing off the white of his teeth, and a soft bout of fresh laughter flows from out his lips.

you gape at him. 

then your brows furrow, harshly, and you choke on a scoff. with a start, you’re scrambling to stand up, tugging your hands away from his. 

”see?” you hiss, almost tripping over your own two feet as you shoot up from the couch. ”i told you! you're laughing!”

(you sound so embarrassed he thinks he might cry.)

satoru gives up. laughter reverberating throughout his entire body, deep and loud, from the very bottom of his gut — enough to have him clutching at his sides. that only makes you flush deeper, glare harder, and all he can think is that he wants to kiss you silly.

”you promised!”

”i’m —” he chokes on a sharp wheeze, one hand reaching out to keep you from leaving. ”i’m sorry, baby, i —”

but he only ends up doubling over. sputtering with laughter, feeling the leather of the couch meet his cheek. you turn away sharply, and he pulls himself up again. ”wait — sweetheart —” 

a fond chuckle rumbles through his chest, his long arms circling around your waist and pulling you into his embrace. caging you in. you struggle helplessly, trying desperately to break free, but it’s useless — he’s the strongest for a reason.

all you can do is writhe and grumble under your breath, inhaling a familiar scent of vanilla and musk. the fabric softener he uses puts your senses hopelessly at ease, but he’s still laughing — so you can’t help but kick and struggle seamlessly.

”let me go, satoru!”

said man chokes on another little laugh, shoulders shaking, tucking you so close he can feel the pitter patter of your heartbeat against his stomach. you’re so upset with him. but he can’t stop, can't reel it back in, and every weak punch to his chest and muffled protest just makes his composure feel more out of reach. he tried his best. 

he really, really did. 

he tried so hard not to laugh.

(”i think i love you too much.”)

god. just what is he supposed to do with you, huh?

”i’m sorry,” he grins, almost entirely out of breath. ”’m not doing it on purpose, you're just —” 

a sudden fit of giggles. 

"you're so cute.”

”satoru, it’s — not funny,” you whine, practically burning up. every single sound he makes buzzes in your ear. ”i’m serious. i —”

you squeeze your eyes shut. giving in, finally, allowing yourself to melt into his arms. limbs losing their feistiness. he delights in the sensation.

”you don't get it.”

it’s a whisper, muffled against the fabric of his shirt, but he hears it nonetheless. deep breaths, he reminds himself. it’s hard to take such an adorable confession seriously, but he tries. for whatever reason, you genuinely sound troubled. 

”wait, so you —” he bites back an amused breath, but can’t hide the palpable smile in his voice. ”you love me… too much?”

a groan. you hide away, nuzzling further into his chest; your safe harbour. 

”… i told you it was embarrassing.”

”it’s not,” he’s quick to console you. ”i’m just confused.” a big palm glides across the back of your head, smoothing down your tousled hair. he pats your head softly. ”i mean…” 

a deep inhale. his heartbeat finally settles into a calm rhythm, slow and steady, lungs flooding with oxygen. he breathes out through his nose.

”is that really such a bad thing?”

”it is.” a frown finds its way onto your lips. your reply is instantaneous. ”i don’t think it’s normal. i’m just…”

satoru listens. patiently, feeling your fingers grip onto the edges of his shirt — comforting yourself with the soft fabric. then you sigh.

”i don’t know. i just can’t, like…” you grapple for the right word, moving your hands haphazardly, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. ”comprehend how much i love you.”

satoru bites back a smile. 

(his heart flutters, flutters, flutters, like cherry blossoms on a windy spring morning.)

before he has the chance to, you part your lips again; speaking in a soft voice. resigned, he thinks. ”it’s just weird. it’s not exactly bad, but —” 

you bite down on your lip. 

”... it’s scary.”

a soft coo buzzes in your ear. satoru can’t help but pull you closer, closer still, smothering you in the warmth of his embrace. conveying what he knows will be too much for you to hear in words — what he knows he couldn’t convey in the language that you speak. you feel warm, still burning up a bit. like a little firefly. 

he isn’t faring much better, though; a vague heat blooming under the skin of his nape. smiling so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt.

(what on earth did he do to deserve you?)

a firm jaw settles on the top of your head. satoru parts his glossy lips, voice flowing out somewhat breathlessly, affectionate as can be. 

”don’t you think i feel exactly the same about you?”

his pulse trembles against you. when you strain your ears, you can hear the rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat, mingling with your own; still resounding in your ears. 

”… i dunno.”

satoru’s hold around you tightens, ever so slightly. something in the way he cradles you, strong arms around your waist, a low hum accompanying the light squeeze of his limbs. he can’t see your face, from this angle, but his pupils still flicker downwards — hungry for a glimpse of your expression.

then he smiles. 

”i’m terrified of you, y’know?”

you blink. once, then twice, eyelids fluttering. a moment of silence passes.

”… huh?”

”beyond terrified, actually,” his smile builds into a grin. ”i’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it. no one scares me more than you do.”

satoru pulls away, just a little, just enough to finally get a good look at you. your eyes are brimming with confusion. a large palm goes to cradle your cheek, and he tilts his head — inhaling a breath.

”i love you so much that it hurts.”

…

a soft chuckle slips from out his lips, when he catches your flustered, wide-eyed stare. sneaking a hand towards the small of your back, leaning in to press a kiss against the apple of your cheek.

”i adore you,” he whispers, smooth syllables melting into a purr. you stiffen under his touch. his fingertips trace the lines of your jaw, lips trailing down to your neck, chaste and sweet as he nips at the sensitive skin. muttering under his breath. ”you have no idea.”

and you truly, truly don't. satoru doesn't think you even know the half of it. 

you can’t possibly know what you mean to him — that your very presence makes him forget who he is, what he has to be, a weight on his shoulders he grew used to long ago. you can’t possibly know that just the feeling of your hand in his makes the distance between you feel so inconsequential. 

you are the most precious thing in his life. he doesn't think you could ever understand the weight that sentiment carries — he wouldn't want you to. 

and here you are, so awfully worried, because you're too in love with him. he still can't help but grin. you’re so sweet, so silly. the words make him feel as if his heart is crumbling.

”… i can't believe you’re real sometimes.”

something tender rests under the whisper. something frighteningly sincere. it makes you feel a little like you’ve been sliced open. it’s raw, it’s heavy and light and it’s love. it’s satoru — all his little inconsistencies, and the stability beneath it all. 

and some part of you knows that he's telling the truth. that he understands your ridiculous little confession, your embarrassing worries. satoru understands. 

that alone is enough to quell the turmoil in your chest. 

(what he gives you is a love as boundless as the sky; one that covers everything you could ever be. unconditional.)

”so there’s no need to worry.” 

he pulls back, lips leaving your skin. you still feel their warmth linger. his shades have slipped down, barely hanging on to the bridge of his nose, and you can see the blue of his eyes. they’re shining like jewels, soft around the edges. consumed by love.

”there’s no way you could ever love me as much as i love you.”

gazing into his eyes, as if hypnotized by their glow, your own gleam with a mesmerizing shine. glazed over with something sweet and wonderful, something satoru wants to burn into his retinas so he never forgets it. he wishes he could wring it out of you and put it in his pocket — but it looks prettier behind your cornea.

he savours the moment, slowly, until it abruptly ends.

with a second of pause, your brows draw together, forming into an irritated furrow. lips tugging downwards into a frown. ”that’s not true.”

satoru blinks. still smiling. 

”i love you way more,” you huff. petulant, almost, something soft and amused in your tone. he thinks the sound fits you more than anything; unburdened and stubborn.

(as charming as you are, though — this is one battle he refuses to lose.)

”nu-uh,” he pokes the tip of your nose, delighting in the soft flutter of your blinking eyelashes. ”i love you more. sorry, sweetie.”

a huff. ”you don't.”

”i do.”

”you don't."

this time, you're the one reaching out, the pad of your finger landing on the tip of satoru’s nose — teasingly trailing up to the bridge of it. his heartbeat stutters, but he feigns nonchalance, raising an unimpressed brow; eyes unknowingly gleaming with mirth. 

and mischief.

you barely have time to react. one moment you're seated on satoru’s lap, the next you're looking up at him with your back against the couch. he towers over you, keeping your hands pinned above your head with a single palm. 

a familiar chill runs down your spine.

”i do,” he grins, free hand reaching towards you. recognizing the danger of a situation you've been in more times than you can count, you try to squirm away — but you don't get very far.

satoru’s fingers ghost over your sides, and panic floods your wide eyes. 

even though you know exactly what’s about to happen, a yelp still pushes past your lips when he begins to tickle you. mercilessly, fingers trailing over your most sensitive spots. all you can do is squirm, trying your damnedest to bite back the bout of laughter crawling up your throat —

but apparently neither of you are very good at that.

when the familiar cling of your laughter finally spills past your lips, flowing into satoru’s ears, his smile blooms into a grin. big and happy, childish in its innocence — not even attempting to hide his joy. his own giggles melt into your soft wheezes and desperate pleas, as you struggle to break free, straining against the firm hold he has on your wrists.

”i love you way, way, way more,” he continues to tease, halting his movement just enough to let you catch your breath. ”it’s not even close.”

even as giggles breathlessly spill from your lips, you manage a shake of your head. ”no, you —”

”wrong answer.”

he cuts you off with a smirk, and the torture starts anew. you can't get the words out, caught in your throat and muffled by a loud squeak, followed by forced laughter. satoru watches, in pure adoration, waiting for the moment you finally relent. 

it doesn’t take long.

”f — fine, fine!”

he stills. eyes crinkled, shades barely hanging on to the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to keep going. if only so he can hear your melodic giggles.

”can’t we —” you struggle to catch your breath, words stuck between bouts of leftover laughter. cheeks flushed and chest heaving. ”just call it a tie?”

satoru pauses. he drags it out, exaggerated, building up suspense. eyes narrowing playfully. ”hmmm…” 

then he smiles. a soft, resigned little thing. 

”alright, alright.” he leans forward, keeping you in place. ”that works, i guess.”

and then his lips meet yours. soft and glossy, tasting of cherries, a pleased sigh against your mouth. you’re still panting a little, but he doesn’t seem to mind — slow to pull away, with a drawn out mwah, grinning boyishly at your disheveled state. he lets your wrists go free.

an unimpressed look is all you give him, quick to melt into a soft chuckle. 

”well, that’s that.” you push yourself up with your elbows, fixing your tousled hair. ”now we can forget this ever happened.”

satoru raises a brow. 

”oh, i dunno about that,” he purrs, voice ripe with mischief. a teasing glint flashes in his eyes, as he scrutinizes you, and it’s enough to have your face heating up again. the sight makes him coo. ”you love me so much you can't comprehend it, huh?”

you blink. it takes a moment for your expression to shift, from bafflement to embarrassment — but he thinks it’s all worth it when it does. barely restraining the urge to kiss you again.

”satoru…”

a giggle leaves his lips. reaching a hand out, he pinches your cheek. ”you’re cute.”

with a roll of your eyes, you swat him away; unable to bite back a smile. “quit it.”

”aw.”

he looks so smug. you can’t help but want to bite back, somehow — so you muster up your most shit-eating grin, a distinctly teasing lilt coating your sugar-sweet voice. 

”you love me so much that it hurts, huh?”

satoru blinks.

endearment blooms, in the depths of his cerulean eyes. he watches you carefully, awfully amused — thinking to himself that he must be rubbing off on you. what a scary thought.

”yeah,” he breathes, a sigh laced with sincerity. cupping your cheek with the palm of his hand, settling on the option he knows will fluster you most. ”i do.”

this time, you’re the one who blinks. once, twice, before letting out a groan — slumping against his broad frame. satoru chuckles, breathlessly, consumed by you; by every move you make. all six of his eyes aimed directly at you.

(if he gives you the sky, then what you give him is a love as steady as the ocean; one that’ll drown every bit of his sadness. entirely unyielding.)

”can’t you ever just let me win?” you mutter, breathing in his cologne and tugging at his shirt. pressed up against him, on his couch, safe and secure. right where you should be.

he noses at your neck, pressing a little kiss against your pulsepoint. a quiet, quiet offering at the altar of your soul. ”nope,” he hums, smiling cheekily. 

”i love you too much for that.”

[angelfishe]

hiiiiii :3

I was wondering if you could do head canons or a one shot about the traveler and paimon visiting the fortress of meropide to wish wriothesley a happy birthday. They decide to quietly enter through the main door to his office to surprise him, but they see wriothesley and reader making out. you don't have to do it if you don't want too!

please and thank you

I hope this manages to please you and if I'm sorry it's kind out of context. Hope you enjoy it

"𝐔𝐇-𝐎𝐇 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓"

<< Genshin man x reader >>

Character : diluc, kaeya, alhaitham, ayato, zhongli, childe, neuvillete, wriostheley, dottore, pantalone, capitano

"Imagine getting in the middle of the act"

Warning may contain NSFW content

⚠️ Minors do not interact please ⚠️

Diluc it's no secret to do staff of the dawn winery about you guys sex life, I mean everyday Adeline has to change the cum stained bed sheet to fresh ones for you guys to dirty it again, I mean you guys are so loud to the point it can be heard in the servants corners thats the reason why the staff have eye bags under their eyes they didn't get enough sleep due to the noise, at some point you guys broke the bed unable to survive diluc strength you guys have to buy a new one and when asks diluc is unable to forge the words to say. During angel share closing kaeya accidently left some important documents on the table and when he went inside he saw you and diluc is doing something busy and his present stop you guys he immediately grab the document leaving an angry diluc yelling at him to leave.

Kaeya the entire mondstat knows you've guys business, I mean when he's bored he asks for your presence under the excuse of an official knight business which everybody knows it's a code for "playtime" in the HQ, Unfortunately there's a new rookie working in the knights of favonius that no one warn them about the calvary captain break time is, and that unfortunately lead towards the rookie opening the door of the captains office and seeing his lover being hit on in the back by the captain, the rookie immediately slamming the door close with blush on their face, and the knights around HQ was like "first time ?"

Alhaitham even tho alhaitham put on a stern face, he's by far one of the most shameless Characters towards location it doesn't matter where it is in the forest, the library, in a tent in the middle of the desert, in a temple there's no limit to where you guys are gonna do it, poor kaveh having one of his projects staying up all night to work on it and hearing the bed creaking on the other room and yelled to keep it down from his room towards you guys. During alhaitham birth day cyno, tighnari and kaveh was planning on holding a surprise party on alhaitham, unfortunately when they burst in the room and they witness alhaitham getting his "birthday present" from you unfortunately you were unable to make eye contact with them for one week for alhaitham he act as if he did not just give them trauma, that's why knock first when entering his room

Ayato this man is SHAMELESS, even tho most of the citizens don't know what's going on in the kamisato estate, the servants fall into victims to his shenanigans. It's no secret ayato is into shibari as well in his and beloved bedroom above the bed there's a hook to you know. Thoma is by far has to deal with his antics having to wipe the stained of the wet soiled sheets or floor. Every time he asks to bring a snack it's always you to bring it because to be honest you are the snack not the tea and cake, and after finishing he would buy you boba for you and him to enjoy. Even if he gets caught out side of his circle he would bribe them or threaten to cut off the person's tounge and ruin their lives if they dare to release information about the yashiro commissioner private life with his beloved. But that was never the case because usually the spectator would be immediately dealt with by the shimatsuban or are too afraid and fled the nation. He needs to keep his reputation and image clean and if someone there is to shame you or his clan they would be dealt immediately.

Zhongli a gentleman on the street, monster on the sheets. Zhongli is a very popular consultant in ancient liyue history and during afternoons he would usually have a nice walk with you but it's not nice with you when you're limping because of how hard he went from last night. In ancient times to modern liyue it's very known for the nation to have earth quakes once a month it's not dangerous but it might scare some tourist visiting liyue but the citizens of the nation has gone to normalize this earthquake they believe it's rex lapis rearranging liyue or shedding. But in truth once a month zhongli would have rut and take you to his private domain to release his stress and that's the reason why the nation once a month have earthquakes.

Childe a manace amongst society or in teyvat when it comes to privacy, he doesn't care if someone walks in on you guys, he's too busy doing you to not to care if he give someone mental scars but he would always lock the doors when you guys are visiting his family he doesn't want to see his little siblings rearranging his lovers organs as well as sound proofing the entire by sound proofing by putting a pillow on your month for you to bite on to make sure not to release any sound. During one dinner meeting Teucer once had a bright idea of asking something towards you guys in front of the family "big brother why does (brother / sister ) ( your name ) calls you daddy" and the dinner table suddenly went quite and childe answer with "were just playing house Teucer" and Teucer innocently went back to his dinner not noticing the awkward atmosphere around the family.

Neuvillete pretty much a gentleman plus very new to these sorta things I would like to say is a switch, during the climax of the act he would cry during it not tears of sadness but tears of happiness when climaxing best feeling in the world for him, and during this time rain would fall on the city of Fontaine the people it's a normal accuracy. The melusine knows too well about you guys when you visit him the melusine prohibited anyone from entering the ludex office due to this important business meeting, he needs it he's very stressed due to paperwork. as well having a private underwater cave for you guys to do it unbontherd by the city or being too loud.

Wriostheley everybody knows not to bother the duke when he's sweetheart is visiting or else mess with your credit coupons being cut a large half or extra pipe duties for the guards. No one is brave enough or respects him to not mess with his sweetheart They call you the ( marquis / marquise ) of meriopede, holding a position lower than duke but still one of the prison administrator. Unfortunately during the day traveler and paimon decided to visit wriostheley during a busy day, the other workers of the prison were too busy dealing with duties to keep them occupied from interrupting him. And it was too late to warn them the next thing you hear both of their screams and them immediately leaving the office with their face fully red and covering their eyes. What they witnessed was the duke discussion of "business" with the ( marquis / marquise ).

Dottore this man doesn't like when people interrupt him and his lover private time, his clones are by far fine walking in as long as it's not the little one of him walking in so that's why they have to say their ID before going in. And when his clones walk in he would immediately release a pissed "hmmph" and continue on even after finishing you have his clones to satisfy even tho he said having intercourse with them is not necessary and it's your choice to have it or not, but sometimes after finishing or when he's busy to entertain you he would assigned the clones to keep you busy or satisfy you I mean they don't mind it they actually enjoy it. But when one of his lab rats or lower ranking was caught betraying the fatui and went to beg for their life and came rushing in and end up witnessing the doctor with his spouse, soon the lower ranking researcher was used as a test subject for his next experiment how unfortunate his fate was originally gonna be a quick towards the head now they have to suffer due to interrupting his time with his beloved.

Pantalone this man is stressed out due to the amounts of paper work and how much the fatui cost to operate, everyday Is a new bill about something. Dottore needing new funds, childe spending habits, materials, paychecks, taxes and other stuff and that's why he loves having you in his office and when he's overstressed and needs stress relief he would kindly ask to sit on his lap or to kneel down between his legs. He also favors toys and fancy lingerie but when there's a business meeting he tends to leave those things out in public. One time when one of his assistants went inside the office to grab a document he requested in his table is a vibrator and a lacy black underwear and some stained left on the floor the assistant quickly left the office with his paper not minding about what they just witnessed because it's a normal occurrence for them and his other assistant or people who work under him and for those people who accidentally walk in they would be paid a large sum of mora to keep their mouth shut or have their mouth shut by having their tounge cut out. He has a reputation to keep of course.

Capitano ah the captain, the leader of the military of Snezhnaya, number one fatui Harbingers out of eleven of them. Many people love the captain even amongst the fatui being praised for his self righteousness and capabilities. And some even praise his abilities as a lover. Imagine when he walks out of his tent and his entire squad claps and praises his skills in bed. "Man I wish my lover would make me scream the same way the captain would make his beloved scream" or " I'm pretty much sure the captain got a large rack under their" comments spread around the fatui I mean the rumors are true tho. But it's pretty much embarrassing for both of you. So that's why the captain started to tie you up, gagged you as well blindfolding you to make sure not a sound or creak of bed let's out to make sure no one listens to you sing. During his trip in natlan you and him were enjoying the hot spring and ended up getting too "steamy" and got caught by the villagers due to how loud it is.

[esote-rika]

lose some, win some | Spencer Reid Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Hurt/Comfort, Smut 18+, MDNI Summary: COLLEGE AU! When your debate team loses the national championship, you and Spencer return to your shared room and find a productive way to take out your frustrations. Content: Waldorf!Reader is a sore loser, lots of dialogue in the beginning, Sassy!Spencer, some talk of misogyny, Spencer makes up for it by being a munch (so f receiving oral), virgin!Spencer but he’s also a little shit, they are both little shits but it’s cute I swear, handjob, raw p in v but reader mentions she is on the pill, creampies, multiple orgasms for both of them (they’re frustrated and horny give them a break) Word count: 4.8k (it's porn with a plot for once) A/N: Not really frenemies or rivals, they’re just really angry young adults. Idk what Spencer’s actual age was in college, but he studied several times so for this fic, he’s on his third degree and is 21. If the debate stuff is incorrect, I'm sorry. I did do some research but there's so many different rules and styles lmfao. My friend who competes says it’s fine and understandable so :) also massive thanks to @just-call-me-by-yn @mggslover and @notlongtolove for helping me brainstorm and @wheresmacoffee because she was there JK  ILY ANDY their banter during the filthy part is for you <3.

Spencer Reid doesn’t particularly care about the prestige that comes with winning. Most people crave it for the validation, or because it’s another impressive thing they can slap onto their resumes, but being a genius his entire life allows him not to worry about that. His academics speak for themselves. He doesn’t need to pad it with extracurriculars. Instead, he enjoys the skills that are honed from debate—learning to listen to arguments, finding the perfect way to rebut, memorization and reviewing with like minded individuals. The university team is a well oiled machine composed of four people— him on his third degree, two other male juniors, and you, the only woman.

Over the span of two semesters, he’s memorized the quirks of his teammates. It’s essential to building rapport, after all, and he’s eager to get something good out of this. Something less academic, and more social. Friends, perhaps. While he’s formed a bond with the other members, you have always been an enigma. Stoic and ambitious, you remind him of a statue. Cold and oh so beautiful. You’ve often kept to yourself. And after several rejected attempts at friendship, he’s learned to just observe from afar.

He knows from experience that observing allows you deep insight into people, and so he knows after two semesters that you’re perhaps the most competitive out of the entire team, the most hungry for a win. This drive, he suspects, comes from a deeply rooted desire to prove yourself, though he’s unsure why. What else do you have to prove? You have everything, as far as he’s concerned. Keenly intelligent, beautiful, with a circle of friends that adore you. You aren’t like him, who has to sink his claws deep into this debate team in order to get a dose of social interaction. No, you have a life, no matter how marblesque you may seem.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough for you.

He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous, and absolutely fascinating.

The weekend of nationals is taxing. You’ve been fighting for the opener role since the semis, but it would require too much adjustment, which no one is willing to risk so close to nationals. Not only does he not want to give up his spot, he also knows how ruthless you can be as a rebuttal speaker. He's meek, and you have a tendency to be aggressive, it's why the original roles go so well. 

Your adviser agreed, and there’s been tension ever since. 

To make matters worse, hotel arrangements somehow have placed both of you in the same room. The force of your resentment is palpable even to a normally clueless guy like him. Distracting. Pages being turned in your exaggerated annoyance. He’d complain of dramatics, but he doesn’t want to start anything. 

The fact that you’re rooming together also doesn’t help him. Sure, there are different beds, small twin mattresses on either side of the room, but still. Proximity to a woman his age has him anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to nationals. 

So when you lose the championship, his concern for your reaction behind doors overwhelms the regret of losing. 

No one is happy with the results. It is obvious from the set of his jaw, the tenseness of your shoulders. Spencer tries to calm down, accept defeat with a modicum of grace, at least in front of other people. He can tell the rest of the team is trying too, but quite unconvincingly. Onstage, accepting the medals for second place—mockingly silver, and no trophies—the team’s smiles are forced, plastic. 

Back to the hotel rooms are a different story. When you slam the hotel door shut, it echoes down the hall and makes even your debate adviser flinch. It would have made Spencer flinch too, if he hadn't already expected it. He's grown accustomed to how bad of a loser you can be. Like a tornado, your anger spares no one from its destruction. It is in these moments that your stoic resolve crumbles, no longer unfeeling, but rather fully human. Hurtful. Ruthless Unfortunately for him, he's directly in your line of fire.

He catches bits and pieces of your muttered diatribes. He’s used to those too. Normally, he would have ignored them. Losing sucks the energy out of a person, regardless of how uncompetitive he is. Besides, your ranting is mostly harmless, until one sentence snags his attention.

“— knew I should have been the opening speaker —”

He is clawing at his tie, trying desperately to get it off, but the words make him stop immediately. He whirls around, brows furrowed, “What?”

You pause as well, “What?”

“What did you say about being the opening speaker?” He watches you roll your eyes. It does nothing to calm the bitterness in the back of his throat. The normal song and dance goes like this: he’d say a string of words in an attempt to soothe the fire burning in your nerves, and you'd say something so vitriolic he'd refuse to speak to you for the rest of your time together. 

But today, having just lost the biggest championship after working so hard, he's a short fuse and your words are incendiary.

“I said I should have done it, like I asked—”

“Ah, as usual, you're mad that you didn't get what you wanted.” 

An offended scoff. He's almost proud he managed to pull that out of you. “You take too long—”

“Nationals isn't the time to suddenly alter the roles,” he tells you, shaking his head. He manages to loosen the tie, finally, tossing it on his bed with so much aggression it misses the mattress and lands limply on the floor, “I've always been the opening speaker.”

“Yes, and one would think that after going through so many debate competitions,  you would learn to be more succinct,” you snap, shoes making harsh clacks against the tiled floor, “The goal isn't to let us know you're the smartest person in the room, Spencer, it's to set up the tone and groundwork of—”

“I don't need you to lecture me about being the opening,” he interrupts, “I know what my role requires of me.”

“Do you?” Eyes flashing, you walk to him until you're almost chest to chest, “Because we still lost.”

“And you blaming me?” he hisses, leaning down. He hates doing this, stooping to your level of pettiness. Normally, he would choose to be the bigger person, refusing your verbal sparring; he likes to focus his energy on the actual debate, the opposing team, not his own teammates. But your words cut deeper than normal; it isn't the fault the team lost, that's just a flat out lie, “We advised you multiple times to memorize the statistics—”

“Something you're better at!” You look physically pained to admit his superiority, but the words spill anyway, “You'd be so much better to do the rebuttals since you have your stupid photographic memory, and I can set the tone better, but nobody on this little boys club ever listens to me!”

He's surprised at the choked tone your voice has taken. In his mind, you're a complete equal—you made it to the team through hard work and impeccable skills, like the rest of them did, after all. It didn't matter that you are a woman to him, so of course his instinct is to deny. “That’s not true.” but even his voice sounds weak. 

How would he know if it’s not true? He’s never been in your shoes before, never had to reckon with what comes with being the only woman in a team of men.

“Isn’t it?” he flinches at the venom in your voice, “You all act like I'm an afterthought—I get the shittiest positions even when I know I can be more effective in a different one, no one ever asks me for strategy, hell, you never invite me to your stupid chess games.”

His mouth opens and closes foolishly, latching on to the one thing he has a full response to, “I thought you hate chess.”

A sharp laugh, petulant and bitter, “I do, but it would have been nice to be included.”

He doesn’t know what to say. You’ve turned around, yanking off your pristine maroon blazer so roughly he’s afraid it might rip. The silence that grows makes him itch, hands balling into fists as he tries to think of what to do. Social dynamics have always been a thing of mystery to him. 

He wonders if he is part of this problem. He’s no stranger to feeling different and on the outs, and it pains him to think that he inadvertently caused someone else to feel that same, unpleasant exclusion.

But, no. Quickly, he recalls every single time he’s tried to include you—a museum trip that you’d declined because you had a party you wanted to attend. His extra tickets to the Nutcracker.

“That’s not true,” his voice is firm now, following you until he’s standing right behind. Lavender hits his nose and his brain registers the scent of your shampoo. Definitely too close if he can smell that, but he refuses to back away, intent on getting his point across, “That’s not true, I’ve tried to— you were always too busy.”

“What, I’m a liar now?” you spin around, pretty features twisted to somehow express both anger and hurt. He almost falters. Almost. 

But he’s too worked up, even though he knows he should back off, to not trivialize your experiences in order to defend himself. He should know better than this, but the sting of your accusation spurs him on. So he pushes, eyes narrowing, “Last year, September 14, 21, and 29, I invited you to come with us for several casual chess tournaments, you declined all invitations because you claimed you hated chess. October 29th, I told you about the new exhibit they were displaying—”

“It was Halloween weekend, I already had plans—”

“December 19th, I offered you Nutcracker tickets and you said you’d already seen it—”

“I have,” your voice has grown quiet now, and if he stops speaking for a single moment to look, your features have relaxed into something gentler. But he’s on a roll, and you have always been right about things; his inability to be succinct is one of them.

“Even this year, I invited you to study multiple times, but you’ve always had prior plans,” the words are spoken with neutrality. He isn’t even angry anymore, just eager to list everything down and let you know how hard he’s tried with you. Even after the numerous rejections, he’s made an effort, but of course, you have other friends, other plans outside your nerdy debate team. He’s never held that against you, but if you wanted to point fingers, he has the means to defend himself. And sure, he wants to prove you wrong on some level too, but that’s the lesser point. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re better than me, and just accepted, you wouldn’t be feeling so excluded.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you.”

“You just said you would have made a better opening speaker.”

You scoff, “Oh my god, you’re infuriating, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

Spencer bristles at that, “I’m giving you the facts, it’s not my fault you can’t handle them.” he says, leaning closer, trying to make her see his point, “You’re always so closed off and the other guys have just given up trying. Maybe if you—”

“What? If I smiled more? Acted less like a bitch?” you sneer, eyes narrowed dangerously, “I thought a genius like you would know better than to use misogynistic language like that.”

“Wha— no! Don’t put words in my mouth.” Spencer replies, shaking his head. The conversation is devolving into something dangerous, the air crackling with something electric. He assumes it’s anger. They will never get anywhere, so he sighs, softening slightly, “I never said that. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t blameless in this, you know?”

You’re silent. He watches you, takes in how the resentment in your eyes have been dulled by something more contemplative.

He continues, “Listen, I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you were on the outs. I’m sure we have to do so much reflection as a team and as individuals about how we treat each other, but it’s unfair to say that we never include you when I have actively been making efforts to—”

Your lips are upon him. 

That’s inaccurate. 

You are upon him, arms flung around his neck, body pressed flush against his. He feels the entire world tilt, and he’s unsure if it’s because you’re pulling him down or because your lips are so pillowy he’s instantly eager for more. Wants it like a man starved. Needs it, needs more, but his body betrays him. Whether it’s his inexperience or surprise or a combination of both. He freezes, blinking rapidly at the sight of you. Eyes shut, and face so close to him; so, so close he can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny freckle on your eyelid that gets hidden if your eyes are open.

And then you're gone. The freckle disappears as you look at him with wide eyed mortification. 

“Shit, Spencer, I—”

It’s his lips that cut you off this time, seeking out the velvety warmth of your mouth. Your lips part under his, and he registers a sound, soft and whining. It takes him a moment to realize it came from him, from the back of his throat and muffled by your lips and tongue and oh you’re both falling.

Literally. He must have leaned too far into you; you’re suddenly collapsing, forcing him down because your arms have him in a vice grip and he’s too busy chasing after your lips. The next thing he knows is he’s on top of you and you’re sprawled on the bed beneath him. Time stands still; he’s painfully aware of how cliche that is, but every sense of eloquence seems to have been expelled from his brain as he takes you in; lips swollen and wet from his kisses, pupils blown wide. Every breath you take pushes your chest up against his, and he can feel your heart thrumming against his body. 

“Well, that was one way of shutting you up,” you chuckle with a cockiness that makes his heart speed up, though it isn’t borne out of embarrassment. Every single physiological effect of your body is evidence that you’re enjoying this, telling him you’re just as worked up as he is. The breathiness in your voice, the quickness of your heartbeat. 

The fact that you’re pulling him down again, legs hooking around his hips. He surrenders to it, lips meeting yours once again, deeper and more desperate this time.

He closes his eyes, relishing this, kissing you, touching you, an act he had believed is reserved for attractive jocks and charismatic art nerds. Not him, quiet and lanky, shifting to avoid his angular bones from digging into you, and to place himself more comfortably on the bed. Inexperienced, ungainly, and yet here he is, his tongue pushing into your mouth in his first forays into something that his peers have experienced years ago.

Spencer Reid isn’t used to being the one behind, doing the catching up. Child prodigy, genius, the words aren’t meaningless. He’s been ahead academically—which, up until this point, has been his whole life. But feeling warm lips beneath his own has him reconsidering some of his life choices. 

The kiss is messy. Sloppy from his clumsy attempts to keep up with your eagerness. You’re tugging at something, and he realizes it’s to untuck the rest of the crisp shirt you’ve donned for the debate tournament out from your skirt. His hands settle on your waist, finding smooth, heated skin from where your shirt has ridden up. Careful fingers help push it up, burying under the fabric until his palms are mapping out the slopes of your body. 

Soft. So damn soft. 

Not cold marble after all. He theorizes you must be soft everywhere, and he decides to test it out with his lips, laving kisses along your jaw, down the sweet, musky skin of your neck where your perfume still lingers. Instincts take over and he allows himself a taste, tongue darting out. You shudder, so he does it again, greedy for your pretty moans and gasps. 

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, “Thought you were mad at me?” he mumbles, trailing his kisses down the column of your throat. 

You’re all mhms and ohhhs right now, so far from the usual image you present to the world, a preppy, manicured woman who wrestles for control over everything. You must hate this, he thinks, being beneath him physically, caged within his arms which are deceptively strong for how fragile he looks. 

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me.” His grin is dopey when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

Something brushes against his crotch, and now he’s the one gasping, jerking in surprise at the friction. You’ve slotted your thigh between his, and his traitorous body responds by grinding down on it shamelessly. The look on your face is smug, triumphant.

“Huh,” saccharine and mocking, you blink up at him innocently, “That was easier than I thought.”

His head drops to your neck again, but he isn’t kissing you anymore. Just open mouthed breathing as he rubs himself on your thigh, hands tightening on your sides, “Mhm.”

“Are you gonna come? Spencer, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sinks his teeth into your flesh to fight the needy whines because yes, he’s so embarrassingly close and you’re both still fully dressed. He hears a hiss, and he backs off immediately, murmuring apologies, “Didn’t mean to—”

“‘S okay,” you tilt your head back, give him more access to your neck, “Just don’t leave marks.”

Permission to bite. He gulps, heart beating wildly, before ducking back down. Chapped lips run over your neck, finding a soft spot to bite, forcing himself to soften the way his teeth sink into your skin. All the while rubbing himself on your thigh because it’s probably the closest thing to heaven a man such as him will ever experience. 

He hears your laughter, your mocking cooes of, “You’re so fucking needy” but he can’t bring himself to care.

You’re correct, he decides, as you usually are. He’s needy, desperately so, eagerly chasing the delicious pleasure of dry humping your thigh. 

“Hold on, Spencer.”

You push him back gently. A whine rips from his throat, “Mhm—why?”

He gets his answer soon enough. Your hands undo his belt and he swears this sets his whole body on fire. Nobody’s ever seen him like this. Never has another person touched him so intimately, seen him so out of control, so brainless. He’s babbling incoherently as your hand strokes up and down his length, his hips rutting into your hand. It’s out of sync. Two dancers on entirely different rhythms.

Your laughter rings in his ears, one hand tangled in his hair as the other does unspeakable, tantalizing things to his aching cock. 

“Mhm, can’t— I’m gonna—” and he’s spilling into your hand, hot, viscous liquid overflowing from your hand and staining your skirt, “Ah, shit.”

He collapses against you, head on the crook of your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “‘M sorry, I’ll– I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”

Your chest shakes as you laugh, “Would you? I think you owe me more than that.” The heat in your voice makes his breath catch in his throat.

Soft kisses press upon your neck as he gathers his thoughts, willing his brain to work again. Anatomy, female anatomy. Female pleasure. What does he know about this? A lot, surprisingly, though mostly from books. Mostly in theory, but that’s a start. He can put them to practice right now. His hands drag down your sides until they catch the waistband of your skirt. “May I?”

“Okay.”

He pulls gently, exposing the rest of your thighs and legs. Honey brown eyes devour the expanse of your skin, hands clutching at the softness. He marvels at the way your flesh accepts his own, bright red splotches imprinted from his fingertips.   

He thinks of poetry, the uncountable amount of words and phrases written to immortalize women and love and sex, and he finds himself wishing he has the skill to compose something as beautiful, something worthy of you right now, radiant and half naked and somehow all his. 

But he is no poet, so he touches his lips upon your body instead. Pretty words will escape him, but his lips can speak even without them, he’ll make sure of it. He kisses down your abdomen, making sure to pay attention to every hidden freckle and birthmark he comes across. Your reactions make him feel drunk, to the point of affecting him physically. Messier kisses. Hands tugging and nearly ripping the lace of your panties because he’s unaware of his own strength. 

“So pretty,” he mumbles, “So pretty.” It’s all he can repeat, but then his tongue lands on your slick heat and suddenly words are forgotten in favor of vague groaning. Because how can he accurately describe the sensation of this? Tasting you. God how has he gone so long without this? Your nails scraping his scalp, his fingers sinking into your thighs as he keeps you still. He’s halfway off the bed, legs dangling off the edge, your thighs squeezing his face. 

There’s nowhere else he would rather be. 

He laps at your folds like a mad man, tongue pressed flat and dragging up slowly to get as much of you in his mouth as possible. His feet find the floor, allowing himself more stability to once again rub his growing erection against a solid object. The poor mattress is going to be ruined once they’re done.

“Faster,” you gasp, jerking your hips into his face, “Spencer— oh, yeah like that!”

Spencer Reid is a quick study, and when he hears the positive reactions, he doubles down until he feels you convulse against his tongue. You jerk so violently he has to hold you down. He pushes his tongue past your entrance experimentally, and feels you tug roughly on his hair in response, gasping his name and God’s name in slurred phrases as you ride out your high.

It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.

 “Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and he has to repeat that ridiculous sentence again, because it’s true and he feels you deserve it.

“You’re so pretty.” He fears you might be some kind of magnet, because his lips keep getting drawn back to your skin. He lets his kisses travel up your hip bone, before grinning up at you, “Even when you’re being insufferable, you’re still so beautiful.”

“Gee thanks,” you huff, pulling at his arm, “How romantic, I’m swooning.”

“Might not be swooning, but you did just come on my face.” brilliant rows of teeth flash at you as he smiles smugly.

“Asshole.”

“Is that how you say thank you?” he drags his body up lazily, draping himself over you.

“I’m not— wait, are you hard again?”

“Uh…”

“Needy, needy boy.” you pull him down to you, and he almost protests, his chin and mouth still covered with your slick. But you don’t seem to care, so he follows your lead, God at this point he would follow you anywhere at all. You’re shifting beneath him, and the next thing he knows is your legs are wrapped around his waist again, your heat completely exposed and pressing against his cock.

“Mhm,” he pulls back, eyes wide, “I—”

“What?” you whisper, lifting your head to continue giving him kisses, teeth playfully nipping at his jaw, “It’s fine, I’m on birth control.”

“It’s not that,” he can’t deny you, his body relaxing back down over you. His lips catch yours for a moment, slow and achingly tender, “I’ve just never really done this before.”

He waits for the inevitable laughter. Here he is, at 21, and somehow still the same person he had been when he first entered college at 14. But you continue to look at him with heavy lids, breathless and flushed. 

“Okay,” your voice is kind, sweet, “Take it slow then.” your hand wraps around his length again, the movement slower this time, as you align him to your entrance. He hisses as the sensitive tip grazes against your folds, as he feels your entrance slowly give way to him and envelop his cock. 

“Oh,” he sighs. With your help, he sinks halfway into you, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing himself on his elbow. Eyes squeezed shut, he stills and manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

You don’t speak, and so he forces his eyes to focus and look at you. The sight has him twitching inside you. Mouth agape and eyes hazy, you’re nodding up at him wordlessly as your hips rock up into his. “More.”

It’s exhilarating. He’s known you for the past year, worked alongside you but respected your need for distance. And now, here you are, not merely close, but one. Spencer sighs, and thrusts shallowly, eyes zeroed in on you and your reactions. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he moves slowly, dragging out his cock until only the tip rests inside you, then sliding into the hilt.

It elicits the most mellifluous sounds from you, making him smile in relief. He lets his forehead rest against yours, thrusts growing more confident, but still in that slow, almost dreamy pace. He memorizes every detail of this moment, from the way your eyes flutter closed, to the quiver of your legs as they wrap tighter around his thighs. 

“So good,” he hears himself say, “God, you feel so good.”

“Mhm,” you nod, nails digging into his back, even through his clothes. In the heat of the moment, you’re both still half dressed, only getting rid of your bottom clothes in order to get what you need from each other, “More, Spencer, I need more.”

He nods, letting his thrusts grow faster, rougher. It’s an awkward angle, he’s afraid his knees will start cramping, but the feeling of being surrounded by your warmth, drowning in your moans has him reckless. “There?” he grunts, angling just so, and he can’t help the smirk on his face when he feels your walls clenching around him.

“There, there, yes!”

He’s not sure how he manages to last as long as he does. Maybe it’s the sheer desire to feel you fall apart, for his cock to be drenched in your slick that keeps his release at bay. Maybe he has too much pent up sexual energy that’s just been dying to come out. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it, because it means he’s spending more time inside you, hips moving with so much impact he’s pushing you forward with each thrust. 

“Yes, just like that.” you’re shuddering beneath him, and he moves his arm to the top of your head, creating a barrier between you and the headboard so you don’t hit it. He could stop, readjust your positions, but he doesn’t have it in him. 

No, he wants to stay inside you, forever if there’s an anatomically feasible way to do it. But unless he invents it, he’ll settle for right now, settle for the heat between your bodies, and how you’re practically melting into the mattress, arching so prettily against him.

“You close?” he murmurs, one hand finding your clit, drawing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“No fair,” you whine, bucking into him, “That’s cheat— Spencer!” 

You come undone in the most enthralling way, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten by your own lips. You squeeze and flutter around him, and he’s helpless to stop his own release, spilling deep inside you with a broken cry from his own mouth. Your name is whispered, over and over again, until he stills, his vision blurry as he collapses against you.

He curls around you, trying to get as close, “You—that was—wow.” 

You giggle, still breathless and glassy eyed, “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“Yes,” he gives you a series of kisses along your temple, “Yes, it was. You—wow.” he carefully pulls out of you, hissing quietly when the cool air conditioned air hits his sensitive flesh. “Was that enough of an apology for not including you to our chess nights?”

“You’re making jokes now?”

“No,” he smiles, leaning away to look at you, all starry eyed and boneless, “Not a joke. Because if it’s not enough, I can do it again.” a kiss to your cheek, “And again.” one on the tip of your nose, “And again.”

When you laugh in response, he cups your cheek, “I mean it.” he says with all the seriousness he can muster.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Does this mean you’ll accept my invitations now?” he lights up, a large smile splitting his face.

“Only if it’s a date.”

"Then it's a date."

[mv1simp]

Haunted ♥️ Part 1 of 2

Alpha!Max Verstappen x Reader (Omegaverse AU)

READ PART TWO HERE

it’s where we go, it’s what you see (I know if i’m onto you, you must be onto me)

As Mercedes’ rookie female driver, you garner a lot of media attention, even more when you reveal you haven’t presented. You don’t care about true mates or presenting - all you wanted was the championship. You’d be a lot closer to it, if it wasn’t for the dominating Alpha Max Verstappen. But after your late presentation, you two realize there’s a lot more to your bond than competition.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, size kink, primal themes, dom!Max, Sub!Reader, enemies to lovers. WC: 5.4k

Triumphantly holding the trophy up in your hands, you beam at the sea of black and white fans who scream their approval. Winning your second race after having fought your way throughout the season as the new Mercedes driver was an unforgettable feeling - sealing in that it was your talent, not luck that got you the first. And no one had given you a harder time and held up your long overdue win than the reigning world champion - Max Verstappen. Turning to your right, you reward him with a smirk as your national anthem finally plays instead of the Dutch one.

He doesn’t hide his frustrated glare at you from his P2 podium that instinctively makes you want to sprint away and hide in your safe garage behind Toto. You’re a bit annoyed he’s still taller than you, even though you’re on the highest step. One of the downsides of being 5 foot compared to Max’s tall 6 foot frame - but that hasn’t stopped you from finally taking the win from him and proving how deserving of your seat you are, you remind yourself.

As the first female driver in decades, you’d sent shock waves through the paddock when Mercedes had pulled you out of the F4 pool and straight into their seat after the loss of their golden boy, Lewis Hamilton, to Ferrari. What had been even more shocking was the fact that you were an Unpresented female in a sport that was almost exclusively dominated by Alpha males.

Like the majority of premier athletes, most of the drivers had presented from a very young age as Alphas. Unsurprising - given the traits of ruthless competitiveness, aggression and passion that came naturally to Alphas. And out of all this group of already highly dominating drivers, Max Verstappen was the alpha, well known for his perfect instincts, the ultimate apex predator. His early career was famous because of how, at 17, his intimidating aura had been enough to make grown men racing on the same track give way to the younger alpha. This automatic submission Max was able to elicit from others was one of the many, many benefits that came with being an Alpha in society - especially for one such a powerful as Max.

So when you - who was not an Alpha, or even a Beta, but rather an Unpresented - showed up to the paddock for your first ever race and then ended up somehow going wheel to wheel with the reigning world champion by Lap 20, jaws dropped and headlines were rapidly printed. Presenting as an Alpha was rare, an Omega even rarer - with the majority of the population being Beta. However a small population also remained Unpresented, spending their whole lives without any sign they belonged to any gender. Essentially, you were like a scentless Beta - but just several rungs below on the social ladder as Alpha commands had minimal effect on you. It could be worse, you had mused when started racing - you could have been born an Omega.

Omegas were a rare breed and highly sought after. With their attributes of being sweetly nurturing and natural carers - they made the perfect match for protective Alphas. Of course, as the world had historically always been ruled by Alphas, in turn Omegas had been stereotyped as the soft, submissive, delicate ones who needed to be closely guarded in society’s eyes.

So it had been suprising to you that there were not one, but two Omega drivers on the paddock this year. Yuki Tsunoda made sense, you supposed, with his slight frame and pretty features giving him away. But he certainly swore so aggressively up and down the track he’d have the commentators asking if maybe he had been assigned the wrong group. Alex Albon had been much more surprising with his very Alpha-like build - but given his quietly confident aura and gentle nature compared to the other drivers who were always aggressively arguing, it made sense looking back. And it had been even more surprising when he announced he’d found his true mate and Alpha, his girlfriend Lily.

Really, you were grateful you didn’t have the drama that came with being assigned a presentation. Even if it meant you would never have a true mate, you could live with it if you could have a shot at being world champion. But goddamn Max Verstappen, with his intense gaze and powerful aura that even you would feel tickling the back of your neck, across the paddock, would keep getting in your way. Your first P1 though, 2 months ago in Japan, you hadn’t let him win and successfully defended him off. It was the only advantage of being Unpresented - unlike the other Alphas and Omegas on the track, you were the least affected by his suffocating presence and used that to your advantage when pulling dangerous manoeuvres that vexed the Dutch driver to no end.

And he’d certainly let you know it after your first win - after a neutral indifference to you when you approached him on your first day to greet him, unlike the majority of the drivers who’d curiously flocked to the first female one. But after you took P1 from him, he claimed angrily, with dirty fucking moves, what was that overtake on the 2nd corner- you’d formed an instant dislike of him. Just because you didn’t bend to his will like everyone else?! Just because you’d won using the same move - you pointed out to him furiously - that he’d used to overtake you on the last race?

The pair of you had become quick rivals, butting heads more and more as each race went on and providing lots of great content for the media which ate it up. Sometimes Max would confuse you into thinking you were friends - occasionally murmuring helpful advice as you watched the post race highlights in the cooldown room, or shutting down sexist questions you’re repeatedly asked in the driver interviews. You’d think this was the warm, caring Max that you’d heard existed off the grid. But then you two would have some racing incident or the other and he’d be back to the fire breathing lion he usually was.

That first P1 in Japan had been bittersweet to you - because after your argument with Max, when you’d gone back to your hotel to admire your new trophy, you’d started to becoming increasingly unwell for a few days and had high fevers. You hadn’t even realised what was going on until your Beta coach banged on the door demanding to be let in, before saying you were finally presenting, 5 years late, as an Omega.

You’d been shocked and upset, of course, leading to a very traumatic first heat in a foreign country where although the desire and lust hadn’t been intense, the longing for an Alpha to comfort and protect you as you cried and whined has been so overwhelming. You had never wanted to feel anything like that again, so disempowered - so you had sworn your manager to secrecy and after a very private meeting with you, your teammate George Russell, your managers and a very concerned Toto Wolff - you’d tearfully told them what had happened. You’d expected to be dropped from the team, but they had taken one look at your distress and instantly calmed you down. Mercedes will most certainly not be dropping their very promising rookie, who had just taken P1 at her 4th ever F1 race, Toto had reassured you firmly, exuding calm confidence as he handed you a tissue. George’s large hand rubbed warm circles on your back and within a few minutes you’re laughing at jokes the two tall Alphas made to cheer you up, unable to resist the urge to protect the small Omega in front of them and using their scents to soothe you.

Regardless of how understanding your team principal had been, the fact was it would be terrible PR for you to publically present as an Omega female and risk the loss of sponsors. Given that the first heat after the presentation was notorious for being especially painful in an effort to attract a fated mate from the very start, Toto had guided you to a discreet specialist doctor to ensure the world continued to believe you were Unpresented. You’re relieved, hating the idea of being stereotyped as something delicate and pretty to be protected when you were anything but. You literally drove like a suicidal madwoman at 300km/hr for a career! So you’d promptly been started on high strength suppressors to avoid any issues with a first heat happening in the middle of a race weekend, and a couple sprays of sweet perfume later no one would be any the wiser if they picked up on any residual Omega scent that the suppressors couldn’t block.

So here you were now, celebrating your second win in Barcelona with a few of the drivers and friends at a 3 story club downtown. Although you’d been enjoying drinking and laughing with your friends, you’d been unable to stop the shivers that ran down your bare spine from your rival’s intense gaze, still simmering with anger, across the dancefloor where he was talking to Lando. You hated the way that you still felt so affected by him, by his scent that always seemed to drift over to you, always smelling more and more heady each time you saw him. And the urge to submit to him was just stupid and desperate, you thought, rolling your eyes and taking another shot. It turns out your “slutty inner omega whore” as you had not-so-fondly dubbed her, seemed more interested in having a strong Alpha’s dick inside her, instead of hating said Alpha for trying to run her off the track. Multiple times.

And tonight, the suppressants were clearly not doing their job because you couldn’t control the way you squeezed your thighs together, panties suddenly damp with the thought of an alpha like Max keeping his eyes on you - instead of the girls who had been throwing themselves at him the second he’s entered the club. You tell your inner slut who delighted in this attention to get it together, because the attention was likely murderous rage from the competitive Dutch champion at losing a race. Forcing yourself to ignore the prickles down your spine, you take another shot instead and head back to the dance floor.

Many, many drunk dances with your girlfriends later, you found yourself safely dropped off at the hotel. Pressing the button, you waited patiently for it to come down, fanning your face because you felt strangely hot in the night chill despite having left the club. And then you feel it - that heady, dominating aura that makes you want to fall to your knees. Spinning around, you see Max standing there, dressed in a rare outfit of a fitted white tee and tight pants, accentuating his broad shoulders and thick thighs. Fuck, you had forgotten Redbull was staying in the same hotel as your team this weekend.

He smirks at you, asking if you’d had a good night celebrating, because it’ll be the last win he’ll let you have this year, Princess. You despised the nickname he’s given you over the Redbull radio one race, and how it had stuck in the media too - the pretty little Mercedes princess. You give him an unimpressed glare and tell him to fuck off, Verstappen as you get in the elevator, staying right by the front with your back purposely to him. As the doors close, you can’t help but notice through the reflective wall how Max’s dark gaze unabashedly wanders down your body, enjoying the sight of your curvy, petite form dressed in a backless halter satin minidress and stiletto heels that accentuated your thick ass. Forbidden delight curls in your abdomen from the thought of an alpha as strong as Max finding you desirable. A deeper part of you - one that you would never admit to anyone - can’t deny that you desperately wanted Max to want you, having always idolised him before you joined F1. That when you’d picked out this dress you wondered if Max was going to be out tonight, if he’d see you in this outfit…and find you pretty.

And you’d never, ever admit that recently you woke up with damp thighs and lingers of a dream of being underneath a dominating blonde Alpha, his voice deep and accented as he whispered for you to take it all for me, prinses…

Again, you promptly tell your inner slut to close her mental legs - just in time as the elevator opens before both your floors to let in a large group heading to the upstairs bar.

They’re a drunk, rowdy bunch of businessmen and you’re in no mood to be felt up - and you find yourself moving beside the protective aura of Max. You scowl at how you couldn’t seem to control yourself around the taller man then find yourself surprised when he moves to cover you from their curious gazes. His wide shoulders block out their view of how enticing you look as he crowds you into one corner, his back to them. You nervously make sure you don’t stare anywhere else but straight ahead at his toned chest, your heart beating at 200bpm as the desire that’s pulsing through you being this close to him. Especially when he’s decided to look so fucking hot tonight, that intoxicating deep scent making you light headed, like luxurious velvet running down your skin, like burnt amber, smoky and woody from the embers of a winter's night fire. That wicked inner omega of yours can’t stop purring at how your scandalous choice of dress gives Max a generous view down your cleavage.

The elevator comes to a stop with a sharp jolt on the businessmen’s floor, startling you out of your thoughts and you find you’ve placed a manicured hand on Max’s toned abs to steady yourself. And as soon as you touch him - the first time you’ve ever laid hands on him, you realise later - electricity crackles in between you both. His scent becomes all the much headier to you - as if all the same flavours had suddenly become 10 times amplified. It makes you whimper and again, your body betrays you with the fresh wetness that suddenly drenches your panties.

The change in the air is instant, tension clearly palpable as you nervously peek under Max’s arm and realise the group of businessmen aren’t leaving the lift - and instead all their eyes are turned in your direction with lustful gazes. You shiver but don’t hesitate to glare at them as you tell them to get out. They don’t move, looking entranced at you, when a low, threatening rumble from Max’s chest makes it very clear that you are not to be messed with - unless they wanted to go against the strongest Alpha in a 100 mile radius. Slightly tilting his head to look back at the group, Max’s narrowed eyes and threatening aura makes them run off with their figurative tail between their legs.

The elevator closed with neat ding, moving back up, and suddenly you realised you were in a very compromising position with your rival - who had definitely noticed the very Omega-like addictive, sweet smell you were giving off as a supposed “Unpresented” female.

Verstappen- you say anxiously, frantically thinking of what to say to convince him to keep your secret. But all thoughts are cut off when Max unexpectedly leans down and buries his face into your neck, making you gasp. Your hands grab his shoulders to push him away, to ask what the fuck he thought he was doing. But the words don’t even make it out of your mouth because your head is spinning from his lips now pressing kisses against your delicate collarbones. Somehow, you’re finding yourself winding your fingers in his blonde locks, which were just as soft as they looked.

By the time the elevator reaches your floor, you’re almost falling to the ground from the sensation but Max easily supports your weight against him. He’s guiding you out of the lift and trapping you against the nearest wall - and following immediately with his hard body pressed right up against your soft one. You’re whining that he needs to stop, what is he doing, you’re in a hallway for anyone to see, but he cuts you off again with his husky voice as he breathes out that this scent, your scent, princess…fuck, I’d thought it was perfume or something but it’s all you, isn’t it? I can’t get enough of how intoxicating you are.

Tilting your head back with his strong hands, he bends down to the opposite side now and shuts up your half hearted protests by licking a line straight up the column of your throat. Oh my god, your inner omega was having the time of her life right now. Max, you murmur weakly, and he sharply inhales as your gazes meet. The dark hunger in his eyes is clear when he tells you to say that again.

And when you sweetly call his name again, he’s kissing you, still leaning against the wall in the dimly lit hallway, and you automatically moan into the passionate kiss because it feels so good, so right as his lips moved against yours with a gentleness you hadn’t expected.

But when the lift dings, signalling another arrival to your floor, Max turns to look with narrowed eyes at the potential threat and you’re reminded of how wrong wrong wrong this is and how you’d lose all your sponsors if the media found out about this scandal. So you use his second of distraction to use your small frame and slip under his arms, hastily swiping your card and slamming the door behind you when you enter.

Heart beating, you lean back against the door as your replay what just happened over and over, your hands running over your tingling lips where Max’s - your rival - has just been a second ago. Across the other side, Max leans against your door just the same. He’d let you escape his hold - for now - but he wouldn’t next time, because he knew what it meant to smell a scent so divine it made him want to destroy anything that so much as glanced in your direction. That made him lose all inhibition and pin you against a wall as he desperately resisted the urge to bury his fangs in you right there. You were his fated mate, he thinks with relief, pure joy and warmth spreading across him with the idea of having you as his mate. The one who he’d not thought he’d find at age 26 after meeting countless women. And yet here you’d been the whole time, right in front of him, the only driver who drove him so wild on the track. He'd never thought about why the pretty little Unpresented driver was able to generate such strong responses from his Alpha unusually quickly. With a backwards glance to your room where you safely hid, Max wandered away, contemplating how he was going to claim his Omega who hated him.

Meanwhile, the kiss has sent you into an absolute flurry of panic, trying to come up with ways of convincing your rival to keep your secret, having no idea why he suddenly found your scent irresistible. Your half baked plans came to an end when Max texted you the next day to meet him in the hotel lobby to talk. No fucking way, you texted back furiously, so you can get me alone and kiss me again without my permission?

You’d flown back to Monaco an hour later, ignoring Max’s replies. Clearly, he seemed as troubled by this…situation as you were, and judging by the fact you hadn’t woken up to headlines about you secretly being an Omega, it seems Max was keeping your secret - for now, at least. And you were terribly confused by how good his kiss had made you feel, even though you were furious with how he’d done it without asking, as if you belonged to him.

So you decide to ignore Max for the whole week, but when he shows up at your apartment door unexpectedly, you couldn’t hold him off. We need to talk, he’d said tersely, and that’s how you found yourself on the apartment rooftop - surprised that Max hadn’t barged his way into your apartment. In fact, he stood well away from you, leaning against the railing and looking out towards the setting Monaco sun over the pristine Mediterranean waters as you watched his back uncertainly. Just when you were going to ask him what he wanted, he began telling you the story of how his Alpha father, Jos, had claimed his Omega mother, Sophie before she had been ready. You tilted your head, confused. You were very familiar with that particular media scandal - where Jos had deliberately performed the claiming, the ancient ritualistic tradition of an Alpha marking an Omega as theirs - in the peak of Sophie’s career, and had illegally used their mating bond to manipulate her into early retirement and focus on the family instead. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, of how no court or laws could protect an Omega fully from the abuse of a controlling Alpha.

I- I know about your parent’s story, it was quite…anyways, why are you bringing it up now? Max didn’t answer your question, turning around instead to face you. You felt that same fluttering beating of your heart as his intense blue gaze locked in on your doe eyed brown one. After she was able to get the divorce, he continued, she finally found her true mate. And she told me about the difference she’d felt, in how my father and her mate had treated her, how one had made her into the wife he wanted and the other had protected her as she chose to life she wanted for herself.

You’re truly confused now about why he’s still on this topic, and tell him that you’d even spoken with his mother when you began racing about her advice as a female on the track, and you’d expressed your sympathies for how hard it must have been to have her career tarnished so early by an abusive Alpha. Being her son was one of the few things you actually respected about him. Thinking he was foreshadowing what he was going to ask of you, your scent became sour with anger. So, out with it, Verstappen, you demanded, what’s your blackmail plan, I know you know about me being an Omega, are you going to make me promise not to try for P1 because you can forget it-

Max cut you off then, stepping forward and making you tilt your head back to look up at him. You wanted to step back so desperately, knowing what happened last time he was so close - but that inner omega vixen of yours was far too satisfied with the reassuring, soft spicy scent Max was now gently emitting. You hadn’t even known he was capable of anything other than the intense scent he used to dominate on the track.

No, schat, Max says softly. I’m not going to tell anyone anything you don’t want shared. Or use it against you. I wanted to tell you my parents story…to show you my father is the kind of Alpha I don’t want to become. I don’t want anyone to go through what my mother did. You can literally feel your body relaxing from his reassuring words, with the way he had called you darling in Dutch for the first time, from his soft look and scent. And it pisses you off to no end, that he can use his biology to make you feel like this - you’d had no idea the effect from an Alpha could be this strong on you. You realize you’ve involuntarily said that out loud when he tells you it isn’t normal for you to react this intensely to an Alpha, but it’s because it’s him that you’re reacting to. At your perplexed look, he’s reminded that your parents are both Betas and you had very limited knowledge of presentations, compared to his own family which were exclusively Alpha-Omega mates for generations.

Because…because we’re rivals? You ask, those sweet doe eyes of yours blinking up at him and making the urge to protect you bloom deep in his chest. Unfortunately for his inner alpha, he was about to cause you a lot of distress with his next words.

Because - Max swallowed, because, schat, we’re true mates. I’m your Alpha, if you’ll have me.

The distress that comes off you is instant and makes Max want to jump off the balcony railing, if it means ending your despair. You’re stammering out your shock, confusion, and then just straight denial at his claim, insisting it can’t be true - but he watches you with an apologetic expression, only speaking after a long time once you’ve let out all your conflicting emotions. He softly explains why it was true, that you might not know because your own parents weren’t a true match but what happened in the elevator, the reaction to each other’s scents - it was the first step to prime you two for the claiming.

He can see the colour drain from your face, flushed caramel skin now going pale as your distress turns to pure rage, steeped with fear - of him, Max realises. So that's why you're pretending to be so nice, isn't it? you question hotly, so that I say yes to your claiming just for you to use it order me to leave racing? And you'll act like its so different to your parents-

Max can't bear this foreign pain in his chest any longer, each furious word from you twisting a knife into his heart. His inner alpha is screaming at him to comfort and console you, so he does just that by stepping forward again and taking your small form into his large arms, forming a secure hold around you. Your annoyed shriek is muffled against his toned chest, but after a few seconds you calm down once he says, sounding so unusually desperate, he will never do the claiming until you ask him too, even if that's well after your racing career finishes. You pause, hearing the genuine sincerity in his words, and somehow deep within you a sense tells you that Max is telling the truth. As his warm, large hands soothingly rub circles on your back, you find yourself closing your eyes and lean into him, your french manicured hands pressing against his firm muscles and hearing his strong heartbeat through his chest.

You stay like that for a long time, slowly processing everything he's told you, until the sunset disappears over the Monaco horizon and the bright city lights emerge. At some point his arms have wrapped around your soft waist, one hand firmly on your hip and the other cradling your head against him, softly stroking your dark curls. If anyone had told you a month ago that you'd find yourself in this position with goddamn Max Verstappen you'd have laughed them off the track. But here you are, your inner omega purring with satisfaction at the secure embrace of your strong Alpha. You find yourself returning his comforting embrace by tentatively moving your small palms up over his pecs and across his ridiculously broad shoulders, looping around his wide neck. You hear Max's breathing hitch as he feels your shy touch, and then he’s hit with your delicious scent as your new position exposes your neck. It's the same as in the lift - so sweet, like exotic Indian jasmine on a hot summer night, like burnt sticky vanilla in the stroopwafels he adored as a kid, on the rare days he was allowed to go to the park instead of karting. But this time, your scent is even more inviting as your desire for him is stronger, and he doesn't fight his instincts and buries his face into your delicate neck again. He inhales deeply and leaves you gasping when he starts leaving lazy, soft kisses in the hollow of your throat. This time, you can't bring yourself to pull away, your fingers gently threading into his hair as you tentatively call out V-Verstappen, this is-

That's not my name, prinses he rumbles lowly, Dutch accent slipping through as he continues moving up your neck, leaving hickeys with flicks of his tongue and gentle, teasing nips of his sharp fangs - teasing, but not puncturing your tantalising caramel skin. And when you sweetly moan Max for him, looking up at him with those wide brown doe eyes, heady with desire, and a pretty red flush across your full cheeks, he meets your plush lips with his own. There's no hesitation this time, your fingers tangling into his messy blonde locks as you kiss deeply. His large hands running across your body make you feel like you're on fire. And when he grabs a hold of your thick ass, squeezing it like he owned it and and pulling you even closer to him, you're gasping and moaning sweetly into his mouth. He doesn't hesitate to slide inside your parted lips, completely dominating the kiss as he easily takes control over your tongue despite your efforts to battle against his.

Max, this is so wrong you say breathlessly, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure as his large thigh parts yours, your skirt sliding up as thick muscles come into contact with your aching core. You're certain he's going to be able to feel the wetness rapidly pooling between your own legs. Then why does it feel so right, prinses? He cockily responds, squeezing your ass greedily again and moaning himself when you start grinding against his leg, your wetness dripping past your soaked panties and ruining his pants. Fuck, he was never going to take these off, so he would always have the intoxicating scent of how sweet you smelled when you were so desperate for him, hmm?

The harsh ringing of your phone you'd set on a nearby table startles you. Max ignores it, flexing his thighs up against you to tempt your self control again as your inner Omega begs you to let the Alpha - your Alpha - claim you right here, right now, for all the world to see. But through the haze you see your boss's face flash on the screen and suddenly you're reminded of what's at stake. Snapping to your senses, you stumble away from Max's strong hold, making him growl in annoyance as he reluctantly releases you from his arms. This is why I didn't want to talk, you hiss at him, but he can tell from your scent you’re more conflicted than angry. Because you- you cutely flush, -we can't control ourselves for more than 5 minutes without something like this happening. You gesture to the space between you two as he watches you inquisitively, taking in every small movement with a tilt of his head like he was a lion stalking a deer. Stay away from me from now on, Verstappen you say with a scowl on your pretty face, pointing right at him, his sharp blue eyes not missing the slight tremor that gives away how affected you feel by him. I need to focus on winning this championship and not your…slutty Alpha seduction techniques.

He lets you go, smirking as you practically sprint away down the stairs to avoid any further temptation, enjoying the view of your generous ass from behind. Using his thumb to brush the dampness you left on his pants, he licks it away, chest lowly rumbling in approval as he confirms you’ll taste just as sweet as you looked, as you smelled. Next time, he promises his disgruntled inner Alpha.

After all, it was only a matter of time before he claimed you - it was a question of when, not if. The dark, controlling parts of him wanted to lay his claim on you right now, knowing that you desired him and would be unable to resist if he wanted to have his way with you. But you’d be so much sweeter, more pliable, more eager for him if he waited until you came begging.

He’d have his fun in the meantime.

READ PART TWO HERE

[carriesthewind]

I reread the IA's contemporaneous post justifying their "National Emergency Library", and one of the things that struck me is just how selfish it was.

(It was also full of falsehoods, ranging from exaggeration to outright lies, but that's another matter.)

While 2020 feels like it was several decades in the past, it was actually only a few years ago. And I remember March of 2020! I was there! And oh my god, is this post right in line with every other selfish, demanding asshole determined to make a global pandemic all about themselves!

First of all, there is the language of the post - it is a "tremendous and historic outage" that books are unavailable to patrons because libraries are closed for the pandemic. "Right now, today, there are 650 million books that tax-paying citizens have paid to access that are sitting on shelves in closed libraries, inaccessible to them."

Missing from this outrage is a recognition that, like. Librarians are people. They get sick, and die.

They did get sick, and died.

Libraries were closed not only to protect patrons and the public, but librarians too. Libraries were closed to protect people, human beings. Because generally speaking, even the most enthusiastic supporters of access to books and knowledge, prioritize lives over books.

The AI's post, however, reeks of an entitlement to things that *my* tax dollars paid for. Libraries and library collections aren't a public good. They're something *I* should be able to access anytime I want, damn the context or the consequences.

(Was it also a historic outrage when I had to wait several months to check out Nona the Ninth, because so many other people were checking it out?)

Second, as I said, I remember early 2020. And in spring and summer of 2020, there was more free content on the internet than before or since. So many people and so many institutions were bending over backwards to provide people with books and tv shows and music and podcasts and virtual tours and collections and just about anything that someone could figure out how to digitize. So many people were giving away books for free, or writing/recording new content to give away for free. I can't even remember how many times I heard or read someone telling their readers or listeners just to pay what they could, if they could. So many people and institutions were giving away so much, do so much, to provide access to knowledge and books and entertainment and information.

And in that moment, the IA decided to steal from people. When so many people, so many authors, were acting so selflessly, they decided that it wasn't good enough. And instead of giving away themselves, they decided to steal from authors and pat themselves on the back for "meet[ing] this unprecedented need," when they didn't even actually do anything themselves. Or maybe more accurately, the only thing they did was something irrelevant to the actual needs of the community, something they wanted to do anyway, something to try to use a pandemic as an excuse to advance their agenda.

Because third, there is zero concern for the population of patrons actually most impacted by the closure. The IA cares, to a fault, only about information being digitized.* But many people who use physical libraries, many of the people most impacted by their closure, are people who do not have access to the AI's so-called "open library." And people who could access digital books generally continued to have access to their library's e-book services, and to tons of other free content. The patrons who were actually in the most need are ignored as irrelevant.

*And I want to be clear - they care that information is digitized, not about digital access. "Access" means more than information being digitized and theoretically being able to be read.

It's so clear that IA didn't really care about the patrons of physical libraries. Instead, they saw a real problem, and instead of working toward any solutions, decided to use it as a prop to push their own agenda. (Again, while people were dying.)

It's just all so deeply selfish.

[verstappen-cult]

Max enjoys cockwarming

content warnings ✶ disclaimers. fem!reader. cockwarming. fluff. mentions of anxiety & mentions of sex.

It all started one night after one of his races. You hadn't seen each other for a few weeks due to a triple header and your own work. But you were able to find a weekend to drop by and surprise him.

He was surprised. And excited. You had a particularly hot make out session, with a little dry humping that left you both flustered when one of Red Bull's team members knocked on Max's door to let him know that he was needed for the National Anthem. After that, you didn't see much of him. He won, he looked like an angel on the top step of the podium with the sun shinning his face, and then was carried away by another team member for the interviews and debrief with his team. You didn't see each other again until later that night. Max was tired, barely standing, but a few kisses here and there were enough to have him moaning and whining because "I've missed being inside of you." and so you came up with an idea.

Max loves the feeling of you sitting on his lap, his cock buried deep inside of you, as he sits at his desk to read and answer some e-mails or attend meetings (with the camera turned off). He likes the feeling of connection and intimacy, the closeness that you two share. Max always makes sure you're comfortable by wrapping a blanket over your body and asking from time to time. He also makes sure you know you can stop it at any time you want — that's why you have a non-verbal safeword too. Max learned, after the third time you did it, that sometimes you can get a little lost inside your head, and verbal communication can be hard during those times; so, three taps on his shoulder is the signal for him to pull out or answer every time he asks you if you’re feeling good.

He finds it comforting. It helps him relax or focus when needed.

Most of your cuddling session consist of cuddling on the couch or in bed while one of your favorite movies or a new show plays as he slips inside of you.

And is not just Max that likes it. Sometimes he would be sitting on the couch reading or watching some of the past races while taking notes, and you would sit next to him, unzip his pants and put his cock in your mouth. Feeling the weight of his cock and the unique taste in your tongue helps you calm those anxious feelings you sometime don't know how to handle. Most of the time you fall asleep with his cock in your mouth while he keeps doing what he was doing in the first place. You don't know who enjoys the sensation more, if you or him.

It helps Max with his anxiety too. Some times when you're on your way to an event and Max can't stop fidgeting or tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, all you need to do is exchange a look to know whether he wants it or not. And, more often than not, you end up leaning over to pull the zipper down and slip his cock inside your mouth while he drives, one hand caressing your hair, fingers running through it or resting on your nape, from time to time.

Most times is about intimacy and feeling close than having sex. But there are times when you just can’t contain yourselves any longer. Max would thrust his hips up, taking your breath away, or you would start bobbing up and down, taking as much as you can in your mouth. It isn’t so rare for that to happen.

Max enjoys cockwarming.

He truly, really likes it.

do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own. | © verstappen-cult, 2024.

[pathologicalreid]

spring into summer | s.r.

in which Spencer pursues a relationship with you. you try to resist every advance - for your own protection.

[previously]

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angsty content warnings: blowing smoke part tew, at a bar but it's not specified whether or not reader drinks alcohol, kissing, if you have a problem with my bar music keep it to yourself, maeve as a plot device, love confessions, not edited word count: 2.25k a/n: y'all i wasn't gonna do this, but listening to this song... yeah i had to.

“Spencer’s here!” Penelope exclaimed from her bar stool, her heels clicking on her way to the front of the bar, hoping to lead Spencer through the crowd to where the team had decided to set up shop.

Your head snapped up in alarm, tilting your head to the side and trying to get JJ’s attention, “I didn’t think Spencer was coming out tonight.”

She frowned slightly, placing her glass on the bar and shrugging, “It was an open invite.”

An open invite that you extended to the guy you’re seeing. You huffed, pulling the strap of your dress back over your shoulder and flagging down the bartender, hoping to get a drink before you need to play defense against Spencer.

“Hey,” Ethan said from behind you, a cute guy from counterterrorism that Penelope had introduced you to. His hand sat comfortably on your waist as you got the bartender’s attention again, letting him know that you’d actually need two drinks.

You smiled back at him, panicking slightly when he leaned in to kiss you. Evading his kiss, you let his lips land on your cheek, turning your head so that you were facing Spencer.

The two of you had as little contact as you could manage in the past two months, ever since Spencer’s attempt to ask you out had gone completely awry. Of course, ceasing all contact was unavoidable, between work and Spencer’s continued pursuance, you continuously found yourself under his net.

Ethan squeezed your waist gently, taking the glass that the bartender had placed in front of him and grabbing a straw for yours. You thanked him, crushing the straw wrapper against the bar and taking a sip.

Admittedly, you weren’t interested in the guy in the slightest. The second time you went out together, he’d gotten your name wrong, but he was friends with Penelope’s crush, so you were trying to be a good sport.

It felt like the world was playing a cruel joke on you, pairing you with someone who couldn’t be bothered to remember your name while you were trying to shut out a guy who remembered your favorite flower from a conversation three years ago. Yesterday, you’d found a bouquet on your desk for the third Thursday in a row.

Every time you read the card that he sends with the arrangement, you almost forget yourself. It would be a waste for you to get rid of them, which is the only reason you’ve kept them on your desk.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

“You look nice,” Spencer whispered to you, reaching between you and JJ so he could grab his drink from the bar. He looked good, you noticed him against your better judgment, even the embroidery on his tie managed to catch your attention.

Before you could collect yourself enough to respond to him, Morgan had already pulled him back to a booth, putting an arm around his shoulders and pointing out different girls in the bar while Savannah rolled her eyes. His hair was growing out from the undercut that he’d debuted in the fall, falling in front of his eyes until he inevitably flicked the stray hairs away.

Peeling your eyes off of him, you looked back at Ethan, who’d already made his way through half his drink. His eyes were glued to the baseball game being displayed above the bar. If your date had noticed you ogling your coworker, he didn’t show it.

Tentatively, you tapped his stool gently with your toe, “Hey,” you tried to get his attention, batting your eyelashes. “Do you wanna go over to the jukebox with me? We can pick a song together,” you offered.

He frowned and shook his head, “Nah, the Nationals game is on.” He nodded his head up to the TV, refraining from sparing you a glance.

You looked up at the screen, they were at the bottom of the second inning, and you were in for an exhausting night. “Right,” you said flatly, “I’ll be right back.”

Sharing a look with Penelope, who shot you a supportive thumbs up from the other side of the bar, you got off your stool and adjusted your purse over your shoulder. You liked that this bar still had a real jukebox, as opposed to the updated touchscreens commonly found in bars nowadays. You dug through your purse for a quarter, half paying attention to your rummaging and using the rest of your brain power to study the available songs.

A few things caught your eye, most of the available tracks were classics—Journey, Queen, and a Meatloaf track that was suspiciously out of order. Probably because the song was over eight minutes long. “Here,” the familiar voice—that you’d been trying to avoid—spoke.

Spencer held a quarter out for you, leaving the coin displayed in his palm until you graciously accepted it. “Thanks,” you said, “Do you have any suggestions?” You expertly dodged his attempt at eye contact, sliding the quarter into its slot and reading through the titles again. Pressing your lips in a thin line while you ignored the way he was leaning over the jukebox.

“Why did you ask him to come out?” He asked, pointing at one of the songs and chuckling when you shook your head. He should’ve known better than to actually make a request. After all, you were just being polite.

You squinted at a title, worn with time, and you distracted yourself with the task of reading it. “I didn’t know you were coming with us,” you muttered, refusing to let your curiosity get the better of you and resisting the urge to just select the worn button. “You don’t usually like this bar,” you reminded him. You couldn’t remember the last time Spencer went out to a bar that wasn’t O’Keefe’s.

He hummed next to you, standing so close that you could feel his body heat intermingling with your own. “So,” he started, “You wouldn’t have asked him to go out if you had known I was going to be here.”

“I didn’t say that,” you told him, your eyes flickering to the side. Not enough to see his face, but enough to notice that he’d taken off his suit jacket, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“You might as well have,” he returned, watching as you finally chose a Fleetwood Mac song, concluding that you’d either have to choose a song you didn’t want or waste Spencer’s quarter.

You peeked around him, your date still preoccupied with the sporting event. Even so, you tried to make your way around Spencer, but he grabbed your elbow and held you back.

There was nothing forceful in his action. If you wanted to snatch your arm away and stalk away from him, he wasn’t going to stop you, but you found yourself interested in staying with him. It would be worth your while to stay with someone who was begging for your attention rather than return to the bar to beg for someone else’s.

Spencer looked around, mindful of the members of your team who were still in earshot while he led you away from the crowds. He tucked you away, resting your back against a shiplap wall in a corner, perfectly concealed from curious profilers. “I want to talk to you,” he whispered, leaning against the wall.

You crossed your arms in front of your chest in preemptive defense, making sure he stayed at least a foot away from you. “I’ve said everything there is to say to you,” you made no effort to avert his gaze, no attempt to duck away from the conversation.

“I haven’t,” he responded immediately, his voice steady despite the noticeable pounding of his carotid. It was almost as if he’d practiced this speech before, going through every permutation of the conversation in his mirror before meeting you out.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked up at him; the sun was setting, the orange light reflecting in his brown irises while he studied you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. “Spence,” you breathed, waiting expectantly for him to continue.

“You never actively pursued me, how was I meant to know you were interested?” His question made you want to scoff, but the earnest look in his eyes gave you pause. “Admittedly, social cues aren’t my strong suit, and I know you know that.”

Your shoulders relaxed, “So, because I never actively pursued you, it’s my fault that we never ended up together? Was I supposed to declare my intentions to you?”

He shook his head, sending strands of wavy brown hair tumbling in front of his forehead. In another life, you would’ve reached out to fix his hair. “No, I’m saying that while you never actively pursued me, I am actively pursuing you. I just want to make sure you know what page I’m on,” he told you, nervously picking at his nails.

“Spencer,” you sighed his name, “I already told you I couldn’t do it.” You’d cried it to him, actually. You expected this conversation to be more of the same, pleading with Spencer to understand your perspective on the situation while he relentlessly begged you to reconsider.

Reaching out, he touched your arm gently, nothing more than a graze of his fingertips across your bare skin, “And I want to prove to you that we can do this. I can be the guy that you want.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to push yourself further into the wall until you phased right through it, “I can’t take the back and forth.” You needed something stable, but what you needed would never be reflective of what you wanted. The most brutal truth of all was that you still wanted Spencer. You considered him your first love, and no one ever gets over their first love.

Just like he’d never get over his.

“There are just too many years between us, Spencer. It’s too complicated,” you told him, trying to keep your breathing steady. It would be exhausting to explain your tearful look to the rest of the team.

He waved your reasoning away, “It’s not. It’s not complicated. I love you and you love me. So, why can’t we be together?”

Your lips parted, staring up at him with wide eyes as your brain frantically tried to catch up with the situation at hand. Each beat of your heart was like a repetition of the word—love, love, love.

Spencer took your silence for rejection, “Maybe it’s just me then.”

“It’s not,” you croaked, fear and love and sorrow causing your throat to strangle your words. You looked up at him and wondered how long he’d been sitting on that confession. You wondered how long he’d known you loved him. You wondered if he still dreamed about Maeve. For whatever reason, that’s the only curiosity that you voiced, “Do you still dream about her?”

“I only dream about you these days,” he answered, his voice soft in the cacophony of the bar, keeping the conversation private despite your public stage.

“You can’t mean that,” you murmured, your face warming in response to his confession.

Your response only seemed to encourage him further, leaning his head down to allow himself contact. He pressed his lips to yours gently, and you found yourself leaning into him more than you’d like, each movement of his lips reminiscent of a chisel against the wall that you had constructed between the two of you.

Reaching your arms up, you propped one over his shoulder and used your free hand to weave your fingers in his hair—just as silky as you had always imagined it would be. His lips were soft against yours, and you knew you were fighting a battle that you could never win. You’d always run back to him.

Even when you pried yourself away from him, there wasn’t an ounce of regret in your bloodstream, but there was an outpour of sorrow. “Spence,” you breathed, blinking tears from your eyes while he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he responded, “I shouldn’t have done that.” His tone didn’t reflect his words in the slightest, there was no remorse in his eyes when you met them for the first time in a new light.

You shook your head instantly, “It’s okay.” You understood why he had done it. Telling you he loved you. Kissing you. He hadn’t done either of those things with Maeve. Spencer was trying to make a statement with you; he wanted his actions to speak louder than words.

He frowned, “You’re crying. I’m so sorry.”

Your lips parted to respond, but you hesitated for a moment. Curiosity was rapping at your door, wanting to know if the last person he had kissed was Diane. “I’m not crying because I didn’t want you to kiss me,” you admitted, hoping that your candor would serve to bring him some comfort.

“Oh,” he breathed, “Oh.”

You nodded, confirming his suspicions, “But I meant it when I told you I can’t do this. I just… not right now.” You needed time to come to terms with the fact that the love you never expected was right around the corner, and you needed time so that Maeve wasn’t the first person you thought over after kissing him.

“Okay,” he said, taking a small step away from you, “But you… you’ll let me know?”

Your head bobbed, “I’ll let you know.”

"I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word." - Ernest Hemingway