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#Ring Crew Express
pucksandpower · 12 days
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Mesaytara
Charles Leclerc x Sheikha of Abu Dhabi!Reader
Summary: in which an Emirati princess sets off to make her mark on Formula 1 … and maybe falls in love along the way
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You press your face against the glass of the private suite, watching with wide eyes as the mechanics scurry about below, tending to the sleek race cars lined up on the grid. The engines growl and rumble, seeming to shake the very foundations of the brand new Yas Marina Circuit.
“Baba, can we go down and watch them up close?” You ask your father, turning your big eyes up at him imploringly.
As the youngest child and only daughter of the ruler of Abu Dhabi, you know you hold a certain power over him. He dotes on you endlessly, his precious princess over a decade younger than your brothers.
Your father, Sheikh Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, smiles fondly at your eagerness. “Of course, habibti. Anything for you.”
Despite being the most powerful man in the United Arab Emirates, your father takes your small hand lovingly as you practically drag him from the plush suite. Your entourage of guards and attendants follows at a respectful distance as you make your way down to the pit lane, the roar of the engines growing louder with every step.
Gasps and whispers follow as star-struck crew members realize just who has arrived mere feet from their work stations. They snap into nervous bows and stumble over themselves to clear a path for the Sheikh and his daughter.
But you pay them no mind, your attention utterly transfixed by the brilliant colors and aerodynamic curves of the Formula 1 cars. You’ve never seen anything so sleek and powerful up close. A faint scent of racing fuel and hot rubber hangs in the air, sharp and intoxicating.
“They’re so beautiful,” you murmur reverentially, watching as a pair of Red Bull mechanics roll out the tires for Mark Webber’s car.
Your father chuckles indulgently at your awestruck expression. “That they are, habibti. Works of engineering brilliance.”
A shot rings out from the starting lights, signaling the final minutes before the race begins. The air thrums with rising tension as the crews make their last frantic preparations. The loud thrum of the engines spinning up reverberates in your chest like a beating heart.
Leading you back to the shelter of the suite just before the cars roar out on the formation lap, your father settles into the plush sofa and pats the seat beside him. You immediately scramble up next to him, craning your neck to keep the track in view through the wide glass windows.
And then, they’re off — a streak of blinding color and screeching tires as the crimson Ferraris charge into the first turn. You rise up on your knees, hands pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the surface as you watch them disappear into the distance, chasing one another in a frenzy of motion.
For the next hour and a half, you are utterly enthralled, riveted to every twist and turn of the spectacle unfolding before you. You cheer and gasp with the roiling crowd, celebrating each breathtaking pass and lamenting every spin or collision.
When the checkered flag finally waves, signifying the end of the inaugural Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, you turn to your father with eyes still wide with wonder and admiration.
“Baba,” you breathe, newfound determination shining in your gaze. “I want to do that someday. I want to be a race car driver too.”
The rest of the assembled Emiratis in the suite freeze, shooting covert glances at one another uneasily. For a daughter, even a beloved princess, to harbor such ambitions is nearly unheard of in your culture. The thought of a young woman taking up such a masculine, dangerous sport is immediately dismissible.
But your father only smiles down at you warmly, cupping one calloused hand around your small cheek. “If it is Allah’s will for you, my daughter, then who am I to stand in your way?”
Around the suite, brows raise in shock and disapproval at the ease with which the Sheikh entertains your fanciful dream. You are too young to recognize the raised eyebrows and muttered whispers for what they are.
All you know is the pure joy that blossoms in your heart at your father’s blessing. You throw your arms around his broad chest, squeezing him tightly.
“Did you see them, Baba?” You gush excitedly in his ear. “How they danced through those turns? How bravely they raced and fought for every position? I’ve never seen anything like it!”
His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, cradling you against him in a fierce embrace. “I saw indeed, habibti. And perhaps no one else in our family has the same firelight in their spirit to take on such a challenge as you.”
You pull back with a radiant smile, total adoration shining up at him. At eight years old, you are still young enough to see your father as an all-powerful, all-knowing figure put on earth solely to make your dreams a reality.
The thought that he may ever deny you anything, even something as far-fetched as becoming a professional race car driver, is simply unthinkable. This is a man who rules a nation, who commands wealth and resources beyond your comprehension — and he has just promised to make your heart’s desire come true.
Still, your brow furrows slightly as the first traces of dubiousness creep into your shining eyes. “But Baba … I’m a girl. Will they even let me race?”
The Sheikh laughs again, deep and booming, causing the other attendants in the room to jump slightly at the unexpected outburst from their normally stoic monarch.
“And who is to say what any they will allow?” He counters, wagging one finger at you firmly. “If this is what you wish to do, we will move mountains to make it so. Even the most powerful dunes bow to the will of the lords who rule them.”
You giggle at his metaphor, picturing the undulating desert sands moving like ocean waves at his command. Your laugh fades as your expression turns pensive once more.
“But … I’ve never even sat in one of those cars, Baba,” you confess, chewing your lower lip anxiously. “What if I’m not brave enough? Or quick enough? What if I’m … not good enough?”
The very notion that anything or anyone could ever deny his daughter is clearly laughable to the Sheikh. He leans in close until he is staring into your eyes intently.
“Not good enough?” He asks, cradling your face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart, habibti. You were born of bravery and fire. There is no challenge in this life you cannot master if you desire it so.”
His words chase away any lingering doubt like the rising sun burning away the morning mist. You nod vigorously, fresh determination shining in your eyes.
“Then I’ll do it, Baba. I’ll work and train and become the quickest, bravest driver who ever lived! You’ll see!”
Your father’s warm chuckle is one of pure paternal pride and adoration. He presses a weathered kiss to your forehead, crinkling his nose at you playfully.
“If it is written, my daughter … then I have no doubt you shall, Inshallah.”
***
The mid-morning sun blazes over the sweeping dunes as the convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers rolls up to the private family compound in Al Ain. After spending the night at one of the royal residences deep in the desert, you are returning to the main palace to celebrate your 15th birthday with the rest of the family.
As the lead SUV crunches to a stop on the grandiose circular driveway, you can’t help but notice an enormous object taking up a significant portion of the motor court. It is covered with an impeccably smooth red tarp, the color so rich it seems to glow against the bright sand like a magnificent mirage.
“What’s that?” You whisper to your brother Hassan, eyes wide with girlish curiosity as you peer through the tinted windows.
Hassan merely shrugs, already looking bored by whatever grand spectacle your father no doubt has planned this time. As the eldest son and heir apparent, he has long grown accustomed to the lavish trappings and surprises that come with being part of the Emirati ruling family.
You, on the other hand, still thrill at every indulgent display of your father’s affection — and his obvious efforts to make this birthday one you’ll never forget.
The minute your door is opened by a waiting attendant, you are scrambling to get out and get a closer look at the mysterious shape lurking beneath the tarp. Your towering bodyguards swiftly fall into step behind you, eyes sharp for any potential threat as they follow your darting form across the gleaming tile courtyard.
“Baba!” You call out excitedly, slowing your pace only when you draw up to the tarp-covered shape. “What is it? What’s under here?”
As the Sheikh emerges from the inner courtyard doors, chuckling heartily at your youthful enthusiasm, you notice the crowd of grinning spectators gathered behind him. A pride of aunts, uncles, and cousins spill out from within, all waiting with barely contained glee to bear witness to your reaction.
“Patience, habibti,” he chides you playfully, though his own eyes are twinkling with poorly masked mirth. Your father lives for these moments — any opportunity to shower his only daughter with grand gestures and lavish surprises. “The unveiling comes first.”
You practically vibrate with anticipation as your father accepts a simple push remote from one of his attendants. He casts you one more indulgent smile, then thumbs the button dramatically. There is an agonizing beat of total silence before the heavy tarp begins its slow mechanical slide to the ground.
When its contents are finally revealed, your jaw drops open in a shocked ‘O.’ There, squatting low and sleek before you like a panther ready to pounce, is the unmistakable profile of a Formula 1 car. But not just any car ...
“No ...” you breathe, pressing one hand to your mouth as you recognize every curve and angle, every slashing line of the striking Ferrari red livery. “It … it can’t be...”
“The F2002,” your father announces grandly, gazing at the vehicle with obvious pride. “The very same one that Michael Schumacher drove to his fifth World Championship that year. I had heard the team was auctioning it off to make way for their museum refurbishment … so I put in a special request.”
You stumble forward, hands outstretched to reverently trace the contours of the car as if to assure yourself it is real. Your fingertips glide over the sinuous sidepod, feeling the raised ridges of the sponsor’s decals and the rough nubs of leather on the steering wheel. You can scarcely believe you’re running your hands over the very car that dominated the 2002 season.
“Baba ...” you barely have the breath to vocalize your stunned gratitude. Any other girl may have been delighted by clothes or jewelry for a 15th birthday. But this … this is beyond your wildest dreams.
Your father steps up beside you, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders as you continue gaping at the car in awe. He leans in close, his words meant for your ears alone.
“Do you remember what I told you that first day at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, habibti?” His voice is solemn but warm with parental affection. “That if this was your true desire — to race, to pour your spirit into this challenge — that I would move mountains to allow it?”
You nod numbly, still half-convinced you are dreaming even as the heavy scent of racing fuel and hot metal seems to fill your senses. Your eyes trace hungrily over every aerodynamic seam and vent carved into the car’s bodywork.
“So much has changed in the years since that day,” your father continues, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “The world shifts in ways we can never foresee, carrying us all along in its currents whether we resist or not.”
You tear your gaze away from the car to glance up at him questioningly. His expression has turned peculiarly intense, the solemnity in his face aging him beyond his years.
“But there is one force more powerful than any empire or nation, habibti. More resolute than any passing storms that batter our traditions.” He leans in close, searching your eyes as if to impart something profoundly meaningful. “And that is the immortal strength of a father’s love for his child.”
The simplicity of the statement, the effortless way it encapsulates every indulgence and surprise of your young life, steals what little breath remains in your lungs. You simply gape at him, scarcely daring to blink as he cups your face in his calloused palms.
“So no, my daughter,” he murmurs, holding your gaze firmly with his own. “I will not deny you this. Your desires and dreams are my own. If you wish to race, if you burn to chase this path … you will do so with my eternal pride and blessing at your back.”
You feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his vow. At fifteen you are still young enough for his words to anoint you with purpose and conviction. Your destiny feels as immovable as the highest dunes in that moment, your path clearly illuminated by his will alone.
As if to echo his promise, your father nods over your shoulder towards the gathered crowd. You glance back to find your extended family arrayed in a loose semicircle, hushed and watchful as if awaiting some pronouncement. Among their numbers, you recognize several prominent local racers and federation officials who have clearly been summoned here as witnesses.
“Which is why ...” your father continues, raising his voice to carry across the courtyard. “I have already taken the liberty of entering you in next year’s inaugural Formula 4 UAE Championship.”
A ripple of gasps and muttering races through the crowd at his words. You can see disapproving glances exchanged between the elders and officials, expressions ranging from skeptical to outright incredulous.
But your eyes only widen further, mouth falling open in shock as the implications of what your father has decreed wash over you. He said the words so casually, as if securing your entry to the first-ever national Formula 4 series was as simple as booking a dinner reservation.
“The … the F4?” You manage to croak out, still utterly blindsided by the revelation. “You mean … I’ll be racing in single seaters?”
A fresh murmur of disbelief rises from the crowd at your stunned reaction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several uncles shaking their heads in disbelief, while your aunts look politely appalled. Even your stone-faced bodyguards shift uncomfortably at your father’s flagrant disregard for propriety.
But the Sheikh only frowns at them all, appearing affronted that they would dare doubt his word. When he speaks again, his tone brooks no argument — this is a decree from the ruler of the nation himself, not a mere family disagreement.
“For too long, many have clung to outdated traditions that would see my daughter’s ambitions rendered invisible,” he declares, seeming to grow in stature as he takes in their skeptical faces one by one. “We have chosen to view her gender as an obstacle to overcome, rather than a divine gift to be nurtured!”
You watch, stunned and a little afraid, as your father’s impassioned words seem to pull the disapproving gazes towards him like a lit torch drawing moths to the flame. You have never seen your normally reserved father so heated, so emboldened to make this public defense of your dreams.
“Which is why I say enough!” He sweeps one hand through the air, brushing aside generations of ingrained patriarchal norms like a tuft of desert sand. “My daughter burns with the spirit of a million wildfire hawks! And if you would deny her the right to chase her own destiny, you deny the winds that stir this very land itself!”
A hush falls over the assembled crowd, none daring to rebut the Sheikh’s sudden impassioned rhetoric. You can only gape at your father, utterly transfixed, drinking in his protective roar.
“From this day forward,” he declares, turning his fiery gaze back down to you. “My daughter will race for more than just herself. She will drive for every daughter in this family — in this nation — who has ever had her dreams dimmed simply for being born female. She carries the weight of a thousand ancestors’ ambitions on her back!”
His words seem to electrify the very air surrounding you. You can feel their power, their reckless conviction washing over you like a sandstorm flaying away all the self-doubt and uncertainty in its path.
When he gathers you into his embrace, you cling to him with everything you have. Tears stream openly down your cheeks, heedless of the audience bearing witness to this seismic shift in the ancient social order.
“You will race, habibti,” your father rumbles fiercely into your hair, squeezing you so tightly. “Not just because I wish it, but because it is your destiny written in the stars themselves. The path may be difficult, the challenges ahead more than you can fathom … but you will never walk it alone.”
You nod wordlessly against his chest, blinking back tears of overwhelming gratitude and purpose. In this moment, he does not merely feel like your indulgent father — he is the very sun burning away the last vestiges of doubt, ensuring your course is forever set towards glory.
When you finally pull back, your eyes shine with fresh determination and unflinching resolve. You turn to face the silent, gaping crowd with your chin raised defiantly, every bit the born warrior princes making her stand.
“I will race,” you declare, pitching your voice to carry to the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “And I will win.”
A shocked beat of silence hangs over the assembly. And then, incredibly, it is your dear brother Hassan who steps forward first, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Of course you will, you spoiled brat,” he proclaims with a snort of laughter. “Knowing our father, you’ll probably end up with one of Lewis Hamilton’s cars next.”
The tension shatters in a wave of startled chuckles from the onlookers. You shoot your brother a watery smile, silently thanking him for being the first to signal his acceptance of the path your father has set out for you.
As the rest of the gathered officials and elders slowly begin to nod and murmur in acknowledgment, you feel a profound sense of peace and conviction settle over your heart. You need no longer dream and wish and hope — everything has been set into glorious, undeniable motion.
When you turn back to the gleaming Ferrari sitting before you, it no longer seems like an impossible fantasy, but a key to a future burning brighter than the desert sun itself. You move towards it without hesitation, climbing up into the body-hugging carbon seat until you are cocooned within its sleek lines.
Wrapping your fingers around the sculpted steering wheel, you can practically feel its power and purpose thrumming through you like an electric current of pure adrenaline. This is where you belong — raw ambition harnessed within a technological marvel. You are a falcon poised for flight, wings outstretched to conquer the horizon, gender be damned.
You glance up through the curved windscreen to find your father watching you with naked pride shining in his eyes. He catches your gaze and offers a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. His little princess, once an innocent dreamer … now preparing to become a pioneer for a new era.
You nod back, inhaling the rich scent of clinging burnt rubber and drinking in the intoxicating promise of everything to come.
You are chasing more than just some fanciful passion. You will prove to the world that no ambition is too lofty, no dream too bold, for you to conquer.
***
The sleek Aston Martin DBX glides silently through the entrance tunnel and into the team’s gleaming new headquarters in Silverstone. As the muscular crossover comes to a stop in the bright, airy courtyard, a familiar thrill of anticipation sparks to life in your chest.
This gleaming complex of glass, steel and green technology has become more than just the workplace of your racing heroes over the past year. With the news of Aston Martin’s sudden sponsorship woes, it has taken on a tantalizing new significance — the potential launching pad for your own Formula 1 dream.
You shoot your father an excited glance as the driver opens your door, but the Sheikh remains impassive behind his amber-tinted aviators. Now in his late 60s, Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan has grown only more inscrutable and steely with age and power.
To the casual observer, he would appear utterly unruffled, preparing to stride into a meeting that could alter the course of the Formula 1 landscape. You, however, have spent a lifetime studying the nuanced ridge of his jawline, the reserved set of those broad shoulders, and can sense the focused intensity burning behind his courteous facade.
This is far more than just a meeting for the ruler of Abu Dhabi and chairman of International Holding Company, one of the largest conglomerates in not only the Emirates but the world. This is the potential culmination of a promise made to his only daughter nearly 15 years ago — a vow to move heaven and earth to ensure her dreams were realized.
You follow half a step behind your father and his retinue of advisors as they cross the courtyard, resisting the urge to gawk openly at the team motorhomes and formidable industrial build of the main factory. Despite spending your early years mired in the European junior formulae, this exalted world of Formula 1 still manages to set your heart pounding with equal parts reverence and ambition.
A sleek black sedan is idling in the VIP parking section, dispatched to collect the final party in your impending negotiation. As you slow your approach, the driver emerges and moves to hold open the rear door with an obsequious bow.
“Son of a bitch kept us waiting,” comes the droll observation from the tall, lanky figure emerging from the sedan’s depths.
Lawrence Stroll, Canadian billionaire, business magnate, and majority owner of the Aston Martin Formula 1 team, appraises your group through those same inscrutable tinted lenses favored by all men of profound power and means. At his side is the rather more bookish form of team principal Mike Krack, eyes already politely averted as he waits for the Sheikh’s lead.
You can’t resist a tiny, adrenaline-tinged thrill at the sight of them both. These are the men who hold the keys to the kingdom you’ve spent your life battering against — the exalted realm of Formula 1. You’ve spent countless nights watching their team’s racing green cars arc and pivot through Yas Marina’s turns, dreaming of the day you might join their ranks.
Now that tantalizing possibility hovers before you, dangled by the generous purse-strings of your family’s staggeringly deep pockets. For in the wake of Aramco’s high-profile defection as Aston Martin’s title sponsor, a Goliath-sized vacuum has opened — one which your father’s IHC conglomerate is uniquely positioned to fill.
For a price, of course.
“Ahmed,” Lawrence greets your father with a curt nod, making no effort to mask his impatience or indifference to decorum. “I’ll cut right to it — what’s your ask here? 25% share in the team? 35? Just name your number so we can get this whole-”
“Actually, Lawrence,” your father interrupts him, sliding off his sunglasses to reveal that piercing gaze that has cowed entire global cabinets into obedience. “I have no interest in an ownership stake. Not in this particular venture.”
The Canadian billionaire pulls up short, clearly thrown by the unexpected rebuff of his assumption. He glances towards his team principal, who can only offer a minute shrug, before turning back to your father with one arched brow.
“Well then … enlighten me,” he prompts with just a hint of renewed interest flickering in those beady eyes. “If not an ownership play, then what’s your angle here?”
Your heart leaps into your throat as your father responds, his words carefully measured but leaving no shred of ambiguity in their intent.
“My desires are rather more … specific. More personal.” Your father casts a meaningful glance in your direction. “As I’m sure you’ve both realized by now, I have a rather more vested interest in the world of Formula 1 beyond mere business or expense portfolios.”
He turns back to Lawrence and Mike, expression inscrutable once more.
“I want a seat for my daughter. On your team.”
The stunned silence that follows is perhaps the loudest absence of sound you’ve ever experienced. Even the distant whirr of machinery from the factory seems to grind to a halt as the two men process your father’s audacious declaration.
You watch them closely, studying their reactions with rapt fascination. With a single conversational grenade, your father has lobbed your ambitions squarely into their laps in a way that cannot be ignored or dismissed as idle fanciful musings. This is a directive from one of the wealthiest sovereign individuals on earth, stressed through the undeniable weight of his tone and body language.
For a few charged seconds, all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse in your ears.
Then, surprisingly, it is Mike Krack who finds his voice first. The diminutive Luxembourger clears his throat, exchanging a poorly masked look of disbelief with the still dumbstruck Lawrence Stroll.
“With … all due respect, Your Highness,” he begins carefully, as if testing the tensile strength of rice paper with each word. “While I cannot challenge your ambitions for your daughter, a Formula 1 seat is simply not something that can be … appointed through sponsorship alone.”
He pauses again, seeming to hesitate under the level stare of your father. You realize his reaction stems not from any doubts about your abilities - the team principal doesn’t even know you from any other young hopeful dreaming of the F1 grid. His concern is far more fundamental, stemming from the very nature of your gender in this male-dominated world.
“There hasn’t been a female driver on the grid since the 90s and even that was short lived. For good reason — the physical and mental demands are … immense. No offense intended, but perhaps a personal sponsorship targeted towards the F1 Academy or something similar would be-”
“That won’t be necessary,” your father cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “My daughter’s credentials should speak for themselves, if you care to review them. She’s competed in — and won — both the Formula 3 and Formula 2 championships over the past four years. I assure you, she is more than prepared to handle the same mental and physical rigors as her male counterparts.”
Silence falls again as Krack and a visibly skeptical Lawrence clearly reassess their earlier assumptions. You feel their analytical gazes washing over you, weighing and measuring as if they can somehow gauge your skills and fortitude based on outward appearances alone.
When Lawrence speaks again, there is a newfound edge of pragmatism in his tone.
“Sure, that’s all well and good on the junior level,” he allows with a slight nod. “Won’t be the first time a hotshot comes up thinking they’re Senna reincarnated only to completely bottle it on the big stage. Happens all the damn time.”
He holds up one hand as your father’s brow furrows dangerously. “But say we do entertain this … suggestion of yours. That still leaves the rather prominent problem of having an open seat to slot her into. In case you haven’t heard, we already signed our team for next year. Only got two cars, last I checked.”
A thin, vindicated smile curves your father’s lips. For all his bluster, the Canadian team owner has just delivered the perfect entry point to reveal his true bargaining chip.
“About that,” the Sheikh murmurs, casting a sidelong glance towards Krack. “I have it on good authority that Aston Martin will, in fact, have a rather convenient vacancy opening up on their driver roster very soon.”
Mike Krack’s expression shutters instantly at the tung-in-cheek reference, no doubt recognizing the inside information that could only have come from one of his own drivers or personnel leaking like a sieve. His eyes slide momentarily toward Lawrence in wordless apology.
Your father doesn’t miss a beat, pressing his advantage with the casual confidence of a man who has spent a lifetime wielding power and influence as deftly as others use voice tonality.
“Fernando Alonso’s impending retirement may well be the worst kept secret in the paddock, no?” He arches one eloquent brow at the increasingly chagrined team principal. “A Delta Topco investor of mine happened to mention the championship-winning Spaniard has been snapping up quite an impressive Swiss real estate portfolio as of late ...”
The comment hangs engulfed in awkward silence as even Lawrence seems slightly taken aback by your father’s easy name-dropping of proprietary team intel. You realize with a start that this is a glimpse into the upper realms of global power and business dealing you’ve only ever witnessed from the outside — the effortless ability to command knowledge and find out even the most classified information with just a few strategically-placed calls or leanings of influence.
It’s Krack who finally capitulates first, clearing his throat again as he darts a helpless glance towards the team owner. “Clearly … this exit has been, ah, on the team’s radar for some time. We’ve been exploring our options, but-”
“But you haven’t had to make it official yet, yes yes of course,” your father interjects, waving off the rest of his explanation with an airy flick of his wrist. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand.”
He pins them both with a pointed look, any trace of ambiguity evaporating from the scorching intensity of his gaze.
“Gentlemen, I will get straight to the point — Aston Martin requires a new title sponsor to remain financially solvent and competitive on the Formula 1 grid. International Holding Company has the resources and reach to provide that sponsorship, effectively in perpetuity if need be.”
His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, though there is no warmth in the expression whatsoever. This is a businessman reveling in checkmate before the final stroke is even delivered.
“All I require in exchange is one of the seats that will be so … conveniently vacated.”
A heavy silence falls over the courtyard once more. You watch Lawrence and Mike exchange another loaded glance, wrestling with the realization that your father seems to hold all the leverage in this particular negotiation. The cool confidence radiating from the Sheikh suggests he is more than comfortable walking away from this deal if they prove … unreasonable.
Finally, Lawrence seems to decide upon the path of least resistance. The corners of the Canadian billionaire’s mouth tug downwards in displeasure, but he offers a curt nod of acceptance.
“You’re twisting one hell of a knife, I’ll give you that, Ahmed,” he mutters, clearly taking no joy in the literal quid pro quo being forced upon Aston Martin’s future solvency. “Okay, fine. We agree to your … terms, shall we say. One seat on the grid for the 2025 season in exchange for IHC’s sponsorship.”
Both men turn their assessing gazes towards you once again. There is no missing the skepticism and doubt burning behind their studied neutrality. They have clearly accepted your presence on the team as nothing more than a necessary evil to be endured in exchange for the monetary incentive.
There will be no welcoming embraces or admiring back-slaps from these two men hardened by decades in the cutthroat world of business and motorsport politics. You are a costly contractual obligation to them at this point, one they have no emotional investment in whatsoever.
There is only one way to change that. Only one path to earn their acknowledgement and respect.
You lock eyes with Stroll and then Krack in turn. When you finally find your voice, it comes out low and thrumming with absolute conviction.
“I will earn my place on that grid. And any doubts you may have now will be extinguished when I take that Aston across the finish line first.”
It’s a bold statement, perhaps even arrogant from an unproven rookie. But it has been woven into the very fabric of who you are over a decade and a half of sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering paternal support. You are a daughter forged from renewed sands by the sheer force of your father’s will into a warrior princess.
Doubt is no longer a luxury you can entertain, now that your dream looms so close at hand.
Your father casts you a faint, proud smile — the only outward sign he will permit of his profound approval and respect for the woman you have become. His eyes glitter with razor-sharp ambition.
“My daughter speaks true,” he declares, turning back to Lawrence and Krack with a challenging arch of his brow. “But of course … I expect you’ll both prefer to judge her for yourselves on the track.”
Lawrence’s perfunctory nod is perhaps a touch more intrigued now, a glimmer of renewed interest flickering behind those impassive eyes. For the first time, he seems to be assessing you as an actual person and athlete rather than some implausible imposition. A sliver of doubt appears to prick at the stony edge of his demeanor.
Mike Krack simply inclines his head in acquiescence, the perfect picture of professional decorum regardless of his personal misgivings. Smart money would place him as one of the individuals funneling inside information about Alonso’s moves to your father’s sources. He is clearly not about to push his luck any further by voicing unnecessary dissent or challenge.
“Very well then,” your father concludes with an air of finality, turning towards Lawrence with an expectant look. “Shall we go ahead and make this official?”
The billionaire businessmen meet in the center of the small gathering, squaring off like two prize fighters preparing for the bell. You watch with bated breath, heart thundering in your chest, as they size one another up for the final moments of the negotiation.
Then, in one smooth motion, they clasp hands and exchange a firm shake — sealing your life’s ambition into ironclad reality. A barely perceptible nod of understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment that despite all the complexities and nuances, there is now a deal on the table that benefits them all.
Your father has successfully leveraged every ounce of his wealth, power, and influence to deliver on his decade’s old promise to you. The seat, the sponsorship … everything has been set into motion.
The only thing left is for you to drive.
***
“Are they seriously going to make us do this?”
Lance Stroll’s voice carries a distinct whine as he hunches lower on the leather couch, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small crew setting up lights and cameras around the Aston Martin hospitality unit. His lanky frame is dressed down in team-issued sweats, tousled hair lopped into that carefully cultivated ‘I woke up like this’ aesthetic he seems to spend hours perfecting.
You shoot your new teammate a sidelong glance, arching one sculpted brow at his apparent distress. Despite being the owner’s son and growing up immersed in the utmost privilege, Lance still seems to find novel ways to broadcast his discomfort with the fame and exposure that comes with being an F1 driver.
“What, you’ve never had to film some cringey sponsor vid or team propaganda before?” You tease him lightly, unable to resist needling him a bit. There’s a certain giddy thrill at realizing you now share an equal standing with Lance on this global stage — though you still frequently have to remind yourself of that fact.
Lance shifts again, slouching further into the plush cushions with a frown. You watch his finely-boned features scrunch up petulantly, and can’t quite resist rolling your eyes.
“I mean, yeah, of course I have,” he mumbles, suddenly finding great interest in inspecting his nails. “But those were always pre-scripted or completely faked, y’know? This just seems so ...”
“Menial? Frivolous?” You arch a taunting brow at him. “For the son of a billionaire businessman and an actual princess?”
He blinks, thrown briefly off-guard as you remind him of your own lofty status with a wry grin. It’s still a novel concept for him to process, you can tell — the idea of an Arab woman of royal lineage daring to enter the same playing field, to consider herself an equal.
Good. It will make savoring his skepticism all the more satisfying when you blow past him on the circuit.
“Just don’t get too used to all this, alright?” He rallies, regaining some of his trademark swagger as he jerks his chin towards the ever-growing gaggle of team personnel crowding the lounge area. “We’re still teammates and all, but on the track … well, may the best nepo baby win.”
You laugh at his attempt at posturing, gentling nudging his foot with your own in an uncharacteristically playful gesture. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll go easy on you,” you tease. “Baba always did say to respect one’s elders, after all.”
Lance’s indignant sputter of outrage at your jibe is mercifully cut off by the arrival of one of the producers, a slim woman in stylish athleisure attire adorned with Aston Martin’s iconic green cues. She claps her hands together with a bubbly smile.
“Hiya, names Chelsea, nice to meet you both!” She chirps in a distinctly American accent, utterly unbothered by the two pairs of eyes swiveling to size her up with varying levels of dulled enthusiasm.
“We’re going to keep things pretty simple for this one — just a quick, low-stakes game to help get you guys on camera and build some pre-season hype on the socials, yeah?” Chelsea continues brightly, gesturing for her crew to finish setting up the lighting and cameras.
“Ooo, a game?” You perk up instantly, intrigued. As a lifelong academic overachiever, any type of challenge or opportunity to demonstrate your brain muscle still manages to activate the synapses of childish glee. “I do love a bit of friendly competition ...”
“Not if it’s going to be anything too taxing, I hope,” Lance drawls with an exaggerated yawn. He mimes checking an invisible watch on his bare wrist. “Do we at least get snack breaks? This jet lag is a killer and I need to keep my strength up ...”
You can’t resist rolling your eyes again as Chelsea laughs politely, clearly recognizing his pampered shtick for what it is. She pauses to check her notes on a tablet before continuing.
“Well, good news for you then — your mental fortitude won’t be too strained today. We’re going to keep things pretty light. We’ll just have some common, everyday items for you two to identify and guess the purchase prices. Easy peasy! More variety show games than trigonometry.”
Chelsea grins, unaware of the subtle way the blood seems to drain from your teammate’s face. You blink once, digesting her words, before a bemused smile finds its way across your own lips.
“Wait … they’re actually going to ask us to identify grocery prices and things?” You shake your head in disbelief. “No, this has to just be a wind-up, right? Even in this economy, there’s no way the team can be serious about-”
“Unfortunately, we are painfully earnest on this one, kids,” Another voice pipes up, accompanied by the familiar cadence of an East London accent.
Jack, a senior member of the Aston team’s creative division, slouches against the doorway to the lounge with his customary smirk already in place. Clearly this was his brainchild — a casual hazing ritual for the team’s most privilege-addled members.
“See, the blokes upstairs figure since you two grew up way closer to hedge fund managers than grocery checkout queues … could be a bit of a laugh, yeah?” He jerks his chin towards you both with a conspiratorial wink. “Just a bit of fun for the fans, have a go at seein’ how the young rich kids guess costs of plebeian things like bananas and bread loaves. Been a hit with the other teams, gets good traction on social, all innocent fun and whatnot.”
“Told you it would be taxing ...” Lance grumbles under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off the first twinges of a migraine.
You, however, find yourself rather intrigued by Jack’s premise. It does seem a fairly innocuous way to let the fans peek behind the curtain at the lives of their favorite drivers, to which you and Lance represent the extreme ends of wealth disparity.
More than that, however, some tiny kernel of competitive ego has taken root in your chest, issuing a silent challenge. What better way to prove you are more well-rounded and less out-of-touch than the reputation that clearly precedes you both?
Let Lance play into the indolent, affluent caricature that paints all of F1’s rising stars in broad strokes. You, however, were raised under a rather different philosophy ...
“You know what, I think this sounds rather amusing,” you announce with a demure shrug of your shoulders, catching Lance’s incredulous stare head-on. “Should be … illuminating.”
From his spot by the door, Jack lets out a dry cackle of amusement. Chelsea, bless her, maintains her gracious professionalism despite sensing the rising undercurrents of upper-crust posturing between the two of you.
“Brilliant, that’s the spirit!” She cuts in brightly, clapping her hands together again. “Everyone just follow my lead, we’ll start off nice and easy ...”
Within a few minutes, the cameras are rolling, framing the two of you seated opposite one another on the couch. A small table sits between you, ready to display the variety of day-to-day items you’ll be asked to examine and appraise.
At Chelsea’s behest, a production assistant brings out a single, slightly bruised banana and places it on the table with an audible thunk. You instantly feel Lance’s gaze swivel in your direction, doubtlessly already anticipating whatever absurd denomination you’re about to slap on the unremarkable piece of fruit.
“Alright, then we’re live starting in 3 … 2 ...” Chelsea narrates before cueing the two of you with a brilliant smile and a wink. “Welcome back everyone, today we’ve got Lance and our newest driver Y/N here to play a little guessing game for us!”
She gestures grandly towards the table, injecting her effervescent delivery with just the right mix of playful condescension.
“First item up — something anyone can find at their local shops or markets. A nice, appealing banana. Question is … what would our two racers be willing to pay for such a humble thing? Off the lot, so to speak. Y/N, love? What do you reckon this banana would cost?”
You swallow back the first, instinctive answer that comes to mind — that it likely doesn’t cost anything, seeing as fresh produce is always plucked from your family’s private orchards and greenhouses at a moment’s notice. Instead, you force yourself to consider the question from the perspective of a supposed commoner, out doing their weekly shopping.
“Well ...” You begin slowly, chin cradled in one hand as you lean forward to examine the fruit. “I suppose bananas don’t seem terribly expensive, do they? Just a bit of potassium and carbs, good for starting the day strong and beating any energy troughs during exercise ...”
Chelsea nods encouragingly, hanging on your every word in that canned, just-over-dramatized manner of most TV personalities. Across from you, Lance is already pinching his nose again, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing himself for the inevitable bomb you’re about to drop.
With a decisive nod, you fix your eyes directly on the camera and proclaim, “Ten euros for a single banana seems perfectly reasonable in this economic climate, no?”
The silence that falls over the lounge is damn near deafening. You watch Chelsea’s overly-rehearsed presenter mask slip for just a moment, features contorting into naked shock. Even Jack the producer lapses into a rare moment of speechlessness, mouth hanging open in slack-jawed disbelief.
At your side, Lance finally breaks, collapsing forward as his frame is wracked with deep, abdominal convulsions of laughter.
“Sweet merciful …" He finally manages to gasp out between ragged gasps. Long, spindly fingers clutch at his stomach as tears of mirth stream down his reddened cheeks. “Ten … fucking … euros! For a banana?”
Any residual thoughts you may have had about defying expectations and proving your economic awareness swiftly crumble to dust amidst the howls of laughter. You gape at your teammate, feeling your cheeks flaming with a mix of confusion and growing embarrassment as the reality of your inflated estimate crashes over you.
“Well … it’s … it’s not THAT outrageous, is it?” You sputter in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “I’d just assumed, with the import tariffs and global agricultural strife we’ve seen as of late-”
“Stop, stop! Just … stop ...” Lance wheezes, waving his hands in surrender before you can dig the hole any deeper. “I can’t … I actually can’t breathe right now.”
“For the record, love,” Jack pipes up from his doorway perch. “Stores don’t even charge ten euros for a bunch of bananas, let alone one lousy nanner.”
The production assistant responsible for presenting the fruit chimes in with a faint “20 pence, last I checked,” sending Lance into another spiral of unbridled cackles.
Just like that, any delusion of cultured cosmopolitan grace you may have carried has been utterly incinerated. You are as transparently affluent as the rest of them assumed, your upbringing and lifestyle so sequestered from normalcy that even the simple prices of supermarket produce have become alien concepts.
And the realization that you are still young, still so new to this entire experience, hits you with sobering impact. For so long, you had believed your decade and a half of single-minded pursuit had prepared you for seamlessly joining the elite ranks of your new career.
But one ill-fated guess at a banana’s cost was all it took to remind you that, in many ways, the learning curve you face goes far beyond simply whipping a turbo-hybrid around a few iconic circuits.
As Chelsea scrambles to regain control of the taping and cycle in a new item, Lance leans over with the last dregs of laughter still shuddering his lean frame.
“You’re totally gonna get us roasted online for this, you know?” He murmurs, lips quirked in that devilish smirk you’re already becoming accustomed to. “Maybe we should schedule a field trip to, y’know … go grocery shopping or something? Little crash course before the damage gets too widespread?”
Despite his smarmy delivery, you recognize the extended olive branch for what it is — an acknowledgment that you’re both very much still kids stumbling into a world of intense scrutiny and maturity. A reminder that you’re on the same team, for better or worse.
So you shoot him a wry grin in return, squaring your shoulders as Chelsea presents the next mundane item with a theatrical flourish.
“Oh, I have a feeling the roasting you speak of has only just begun, Lancelot,” you proclaim with an arch of one challenging brow. “But if prices shock me so thoroughly … what’s your excuse going to be?”
His widening smirk is all the response you require. Teammates or not, this is still a competition on and off the track.
An education, regardless of how humbling, is about to be had.
***
The media center in Melbourne’s Albert Park is a churning sea of humanity when you arrive. Journalists from every corner of the globe jostle for position, clutching voice recorders and branded lanyards as they await the start of the season’s first official press conference.
Despite the pandemonium, an anticipatory hush falls over the assembled scribes when you are led to the makeshift stage alongside Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, George Russell, and Oscar Piastri. The five of you settle into the leather chairs arrayed in a semicircle, blinking furiously under the brilliant TV lights as you ready yourselves for the onslaught of questions.
Your heart pounds in your ears, palms suddenly slick with nervous perspiration as you fight to maintain an aura of calm composure. Though you’ve been groomed practically since birth to carry yourself with regal poise, this is an entirely new arena you find yourself in. One where pedigreed lineage and family legacy afford no protection or leg up.
This is the world where you will either rise or fall based purely on your own deeds behind the wheel and words under fire. No longer will a dismissive wave of your father’s hand send underlings scattering — here, you will have to forge your own path, earn every scrap of credibility and respect.
The thought is at once thrilling and utterly terrifying.
You do your best to focus as the opening preambles and formalities commence, nodding politely when your name is announced along with your Aston Martin team affiliation. A small, fiercely proud smile tugs at your lips as the FIA moderator rattles off your accomplishments in the junior formulae.
Multiple feeder series championships across Europe and Asia, becoming the first Arab woman to compete in the FIA single-seater ladder. A true pioneer transcending societal norms and expectations.
This is your chance to let that very accomplishment shine on its own merits. An opportunity to prove you belong here through your own grit and talent, free from the protective umbrella provided by your family name and wealth.
The first question, mercifully, comes from a fellow Emirati news outlet. The young man politely identifies himself and his publication before addressing you.
“Your Highness, as the first woman from our part of the world to ascend to this level of motorsport, what does this achievement mean for you? How important is it to serve as an inspiration for other young Arab women and girls with big dreams?”
You exhale slowly, offering the man a grateful smile at the respectful phrasing. This is the type of insightful perspective you’d been hoping to discuss — the gravity of overcoming generations of patriarchal norms, the significance of inspiring an entire culture to see women as strong and capable.
“Well, it is an immense honor and privilege to hopefully be paving the way for other young women, both in my region and all around the globe,” you begin, falling easily into the poised cadence you’ve honed since childhood.
“This was a dream I was fortunate enough to have the support system to chase from a very young age, despite the conventions of my culture. I know there are countless other girls out there with the same fire, the same ambitions, who have been discouraged or dismissed simply for being born female. If my example can shine a light on a new way forward, can help uplift even one other person to take up the mantle and fight for their passions … then every obstacle I faced along the way will have been worth it.”
A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room and you incline your head graciously, relieved to have navigated one of these public inquisitions so smoothly on the first go. Perhaps this won’t prove as daunting as you feared, after all.
The next few questions are mercifully innocuous as well — standard inquiries about dealing with the pressures of F1, relationships with teammates and engineers, your personal driving style and technical strengths. Child’s play for someone with your extensively cultivated presence before the media cameras.
You are settling into a contented, borderline cocky rhythm when the tone of the press conference takes an abrupt turn.
“Your Highness,” a gravelly voice suddenly rings out, immediately catching your attention as one of the gruffer correspondents gestures for the mic with poorly disguised impatience. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably as every head swivels in his direction. “Given your … background, and the societal norms you’ve admittedly had to overcome, does it give you any pause that women’s bodies may simply not be able to handle the extraordinary G-forces and physicality required to pilot one of these beasts around a track for hours at a time?”
The silence that falls across the media room is positively deafening. You can sense the other drivers beside you tensing, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming wreckage they can see barreling down the line.
For your part, you simply blink once, twice — allowing the weight of the man’s insinuation to fully descend like an iron shroud and smother you from every side. Any joviality or adrenaline from the earlier back-and-forth evaporates in a searing wave of incredulous rage.
Before you can so much as draw breath to respond, however, the reporter has already pressed on with the ruthless zeal of a jackal going for the kill.
“Furthermore, with all the perceived advantages provided to you by your … esteemed heritage ...” He sneers the words with no small hint of derision. “How can we be certain you aren’t simply some vanity pet project for your father to amuse himself with? That this isn’t merely an attempt by Emirati royalty to assert itself in yet another arena in a flamboyant display of ego and excess?”
Dead silence. Not even the sound of a pen scratching or camera shutter cutting across the vacuum of noise as the entire room seems to be holding its collective breath.
You can feel your heart pounding once more, though this time it thunders in furious sync with the scorching rapids of your own rising temper. How dare this absolute jackass reduce your life’s work and sacrifice to some sexist, patronizing narrative about Daddy writing checks?
“How dare you ...” you begin in a low, menacing tone — only to be smoothly interrupted by the one voice you’d never expect.
“Oh, on the contrary,” Charles Leclerc speaks up from your right, smooth and controlled until now. “How can any of us be so fortunate?”
Every head pivots to regard the Ferrari driver, astounded by his interjection on your behalf. Up until now, Leclerc has maintained his signature cool, borderline impassive demeanor during interviews and pressers.
But now the Monegasque racer leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he fixes the hapless reporter with a look of genuine, cutting disdain.
“Here we have the first woman to race in F1 in decades, shattering years of patriarchal norms to achieve her lifelong ambition on the single most demanding stage of our sport,” he continues in a deliberate, measured tone. “And your very first instinct is to make tired, sexist implications about the frailty of her gender and body? And then to have the audacity to insult her even further by suggesting she couldn’t possibly be here on her own merits?”
Leclerc pauses, allowing his stinging rebuke to hang in the air. You glance around to see the matching expressions of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment painted on the features of your fellow drivers.
“For someone meant to be among the world’s most informed observers of our sport, your remarks are about as offensively misguided and stunted as I could possibly imagine,” Charles finishes with an unmistakable air of finality, folding his arms across his chest. He looks utterly disgusted, but there is an undercurrent of protective ice in his voice that raises the tiny hairs on your arms.
Before the flailing reporter can attempt to concoct some garbled justification for his outrageously inappropriate line of questioning, another voice pipes up — this one bearing the bright, airy lilt of an American accent.
“So, Y/N,” the younger woman interjects, clearly hoping to spare you all any further ugliness, “To pivot away from all that noise for a second … what was your initial reaction when it was announced you had secured the Aston seat? Did you do, like a big celebration or anything?”
You blink a few times, as if rebooting from Leclerc’s unexpected defense. When your mind finally reconnects, you offer the American reporter a grateful smile and a pointed glance towards Charles before speaking.
“You know, we didn’t go too over-the-top or anything,” you reply, welcoming the chance to shift to a fresh topic and get this presser back on track. “I’ll save that for the podium come race day.”
A smattering of relieved laughter ripples through the room, the tension level lowering incrementally as the debacle proceeds. You catch Charles’ subtle nod of acknowledgment across the table, his jaw marginally less taut now that the conversation has regained its footing.
From there, the presser proceeds relatively smoothly — more questions about favorite circuits and tactical approaches for the season, obligatory banter about inter-team rivalries and the usual window dressing. All through it, you feel a profound sense of gratitude for Leclerc’s willingness to essentially co-sign on your abilities and condemn the subversive misogyny lurking in that reporter’s pointed questions.
By the time the closing remarks and thank yous commence, you’ve already made up your mind to seek Charles out on your own to voice your appreciation and admiration.
You are among the first to rise and exit the media bullpen, practically speed-walking around the side of the building in hopes of catching Leclerc before he can retreat into Ferrari’s impenetrable bubble of flunkies and handlers.
“Charles! Hey, Charles — wait up a sec!”
The lean figure pauses and turns as you trot up, tilting his head inquisitively as you draw up short just in front of him.
“Sorry, hope you don’t mind me ambushing you like this,” you begin, barely suppressing the warm flush already creeping into your cheeks under his focused attention. “I just wanted to say … thank you for that. In there, I mean. What you said — how you handled that asshole’s ignorance before I could even begin responding.”
Charles’ expression flits momentarily through surprise before settling into its customary affable warmth. “Oh, that? Don’t mention it, Y/N. God knows we’ve all had to deal with our fair share of insufferable pricks on the media circuit at one point or another.”
He shrugs, as if his public solidarity with a fellow competitor were the most trivial, obvious hill to plant himself on. You feel a sudden swell of respect and admiration for the Ferrari star rise within you.
“Besides,” he continues with a casual, “How could I not defend the up-and-coming driver who gets to experience insane misogyny and ridiculous societal restraints while also knowing what it’s like to eat gold flake sundaes daily?” He shoots you a playful wink, dimples creasing his cheeks. “The duality of a princess is a heavy burden indeed ...”
You let out a peal of laughter, genuinely caught off-guard by the cheeky charm behind the dig at your privileged lineage. Far from offense, you find his irreverent humor utterly refreshing in the face of excessive nobility.
“It is a tragic affliction, I must admit,” you retort, placing one hand over your heart in mock solemnity. “But one I shall bear with dignity and poise. For my people.”
Your laughter fades into a more pensive expression, honeyed eyes finding his in an unspoken exchange of sincere emotions.
“But truly, Charles, thank you. I meant what I said in there — about wanting to inspire other women to fight for their dreams. To have someone like you leap to defend those ambitions right out of the gate … it means more than you can possibly know.”
He regards you with a speculative sort of new interest for a stretched moment before nodding slowly.
“I meant what I said too, Y/N,” he replies, utterly sincere. “If having to dress down a few assholes in public is what it takes to further that inspiration … well, that’s a pretty easy charge for me to take up.”
A fresh surge of resolve and determination irons out your features into that same unmovable resolve you inherited from your father. In that instant, you see the man Charles will hopefully become — a true legend and respected custodian of the sport, unwavering in his principles.
“Regardless, I’d love to find some way to properly thank you once we get back to Monaco,” you venture, wondering how far you can stretch this newfound rapport with the Ferrari star. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something next week? My treat, obviously.”
A faint flicker of surprise ghosts across Charles’ expression before that patented dimpled half-smile returns.
“Monaco? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m actually not sure if-”
He trails off, shaking his head in a rueful sort of resignation.
“Ah, merde — what I mean is that I just got word this morning that my flight back has been canceled due to some raised travel advisory or other. Classic airline nonsense.”
Your brows wing upwards as your sharp mind cycles immediately to the obvious solution.
“Well, in that case, why don’t you just come back on my plane?”
The words are out of your mouth before you can properly consider the context of your own casual statement. Leclerc blinks — Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he processes your incredibly nonchalant reference to having your own personal aircraft.
“... your plane?” He echoes, a new glint entering his stare as he studies you with fresh gravity.
You wave one hand in a dismissive little flourish, your practiced regal upbringing suddenly very apparent in the effortless hauteur radiating from you.
“Well of course, Charles — you didn’t think I flew commercial, did you?” Your nose wrinkles in feigned distaste as you grin up at him. “No, no — my family maintains a full fleet. I’m scheduled to return to Monaco via the 747 after the weekend wraps.”
Now it is the Ferrari star’s turn to look utterly gobsmacked, any veneer of media-trained poise utterly dissolving at your casual reference to owning a jumbo jet as if it were something as trivial as a sedan or motorcycle. His eyes bore into you with sudden intensity, as if seeing you in an entirely new light.
You can practically see the mental math exploding across his expression — the private security details, the designer casualwear on your lithe frame, the stunning and no doubt priceless jewelry glittering at your throat and wrists. All the tell-tale signs of absurd, eighth-continent-money levels of wealth.
And here you are, acting as if maintaining your own plane is just another given amenity ...
“Wait ...” he begins slowly, still processing the full scope of what you’ve so dismissively unveiled. “You’re telling me you have an actual, like … a 747 just sitting around that you use to fly wherever the hell you want?”
You blink owlishly up at him, momentarily bewildered by the sheer shock on his face. Surely the finer nuances of just how rich your family is couldn’t have escaped him completely up to now, could it?
So you simply shrug, offering him a playful smirk in a bid to diffuse any perceived arrogance or condescension on your part.
“More or less, yes,” you confirm breezily, pointedly ignoring his incredulity. “So what say you, Monsieur Leclerc? Shall we share a ride back to the riviera? I promise the in-flight movies are decent, at least.”
For a long moment, Charles can only stare at you, astounded at the bottomless depths of absurdity that is your birthright and lineage. Just when you think he may have simply short-circuited into a vegetative state, however, his mouth abruptly curves upwards into a devilish grin of epiphany.
“You know what?” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelieving amusement. “In that case, you’re on. A nice flight back to Monaco sounds … perfect for a little post-race pick-me-up.”
You can’t help but smirk triumphantly as Charles extends one hand, which you accept in a firm shake.
Some rigid societal expectations among the royalty and aristocracy may be slow to evolve, but others? They’ve prepared you for the political game that is Formula 1.
***
The late afternoon sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Monaco apartment, casting warm geometric patterns across the plush marble tile. You lie draped over one of the oversized couches, aimlessly scrolling on your phone in a rare moment of quiet downtime.
Or rather, you’re hanging completely upside down on the couch, bare feet kicked up over the back cushions as you flick through a few inane social media feeds. The blood is just starting to rush towards your head in an oddly calming wash when the soft snick of the entryway lock disengaging catches your attention.
“Mon amour?” Charles’ familiar, lightly-accented voice rings out from the foyer. “You home?”
“In here!” You call back, not bothering to right yourself as your boyfriend’s lean silhouette appears in the archway, shrugging out of his leather jacket.
He spots your inverted form sprawled across the sitting area and shakes his head with a bemused chuckle, all tousled chestnut curls and devilish dimples.
“Must you always hang about like an overgrown cat?” He chides playfully, moving to settle onto the adjacent sofa. Even after nearly five months of dating, Charles still seems perpetually amused by your tendency to shirk regal posture and poise whenever afforded the opportunity. “Is gravity simply too much effort for royalty these days … "
“Your mockery wounds my very soul, kind sir,” you drone in a monotone false-lament, never breaking eye contact with the Ferrari star as your arms dangle limply towards the floor. “Should I have the servants fetch you a fainting couch to make up for my uncouth posture?”
Charles snorts, watching you with undisguised affection as he stretches out on the other sofa. “And they say chivalry is dead ...”
One callused hand comes up to gently brush an errant lock of hair away from your face, fingers trailing across your cheek in a simple caress. After so many months of sneaking heated looks across press conference panels and fielding ruthless speculation over your rumored involvement, moments like this still spark a bewildered sort of giddy thrill within you.
Here is Il Predestinato himself, someone blessed with every imaginable advantage — talent, wealth, fame, charisma. Yet it is you, the comparative newcomer raised worlds away, who seems to hold his singular focus even in the quiet stillness.
“Is this some new fitness fad the rest of us ignorant plebeians should be made aware of?” Charles inquires after a pregnant pause, arching one brow at your upended state.
He knows you too well by now, you muse — knows how prone you are to defying expectation or traditional high society conventions whenever the mood strikes. So rather than offer any excuse or justification, you simply shrug airily.
“Just experimenting with different … perspectives for the time being,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him and reveling in the simple, teasing intimacy of the moment. “The world tends to look rather different when you turn everything on its head.”
“Isn’t that the truth ...” Charles hums, shifting ever-so-slightly closer before changing tacts. “Well, on that note … I’ve found myself with a rather unique perspective to share this evening.”
Your interest is instantly piqued, head lolling to one side as you regard the Ferrari star with renewed focus. One hand leaves its resting place on your abdomen, fingers wiggling inquisitively.
“Oh? Do tell, Monsieur Leclerc ...”
Charles chuckles again, low and genuine, before his emerald gaze turns pointedly opaque. Even now, after sharing countless impromptu evenings watching mind melting reality television and indulgent private vacations, he still retains the ability to utterly captivate your attention.
“Well, this particular news is rather more ...” He pauses for dramatic effect, pursing those perpetually kiss-plumped lips as if savoring the impending reveal. "... interesting.”
You exhale a petulant little huff, fighting the urge to stick your foot in his face or throw one of the decorative cushions at him.
“Charles, if this is meant to build suspense over you finally buying that fancy vacuum you won’t shut up about, I swear by the — mmph!”
Your playful griping is cut off as Charles suddenly lunges across the short distance separating your couches, capturing your lips in a fierce, silencing kiss. You squirm slightly at the abrupt shift in dynamics, the world seeming to spin and right itself as muscular forearms slide beneath you to gather you up into his lap.
By the time he finally pulls back, leaving you both breathless and slightly disheveled, you find yourself settled firmly in Charles’ sturdy embrace. Two sets of lidded eyes glaze over one another, reveling in the familiar intoxicating rush of chemistry.
“Easy there, mon ange,” he murmurs once you’ve both caught your respective breaths, one palm smoothing up and down your spine in an idle caress. “I promise this is a rather more agreeable surprise than debating vacuums.”
You watch, bemused, as his free hand dips into the inner pocket of his hoodie, withdrawing a familiar red envelope sealed with the unmistakable prancing horse emblem of Ferrari. Your heart rate instantly kicks up another notch at the mere sight of it, that infernal curiosity burning hotter than ever.
“The team initially planned to hand this off through proper channels,” Charles continues, expression inscrutable as he toys with the envelope, thumb tracing its embossed crest. “But given the … personal opportunity it presented, I thought it only appropriate to circumvent protocol this once.”
With that, he extends the envelope towards you, a silent offer for you to take up whatever life-altering missive lies within. You swallow hard against the sudden lump of anticipation welling in your throat, looking from the envelope, to Charles, and back again.
“What … what is this?” You croak, hating how fragile and uncertain your voice sounds.
Charles’ smile is soft as warm brandy, suffused with unguarded affection and pride. A pride not for himself, but for the very caliber of opportunity before you.
“For you,” he murmurs simply. “For your boundless determination to achieve in the face of adversity. This is the ultimate reward for outrunning not just your competitors, but the very expectations of an entire sport.”
The breath leaves your body in a dizzying rush as sudden realization crystallizes in your mind. How many nights have the two of you stayed up into the wee hours, idly discussing dream teams and potential openings across the grid? Debating which partnerships could provide the optimal platform for success?
This envelope bears no stamp or mailing address. But its rich, unmistakable crimson design and gleaming logo render such mundane addressing unnecessary. There is only one organization with the status to deliver their most sensitive communications in such an iconic manner.
With trembling hands, you accept the envelope, taking care not to smudge or crinkle its embossed insignia as you turn it over. Slowly, reverentially, you peel open the wax seal and slide out the sheaf of papers tucked within, eyes hungrily scanning the blocky sans-serif text:
SUBJECT: Ferrari Driver Offer, 2026 Season
Your breath catches in your throat, the words seeming to blur in a shimmering haze as hot tears instantly prick the corners of your eyes.
This isn’t merely a summons from Scuderia Ferrari. This isn’t a polite inquiry or negotiation tactic meant to bolster future value or status.
This is a formal contract, stamped with all the hallmarks of managerial approval ...
An invitation to join the most legendary name in all of motorsport as one of its drivers.
You shake your head in stunned disbelief, hardly daring to blink as your scrutinize every word, every assurance and term of agreement laid out in stark black ink.
It’s there, immaculate and absolute — a seat beside Charles for the 2026 season, to be finalized pending your confirmation and the exit of one former world champion.
Lewis Hamilton’s retirement.
The news had broken last month over the Ferrari driver’s surprise announcement that he would be exiting Formula 1 at the conclusion of the 2025 calendar year. Just one championship shy of his stated goal of eclipsing Michael Schumacher’s record for most drivers’ titles, the British superstar shocked the sporting world by revealing he was finally ready to step away from the cockpit and move on to other endeavors.
Speculation had run rampant, of course, over who within the sport’s glittering ranks of young up-and-comers had the talent and mettle to fill such an impossible void. You’d jokingly thrown about a host of names whenever the discussion arose with Charles, more content to fantasize and daydream rather than entertain any serious expectations.
Yet here it lies in your hands, in unblemished print. Proof that you’ve smashed through yet another carbon fiber-coated glass ceiling specifically by shattering every limitation placed upon your ambitions.
You glance up to find Charles gauging your reaction with a tender intensity akin to a besotted schoolboy, as if readying himself to sweep you off your feet all over again should you swoon from the news. Suddenly his every gesture from the moment he walked through your front door this evening makes perfect sense — the dramatics, the playful banter, and maddening evasiveness.
This was his way of showing you he’d listened, absorbed every idle comment or perceived slight you’d ever murmured over the proving grounds of your respective talents. That he saw and cherished every spark of hunger in your honeyed gaze, evident in your determination to continue defying odds not only as a woman — but as a pioneer hoping to be immortalized within motorsport.
The tears spill over at last, streaking unchecked down your cheeks as a tremulous laugh bubbles up unbidden from your chest. You lift one hand to shakily wipe at the dampness, willing yourself not to become an incoherent, hiccuping mess on the precipice of such a monumental achievement.
“I … I don’t even...” You begin, shaking your head slowly. For once, the woman raised to carry herself with poise and dignity in any station finds herself utterly bereft of words.
Charles merely watches and waits, soft sleeve brushing away the fresh tears tracking across your cheeks before cradling your jaw in one warm palm. Those mesmerizing eyes bore into yours with aching sincerity, seeing straight through you down to the deliriously euphoric riot of emotions swirling in your chest.
“Ferrari recognizes your spirit, your passion for this life, because it is the same fire that has forever stoked the heart of the Scuderia,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing an idle arc over the plump swell of your lower lip.
“They chose you not because you are a symbol — a pretty flag for them to rally under and wave as some achievement in name only. They see you as the next tireless warrior to pour their full belief into achieving victory.” A soft, affectionate breath of laughter escapes him, warm and adoring. “Which I know for a fact is the only ambition you’ve ever given a single damn about.”
You release a watery giggle at that, nodding in fervent agreement as you reach up to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring yourself in the tender solidity of his touch. Weeks and months of dogged speculation over prospects and vacancies, endlessly weighing the potential upshots and pitfalls of every career trajectory before you ...
… and here it waits, bold and singular as the sun itself — your chance to immortalize yourself among the hallowed ranks of Formula 1 royalty.
“You were made for this, mon cœur,” Charles continues, fingers trailing down the side of your neck in a gentle graze. “Your spirit, your sheer determination to shatter every obstacle placed in your way — Ferrari sees that fire blazing in you. It’s why they want you.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against your own as his lips curve into a devastatingly handsome smile, dimples peeking through.
“And not because of any family name or billions or royal pedigree you carry … but precisely because of how hard you’ve fought to strip all that away on the track. To make your own name and legacy that matters.”
The words strike you like the sweetest, most poignant arrow straight through your heart. And isn’t that what you’ve craved since the earliest dawning flickers of your obsession with this beautiful, brutal sport — recognition and triumph earned purely on your own merits?
You are no longer a Sheikha first, racing driver second. You are Y/N Y/L/N, Scuderia Ferrari driver in the making.
Before you can even find the words to respond — and what words could ever suffice at a moment like this — you are surging forward to capture Charles’ plush mouth with your own. The contract flutters forgotten to the floor as you pour every ounce of exhilarated gratitude and ardor into the fevered kiss, hands mapping the broad sloping planes of his shoulders and back with trembling urgency.
Charles responds in kind, all velvet heat and insistent possession as his arms sweep you impossibly closer, fingers tangling in the loose curtain of your hair. You allow yourself to succumb fully to the dizzying euphoria of his passion and the all-encompassing ambition now flowering in your breast unfurled, crashing over you in intoxicating waves.
This is no mere contract, no insignificant changing of pitlane scenery. This is the definitive moment where you have eclipsed every last shadow of self-doubt and exceeded even the lofty expectations bequeathed to you since girlhood.
You will become a legend.
Only when the need for air finally parts you does the fervent heat of the moment ebb enough for rational thought to pierce the moonlit haze of emotion. Your lips are swollen and tingling, senses heightened to every whisper and shift of muscle under Charles’ shirt as his chest expands in deep, measured breaths.
When you finally find the strength to lift your gaze and meet his hooded stare, he is the one rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity and elation blazing in your expression. Something he sees reflected back at him now from the woman nestled so securely in his arms.
“Oh, mon amour ...” Charles rasps at last, a sinfully indulgent smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes his head as if beholding some ascending deity, utterly transfixed.
“This is only the beginning ...”
***
The camera flashes turn the plush Ferrari hospitality suite into a makeshift photo studio. You try not to blink as the bright lights sparkle off the deep red lipstick you’re wearing.
“Okay, bellissima, one more,” the photographer calls out. You tilt your head slightly and smile wide. Charles squeezes your hand. The shutter clicks.
“Perfetto! I think we got it,” the photographer says, lowering his camera with a grin. “Grazie mille, you two.”
“Thank you,” you reply in your lightly accented English. Charles plants a kiss on your cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of his lips in lightly tinted lip balm on your skin. The makeup artist rushes over to touch it up before the next part of the shoot.
This is your first joint promotional event as Ferrari’s new driver pairing for 2026. Well, sort of new — Charles is a proven superstar entering his seventh season with the team. You, on the other hand, are the fresh face and the source of international intrigue.
“Next up, we’re filming a little Q&A section,” the producer explains, adjusting his headset. “Just a fun, casual way for the fans to get to know you both better before the season starts.”
You and Charles take your seats, situating yourselves comfortably on the curved scarlet sofa. An array of cameras surrounds you on robotic arms, remotely controlled to capture every angle.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the producer calls out from behind the lights. An energetic young woman with a microphone appears on camera, greeting you both enthusiastically.
“Bonjour Charles, Salaam Y/N! So great to have Ferrari’s exciting new line-up with us today. Let’s get to know you guys a little better — there are notecards with rapid-fire questions right here and you just banter away, okay?”
Charles leans forward, grabbing a stack of notecards from the table beside him. “Here’s an easy one to start — who is the most famous person in your contacts?”
“Mine is Seb, of course! Sebastian Vettel. Used to be my teammate, now he’s basically a world-famous hermit.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh come on, you can do better than that.”
“Your turn then, Your Highness,” Charles counters with a teasing lilt. “Who’s the biggest celebrity in that royal contacts list of yours?”
You tap a manicured fingernail against your plump lips, pretending to ponder the question. In truth, you know exactly who it is, and Charles is going to be stunned. A sly grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Does my father count?”
Charles barks out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Y/N. Pick someone a bit more … interesting.”
“Oh? You want interesting?” You tease, unable to resist dragging this out. “How about … Taylor Swift?”
Whatever Charles was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes go comically wide, jaw dropping slightly. “You … Taylor Swift? As in, the international popstar?”
“The one and only,” you confirm with a serene nod.
“How in the world do you have Taylor Swift’s phone number?” He sputters.
You shrug, admiring the gemstone-encrusted rings glittering on your fingers. “It was my 18th birthday party. Baba knew how much I loved her music, so he got her to perform.”
“He got … your father got Taylor Swift … to perform at your birthday?” Charles is still gaping at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“Well yes, what else would you expect?” You laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “It wasn’t that big a deal, habibi.”
Charles opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. You lean over the side of the couch, draping one hand over the armrest as you gaze up at him with false innocence.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“I …” he finally manages. “Y/N, you never cease to amaze me.”
“Is that so?” You bat your eyelashes coyly. “Good thing you’re stuck with me then.”
Charles shakes his head in disbelief, but his expression melts into a fond one, dimples showing as he grins down at you.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour.”
You sit up slightly at the pet name, spoken so tenderly. That warm, bubbly feeling fills your chest like always when Charles looks at you like that ��� like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, trying to ignore the blush you can feel heating your cheeks. “Ask another question before I get too distracted by that irresistible smile of yours.”
Charles chuckles darkly. “Oh, trust me. I’m very distracting.”
You giggle at his faux arrogance. “Very distracting indeed. Now come on, ask me something good.”
He glances down at the cards again. “Let’s see … what’s the most extravagant gift you’ve ever received?”
You don’t even have to think about that one. “My baby.”
There’s a pause, then- “Did you just refer to me as a gift?”
“Not you,” you laugh. “My gorgeous F2002.”
Recognition dawns on Charles’ face as he remembers your long tangents about the iconic race car. “Ah, of course. Your prized possession.”
“It was a present for my 15th birthday,” you explain, unable to keep the pride from your voice. “From Baba. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”
“I’ll bet,” Charles murmurs. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.”
“That she is,” you agree softly. Your eyes linger on Charles, watching the way the harsh factory lights play against the sculpted lines of his face, catching in his dark eyes. Beautiful, just like your car.
You tear your eyes away before you get too carried away, clearing your throat. “Next question?”
Charles blinks, seeming to shake himself from his own reverie before consulting the cards again. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the next one.
“Well this is … certainly a question.” He looks up at you with mild bewilderment. “What’s the most embarrassing thing your family has ever done?”
You grimace slightly at that. Your parents certainly haven’t been immune to embarrassing their only daughter over the years. After a moment’s hesitation, you launch into the story.
“Okay, so when I was sixteen, I had this dreadful crush on one of Baba’s racehorse jockeys …”
Charles listens attentively, dimples showing again as you regale the tale of your young lovesick self hopelessly pining after the older, objectively very attractive jockey. How your parents, in their infinite wisdom and total lack of subtlety, had gotten it into their heads that the best way to cheer you up over your unrequited crush was to invite said jockey over for a family dinner at the palace ...
“... and of course, in front of this painstakingly handsome man, my parents could not resist mercilessly teasing and embarrassing me the entire night!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, but you’re laughing too at the ridiculousness of the memory. “I thought I would simply perish from mortification right there at the table.”
“No, no, no,” Charles shakes his head, grinning widely. “Please, tell me more about how devilishly handsome this jockey was.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you snort, reaching out to shove his shoulder lightly. But you oblige him anyway. “Okay, fine, you want details? He was … oh, I don’t know, maybe 6 feet tall, tanned and muscular from all that riding, perfectly tousled dark hair-”
“Tousled dark hair, hmm?” Charles arches an eyebrow at you, smile turning sly. “Should I be jealous?”
“Oh hush, that was years ago,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Though I suppose if we want to talk about petty jealousies and crushes …”
When he seems confused, you smirk up at him mischievously.
“Word on the street is a certain Monegasque driver had quite the thing for Valentino Rossi back in the day.”
It’s Charles’ turn to snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows how obsessed you were with Fernando Alonso for years.”
“I was a child!” You protest with dignity, trying not to laugh. “It was an innocent celebrity crush and nothing more.”
“Uh huh, sure,” he teases. “Which is why you still have that massive lifesize poster of him in your bedroom at the palace-”
“How do you know about that?” You halt him, utterly mortified all over again. Your face flames scarlet as Charles dissolves into helpless laughter beside you.
“I’m only joking, ma belle,” he finally gasps out. “I’ve never seen this supposed poster.” Charles reaches out, looping an arm around your waist to pull you snug against his side. You go easily, butting your forehead lightly against his shoulder with a huff.
“You’re the worst, you know that?”
“And yet, you keep me around,” he murmurs warmly. His fingers trace idle patterns against your hip, making you shiver. “Something about me must be tolerable.”
You tilt your head back to meet his intense gaze, your lips curving despite yourself.
“I suppose you’ll do,” you murmur. Then you lean up on your tiptoes to press your mouth against his.
Charles melts into the soft, lingering kiss, the arm around your waist tightening to bring you even closer against him. This close, you can feel the lean muscle and warmth of his body, your own tingling with awareness. One of his hands slips into your hair, cradling the back of your head and angling your lips for better access.
A quiet noise of pleasure escapes your throat as the kiss deepens, growing more heated. You part your lips eagerly to grant his questing tongue entrance, tasting the hint of coffee and addictive scent that always makes your head spin dizzily. His other hand smoothes down your side, over the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip, burning through the thin fabric of your team polo-
“Ahem … aaaand cut! Fantastic you two, that’s a wrap on this portion,” the director says, his amused tone breaking the trance. “Why don’t we take a short break before setting up for next segment?”
Cheeks flushed, you and Charles reluctantly pull apart, remembering there’s a whole bustle of crew surrounding you at the moment. Tucking a glossy lock of hair behind your ear, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.
“Raincheck on that kiss, habibi? I have a few more surprises in store for you later.” You graze his earlobe with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches. “If you think we already know everything about each other … you haven’t seen anything yet.”
With a saucy wink, you extract yourself from his embrace and saunter off to refresh your makeup, leaving your dazed boyfriend gaping after your retreating form.
***
Two Years Later
You wake with a start to the sound of your alarm blaring at 4:38 am. Groaning, you reach over to silence it, blinking blearily in the dark. It’s the start of another day of fasting for Ramadan — the first your now husband will be participating in to support you.
A soft snore comes from beside you and you can’t help but smile fondly. There he is, heartthrob of Formula 1 fans everywhere, drool trailing down his chin onto the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. How attractive.
“Charles,” you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Time to wake up for suhoor.”
He merely grunts and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his head. You sigh in exasperation. For an elite professional athlete, he can be stubborn as a mule when it comes to early mornings.
Giving up for now, you slip out of bed and pad across the plush carpet of your sprawling bedroom quarters in the palace. You flick on the ornate brass lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow that glints off the gold accents everywhere.
A jaw-cracking yawn escapes you as you make your way over to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water on your face will help wake you. Your bare feet slap against the intricate tile mosaics as you go.
“What time is it?” A sleepy voice calls out behind you.
“Early,” you call back. “We have forty minutes before the fast begins.”
You emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, slightly more alert, to find Charles blinking confusedly around the room, mussed hair sticking up every which way. He looks utterly lost without his morning coffee.
“Come along, habibi,” you say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of bed with a grunt. “Let’s go see what the kitchen staff has prepared.”
Charles just nods obediently, Ferrari red pajama pants hanging low on his hips in a way that makes your cheeks flush. Even barely conscious, he’s unfairly good-looking.
The two of you make your way down the torch-lit hallways of the palace toward the private dining room reserved for the royal family members. You can’t resist threading your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze.
“I’m proud of you for doing this,” you murmur. “It means everything to me.”
Charles halts, tugging you into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and familiar. You let your eyes drift shut as he brushes his lips across your forehead.
“Of course,” he rumbles in that delicious accent of his. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”
A throat clears behind you and you jump apart, heat flooding your cheeks. Whirling around, you spot your father regarding you sternly, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.
“Good mor-er, night? Apologies, Charles,” he says gruffly. “I’m still getting used to this schedule.”
Charles gives a awkward little bow. “No need to apologize, Your Highness.”
You roll your eyes fondly at the two most important men in your life. For cultures on opposite sides of the world, sometimes they’re more alike than either would admit.
“Have you two eaten yet?” Your father continues. “The cooks have prepared a feast as usual.”
Shaking your head, you tug Charles’s hand to follow as you make your way into the lavish dining room. It’s deserted at this hour save for the kitchen staff milling about, setting out enormous platters of food.
Arabian coffee in delicate gemmed cups. Chickpea stew and crisp flatbreads fresh from the tandoor oven. Heaping mounds of creamy balaleet vermicelli sweetened with rosewater and cardamom. Succulent medjool dates and purees of every fruit imaginable to kick off the fast as healthfully as possible. It all smells utterly divine and makes your mouth water.
You glance sidelong at Charles to see him staring around with an utterly gobsmacked look. His adorably bewildered expression makes you stifle a giggle — you always forget this is the first time he’s experiencing the elaborate palace rituals.
“Dig in,” your father says gruffly, already loading up his plate.
And dig in you do, shoveling food into your mouths as quickly as your etiquette training will allow. All too soon, the muezzin’s call to prayer rings out over the grounds, signaling the official start of the day’s fasting.
You sit back with a contented sigh, hands resting atop your pleasantly full belly. Beside you, Charles looks pleasantly stuffed as well in that gorgeous way where his shirt rides up just a hint. The old you might’ve flushed scarlet and averted your eyes like a proper modest lady. This emboldened you lets your gaze linger ...
“Enjoying the sights?” Your father’s wry voice cuts through your daze.
You startle, snapping your attention back to see his eyes twinkling with amusement. Of course the man misses nothing when it comes to his only daughter. The tips of your ears burn.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he continues, rising to his feet. “I have matters of state to attend to as usual despite the hour. Do try to behave, you two.”
You open your mouth to protest the teasing, indignant, but he silences you with a look and a raised brow. With great restraint, you merely nod instead. Soon as the door swings shut behind him, you blow out an exasperated breath, rolling your eyes heavenward.
“I love him dearly,” you start. “But sometimes-”
Whatever sarcastic rejoinder you were going to make dies on your lips when you catch sight of Charles again. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, looking utterly at ease amid the heart of Arabian luxury. A tiny, fond smile plays about his lips.
“What?” You ask self-consciously.
“Nothing,” he says at once, shaking his head. “I just … you look beautiful here. Content. Like you were born to it.”
It’s your turn to blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment. Of course you were raised amid affluence and trained in regal bearing from birth. And yet ...
“Flatterer,” you say at last, trying to brush off the warm curl of pleasure blooming in your chest.
Charles sits up straight, expression turning earnest in that intense way of his that never fails to rob you of breath.
“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’re so at home here. The way your face lights up at all the little traditions, how you banter with your father like you rule the place …” His eyes roam over you adoringly. “You’re magnificent.”
Your cheeks heat furiously, but you can’t look away, caught in his smoldering gaze. How is it possible for this man to make you feel so flustered and treasured after all this time? He reaches across to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking over your knuckles.
“Thank you,” you whisper at last. “For doing this with me. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“Of course,” Charles echoes his earlier sentiment simply.
There’s a brief, electrically charged moment where you’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else exists. And then … a low rumbling growl shatters the stillness. You blink as Charles flushes bright red.
“I, ah, seem to be hungry again already with the early schedule,” he admits sheepishly.
You throw back your head with a peal of laughter, loud and unbridled and utterly unconcerned with propriety for once. Leave it to your man to break the tension in the most delightfully awkward way. “Easy there, habibi. You’ll need to save room for iftar later tonight.”
Realizing you’ve caught him looking undignified, Charles has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “You’re right, mon ange. Got a bit carried away with my last chance to eat for awhile.” He licks his lips slowly, watching you with heated eyes. “I’ll be counting the seconds until I can taste you agai-”
“Charles, not during fasting hours!” You cut him off with a scandalized giggle, heat flooding your cheeks at his shameless innuendo. Even after all this time, he can still fluster you with a single heated look.
He just throws back his head with a full-throated laugh, utterly unrepentant.
You shake your head at his antics, trying in vain to suppress your grin. “Incorrigible,” you mutter fondly.
Leaning back in your chair, you settle in to watch him contently. Heat simmers low in your belly, anticipating the moment you can finally break your fast tonight and enjoy some … dessert.
The little eight-year-old girl attending her first race could never have imagined that this would be her life one day. Alhamdulillah for the blessings that Allah saw to bestow upon you. With your husband by your side and the ink drying on a long-term contract with Ferrari, you have everything you could have asked for.
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bluetimeombre · 3 months
Text
: ̗̀➛ Call it what you want to
You're an up-coming star, staring in some hit movies like Hunger games Ballad of songbirds and snakes and now Wonka, along the Timothee Chalamet.
[i'm obsessed with my man and just need to ignore the fact he's dating someone that isn't me. anyway, you're an up-coming actress who stared in the new hunger games movie and now you're also staring in wonka, the people love you and maybe, so does a co-star of yours] not proof read. this was very fun to write so maybe i'll do more, if anyone likes it. or just for me
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liked by... tayrussell, joshandresrivera, tomblyth, sadiesink_, tchalamet & others
yourusername: wonka press tour starts now!
809k likes. 304k comments
user: wait, you're in wonka?!
user: I LOVE YOU!!
user: mother giving us content, as always
tchalamet: now you've posted can you come up and help me
yourusername: no
tchalamet: pls!!!
user: omg she really said no to timothee chalamet, who does she thin she is?
user: slayyyy
user: isn't wonka supposed to suck
tomblyth: from one press tour to another, i see
yourusername: girls got to earn a living
tomblyth: she doesn't let the grass grow
user: say hi to timothee for me!!!!
user: omg how is she getting all the hottest guys in hollywood rn? gurl leave some for us
wonkamovie: 😍😍
balladofsongbirdsandsnakes: 😍😍😍
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you were flicking through comments by your friends when your phone started to ring, the familiar picture of your co-star flicking up on your phone. quickly, you dimissed yourself from your assistant and took the call. 'yes?'
'I need your help.'
'Timothee, you're old enough to zip up your own jacket,' you tease, leaning on the wall.
'I don't know what jumper to wear, what are you wearing? we'll coordinate.'
you'd opted for something of your own style. a jumper with pinks and blues and a white flowering skirt with a ring almost on every finger. this was only your second big press tour and sitting next to timothee chalamet every day for it was enough to make you nervous. so nervous you woke every morning wondering if you'd throw up. it didn't help you were also surrounded by others you'd looked up to, like olivia coleman and hugh grant. how were you supposed to keep your cool for months. even if now you were considered just as big a star.
'don't you have a stylist for this?' you ask, looking at the crew around, ready to go but waiting for him.
'there's three options and i don't know which one to go for. can't you just come up.'
you could, sure. go to timothee's hotel room and see him probably shirtless. once you'd have dreamt of it, but things were different, now you just didn't have a silly celebrity crush. now he was your co-star and very off limits.
'option two now come on, please.' quickly, you end the call and pick up your coffee, heading to the room where you'd be sat for the next eight hours answering questions with timothee.
you were there first, shaking hands with the interviewer and introducing yourself to her. you took your seat, making little chatter before timothee chalamet walked in, calm, cool and collected. completely different to your flushed and smiling expression.
you watched as he quickly said hello to everyone in the room and greeted the lady who'd be conducting the interview.
timothee turned to you, arms out wide and waiting. laughing, you put your coffee down and stood up, giving him a hug. you shared small pleasantries before he took his seat next to you, shuffling around and settling in. only then did you realise how much your jumpers looked the same, both smudges of similar colours. you blushed more as timothee watched, silently wondering what could make you so red. as if he had no idea what he did to you just by sitting down next to him.
'I have had scrub scrub stuck in my head since seeing the movie,' she- charline, said as you and timothee laugh. 'do you guys have a favourite song you got to perform?'
'I mean, pure imagination was quite a surreal experience. you know, getting to sing something that was so ... iconic, it was-it was a lot of fun. and a lot of pressure, but, in a good way,' said timothee.
'you killed it,' you assure, casually.
'thank you,' he smiled.
'i really enjoyed you've never had chocolate like this number. that was just so fun, the dancing and all,' you say, timothee nodding and agreeing.
'for a moment was fun to, i guess,' added timothee. 'we got to dance.'
you grin at the memory. 'we did.' you remembered the a million takes, timothee singing practically to you while prancing around. it was your favourite scene to shoot because it was such an easy and happy scene. you didn't have to think about it, just held timmy's hand as he twirled you around the place.
'and i know we're here to talk about wonka but i just have to say-' she gestured to you, 'congratulations on hunger games, biggest movie in the world.'
you wave her off, thanking her as timmy claps for you. 'thank you, thank you.'
'i was wondering what was your favourite song to film there on that set and how does it compare to singing on this one.'
ranting about yourself or your achievements was always hard for you. your stardom and come so quickly with hunger games and wonka, so much so you felt like you didn't deserve half of it.
'i mean, for hunger games it was all live. i sang them there and then so that's daunting in itself, um. i loved filming pure as the driven snow, just because i got to- essentially- sing it to tom. it was just him and me and the crew, like for those shots there was no extra's so that was great fun. a special moment. and singing it to him made it a whole lot easier. whereas on this movie, luckily it was all like pre-recorded so, not so daunting. didn't have to sing in front of timothee chalamet,' you say.
he listened carefully to you, seeing your smile at mentioning tom blyth, your co-star from the hunger games. he'd never met the guy, he was probably lovely- from the amount you talked about him. 'you've got a great singing voice.'
'thanks man.'
'this cast is just so insane and obviously you two got close during filming,' says charline, gesturing to the two of you.
timothee nudged you with his head, like he'd done a thousand times before knowing how much you secretly loved it. just like a horse, as had been quoted.
'who's more british, olivia or hugh?'
'hugh, easily,' you say. you loved all of hugh's movies, but you'd never say that to his face.
'you know, i'm gonna go and say you,' says timothee, turning to you.
you drop you jaw, pointing to yourself. yes, you were british, but more so than than the hugh grant seemed impossible. 'me?'
'yea, i mean, hugh grant is like a walking union jack- and i mean that in the best way possible, but you seem so much more like british. you know, wicked sense of humor and the charm and- you love london,' he pointed out.
'i do love london,' you agreed.
'did you have fun filming in england, timothee?' she asked.
they want on and on to talk about filming the movie, answering questions in depth and it was sure the two of you had great answers, listening intently together and everyone could tell. your chemistry was there, your smiles and answers together were almost so perfect it was like it was practiced and the fans ate it up!
_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
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liked by... zendaya, mtv, kyliejenner, yourusername, wbpictures & others
tchamalmet: WONKA!!! coming soon
tagged: yourusername
1.1m likes, 609k comments
user: he posted! he posted!
user: we are getting FED
user: i just know this is all yourusername influence
user: not kylie liking...
user: statistics! statistics!
liked by yourusername
yourusername: bring back little timmy tim!
yourusername: out of all the pictures you chose that one
user: anyone else think her and timmy are getting too close
user: like fr she stealin my man
user: i love them!!!
user: i swear something is going on with her and tom blyth
user: she's just like us!
user: LOVE!!!!!
user: her and timmy >>> him and kylie
user: plssss, i love kylie
user: is wonka a musical
user: TIMMY I WANT TO HAVE YOUR CHILDREN!!!
user: fave bob dylan song?
_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
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liked by... tomblyth, rachelzeglar, tchalamet, hunterschafer, zendaya & others
yourusername: ballad of song birds and snakes is number one movie? more like i'm the number one most grateful person out there for this chance and being trusted with my girl lucy-grey!!! thank you, thank you, thank you!!
tagged: tomblyth
1m likes 477k comments
tomblyth: lots of love my dear !
user: pls the second picture was so unncesary she just wanted to post it
user: MOTHER
user: parents are parenting
user: I LOVED THIS FILM
user: tom blyth is honestly so hot like wtf
rachelzeglar: my luv <3
yourusername: omg my gf everybody!!!!
joshandresrivera: funny how you don't post a picture of me
yourusername: it's funny because i don't like you
joshandresrivera: tomblyth you gonna let her talk to me like that??
tomblyth: she's the boss
user: how is she so amazing in everything
user: wonder how she got this job? she's literally as plain as a plank
user: hi!
user: the film was insane, i'm obsessed
user: i need this film injected into my veins
user: she's so good at singing, get her on broadway!!!
tchalamet: very proud
yourusername liked tchalamet's comment
user: why would you post the second pic unless they're clearly dating
_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐
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user: pls why do i ship them so hard!!
user: lol it looks like he's just refusing to answer questions without her
user: is nobody gonna talk about how they were basically wearing the same jumpers?
user: no because i thought the exact same thing
user: someone pointed it out in an interview and timothee said it was 100% planned, they're so cute
user: doesn't he have a girlfriend?
user: isn't she with tom blyth? they look like they're together?
user: they haven't confirmed it
user: they don't need to did you see her post on instagram?! it was all just him
user: no but the way she's just constantly blushing around him
user: so would you if you were sat next to the timothee chalamet
2K notes · View notes
Text
The Hat Rule.
Characters: Portgas D. Ace, Buggy the Clown, Dracule Mihawk, Trafalgar Law [ uses they/them ], X-Drake / Gender Neutral Reader
Word Count: 2,422
Rating: Mature
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I'm a sucker for the Hat Rule, sue me. Nothing but some subtle spice. Enjoy!
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You would be lying if you said it hadn’t been thrilling to sneak up behind them and pluck the hat off their head. They were so attached to it, it was funny! Of course, sentimentality was one thing- but really, the way they had paused, reaching up to touch their head as if confused at the sudden loss had been far too comical for you to even consider not laughing at. But the moment they had turned, had called out your name-
You ran.
You had sprinted across the dock back towards safety, hat clutched in your hand as they followed after you. But you were faster- always had been quicker on your feet. You scurried up the gangplank, avoiding collisions with your fellow shipmates as you made your way below deck to your quarters. You thought you were safe, you really had! Taking a minute to catch your breath, you settled the hat atop your own head with a grin. 
Success! 
That is, until the door opened. You turned, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the owner of said hat, leaning against the door with an expression that lingered between amused and… Something else. Something darker. You suddenly realized you had cornered yourself in your haste to escape- and now, you had nowhere to run. 
──Portgas D. Ace [ 353 ]
Your heart hammered in your chest as Ace chuckled, arms crossed over his chest as you leaned back against the opposite wall. “You had your fun,” he spoke softly, holding a hand out to you. “Now gimme my hat back.”
“No.” You replied defiantly, instead putting the hat on your own head. You turned, studying your reflection in the mirror on the wall, tilting your head to and fro as a smile curved your lips. “I think it looks better on me, really,” you couldn’t help but tease.
“There’s a rule ‘bout wearin’ someone else’s hat, y/n.” Ace sighed, stepping in, closing the door behind himself- and locking it, something that had your breath faltering. A rule? What was he talking about? It was just a hat! Even so, he crossed the room with a few strides, settling behind you. His hands smoothed across your hips, his head dipping down to press chaste kisses along your throat. “You wear the hat, you ride the sailor,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, his gaze finding your own in the reflection. 
Hunger. That’s what that expression was; his beautiful brown eyes dark in the soft light of the room. Your heart stuttered in its beat as he kept your gaze locked with his own, lips pressing over where your carotid artery lay in your throat. “Oh,” you whispered back, blinking slowly as his hands wandered. Fingers plucked at the edge of your shirt, dragging it up slowly with his fingers as they trailed heated paths across your skin. His Devil Fruit ability- oh, how you loved that. 
“Whattya say, y/n?” He asked, biting at your shoulder gently, not enough to cause pain but certainly enough to draw a gasp out of your lips. You nodded mutely, transfixed by your reflections as he grinned wolfishly over your shoulder. “That’s my baby.” A damn near growl as he tugged your back against his front, subtle grinds of his hips giving you a clear image of just how much he wanted you. 
You were suddenly glad you decided to steal his silly little hat. 
─── ・ 。゚☆: .☽ . :☆゚. ───
──Buggy the Clown [ 464 ]
It had been a celebration. Another successful show, another successful tithe paid from the townsfolk. One of those rare times where your Captain was genuinely happy, laughing with his crew as the bonfire burned brightly on the beach. But you weren’t there- no, you were sitting on the throne in the center ring of the Big Top, orange tricorn settled atop your head as you waited. 
You didn’t have to wait for long.
“Y/n,” Buggy called out as he sauntered in, his gaze settling on your form sitting in his chair, wearing his hat. The sight had his breath faltering, had his mouth suddenly dry. You looked damn good sitting there, almost as good as he did. Your legs kicked up over the arm, your lips curved into a cheeky grin. His hat… His hat on your head. 
He approached slowly, the sounds of the celebration fading behind him as he reached the throne. “Look at you! All comfortable in my chair, wearing my hat.” He muttered, one hand grabbing your chin, forcing your head up and back to meet his gaze. The other settled on the top of the throne as he leaned his weight against it, hovering over you.
“Your hat?” You countered with faux confusion. You reached up, touching the tricorn. “I could’ve sworn this was my hat.”
“Brat.” Buggy hissed as you grinned. 
You leaned up, sitting upright as your legs shifted down from the arm of the couch. “Yeah? Am I?” You continued to taunt, watching as your lover’s gaze brightened with the game you had decided to play.
“Yaknow, there’s this funny little rule that comes with wearing someone else’s hat.” His thumb brushed against your lower lip. You leaned into the touch, gaze flickering down to his painted smile. 
“What is it?” You breathed as he shifted closer. When you’d stolen his hat, you’d let his hair down. Aquamarine tresses spilled over his shoulders, falling forward to cloak you, giving an odd form of privacy as his lips ghosted against your own.
“Wear the hat, ride the Captain.” Buggy murmured as he captured your lips in a kiss. Paint smeared against your skin as you reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair, drawing out a pleased hum from him as he pressed closer. 
You pulled back with a nip to his lip, watching the way he crumbled beneath you so easily. “Ride the Captain, eh?” The thought set a fire in you. You rose to your feet, swapping places with a hand against his chest, shoving him down into his throne. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fuck you here.”
“Shit,” he chuckled, hands settling on your waist as you took your place on his lap. “Keep the hat on.”
“Yes, Captain.”
─── ・ 。゚☆: .☽ . :☆゚. ───
──Dracule Mihawk [ 516 ]
You felt like royalty as you ran through the halls of the castle. Perhaps it was the romance novels you’d read over the years, but there was something particularly thrilling about running through corridor after corridor with the tricorn clutched to your chest. You found yourself in the library, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as you turned to face the doors. Any moment now, Dracule would walk in.
It was worth it. Grabbing his tricorn the moment he’d docked at the island, running as fast as your legs could carry you back to the castle. You worried your lip as you looked down at the black leather, fingers brushing against the stitching. After a moment’s hesitation, you raised the hat- and settled it atop your head.
The doors swung open. 
“Darling,” Mihawk drawled. Yoru wasn’t on his back; his coat had been discarded, no doubt left by the front entryway. He sighed, taking in the sight of you in the moment. Cheeks flushed, hat perched atop your head; you were bathed in the orange glow of the fireplace. The sun had already set behind you; no light spilled through the large windows. 
A piece of art, you were.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me.” Slow steps drew him closer, even as you took shorter steps backwards- until you stumbled, ending up on your rear on the rug before the fireplace. Mihawk chuckled as he stood over you, arms crossed over his chest.
You found your words at last, grinning up at your lover. “I dunno what you’re talking about.” Cheekily, you leaned back on your elbows as Dracule knelt, reaching out to cup your cheek gently. “All I have is this shirt… And this hat.”
“... That’s all?” His gaze flickered down to your legs- bare, he realized. When had you stripped your trousers? He was certain you had been wearing them when you met him at the dock. “There’s a certain tradition when you wear another’s hat.”
“Tell me about it.” You sighed as his hand smoothed along your calf, gently massaging the muscle. He moved slowly, crawling over your form as his hands left your leg and cheek, balancing his weight over you. He dipped his head, stealing a kiss from you that had your head swimming by the end of it. The ghost of a brush of his tongue against your lip before he parted; you leaned forward, chasing him. 
“Wear the hat,” he murmured as he shifted, arm curling around your waist. In a movement too quick to track, he’d rolled you both, settling you on his lap as he settled on the rug. His fingers gripped your thighs, dangerously high to rucking up your- no, that was certainly his- shirt. “Ride the pirate.”
“Oh,” you breathed, mind growing fuzzy with the lust that was beginning to course through your veins. You shift your hips slowly, feeling your lover respond in kind. A groan pulled free of you as your hands settle on his chest, fingers gripping at his shirt. “Oh, I think I like that one.”
“Good.”
─── ・ 。゚☆: .☽ . :☆゚. ───
──Trafalgar Law [ 450 ]
It was hard to hide in a submarine. This was your first- no, second- mistake. Taking your Captain’s hat was the first mistake. Hiding in the submarine was the second. And the third? Deciding to add insult to injury by hiding in their own quarters. Was it the brightest of ideas? No. But Shachi wasn’t going to let you get out of the bet without consequences, and like hell you were going to cough up five hundred berries. 
So, you stole Law’s hat. And then had run for your damn life. 
You could hear the heavy footsteps of their boots as they approached. You panicked- and tugged the white hat on as the door opened, revealing the frustrated face of Law. They paused, brow furrowing at the sight of you standing in the middle of their quarters. “The boiler room would have been a better hiding place,” they taunted sarcastically, closing the door behind themself before leaning back against it. 
“I uh, I panicked?” You shrugged, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. You reached up, patting the hat on your head. “I get why you wear it. ‘S comfy.”
“It looks good on you.” They admitted softly, pushing off the door to cross the room, settling before you. Their hand raised, brushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. “Almost as good as it looks on me,” they finished, lips curving into that signature cocky grin that had you stomach twisting. 
You reached out, settling your hands on their chest, “There’s this lil’ thing,” words barely above a whisper; they had to focus on you to really hear. “This lil’ rule I remember learnin’ about.”
“And what would that be?” They asked just as softly, hands settling on your hips, drawing you closer, pressing your form against their own. Their hands squeezed slowly, the pressure enough to draw a pleased sigh from you.
You leaned in, lips brushing against their ear. “If I wear my Captain’s hat- I have to ride them.” A nip against the shell of their ear had a shudder dancing across them. You could have sworn a soft ‘fuck’ had slipped free from them. “Is that right?”
They pulled back, hand coming up to grip your jaw. A mischievous light had settled in their gaze as they studied you. You weren’t sorry; not a single speck of sympathy lingered in your expression, in your words, in your teasing. “You are, y/n-ya.” They rasped as they leaned in, stealing a kiss. Their teeth grazed your lip as they guided you backwards, until the back of your knees hit the bed. You sank slowly, but they didn’t part- not until you pulled back, panting.
“Captain-”
“Keep it on.”
─── ・ 。゚☆: .☽ . :☆゚. ───
──X Drake [ 399 ]
You had managed to stumble into your quarters on the Liberal Hind, only to realize that oh- well, shit. That’s a mistake. You curse yourself softly as you try to figure out how to get out of this mess. It had been a silly idea. You hadn’t seen your Captain laugh in a while- and thought that hey, stealing the hat would be funny!
Apparently not, given the yell that had come from him as you sprinted away. 
Your heart skipped more than one beat as the door to your quarters swung open, revealing the tall form of your Captain, X-Drake. You swallowed roughly around nothing as he studied you, brow furrowed. He ran a hand through his hair with a huff, stepping in and closing the door behind himself. 
Slowly, you raised the hat- and placed it on your own head.
Worth it, you thought to yourself as your lover’s eyes widened in shock as he turned around once more. “Missing something?” You teased, arms crossing over your chest as he studied you.
“That’s my hat.” He stated simply, taking a step forward. “Why did you take it?”
“Maybe I want it.” You shrugged, watching the way his eye twitched at the blatant insubordination you showed. Former Marines, always so strict. You worried your cheek as you glanced away. “I think it looks good, don’t you?”
“It…” He faltered, drawing in a slow breath. “It does look good, yes.” He crossed over to you, reaching out a hand to grasp the hat- only to pause. You were at port. The crew was working on supply runs. Alone on the ship. His hand lowered to tilt your chin up gently, his demeanor shifting as he tilted your head to the left- and then the right. “It suits you well,” he murmured, voice damn near molten gold with the way it poured over you. 
You shuddered, gaze rising to meet his own. “What’s that old saying… Wear the hat, ride the Captain?”
His jaw clenched; the hand on your chin flexed. Got him. “You’re nothing but trouble,” he groaned as his hands smoothed down your sides, hooking in the waistband of your trousers, tugging you closer to himself. “You need to be disciplined. Stealing from your captain…”
“Then do it,” you whispered, leaning in to ghost a kiss along his jaw. “After all, I did steal.”
“Turn around.”
“Yes, sir.”
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bidisastersanji · 5 months
Text
Was thinking about French gendered terms and Zoro trying to suss out if Sanji’s into men and I had some thoughts and oops now i wrote a thing so here you go:
In the early days Zoro drives himself nuts trying to figure out if Sanji bats for his team too or not. He listens in intently whenever the conversation steers the cook towards talk of his past dalliances, but, just his luck, none of the words used indicate their gender. And there ain’t no fucking way in hell he’s asking him or anyone on the crew directly, lest they immediately understand how bad he has it for the stupid cook.
He bides his time, surely someday he’ll slip up and mention something about the people he’s slept with, right? And sure enough one day, at a feast, a drunken Usopp starts asking what people’s types are. His face still schooled into a nonchalant, neutral expression, he does his best to hide how desperately he waits for Sanji to speak up about his type, only to once again be met with more general terms about people- someone with a kind heart, dependable, an equal… he’s so concentrated on trying to pick out any gendered terms he doesn’t notice the weird look Nami throws his way at each new descriptor in Sanji’s list of desirable traits.
He’s always known Sanji speaks French, finding it endearing whenever the cook curses (even at him), whenever he goes into small little rants to himself, or the face he makes when he can only think of a word in French, rapidly snapping his fingers until it comes back to him. But it’s only when they get to a town where Sanji starts speaking to a vendor excitedly about his produce that he realizes just how much this thing, this endearing thing that’s always been there, truly affects him, and his face burns at how different the cook’s voice sounds when he actually speaks it, how enchantingly low and throaty the foreign syllables ring in his ears.
Attached to living another day, he decides that stealing a book from Robin is a bad idea, and resigns himself to ask her directly for a favour. He swallows his pride and asks if she can lend him a French learning book and a dictionary, curious as to whether he can learn it a bit, and understand whatever the hell Sanji keeps cursing and muttering about around him, and what kinds of insults he’s been throwing his way. With her ever mysterious smile plastered on her face, a chain of Robin’s arms retrieve two books from her library and hand them to him. “Do come to me if you have any questions, Mr. Swordsman. My French is pretty good if I do say so myself.”
He’s out of the room, red as a beet, before she even finishes that sentence.
Learning the curse words comes to him unsurprisingly quickly given how often he hears a litany of « putain de merde », « fait chier! » and « enfoiré! » spilling from the blonde’s distracting mouth.
He’s very happily surprised when he learns that French is apparently a heavily gendered language- and that he can glean someone’s gender just from whether the adjectives applied to the subject are masculine or feminine. Now if the stars aligned and the cook would talk about his love life in French…
Zoro starts by going through the basic first chapters, taking great pains to hide and quickly dissimulate it in his haramaki anytime someone walks in on him- especially the witch. It definitely changes his usual routine on his watch in the crows nest, he muses to himself.
Weeks, months pass, and he advances further in the lessons, his vocabulary slowly growing, while he often goes to his dictionary for the more… colorful insults Sanji throws his way. He never says a word of French himself, not knowing how he could even justify knowing any without looking suspicious, and pretty sure his pronunciation would be way off anyways. But he starts to really enjoy it, being able to understand even a tenth of the things Sanji thinks he can say without the crew (save Robin) understanding.
And then Saobaody happens. And now he doesn't have time to think about learning French, not if he wants to get strong enough. Not if he wants to protect his crew.
He's at the table with Mihawk and Perona when his mentor asks for the salt (Passez moi le sel, s'il vous plait), and he executes himself without thinking. A quiet settles over the room and he looks up to see those intense red eyes boring into him, unnerving as ever.
"You speak French?"
"Not really," he grumbles, not wanting more excuses to think of the shitty cook, and his shitty cooking, and his stupid curly brow.
"Then you will. Consider this a natural continuation of my trying to beat some manners into your brutish mind."
Two years later, and he can't wait for dartbrow to show up. His pronunciation may still be shit, but he can't wait to use his newfound skill to his advantage.
With his now solidified grasp of the language, he slowly begins to understand that what he at first though was a mistake on his part- that he must’ve missed a part of a sentence, or mixed up some words- was not an error at all. It turns out, some of the French things that Sanji yells at him aren’t insults at all.
In fact… they’re sometimes downright complimentary.
And that's definitely a problem for Zoro, who now not only needs to keep pretending that he doesn’t know what Sanji is saying, but needs to pretend he doesn’t understand it when Sanji screams at him that he has a “stupidly pretty face” or that his “tits are even bigger than Nami’s and how is that even fair” . He doesn't know what to make of it.
And then one day… the stars align.
It’s another post battle party, and the cook has been drinking a bit more than usual, a tightly gripped glass of wine in his left hand, a cigarette in his right. Zoro is nursing his very own barrel of Ale when he hears the conversation turn to more gossipy topics, as it usually does the further into the night they are.
“Chopper was really into that nurse on Zou, wasn’t he?” Usopp starts to poke fun at the crew’s youngest member, laughing as the reindeer turns all red and tries to deny it.
“I mean it makes sense that she’d be his type! Right Nami?”
Nami nods at him, grinning wickedly. “Yeah, not all of us can be into rich little blonde girls can we?”
“You’re right, some of us are into rich blue-haired princesses,” he shoots back.
"At least I had the balls to do something about it before I left her island-"
Zoro is already tuning them out when Sanji sits down next to Robin just a few feet away, across from him and the campfire, his tongue loosened from a few too many refills and unconsciously reverting to his native tongue.
"Ils ont de la chance, ces deux là." he gestures to Usopp and Nami. (They're lucky, these two.)
Robin smiles at the cook, wordlessly prompting him to continue his thoughts.
"Qu'est ce que je donnerais pour pouvoir avoir quelque chose de plus qu'un coup d'un soir." Sanji sighs wistfully, lighting his cigarette. (What I wouldn't give to have something more than a one night stand.")
Robin chuckles. "Ne sont-ils pas satisfaisants?" (Are they not satisfying?)
At this point Zoro has tuned everything out, intensely focused on hearing what the blonde has to say, and not at all feeling a small churn of jealousy in his stomach for whoever shared Sanji's bed. His heart initially skips a beat at the plural masculine pronoun ('ils') used by Robin before remembering its actual neutrality in this context, as it's referring to the ""one night stands", a masculine word. Damnit. French is so dumb.
"Tu sais bien que je ne dirais jamais de mal à propos des belles demoiselles qui ont bien voulu m'accorder ne serait-ce qu'un baiser ou une étreinte. J'ai de la chance rien que d'avoir pu exister en leur présence."
(You very well know I'd never say a bad word about any of the beautiful ladies who've been kind enough to give me even a kiss or an embrace. I'm lucky just to have existed in their presence.)
Zoro feels his heart drop, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach. He's always known the pervert cook has been into women. Why was this confirmation hitting him the way it was? His eye darts up at his two crewmates, confirming that only Robin has noticed his eavesdropping. She opens her mouth to say something but Sanji continues, the glow of the flames dancing against his flushed skin beautifully.
"Et dans mon état normal tu sais que, par respect pour les sensibilités d'une dame, je ne te divulge pas beaucoup de détails sur ceux qui font l'affaire le temps d'une nuit. "
(And in my normal state you know that, out of respect for a lady's sensibilities, I don't divulge many details about those who do the trick for a night.)
Ceux. That's a masculine word for "those", isn't it? Zoro shakily takes another sip of his drink.
The archeologist's smile widens. "Oh, ne te fait pas de soucis pour mes sensibilités. Je brûle d'envie d'en savoir plus, et ne m'épargne pas les détails..."
(Oh, please don't worry about my sensibilities. I'm burning to know more, and don't spare me the details...)
"Je ne suis que ton humble serviteur...si ça peut te faire plaisir" (I'm but your humble servant…if it pleases you). Sanji's cheeks seem a tad more flushed than before. "En vrai ce n'est pas qu'ils ne sont pas satisfaisants...c'est qu'il ne sont jamais... assez."
(It's not that they're not satisfying…it's that they're never...enough.)
"Ah? Et que recherches tu? Qu'est ce qui serait..."assez"?"
(Ah? And what are you looking for? What would be… "enough"?)
The cook exhales another cloud of smoke, and nervously looks around. His eyes settle on Zoro, and indecision flits across his eyes for a second before continuing. Zoro can feel his gaze, can almost make out the deliciously unfocused expression on the blonde's face in his peripheral vision as he continues speaking French. His heart feels like it might beat out of his ribcage.
"Lui." (Him.)
Zoro forgets how to breathe.
Part 2 up now , and part 3 part 4
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meidiary · 6 months
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( 📁 ) THEY ENTERTAIN ANOTHER WOMAN FOR TOO LONG
synopsis: instead of them being jealous, this time you are because of their attention being focused on someone else 🤧
characters: zoro, luffy & sanji!
warnings: female terms used in zoro's & sanji's <3, nicknames + swearing, angst for sanji
mei's note: my previous post had an accidental angsty ending for luffy so i'll be posting a happy one soon! <3
⟶ @ahseyy request: ... And i have this idea 🤧 we had that the OP boys are jealous, sooooo obviously we need that Yn is jealous! ...
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☆ "they're just friends!" usopp's words kept ringing in your mind as you stare at ZORO and his ex-girlfriend.. you and the rest of the strawhat crew had stopped sailing, planning to settle a bit on the island you came across. oh, how you deeply regret telling luffy that "this seems like a good place for us to stay in and regain our energy!" now you're stuck witnessing this situation play out, having you completely engrossed in it.
☆ usopp, having a sixth sense for drama, immediately noticed the lack of your presence as a result of you spying observing zoro and his ex.
☆ "are you done spying on your boyfriend?" he chuckles seeing your startled expression. "i'm not spying on him! i'm just-" you see her playfully slap his bicep, earning a displeased look on your face. "why is he even speaking to her for so long? it's not like they left at the best terms.." you blurt out, sighing after seeing usopp's sly smirk.
☆ you know he thinks you're an obsessively jealous person, but you can't find it in you to care because there she goes touching him again! the worst of it all is that zoro doesn't seem to be bothered by it.. your eyebrows furrow as you keep witnessing them smiling way too much, standing way too close, being way too touchy, and the worst of all; they're talking way too soft for you to eavesdrop!
"that's it, i'm going over there!" you utter annoyed, dropping the mop you were holding for the past 15 minutes, having made little to no progress at cleaning the ship's floor. usopp, taken aback, dashes to stand in front of you, blocking the exit of the ship. "are you out of your mind? don't you understand you'll be labeled as the most controlling girlfriend ever?! just- sit this confrontation out alright?" he let's out a sigh of relief, feeling he prevented a major fight to go down, not only between you and zoro, but possibly also between you and zoro's ex..
usopp was right, you know he was, but you couldn't bother thinking straight while you were still seeing that woman being handsy with your man. fuming, you gaze at the two, loathing the almost non-existent space there was between them. "i'm so done," you mutter upset. "please take over cleaning for me today, usopp.." you left to your room and plopped down on your bed, trying to put all your intrusive thoughts to rest.
but of course you couldn't after having seen that interaction between the two. were you exaggerating? was this normal? is it wrong for you to feel this way? this fuming feeling is causing you so much distress. it's like your thoughts are eating you up from the inside. you don't want to feel this way, like you're the one at fault, like you're not enough, like you'll never be enough.. right after that thought crept up out of the darkest pits of your brain, you heard a knock on your, now locked, bedroom door. "baby? you alright?.. why's the door locked-? baby?" you recognize zoro's voice immediately, mentally being stuck between picking the easy choice: ignoring him and bottling up your feelings, or the hard one: facing him and talk to him about your current thoughts..
unbeknownst to you, you unconsciously chose the former option. you open the door and look him in his eyes, hiding as much of your feelings possible. "what?" he furrows his brows, confused by your cold welcome before he remembers usopp warning him you weren't in a good mood because of his overfriendly encounter with his ex. "is this about her?" he chuckles before shaking his head slightly, in disbelief you'd be this bothered by someone from his past. "so what if it is?! is it so weird for me to be upset some woman is being all handsy with you?! and is it suprising that i got bothered even more by you not minding her touching you? is it that weird, zoro? 'cause if it is, please, do tell me!" you blurt out, almost all in one breath, before slamming the door shut.
you weren't planning on letting it out, you didn't want to bother, assuming he'd just brush it off as you exaggerating.. you didn't expect him to open the door you aggressively slammed in his face, so soon. you didn't expect him to, when he saw you leant on the wall with furrowed brows and a trembling upper lip, grab you by the waist and pull you closer to him, so close there was barely anything between you at all.. and least of all did you expect him to grab your chin, raising it so you looked him in the eyes while he told you "if i gave one shit about her, would i be here right now? tell me, if i didn't care about you at all, then why would i tell her i'm not interested in getting back together with her when she asked? why would i tell her i finally found someone that i want to spend the rest of my life with? shit, as cheesy as it sounds, it's true, baby.. i can't imagine being with anyone else except you. so please, don't you get jealous about girls i don't give a damn about."
you send him a soft smile, leaning your forehead on him. "don' know who told you i was jealous.. but you got to get better sources 'cause i for sure wasn't jealous.." zoro scoffs letting out a "yeah, right."
☆ needless to say you two made up and cuddled for the rest of the day.
☆ that would be the end.. but of course usopp had to bug you.. "hey! i took over your cleaning today, so you better take over mine for the next week.." usopp pleaded, with both his hands on his hips. "out." zoro mumbled into your neck, expecting him to comply instantly. "but-!" usopp began to bicker, before getting interrupted by zoro. "now." you accidentally let out a giggle, swiftly moving your hand to cover your mouth right after. "whatever! i will be back, considering this debt!" with that usopp leaves the room, leaving you two alone, enjoying the comfortable silence.
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☆ SANJI is a womanizer, that's no shocking discovery. you've know about this fact since the moment you met him. he was charming you up while asking everyone's drinks and then he went off, flirting with another woman on his way back to the kitchen. that moment you learned that this was sanji. but there's also the caring sanji that'd make you a warm soup when you're sick, tending to your needs yet still somehow find away to make you blush whilst laughing with him. in addition to the caring sanji, there also is the determined sanji; whenever he'd speak about finding the all blue, and all the meals he would cook, all the different fish he would see, you could swear you saw his eyes glistening with adoration and resolve. further, intellectual sanji heavily plays a role in your daily life; happily helping you with mundane chores to the most exciting adventures you and your fellow strawhats go on. he fills you in on books he's read, food he's cooked, ingredients he's used, products he's bought and much more!
☆ you could go on and on, daydreaming of all sanji's positive personality traits, but you're all time favorite would have to be considerate sanji.. the way he could immediately sense from you that you weren't feeling like your usual self still amazes you. how he always chooses the right moments to bring you a freshly brewed cup of tea with your favorite desert right next to it, which you have know idea how he had the time nor ingredients for. how he treats you like a princes and tells you how much you mean to him in so many different ways when you feel absolutely miserable. and, oh, how he always knows when to embrace you tightly and whisper sweet nothings into your ear, until it becomes numb.
☆ so with all that, you accepted him being a womanizer, having the seemingly perpetuous habits of bantering with other women. you always wondered if he'd stop flirting with so many women if you asked him to.. but then the thought that you two were nothing and wouldn't be anything else than friends hit you.
☆ nevertheless, seeing his cheeky smile being sent to some random woman, seeing him subtly sling his arm around her waist as he guids her to the dance floor, seeing him lean closer to her every minute, it was killing you, no more like slowly scraping you from the inside, the bottled up pain waiting for you to finally burst open.
you've been eyeing them the whole night, not once taking your eyes off of them or bothering to answer usopp's rants with more than a 'mhm,' or a 'hmm'. "have you listened to a word i said?!" usopp voiced suddenly, turning the strawhats' complete attention to you. "mhm.." absent-minded, you nod hearing him say something, but not comprehending the words he spoke.
"see, told you she wasn't paying attention," usopp leaned back against his seat after pulling up his shoulders, indicating he was right about you not paying attention to what anyone was saying. zoro, being the one seated next to you, tapped your shoulder, earning a "hm?" from you. getting annoyed by your negligence, he shifted his gaze to the direction you were looking in, finally understanding what the issue was.
to clarify your absent-mindness, zoro nudged his head towards sanji and his date. his date, who was sat on his lap at this point, making the knot in your stomach grow substantially. seeing his arm wrap around her hips as she leaned on him was your final stroke, your last straw. it was your breaking point.. you've reached, no, you've long surpassed your limit for these shenanigans, but right now, this very moment you finally break.
you suddenly feel a rush of tears burn your eyes, overwhelmed with your thoughts and emotional distress. you jump up, hurriedly leaving the club room you were in, not wanting anyone to see you in your current state. you desperately search for a private area where you can cry yourself out of this situation without having people judge you. but you notice the whole place is packed with couples who can't keep their hands off of each other, except the balcony, so you shakingly make your way to the cold space.
all of a sudden, you hear someone's heavy breathing behind you. "darling? what's the matter? what happened?!" sanji. he asks you breathlessly, due to him running after you. you quickly tried to wipe your tears away, but they kept coming! making you feel even more hysterical. "hey, hey now -" sanji notices your crying, he turns you around, his arms moving from your arms down to your waist, pulling you closer to him. "talk to me, sweetheart.. please, just talk to me.." he pleads, moving his face closer to yours.
"i- i can't- do- it!" you babbled in-between sobs. "what, darling? who did this to you?" sanji moves his hands to your cheeks, pulling your face to his, carefully. "you..! you're killing me!" he furrows his brows in confusion. once you calmed down, you slowly tore one of his hands off your face. "i can't keep seeing you with others, sanji.. it really fucking hurts! i- i just can't-" you push him away a little, "i can't keep bottling it up sanji.. i'm done.."
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☆ he didn't even mean to.. he was just being friendly, he was cracking jokes, making sure she was feeling calm and at peace, he asked sanji to get her something to snack, he was being luffy..
☆ normally, you'd swoon over him whenever he'd be in this caring mood of his. but not this time, no. this time, you were close to glowing green out of envy. you shouldn't be feeling this way, you know that. you trust luffy with your everything! it just hits you in the wrong place whenever he leans towards her when she speaks. it's like you can feel your heart cramp up each time she looks up at him and smiles, receiving his usual toothy grin in return.
☆ she was lost, abandoned at sea by her very own family. at least that's the bit you picked from usopp dramatically narrating her lifestory. is it heartless that all you could think of was that you hoped, the strawhats and you would drop her off at the very next island, wish her luck with her life, and continue your journeys? knowing luffy, that's the last thing that would happen. no, it's not even on the list of things he would ever consider! your thoughts made you feel absolutely terrible. you weren't a bad person, so why were you being so uncaring towards this poor girl who had lost so much? envy. jealousy can bring out the absolute worst in people. the lowest of a person's nature gets drawn out someone. and that someone now, was you.
you tried to stay away from her, not wanting to accidentally lash out. you felt bad for her, you did, but you also how far you could go, when jealousy takes apart in decision-making. so you avoid her, and just like that, you were also avoiding luffy. because for some reason, he was always near her, always. it's like he was scared she'd run away?
luffy noticed. but he didn't know the reason you were avoiding her. he's always optimistic and cheerful, so everyone expects him to always be exactly that, except you. you were there for him, allowing him to have bad days. he didn't have to hide his feelings or emotions. it was a relief for him to find someone like you, someone he lived so dearly, who lived him back just as much. it was refreshing, calming, delightful. what happened? what did he do? was he too much? or did he do too little to show you he cares so much, that he'd give you the world if you asked for it. he'd go to the moon and back for you. he doesn't know how, but he'd find a way. and now he lost you? that can't be true. it can't. he won't accept it!
that's how you got in your current situation; his face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hands holding you tightly by your waist, mumbling something about how good you smell.
you had told him the reason you were avoiding was because of your sudden jealousy. he laughed for a good 10 minutes about how ridiculous you were to think of something like that! but in his mind, oh, how relieved he was that you weren't avoiding him because you fell out of love with him. it was because you were too in love with him..
☆ you two ended up having a picnic on deck, trying to keep usopp and chopper away from your neatly set up meals prepared by sanji (duh)
☆ luffy kept teasing you about how jealous you were and that you love him too much for your own good. acting like he wasn't on the verge of being a crying mess because he thought he lost you 🙄
☆ he kept giving you nose tip smooches while telling you you'll never lose him <3
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MEI'S NOTE: so, uhm yeah sanji's part was definitely something...
... hope you enjoyed!! <3
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feirceangel · 6 months
Text
Imagine | Lost (Zoro)
Imagine getting lost with Zoro.
Word Count: 1,604
Warnings: hurt/comfort
~
(Gif is not mine!)
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Things haven't gone according to plan. Of course, that's the norm when you're traveling with Luffy and the rest of the Strawhats. Each crew member has their own quirks, but sometimes everyone manages to stay relatively on track.
Except for Zoro.
The green haired swordsman is notorious for his directional challenges. He even gets lost on his own ship, that's how hopeless his sense of direction is.
So, when everyone splits up to search for the current treasure of the day, you watch with a chuckle as Zoro immediately storms off in the wrong direction.
Huffing with laughter, you race to catch up with him. You trail beside him until he notices and raises a brow at you.
"Huh, what're you doing? We're supposed to split up."
"Oops," you grin at him, chuckling at his exasperated sigh.
He doesn't stop walking, "Go away."
"No."
"I'm serious.”
"Whatcha gonna do? Stick me with your big sword?" You hide your laugh behind your hand as his ears turn beet red.
"If you're gonna follow me, at least shut your mouth," he grumbles.
Smirking at your victory, you subtly start walking a bit closer to him, eyes roaming the area for any potential threats or treasures.
If he notices how close you are, he doesn't comment. He's also on the lookout for danger, hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword.
You've always admired how ready for a fight his is- never letting his guard down. Even when he's 'napping', he's still paying attention to his surroundings.
You've tried a few times to prank him when you thought he was fast asleep but failed every single time. He seems to be able to sense your proximity every time you get within five meters of him.
Even now, as you walk in close proximity, you can't help but admire him. His tall posture and alert eyes that peer  into the forest. His soft green hair slightly tousled from the wind.
"You're staring," his voice bears a tinge of smugness, making you whip your head the opposite way.
"Was not."
"Was too."
"I wasn't. I don't know why you'd even think that," you cross your arms and turn to look at him again. "Not like there's much to look at."
Your tone and smirk betray your lies, Zoro unable to stop from smirking along with your teasing.
"Really? Nothing at all?"
"Of course, I'd never ogle at you and your well trained muscles."
He smirks, turning away from you.
It's been like this since you were welcomed into the Strawhat Crew, easy banter between you and the swordsman. After you had proven your loyalty to Luffy that is. You believe Zoro values loyalty above all else.
Zoro had warmed up to you more than he had some of the others.
There'd been an unspoken tension between you: lingering glances and touches mingled with flirtatious words and playful gestures.
He'd let you drag him into drinking contests (which you always lost), nap beside him, and even join his workouts.
And you'd always tease him (backing off immediately when you noticed that he had enough), and steered him in the right direction when he got horribly lost.
Like right now.
"Zoro, I'm pretty sure we have to go left here," you point out.
"I knew that," he grumbles and alters his course. "I was just scouting the area."
"Uh-huh."
"I was!"
Laughing, you hop onto a large fallen tree that blocks your path. You turn to taunt Zoro a bit more, but you pause as a loud shot rings out.
Sudden pain shoots through your leg as blood splatters around you. You crumble down off the log, saved from a hard landing by strong arms.
Stunned, you look up into Zoro's eyes.
"You're alright," he says firmly as he sets you down against the tree. "It just got you in the leg."
Dumbly, you stare into his face, barely registering his words or his angered expression.
"You stay here and I'll be right back."
You nod, unable to do much more. As you watch him leave, you meekly call out to him, "Don't you dare get lost."
~
He didn't get lost, to your immense surprise.
By now, the shock has worn off and the pain has really kicked in. The bullet went straight through the meat of your leg, luckily not shattering bone. But you will need Chopper to get a better look and bandage it properly.
Right now you're using a strip of your shirt as a makeshift bandage and it's already soaked through. As Zoro does a second assessment.
"You're fine."
You glare at him, "I'm in pain."
"You'll live."
"Good thing, cause if I didn’t I'd haunt your ass!"
Shaking his head, he crouches in front of you, "Can you walk at least?"
You level a deadpan stare at him.
He sighs heavily, "Guess I'll just have to carry you then."
"No, no way."
"It's either that or you walk."
"You need your hands to fight in case there's more enemies," you reason. "Can't use your swords if you're carrying me."
"I'll just set you down."
"No, you'd drop me. And I don't want to be dropped right now," you fire back.
He stands up straight and glares down at you.
"What if you carry me on your shoulders?" You suggest. "That way your arms will be free and you can still fight."
"Fine," he agrees.
You wince as you stand on your uninjured leg, motioning for him to bend down so you can get your legs on his shoulders. He obliges and you precariously manage to seat yourself on his shoulders.
He stands without a problem, steadying you with one hand on your thigh.  Pain floods your sense for a second but it is quick to fade as you realize something.
You realize the extent of the compromising position you've put yourself in.
You're on top of Zoro's shoulders, hands on his head to steady yourself as he grips your thigh with his broad hand.
You flush with embarrassment. Beneath you, you can see the dusting of a blush across Zoro's ears and cheeks.
"Thank you for this," you say, unsure of what to do with your hands. The desire to run your fingers through his hair is immense and it takes all your will power to not act on it.
"I appreciate it, Zoro."
He grunts, "Just don't get injured again and we'll call it even."
"Hey, I didn't wanna be shot!"
"You made yourself an easy target!"
"I thought we were alone!"
"You should've known better!"
"I can't believe you're blaming me right now," you say in exasperating. "By the way, you're going north and the ship is to the south."
He grumbles beneath you but does switch his course to follow where you pointed. You wince every so often as he jostles you.
"Sorry," he says, very uncharacteristically.
Surprised, you lean over to stare into his face.
"For what?"
"I should've sensed that sniper but I was distracted," he grits his teeth in annoyance. "If I had seen him, you wouldn't have been hurt."
"Distracted?" You raise a brow, "You were distracted?"
"Don't-"
"Was it me that distracted you?" You grin, forgetting your pain. "Were you perhaps staring at me?"
"Forget I said anything."
"Too late! Admit it, you were checking me out."
His delightful blush is back in full force, "Was not! I was making sure you didn't fall."
You pat his cheek, "Well, you did catch me when I fell. And I guess I fell for you."
He stumbles slightly, making you laugh and cry out in pain at the same time.
"Watch your step Rorozo," you smack him lightly on the head.
"Don't call me that."
"Never," you run your hand over his hair, "I think you secretly like it."
He doesn't say anything and neither do you. Despite your injury, you are enjoying the moment of closeness between you and the swordsman.
It's moments like these that lighten your heart and bring a smile to your face.
His hand shifts over your thigh, "Maybe I do like it. This."
"Me?" You add softly, tracing patterns through his soft hair.
"Maybe."
"Well, maybe I do too," you bend down and press a kiss to his forehead. "Like you."
His hand tightens on your leg, his other hand coming up to caress your hair in a rare display of physical affection.
"Y'know, Sanji's gonna faint when he sees us like this," you chuckle, imagining his reaction.
"Maybe that stupid love-cook will finally leave you alone."
"Sanji? Stop fawning over a drop dead gorgeous woman? It's unlikely."
Zoro reads his head up to try and glare at you, making you wince as you jolt your injured leg.
"Don't worry Rorozo- I only have eyes for you."
At that confession, he stops in his tracks.
"That's it."
He lowers you to the ground, your confusion growing. Weren't you both on the same page just a second ago?
You're not on the ground for long though, as Zoro picks you up bridal-style and stares into your eyes.
"When you say things like that," he tsks, "I want to shut you up."
Before you can ask what he means, he presses his lips against yours, hard.
He breaks away far too soon, “That’s better.”
“If that’s how you’re gonna do it, you can shut me up anytime,” you grin, lean your head against him.
Wrapped up in his warm embrace, you’ve forgotten all about the pain in your leg…
Or the fact that Zoro is once again walking in the wrong direction.
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plutoswritingplanet · 7 months
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You Started It pt. 2(Buggy The Clown x F!Reader)
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a/n: GMFU, that's all i have to say. this chapter was strongly inspired by the song Shikayat from the movie Gangubai Kathiawadi,
Warnings: General Asshole Behavior from The Man Of The Hour, Hostage Situation, Light Bondage (lmao), Some Good Old Smexual Tension.
Summary: The time for your great performance finally arrives, but the culmination will surprise both you and your captor.
Part 1.
You awake to the sound of music. Drums, trumpets and bells fill your ears, shaking you from some pleasant dream, where you could run free with your brother and his crew. Instead, your forehead aches from the way the bars of your prison dug into it, while you slept. Your legs are sore as well, dangling above the floor, wooden planks leaving marks on your thighs. Your joints crack, as you try to straighten yourself to the best of your capacity, an unpleasant shiver running up your back. Groggily, you wipe left-over tears from your eyes. The music wires itself into your brain, like a bug drilling inside your skull.
Then, someone yells. You know the voice all too well. The music stops immediately, and with a quickened pulse, you hear footsteps approaching the door to the backroom.
He waltzes in, a spring in his step betraying his barely contained excitement. It's been a week since your faithful conversation, and you haven't been moved from your spot above ground. Like a bird in a cage, he has kept you locked, visiting even more often than before. To feed you, give you some water, drink in the sight of you, pester you with questions you had no intention of answering. Truly, your purpose here must've shifted from solely being a Hostage, to providing Entertainment. Just like he's said when you first got here.
"Hostage!" he exclaims, as soon, as the door closes behind him.
"Captain" you answer, voice tired and still traced with the remnants of sleep. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He's not bothered by your sarcasm. You're not sure if he even registered it, with his giddy state.
"Today's your big day!" he jumps a few steps in your direction, wobbling on the balls of his feet,
At your confused, if slightly annoyed expression, he raises his hands, and that's when you notice the elephant in the room. A costume, folded neatly in his arms, one, you're without a doubt expected to wear. It's pink, baby pink and frilly to say the least. You can see an ungodly amount of ruffles, and sequins, and small golden bells. It makes your face involuntarily scrunch up. Never in a million years you'd be caught wearing such a pink thing of your own accord. But, as much as you hate the sight before you, the show must go on. You know it, and he most definitely knows so, too.
You flinch, when the Clown throws the costume to the side, lets it collide onto the table, bells ringing loudly. Then, he produces a key from the pocket of his trousers
"Be good, or else" he warns, and you nod, because what else can you do.
The soft click of the lock is like music to your ears, and as soon as the man opens the door, you nearly moan at the feeling of your legs finally being able to stretch. He watches from the side, as you unfurl yourself from the cage, limb by limb. Oh, the feeling of solid ground under your feet is almost too much
"I really cooped you up in there…" he muses to himself, and you contain the venomous look you were about to throw him.
Instead, you opt for stretching out your sore muscles, rising your hands as far above your head as you possibly can, and try to ignore the spark in his eyes, as he watches your shirt ride up your stomach, Finally, he clears his throat, crosses the room to the table and gathers the costume back in his arms
"Don't take long" he winks and points his chin towards the dressing room screen, tucked away against one of the walls.
Grabbing the amassing of fabric from his arms, and trying really hard not to touch him, you retreat to hide behind it. The screen is big enough to cover your body, but your head peeks above, and you shoot a cautious look towards the clown. To his credit, he hasn't moved any closer, rummaging through one of the chests at the end of the room. Your eyes catch a glimpse of something metallic and very sharp, disappearing into the inside pocket of his coat, and your heart jumps to your throat.
Your hands now shaking, you lay out the fabric, trying to get a good look at the costume, before you have to inevitably put it on your body. As you look at the full garb, it doesn't look as intimidating, as before. The ruffles, although pink and obnoxious, are flowing nicely with the entirety of the outfit. It is, however, much more revealing, than you've anticipated, and against your better judgement, you throw a single, judgy look towards the Clown, who immediately catches your eye at the other side of the screen
"Chop-chop, we haven't got all day" he smiles at you, full teeth on display.
Shaking your head, you begin to undress, movements slightly skittish, from the sudden anxiety running up your spine. The outfit slides against your body with ease, the fit being slightly too big on your figure. The expanse of your stomach lays bare, ruffles from the hem of the skimpy top tickling your ribs. Your legs are also, almost completely exposed, the lower half of the costume turning out to be a skirt with rather deep cutouts on the sides. It's a shame you don't have a mirror anywhere nearby, although perhaps it's for the best. You don't know if you could stomach to look at yourself in this ridiculous getup
"Ready, Hostage?" his voice startles you against your will, and after a couple of deep breaths, you step out from behind the screen.
His face remains blank, but his eyes feverishly run all across your body, taking in the image in utter silence. Again, anxiety rises in your gut, this time however, you begin to worry that somehow, this isn't enough. That this isn't the vision he has conjured up in his head, and anything deviating from his vision was sure to anger him beyond belief. You bite your lip in anticipation, as he slowly starts to walk towards you. Then, to your utter confusion, he kneels down just in front of you.
Silence envelops the two of you like a blanket made of tar. It pours into your lungs, making you unable to breathe. His hands are steady, as he reaches out and places them on one of your ankles. Your mismatched shoe slides off your foot under his gentle tug. Then, the other one. Your bare feet hit the floor and that's when you realize, you've begun to shiver
"The audience will love you" he breathes, voice quiet and reserved, almost unrecognizable from his regular, flashy persona.
Then, his hands retract to the inside of his coat. Your breath hitches, as he pulls out a golden cuff adorned with the same, small bells, which are currently attached to the rest of your outfit. Your brows furrow, and another, unexplainable feeling blossoms in your stomach, as you watch him lean down to clasp the cuff around your ankle, the second one following closely behind. His hands linger for a moment, and another surge of trembles runs through you. He's warm, and his fingers are calloused, but somehow, your skin doesn't seem to mind. If anything, you'd risk saying the way he softly slides his digits up your calf is enjoyable. Troubling and confusing, yes, but enjoyable nonetheless.
You sway in your place, as he rises from his knees
"Give me your hands, Hostage" since when has this nickname become so affectionate on his lips, you can't remember.
One part of your brain reasons, that it's a recent development, caused by the time you were forced to spend in his grasp. The other, more treacherous part supplies, that this strange intonation has been there from the very start. You were just too stubborn to notice it.
The tremors running through your hands, as you raise them to present to him, are honestly embarrassing. Your head hangs low, to shield your face from his gaze. It's no use, he can see right through you. The flush in your cheeks, your mouth falling slightly open, the shine in your eyes. He eats it up like a man starved. Reactions, that's what he's after, and with the way you've been acting, you've given him quite the show already.
It's quiet again, safe for the occasional jingle of the bells, as he gently locks two bracelets around your wrists, identical to the ones on your feet. His fingers toy with the golden clasp, brushing against your running pulse. Tension builds in your stomach, as his eyes finally look up to yours. You would've believed you were solitary in your confusing feelings, if his breath didn't come out in quick gasps through his painted lips. Lips, which in this quiet moment seem much too appetizing than they had any right to be.
"You look perfect" his breath brushes against your face, "There's just one little thing, that's missing, Hostage."
Your brows scrunch together, as you watch him reach into his pocket yet again. A beautiful silken scarf slides between his palms. It's pink as well, adorned with constellations stitched in with a shiny thread. Your confusion deepens, when he grabs your hand and turns your wrist up. Then, your heart drops.
Between the rows of small bells, you can see a golden loop attached to the cuff, identical looking back at you from your other wrist. You try to voice your protest, try to wring out your hand, but his grip on you tightens, and he tuts quietly under his breath.
"Can't have you flying away now, can I?" he weaves the scarf between the loops, and ties your hands together, leaving the fabric to drape in between
"How the hell do you expect me to perform with my hands tied?" your voice comes out much weaker than you've anticipated, betraying your growing fear.
To that, he looks up with a grin, yet his eyes remain cold, causing your whole body to shiver.
"You're a smart girl, you'll figure it out."
His finger detaches again, flying towards your nose and pushing it hard enough to make your entire face scrunch up. Then, he grabs a handful of the fabric, tugs on it to check the binds, and starts walking towards the door, not sparing you as much as a glance. And you follow, obediently, trying to make his head explode with your brain.
It's your fault, really, the feeling of disappointment and anger swirling around in your head. All this sudden quiet intimacy has clouded your judgement, and you've forgotten who you're truly dealing with. Oh, how you wish you could do anything to hurt him. How you wish, your brother would rescue you already, free you from this prison, not only physically, but mentally as well, so you won't have to think about this stupid, homicidal clown ever again.
If he senses you fuming behind him, he doesn't comment. And why would he? You're still following him, as he drags you through the stage, right to the middle of your future dance floor.
Your eyes dart around the place, trying to find anything, anyone, who could help you escape this predicament. To your surprise, and later, horror, the Circus is completely empty. Not a soul shares your fate. Not the public, not his Freaks, not even the Announcer. The silence makes goosebumps erupt all across your flesh, and words get stuck in your throat, as Buggy turns to face you with an unsettling grin plastered across his lips.
"I thought a private performance would be much more appropriate for you, my Hostage" his smile widens at your expression.
You want to scream at him, punch him in his stupid face, but all you can manage is glare daggers at his stupid face. Suddenly, the lights flicker on, startling you, as beams of light flow around you, only to fall right on the two of you. Buggy grabs your face, squishing your cheeks between his palms. His enthusiasm would be contagious, if you weren't scared shitless by this entire situation.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to a one-of-a-kind performance" he whispers inches from your face, "My dearest Hostage will dance for her life… and for your entertainment."
He lets go of you, forcefully showing you away, and you take a step back to stabilize yourself. The lights focus solely on you, and in the brightness surrounding you, you realize, you can't see anything besides the middle of the dance floor. Cackling like a madman, the Clown steps back, his hands clasped in front of his chest. You almost call out for him, as he slides into the shadows, but any sound dies on your tongue.
You're alone, again. Your breath quickens, as your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. This is not at all how you've envisioned this performance to go. Well, above all things, you didn't expect it would happen at all. Your brother should have freed you by now, and while you had your utmost faith in him, you couldn't shake the feeling of deeply seated worry. Which is why, you had to endure this torture. So you can see your brother again, when he finally comes for you. With a determined expression, you nod your head at the darkness and raise your hands, getting into, what you hope would look, like a dancing stance.
He holds you in anticipation for a moment longer, as any great showman should. And then, music floods the stadium. Bells and violins, distorted slightly by what you assume is an old gramophone. You recognize the song, thankfully, your face falling slightly, as you remember the meaning. A love song, of course, about hatred and affection. Bitter-sweet. Your limbs feel heavy and awkward, but you start to move nonetheless.
He wants a private show? You'll give him one, he won't forget.
The rhythm picks up and so do the movements of your hips. Bells jingle all around you, as you slide from one place to another, clouds of dust flying around your feet. The scarf turns out to be a major distraction, as you're unused to being bound. It takes you a while to get the hang of it, but once you do, you make the fabric dance with you, flowing around your body with satisfying grace. The song becomes even faster, and you twist and turn, ruffles jumping, as you run, accompanied by the bells. Your feet start to hurt from the roughness of the floor, but you ignore it completely.
The song drops before the second verse, and you follow the rhythm to the floor. Using all the acrobatics you've picked up through the years, you begin to writhe in the sand, adding a clap and a stomp, bells jingling to the music. That's when you finally see him, crouched down right in front you, watching your dance with a tilt to his head and something terrifying swirling behind his eyes. It makes you falter in your choreography, makes your guts twist with a feeling too close to arousal.
Then, a glint of something silver catches your eye. It swishes through the air, and plants itself right between your legs. A knife. Sharp and polished to perfection, it embeds itself into the wooden floor, splinters flying from the impact. The scream you let out would make a Banshee cringe, as you push yourself as far as you can from the weapon
"Now, now" Buggy calls out across from you, his silhouette barely visible in the darkness" The show must go on, Hostage."
He sounds terrifying, like some demon from your darkest dreams. But the music still plays, and you'll be damned, if this is what takes you down. So, you wipe your forehead with the silk scarf, contort your body and stand up, straight as a chord. Now, it's no longer a simple performance. Your blood boils inside you, fear giving space to anger and, strangely, some sort of misplaced ambition. You want to impress him, you want to make him frustrated, angry. Dust flows around you, as you resume your dance, movements much more confident, violent even.
He stalks you from the shadows, producing another knife from his pocket. It shines, when he lets it fly in your direction, but you don't even flinch, when it swishes right by your ear. Then another, grazes your torso, as you bend backwards. This one nicks you right below your ribs. You can feel blood running down the length of your stomach. No matter. Your eyes still follow him, and he steps closer to the light. Another knife, inches from your left foot. And closer he stalks. You can see the tips of his shoes enter the spotlight.
That's all it takes for you to make a decision. You won't play this torturous game any longer, and as the music nears its climax, you close the remaining distance between the two of you, hands flying to the collar of his shirt, fisting it tightly.
You're panting, so is he, as you stare at each other, all innocence gone from your respective expressions. Fury, oh, fury, you're not sure if you want to kill him, or kiss him, and as he produces one last knife from his pocket, the sentiment seems to be mutual
"You started it" a growl frees itself from the depths of your chest, and under your tight grip on his shirt, he shudders violently.
There's heat pooling into those blue eyes irises of his, enveloping you completely in the moment. But then, his eyes follow your scowl down to your lips, and you realize, you've never tasted face paint. What an interesting experience it would be.
This moment of tension is broken almost immediately, as clouds of smoke fill the tent, seemingly out of nowhere. Suddenly, something yanks you backwards by your arm, something puts a knife in your hand and something yells for you to run. So you do, you turn from the Clown, his figure drowned in smoke, and you run as fast as you can, without looking back. He screams some words you're too scared to decipher, his voice breaking. A disembodied hand flies in your direction, but you dodge it expertly. One more tug from the hand gripping your arm, and you fall through a thick curtain.
The sun outside the Circus tent blinds you, nearly making you lose your footing, but a pair of strong arms hold you in place, and a familiar head of ginger hair turns around to face you
"Come on, the ship is not far" Nami yells, and you can't contain the smile blossoming on your lips.
The Hostage, freed at last… Or so she hopes
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floralsandthesauce · 7 months
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Clown Acrobatics
Live Action Buggy the Clown
First time meeting Buggy it was your “audition” or desire to be apart of his circus pirate crew
You dressed the part in a bustier beaded with small red gems and fishnet tights, something that would catch anyone’s eyes You wanted his eyes, the crazed yet a soothing blue ocean The finishing touch was the clown makeup that adorned your face, you would be his pirate queen
After all, imitation is the best form of flattery You did acrobatics stunts all your life in the town square getting extra coin here and there and figured you’d be good enough to join Captain Buggy the Clown’s crew when he once gave you a golden coin in your tin cup And there you stood in the middle of the circus big top ring, a single spot light on you, the glittering gems sending little spots of light across the striped tent Your heart pounded but not from nerves, from being under his eye Buggy sat upon his large chair, legs spread, elbows on his knees, focused but eyes wide He watched your entire show of handstands, backbends, splits and finally precision knife throwing with a seemingly bored expression Three of your knives now surrounded Buggy’s head on his throne For your final act you cartwheeled close to the clown prince chair and then high kicked his hat right off his head and did a backwards roundoff landing in a split Buggy’s the clowns hat landed atop your head and a huge smile graced your lips Buggy’s crew stood up in a roaring applause and you stood up bowing to them Buggy held his hand up and the crew was silenced “You wanna join my crew hm?” He asked inquisitively leaning forward, “Pretty girl like you, don’t look like you’re wanting anything but a pampered life with a rich man.” You kick the dirt with your boot, “I was figuring you’d do that for me.” He burst out with a laughter that echoed around the tent, his crew also laughed
Then he held his hands up again and silenced them He wiggled his white gloved finger for you to come hither and you blushed approaching him He sat up straight and patted his knee In your head you were screaming like a schoolgirl But you kept cool and took a seat on his thigh crossing one leg over the over His hand tapped on your knee lethargically “Why do you wanna be on my crew? And don’t lie,” He said tapping your nose with his free hand You went further and put your head on his shoulder and batted your lashes
“Well… I wanna be your girl. Isn’t it obvious?” • A large grin stretched across his face as he shared your batting lashes • “You think you can handle being my girl?” He wondered • You let yourself think on it, your fingers swirling the long blue feathers on the ends of his hat • “I figured it gets lonely around here, you could use someone to help entertain you. Think I’ll do an ok job.” • Something twinkled in his eye, then they floated up to his hat resting upon your head • “One thing about me sweetheart,” He began leaning into you, the red nose touching yours, “I wear the hat in this relationship.” • He snatched his hat off of your head and you giggled hysterically • His hand wrapped around your waist and hoisted you up onto his hip, “Men! We have a new member!” • His men erupted in cheers and you held onto Buggy as his crew knew he was fond of the acrobatic girl in the town square
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deadghosy · 10 days
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HAZBIN HOTEL X ALBERT/FLAMINGO! READER
prompt: after causing chaos in life is paradise, you accidentally clicked the wrong “alt” button.
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Oh wow- listen…I’m in my Albert phase guys…so yeah. ANYWAYSSS-
You just got done making your Roblox video as you wanted to exit out of it. You were going for the alt + 4 button only for the alt to look red and shine into your face. The light blinding your sight made you scream as you opened your eyes to see you are in a new area.
…. “Am I in hell…” you said in a high pitch voice. You panicked out a pitch scream gaining weird looks from the sinners. You still kept your human look but as you screamed, the control panel of admins show up. You stopped screaming immediately with an “oh.” And smiled evily
After wrecking most of the pride ring, you felt tired. Seeing an advertisement on tv about a hotel that redeems sinners, you thought maybe you could do some good here. So you pulled out a keyboard and type to teleport to the said hotel
You can go into the wrath, pride, and gluttony ring. It’s pretty real as you have the wrath to destroy things when pissed off. You’re prideful that you can’t be destroyed, and you have the gluttony to eat. A lot.
I can see you just having a small flamingo demon pet following you around. Literally you would make it bite and stab people. You taught it how to do the billy bounce.
The crew most definitely thought you were schizophrenic because you talk out loud as if you were talking to someone 
BIG HEADCANNON THAT YOU HAVE ZOOMIES AROUND THE HOTEL😭
“I start stabbing, now that the lights are out?” “Albert/Reader, please no.” Charlie says holding your arms down. The power went out and you were craving blood.
You’re just a little gremlin :D
Imagine how chaotic it was to not fling someone out of the hotel for fun 😭 LMAO A SINNER FLINGING ACROSS THE WHOLE PENTAGRAM.
“I’m taking away their happiness in a good way!” You say smiling as you drag a resident away from Charlie who seems traumatized. You were like an alastor 0.2 but more happy actually.
LMAO YOU HAVING A BAN HAMMER SO WHEN A RESIDENT IS BEING AN ASSHOLE YOU JUST SLAM THE HAMMER ON THEIR HEAD WITH A “BOOP”
I can imagine you having the same physique as the og Albert. Literally one minute you look like your animal crossing character, and the next thing they know you are some buff Florida man.
“I’m going to make them regret being born.” You said as you clicked an admin that made your skin black with red eyes. The angels came towards you as your cut their heads off.
The whole cast was in shocked seeing a human like you being so powerful with just a panel no one can touch.
“Being a baby will not prevent me from shooting you.” You said jokingly as this toddler was winning uno. The mother ran away with her child as you screamed out uno.
Angel started to rant about what he does for his job and how he basically seller his soul to this moth porn demon. After he told you things what the demon does to Angel. You snapped.
“BITCH I WILL SHOOT YOU!” Yells reader as they cocked their gun. Basically the whole crew has to hold you back as Valentino is pissing himself.
Vox didn’t even know who you were until Valentino started having nightmares and random shadows in his room. (The shadows were you lol) Vox had to look you up and try to find who tf you were. You were a YouTuber. That all it showed up on his feed as he scoffs.
Husk has no opinion on you. He only knows you as that guy with a flamingo. He would sometimes side eye you while you do crazy shit. But matter of fact you two are chill.
“We have different ways of expressing ourselves..” you say to Angel trying to comfort him. “I like this way, he can’t defend himself. And I like that.” You say shooting down a sinner while in battle. Angel dust just side eyes you as if you were actually crazy.
You’re not allowed to go into turf war with him no more.
Velvette has no legit problems with you. Dead ass you and her might be fashion partners. HAVE YOU SEEN ALBERT’S DRIP ON INSTA?! That MAN IS GOOD!
You have so much wanted posters, even you brag to others at how cool you look while destroying someone’s house. All because you were bored.
Charlie is mostly worried for your mental health while Vaggie just knows that you aren’t really the most mental stable in the group.
“STOP DOING THAT! STOP CRYING! What are you a baby?!” You say while smacking away a whole imp baby that was crying beside you on the merry-go-round
Charlie’s eyes widen at what you did. You were like a man child.
I can headcannon you deadass bombed the Vees tower out of pettiness. It was just funny seeing Vox shocked to his damn boots that his home was now gone.
Lucifer made you a duck flamingo cause of how he was trying to be nice to you. He knew you wasn’t a sinner or an angel of sorts. But you were a human that he never seen before. He probably makes you some damn pancakes if you want them.
Lucifer would probably ask if you have a flamingo demon form because you told the crew that you go by flamingo and Albert. You just stood there confused to what this short man was saying. But you just nodded trying to see if you could actually turn into a flamingo.
Headcannon on you just actually helping around by just replacing and changing furniture. You help Charlie with trust exercises as the resident are just confuse at a human being here.
“WHO needs powers, when you have a gun!” You yell excited pulling out a gun from your admin control. You shot downa sinner who was trying to fight you. Alastor just doesn’t see why how your “guns” are more powerful. They don’t even have angelic metal.
Carmilla carmine had seen how you legit shot an angel down with a simple looking gun. It was insane but amazing. She definitely called you down to her place so she can see what your bullets are made out of.
Imagine how you basically see people’s/sinner’s names as if it was a name tag aka username. You would go around saying their name out loud as they look at you scared and crazy. “Hello Hakka!” “How you know my name?!!!!” 😕
Rosie adores you, you may be man child that’s like a gremlin. But you are so sweet and helping. Alastor made you meet her and honestly, it was a great meet and greet. Honestly 10/10.
Headcannon on you and Niffty both killing bugs together. You use your ban gun as Niffty uses a sewing needle. This sweet girl made you a big crown, you better appreciate it.
Alastor had messed with your food making you pissed off. It was the end of the day and you hadn’t eat anything due to not taking care of yourself much. So your reaction was justified when you see alastor’s grins widening.
“I hope you choke on your next meal.” You say as your voice had suddenly boomed across the hotel. It was like as if your mic boosted it, but you don’t have one.
You and Alastor have like a sibling relationship as you two just want to watch people suffer. Literally it’s funny as hell when it’s that one Xbox meme.😭
“MOM SAYS ITS MY TURN TO CAUSE SUFFERING!” You say trying to get over Alastor’s tall body as he causes chaos in the pentagram city.
Sir Pentious didn’t like you at all. Like he was actually scared at his crazy and psychotic you are at times. But when he saw how calm and laid back you actually were. He actually started to warm up close to you. 
The egg boiz follow you around asking if your pet flamingo could play with them. It was so cute as they play with your pet flamingo.
Cherri absolutely loves you and your destructive behavior. Literally you two are a deadly duo cause you would give her some of your admin powers and take it back.
You once actually set up a limb store, literally you were getting that money✨😈 you had chopped off so much limbs got your deer customers.
I can see you actually taking people’s souls lol. You just take souls for fun and not for contract which leaves some overlords confused and scared of your powers.
Heaven would be scared of you personally. Like you are such a menace, sera sent your ass back to hell. Your human appearance was still the same tho lol.
Adam and you, beef on sight. “Why do you even have that pink bird? What are you, ret@rded?” “No but your mother is.” You said back while flipping him off.
Sera doesn’t like you. Your chaotic energy and your “evil” doing are not prohibited in paradise. She might tell Big G about how a human is in hell in perfect condition.
Emily heard about your presence by sera, she wanted to meet you but then again. You are back in hell. But she hopes to meet you one day.
See, me personally you would rob a bank for fun and then give it to some homeless imps in the wrath ring. It’s just you doing random shit while bored.
I can imagine you turning someone into the hulk. You deadass have so much power that it’s concerning and crazy for the hotel crew and rest of hell. You have alot of powers and you can turn people into some green buff human?!?
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hyperfixatedbastard · 28 days
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sweet, sweet silence
Vox x Autistic!GN!Reader
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Dating the CEO of VoxTek Enterprises has its perks. You always get brand new devices before they even hit the shelves, and occasionally, Vox makes things specifically for you - like noise-cancelling headphones.
Word Count: 1.3k
WARNINGS: none!
A/N: this is for the autistic homies but it works for anyone with sensory issues! 'tis based off of my own experiences so apologies if it feels inaccurate to anyone, i'm projecting so hard rn. this is also my first time writing x reader/2nd person POV so I hope I did alright! also, i do requests if anyone would like to see more of this kind of thing :)
Dividers
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"Doll, c'mere for a second, would ya?" Vox calls out to you, gesturing for you to come to his desk with a 'come hither' motion. 
You raise a brow in interest as you approach your boyfriend where he's sitting in his rather eccentric chair, tinkering with...something. You hop up onto the desk, careful to sit in a spot that you know has no important screens or buttons (you learned the hard way). You don't say anything, instead just tilting your head and waiting for Vox to show off whatever he's been working on this time.
He finally lets you see what's in his clawed hands: a pair of headphones. They're clearly a VoxTek product—the blue and red color scheme gives it away—though you're certain you've never seen these on sale before. It's not uncommon for Vox to show off new products to you before they're released, though, so you don't question it.
He smirks as he holds the headphones out to you. It's not that sly, devious smile he so often has on his screen, though; it's that grin you have when you're about to surprise someone and you just know they're going to love it. "These are for you, darling."
On one hand, you get a little excited (free shit, fuck yeah!). But on the other, you're a little worried—you're not good at receiving gifts. It always ends up awkward because you don't really know how to express gratitude in an expected, neurotypical way. But Vox is well aware of that, and he can tell when you're grateful, so you push those worries to the side and take the headphones from him.
You look at them curiously, inspecting the foldable hinges, the ear cushions, and the small assortment of buttons on the speakers. You can tell that the three buttons on the right speaker are for adjusting the volume—increase, mute, and decrease—but you have no damn clue what the button on the left speaker is for.
"Well? Put 'em on," Vox encourages you, still with that expectant grin as he anticipates your reaction.
You do as he says and place the headphones over your ears. They're certainly comfortable, but you don't see what the big deal is. You already have headphones—they’re not great, as it’s damn near impossible to drown out the unbearably overstimulating sounds of Hell, but you manage. Kinda.
Just as you’re about to ask what’s so special about these headphones, Vox presses that mystery button on the left speaker, and everything goes blissfully quiet.
Your eyes widen as you get the first moment of true silence for the first time since you arrived in Hell. The sudden difference is initially jarring, but the relief is downright euphoric. 
During the entirety of your afterlife in Hell, it's been ceaselessly loud and often unbearable. The screams, the explosions, the gunshots—it's incessant, and you never get a moment of peace. The V Tower is not nearly as bad as the rest of the Pride Ring, thanks to a lot of soundproofing, but there's always something. Moans and other lewd noises fill the halls of anywhere within five floors of Valentino's studios. You can hear the screeching and yelling beneath the thrum of music emitting from Velvette’s section of the tower. 666 Studios isn't much better, with the constant chattering of the crew and bickering between newscasters.
Vox's lair office is by far the quietest place in the entirety of Hell, at least in your experience. The soundproofing here is much more effective than anywhere else in V Tower, and Vox is the only person ever here. He does talk and maniacally laugh to himself fairly often, but you don’t usually don’t mind that (and he’ll typically quite down if he can tell you’re having a rough day). But it’s far from perfect—there’s still the intermittent click-clacking of a keyboard, the constant whirring of the computer fans, the low humming of all the tech, and the audio from whatever security camera Vox is spying on. You can tune it out most of the time, but it all overwhelms you so, so easily.
And you aren't very good at hiding it (at least not with Vox, who’s too observant for his own damn good when it comes to you).
Which is why your dear boyfriend has just spent the past several days making you the best noise-canceling headphones Hell has ever seen. He knows what the constant overstimulation does to you, and he sees it far more often than he'd like to. You get irritated and snippy, and sometimes it gets so bad you have a meltdown. It's gotten less common over time, but it still happens way too frequently for either of your likings. 
“So, who’s the best boyfriend ever?” he hints, clearly fishing for a compliment. His voice is surprisingly clear despite the headphones practically deafening you—his words are muffled, but just loud enough for you to understand what’s being said. He's grinning at you like he's the one that just got the excruciatingly heartfelt present. 
Usually, you’d have a witty comeback to Vox’s attempts at getting you to stroke his ego (always followed by an actual, genuine compliment to ease his insecurities hiding behind that ego), but you’re drawing a blank right now. 
The gift is so thoughtful that you don’t even know where to start on expressing your gratitude. Noise-canceling headphones seem so obvious now, but this is Hell! Both you and Vox had died before this technology became commonplace, and not many people in Hell care that much about the noise. Vox made these headphones specifically for you. He doesn’t need them (he can quite literally just turn off his audio input) and he probably won’t make much of a profit with them as a VoxTek product. He’s a busy man, being a CEO and an Overlord, yet he took the time to make this for you himself, not even passing the project off to one of the poor souls that works for him. 
“Babe?” Vox calls out gently, waving a hand in front of your face. Oh, shit—you’re overthinking your response so much that you forgot to actually fucking respond.
You blink a few times, meeting your boyfriend’s gaze. His brows are slightly furrowed, in what you think is a mix of concern and amusement. He’s a little worried he’s fucked up somehow, but he knows you well enough by now to recognize when you’re thinking too hard about something. He actually finds it quite adorable, at least when you’re not about to have a panic attack from it. 
As he looks at you expectantly, you decide to just go with your gut (at least, that’s what you think you’re doing—you’ve never entirely understood what the fuck that phrase means).
You don’t give yourself time to second-guess your actions before you’re practically jumping into Vox’s lap—though it’s more like falling since you were just sitting on the desk. He lets out a little ‘oof’ of surprise before he chuckles and moves his hands to your waist, holding you steady while being careful of his claws. He smirks as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his neck, jostling the headphones a little but not enough to fuck with the noise cancellation.
“So…you like them, then?” Vox prompts, just wanting the confirmation even though the answer is already clear. You can tell by his tone that he’s still grinning proudly.
You just gently nod, inadvertently rubbing your face against the fabric of his shirt (fortunately, Vox is a fancy bastard with high standards when it comes to clothing, and he’d long ago thrown out any garment made with fabric that triggered your sensory issues).
“Thank you,” you murmur against his neck. 
His hands tighten ever so slightly around your waist, and his response is so soft you can barely hear it through the headphones. “Anything for you, doll.”
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rineptune · 26 days
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Heeeeeyyyy pal
Can we get a continuation of that fic with the pregnant reader who's Lucifer's sister
Like what if her water broke at like, the *least* convenient time and Lucifer is freaking tf out, Alastors chill as usual and readers just like
:) "I'm just glad to be here" while having contractions
Love your work btw 🤗
inconvenient timing.
summary: inconvenient timing for your water to break, but what else could you do?
warnings: foul language, brief description of the horrors of pregnancy and labor
a/n: here it is n tysm!! the second part to devil’s paradise
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during your pregnancy, all is well. 
regular visits from the doctor became part of the routine, and alastor made the effort to be the one accompanying you to every last one of them, and on the rare occasion that he couldn’t accompany you, charlie—your ever optimistic and kind niece—was the one who came with.
the crew of the hotel treated you as if you were made of glass, not wanting you to lift too much on your plate, so they did their best to cater to your every need and demand (not that you needed much and bothered them often).
you took care of yourself, too.
though your belly had gotten swollen, you were feeling fine, as if you weren’t carrying the unborn child of the feared radio demon in pride ring. you thanked whoever it is you could thank that you didn’t experience morning sickness, however, you were no exemption from the fatigue and discomfort that came with being pregnant.
lucifer’s worry for your well-being throughout all of this still hasn’t completely faded away. you were his only sister! and his brothers in heaven would surely have his head if something did happen to you now that you’ve fallen from the skies and are now under his domain.
everything was going well, until it wasn’t.
you went with charlie during another meeting with heaven’s official court in place of your brother. obviously, all eyes wandered to your stomach because, how could they not?
a former angel pregnant? that stirred whispers and disgusted expressions from those who were from the court.
“as you can see, the population in hell is—“
charlie was cut off when the angels gasped in unison. confused, she turned to you, and her eyes widened when she saw the bottom half of your dress soaked. 
“oh my go—! aunt yn, your water broke.” she says in a panic.
“i see that, my dear,” you answer with an awkward cough. 
“it seems that i’ll be taking my leave early, uhm... excuse me.”
“wait! uhm, i’ll take you back!” she tells you. “we’ll be back another time, sorry! this is very important for us.” charlie tells the angels present at the court meeting.
alastor swore you were about to snap his hand into two.
“darling, are you nervous?” he asks smoothly.
“no? why would you ask that, al?”
“hmm.”
he glances at the hand that gripped his, remarkably so tight that he feels all the blood from that particular area stop flowing. your free hand caressed your belly through the hospital gown, taking slow and even breaths to somewhat soothe the contractions.
“i was only wondering,” alastor answers.
you may have a high pain tolerance, but when you’re having contractions, you might as well swear on every god and angel to spare you from the agonizing pain—promising to never think of having any children in the future again. 
because, god, it hurts like a bitch.
as calm as you were, lucifer, on the other hand, had no calm bone in his body.
“oh, god. gabriel’s calling,” lucifer says, looking as though he’s about to throw up.
“and the nursery still has renovations that need to be done—“
“i’m going to be an uncle, holy shit—“
“what if something goes wrong? what? no! i shouldn’t think that—“
“should i prepare the gifts—“
“where are the doctors and nurses? they should’ve been here by now—“
“i knew we shouldn’t have taken you to sloth ring, yn—“
“lucifer,” you breathed out. “calm down.”
“i am calm! fucking calm,” he said, wiping away the sweat on his brow. 
“you sound like a dying goat, my lord,” alastor smiled.
“fuck you, deerface.”
“ok, ok. no one should be fighting,” you amusedly sigh, groaning when you feel another sharp contraction that had you biting your lip.
this got the attention of the other two, and lucifer asked you if you were okay as alastor placed a comforting hand on your belly.
well, at least they got along when need be.
“look, she has your eyes and smile, al.”
after long, painful hours of labor and practically dying on your hospital bed due to the procedure of bringing a new life into this hellish world, a healthy baby girl was born.
she took on alastor’s ears, eyes, and smile, while she had your wings and charm. the little fawn was sound asleep in your arms after almost tragically biting off a nurse’s finger when he was checking for anything wrong with your baby—to alastor’s dismay, he wished his little girl had succeeded. 
nevertheless, she is perfect in his eyes already.
“our little fawn is certainly perfect, my dear,” he says. “she has your charm, too.”
“that she does.”
and you best believe charlie and lucifer cried when charlie finally held her baby cousin.
“charlie, dear, are you ok?” you ask, a bit concerned.
“allergies, auntie. allergies,” she sniffled.
nothing would ever happen to her, because anyone who dares even look at the niece of the morningstar fallen angel who was also the daughter of the infamous radio demon, would receive hell served on a golden platter without any remorse or time for rebuttal.
“it may have been inconvenient timing to have my contractions,” you murmur to alastor once you two are finally home and alone with your baby. “but i wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“i’m glad that you’re ok, darling.”
“mm, thank you, alastor.”
“you shouldn’t thank me for worrying about you. it’s only natural for me to do so, no?” he says.
“now, i have to take care of two, but i wouldn’t have it any other way either.”
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hotyanderedaddies · 1 month
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Hello mate
Would you ever be interested in writing something for a yandere Pirate x (navy) Admiral male reader?
Yandere Pirate Boards Your Ship for His Treasure
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[Yandere! Pirate x GN! Admiral! Reader]
·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆
You're an admiral on one of the Navy's most prestigious ships, and you were on a mission to deliver some precious cargo back to your country. Said cargo was traded goods, including gold and precious gemstones.
Word had gotten out regarding what your ship would be transporting, hence, your crew was on high alert for any pirates that might try to come and take it.
You were at the wheel of the ship when the bell from the lookout post started to ring. "Pirates!" the lookout shouted, altering you to the potential danger.
You grabbed your binoculars and tried to look out over the water for a sign of any pirate ship, but the thick fog helped to shield the lingering threat. Unfortunately, once the fog cleared enough for you to see, it was too late.
The pirate ship was dangerously close, enough for the pirate crew to start tossing ropes on board to your ship, some of them hopping on board to start attacking.
But that wasn't what made your heart drop.
You vaguely recognized the name on the side of the pirate ship: The Blackheart.
It was the ship belonging to one of the most infamous pirates on the Seven Seas, a dangerous pirate who went by the moniker "Daddy", and who was always successful when it came to taking whatever he wanted.
"Fuck," you spat under your breath.
The commotion happened so quickly that you didn't even have time to grab your weapon and help defend your ship, until the door to the steering room was kicked open and in walked Daddy.
The tall pirate had a joyful expression on his face, and he smiled widely as he looked over at you.
"Well, well," he said with a chuckle, "if it isn't Admiral Y/N. You know, I've been following your ship quite a while now, and I wasn't sure I'd get the chance to board. But as fate would have it, here I am."
"Yeah, here you are," you spat, "now leave!"
You tried to grab your sword, but Daddy was a lot faster than you, and he snatched it out from your reach.
"Not so fast, Darling," he laughed. "You see, I'm not goin' nowhere without my treasure." He crossed his strong arms in front of himself and waited, expectantly
From the opened door, you could see Daddy's crew rallying yours on the deck, having easily defeated them. They were starting to tie them up and you began to fear the worst.
Of course you had a mission, but you believed that your true duty was ensure your crew members' safety as opposed to some gold coins and shiny rocks.
"Fine," you relented, your shoulders falling. "Just let my crew go."
Daddy puffed out his chest with pride and stalked closer to you, completely towering over you with his intimidating bulk. "Oh?" he teased. "Are you givin' up already, Admiral?"
You scowled, avoiding his eyes.
"Just take your treasure and go," you muttered, clenching your fists angrily.
"Gladly," Daddy exclaimed.
Daddy stalked even closer to you and quickly tossed you over his broad shoulder as if you weighed nothing.
"W-wait!" you cried out, confused. "What?"
"Don't act so surprised, my treasure," Daddy chuckled as he carried you out of the steering room and over to the edge of your ship. With one mighty leap, he brought you onto his ship, and stalked over to the room on the deck that was without a doubt the captain's quarters.
Daddy kicked this door open too, revealing a tiny room with a double-sized bed. There was a singular nightstand beside the bed and on it was... a small picture frame with a picture of you in it.
You looked up at the pirate with confusion written all over your face.
Daddy only chuckled in response, closing the door shut behind you two.
"Oh, Darling," Daddy said in his deep voice, "I've been following you across the seas for a long time now. I've been so desperate to get my treasure, and now that I finally have it, I'm never letting it go..."
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tiyoin · 2 months
Text
pt. 1 | 📍pt.2 | pt. 3
hmmm
i like to think that the other yuu (y/n) would also somehow befriend kalim
like- listen.
maybe they’re wandering around campus while everyone is in class. they were skipping, yet again, because of their anxiety. yuu gave them the advice of walking around the school while everyone was in class so you could get to know the school on your terms.
so you here you were, roaming around the outside portion of school, forcing yourself to walk slowly and take in your surroundings. each footstep followed the pattern of black and white tiles; left white, right black. if your toe went over the black tile your other toe would have to match. if your foot skidded on the tile, your other foot would have to follow in suit.
it was an old habit you had in your old world. you never knew what possessed you to do it, but you couldn’t stop once you started.
‘tsking’ at the fact that half your foot went over the white diamond, you were preparing to have your other foot follow suit when you felt a sharp jab in between your shoulder blades
“AGHH” you cried out in pain as you tripped over your feet. with the short time you had, you braced yourself onto your side, where the side of your arm took most of the impact. letting out a shaky breath at the pain, you felt tears escape as you kept your head down looking towards the floor.
fuck. what luck huh.
first the scene in crewels class last week, now this???
the universe is really trying to humble you
there was a crushing weight on top of you that kept pushing your side into the floor. you were debating rolling on your back to cradle your arm, but you didn’t want to cause you and the boy to shift positions…
your face started heating up. just at the thought of anyone seeing you like this made your tummy clench. you can imagine it, the bell ringing, indicating the end of class. all the boys in the classrooms would thunder like wildebeests into the hallway, only to see you pinned to the floor by the mystery man.
oh could you could just kill yo-
“ughh- oh sevens! ae you okay?”
the voice cried out from above you, immediately getting off of you. your relieved sigh from the weight being taken away was short lived as you were yanked by your wrist upwards.
you gasped, pain shooting through your ankle as you toppled into the strangers strangely strong arms.
his skin was tanner with white swirls and patterns running up his muscles arms- no stay focused. your ankle? probably broke-
“hello? anyone home? i oh no, i hope you didn’t hit your head, ahh im so sorry, let’s get you to the nurse!!”
a soft hand found your shoulder as he set you upright, and there you were forced to meet you assailant.
of course you knew who kalim al-asim was. you’d hear him from classrooms away, and jamil too, the latter usually chasing after the former.
“huh, that’s weird, i’ve never seen you before” he tilted his head in confusion, a split second later his face lit up like a thousand christmas lights as he connected dots.
“oh! you must be a new transfer student!
(i said he connected dots, i never said he connected the right ones)
i’m kalim al-asim! im the housewarden of scarabia! and you are…”
he looked at you expectingly, his scarlet eyes honing in on yours. you would’ve thought he was trying to peek into your soul if it weren’t for the ever growing smile on his face.
“uh… y/n” you didn’t have the heart to tell him you weren’t new.
you shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking to his crest as you fiddled with your hands behind your back. despite your nervous deposition your mind was racing.
what if he was there to bully yiu?
if you kept pressure off your foot then just maybe it won’t be black and blue and swollen like a pufferfish.
oh god what if a camera crew jumps out from behind the corner telling you you just got fucked
oh god what if the entire school is in on it-
“hey, you okay there?”
snapping your head up, you met kalim’s worried expression. his eyes no longer like that of a predator’s stalking its prey, but of someone who was genuinely worried about you.
was this the leap of faith yuu was talking about?
1,2,3 fuck it
“uh, no actually” fuck you wanted to run. yet like an anchor at the bottom of the sea, your foot stopped you from setting sail. you were stuck in your own situation.
“oh sevens, i knew it! here i’ll take you to the nurse!”
“OW”
you yelled when his hand tugged you in the opposite direction. you thought he got burnt by how fast his hand detached itself from yours.
“sorry” you mumbled, rubbing your brushing arm firmly. you weren’t sure why, but a little pressure made it not hurt so much- you winced, rubbing motions stopping immediately as you cursed yourself mentally.
“there’s no no reason to apologize, at the most i should be the one saying sorry, you did get hurt by me after all” his face shifted to a guilty one as he eyed your ankle, then your arm, and back to your face.
you sighed, running your free hand through your hair as you let out an exasperated sigh. “how about this, we call it even if you can take me to the nurses” you pointed to your ankle “think i sprained it” you mumbled out once you realized you were ordering THE house warden of scarabia around.
you were gonna get snipped, weren’t you?
bye bye y/n! died before they could live!
“nonesense!” he shouted, causing you to flinch slightly at the closeness and loudness. he let out a small sorry as he smiled sheepishly “i knocked into you while riding this guy” he pointed behind him as his expression quickly grew to one of amazement.
“oh! you haven’t seen my magic carpet! he’s-“
“not behind you” you muttered, peeking behind him left and right. and yet, there was only him and you in the deserted hallway.
(you checked behind you as well just to confirm your claim.)
“WHAT” kalim shouted, again. this time not apologizing as he was too busy freaking out about his lost carpet.
“jamil’s gonna kill me” he whined.
“if you want i could help look” you pressed your nails into your fists as you asked. boy were you talkative today!
“nah, you’d only be dead weight with that ankle of yours, don’t worry about it!”
… this is why you don’t talk…
“oh! how about this, when i find it i’ll let you ride it so you can go to the nurses office!”
…you were getting dizzy, first he calls you dead weight now he’s offering to ‘carry’… carrying? said weight on his so called carpet.
you couldn’t keep up with him.
nodding dumbly, you hobbled to the door side of the corridor as kalim jumped through the hole that acted as a window that outlooks the courtyard.
searching high and low, you couldn’t help but laugh as you watched the heir turn into an acrobat as he climbed trees, jumped over rocks and somehow managed to climb on top of the gazebo’s roof.
“don’t fall! i don’t want us to having matching ankles!” you mused, laughing lightly as he turned to you, waved, almost fell off, and flailed to get his balance back all in the span of 10 seconds.
a few minutes passed when you heard him yell out. prying your attention from your nails, you were face to face kalim.
“shit!” you flinched as kalim almost ran into you a second time. although he tried to keep it hidden behind his back, the large carpet peeked over his shoulder at you, before folding in on itself.
“this is my friend, y/n! c’mon don’t be shy buddy. they’re shy just like you, see?” kalim encouraged the carpet from behind his back. yet every-time he tried facing it, the carpet would stay glued to his back until they started playing an intense game of “peek-a-boo”
laughing at their antics, the carpet unfolded its wings and with a flap, it flew into the sky, effectively knocking kalim over and onto his butt.
“HAHAHSHAH” you threw your head back as you slapped your good leg’s knee.
what felt like a few seconds must’ve been a few minutes of you laughing none stop that you didn’t even notice the two in front of you.
calming down from your ab inducing fit of laughter, you started fanning yourself as you had a nasty habit of blushing when you laughed. your eyes were closed in concentration as you let the last of it out of your system.
“boy you guys are sure a riot, lord i can’t remember laughing that hard in a long time- what”
kalim, with his ass still on the floor was just staring at you. you didn’t dare name the emotion as you tensed up again.
“i’m sorry for laughing-“
springing up like a rocket, he celebrated with his carpet. what the fuck.
“there you go! no longer doom and gloom! you should laugh more! “
extending a hand to you, he grinned, his face flushed and breathing slightly erratic that the normal eye wouldn’t have been able to spot it. yet you did, you always did.
you looked at his hand for a moment, then to his face, then to his hand, which he opened a bit more towards you to get you to take it.
what felt like a pause in time was probably more of a minute as you just looked between the two.
“fuck” you growled out lowly, closing your eyes as you thrusted your hand into his. you kept your eyes shut as he yanked you up to the point your feet touched off the ground.
bracing for another hard impact, you were met with the soft, fuzzy fabric of the carpet.
“oh” you said lightly, ungracefully fixing your positioned to where your good leg was extended and your bad ankle was resting over your good leg. your arms keeping you up right.
“neat huh” you looked at kalim as the front carpet dipped a bit to let him on. he sat in front of you as he shifted his position to face you.
“do you mind” he looked at your ankle as the carpet started flowing. too impressed with that fact that you’re on a giant fucking carpet, you shook your head no.
the light touch onto your sore ankle caused a hiss to escape you as your head snapped towards an apologetic kalim.
he wasn’t sorry for too long as he kept softly poking your ankle, before he dramatically sighed. shaking his head, he said “yep, it’s sprained alright.”
groaning, you leaned back in annoyance. but with the lack of personal awareness made you forget that this is in fact not! a car.
so down you went. your world turning upside down as you felt your legs lift. and soon enough you would nose dive into the concrete.
welp this was it ladies and gentlemen. you’ve had a god run.
our father who art in heaven-
a hand lashed out and gripped your arms before pulling you back up. where you were met, once again, face to face with the al-asim heir.
breathing heavily, you stared at him wide-eyed through the tresses of your hair.
“not gonna lie, i thought you were gonna let me fall” you joked, gulping as you looked behind you at your almost murder scene.
pushing down the sudden dread, you looked back to kalim who wore an almost serious expression
“only a fool would drop a girl like you”
he smiled slightly, cheeks growing in hue as he looked away from you shyly. his back was now towards you as he told the carpet where to go.
the complete one-eighty left you gagged as you you just stared at him, gob-smacked that he had the AUDACITY to use that moment to quote a meme.
shaking your head slightly, you looked behind you as you extended your arms back, hands trailing through the carpet. stopping once you thought it was a suitable distance from the edge. leaning back, you enjoyed the ride
i was gonna write this sooner but i had to finish my assignment el oh el
i love this y/n sm🫶
y/n is actually me
yes i did that on purpose
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tarjapearce · 8 months
Note
I loved the crew interacting with the O’Hara family I was laughing the entire time!
Is it possible to do a reaction to Miguel first introducing his family to the crew? Like Mama!reader showing up to his office out of nowhere, no matter how many times Miguel said no and the crew stares in disbelief like - “YOU HAVE A WIFE AND KIDS?”
Imma switch it up a bit to fit into the Soccer Family AU 🤭. Glad you had fun with it!
"Why don't you just ask him?" Gwen deadpanned
"No. Can't just ask Mr. O'Hara, 'hey are you married? He's mean!" Mile's hand gestured
"I swear I saw him holding a baby. And it wasn't Mr. Parker's Mayday!" Pavitr chimed in, curiosity shining in his eyes
"Maybe his brother had a baby?"
"You'd owe me five if he's married." Hobie spoke as he laced up his boots. The three pair of eyes looked at him.
"Whu-?"
"Make it ten cause I know the man is a workaholic at heart"
Hobie shrugged.
"Dun' say I didn't warn ya."
"Dude, we have just done some chores for him, for the neighborhood really, he rarely asks for our services! He just asked us to clean his front yard!"
"Cause he likes minding his business." Gwen rolled his eyes.
"Okay, I know. maybe we can just ask him directly?" Mile's spoke as he looked Miguel’s car passing by.
Now all the eyes were on him.
"Or we... can spy him?"
Pavitr's smile turned into a smirk.
"Like, you distract him and the rest can go around to find any clues on his home"
"Why me?!"
"Cause it's your idea" Gwen chuckled
"I'm pretty sure that's property invasion"
"I'm in." Hobie mumbled
The plan was set.
----
Miles gulped for the thousandth time as he approached, the door of Mr. O'Hara's home growing ominously big and closer.
"Nuh uh. I'm out."
His phone buzzed, Gwen's name displaying on screen.
"What are you doing?!"
"I'm out!"
"Miles, I swear... Just distract him enough for us to get a glimpse on the back side of his house!"
"If I die? Keep my collection of figurines intact." He could hear Gwen groaning from the other line.
"Don't be dramatic. Just ask him if he needs anything done this week!"
"Fine. Fine. Alright."
He shook his body and gave his cheeks a brief pat, walked over the door and dinged the doorbell. His breath hitched as the door slid open, but instead of Miguel, a woman opened the door. Short, pretty, kind eyes and hair donned in a messy bun. That was definitely one of Miguel's t-shirts.
"Yes?"
"Uh... Hi. I'm Miles Morales, from Friendly Neighborhood Spiders?"
"Oh?" You looked confused
"Just a little business me and my friends set up. Uh... we eh, we just ring doorbells and ask if we can do chores for the neighbors around the block?"
"That's pretty cool! Didn't know about it. Gotta ask Miguel if we need any services right now."
"Wait, you... You know Mr. O'Hara?"
"Mr. O'Hara?" You giggled, shaking your head, "Miguel! Mi amor! Can you come at the door please?"
Mi amor?
Miles' eyes went wide at the endearing term. His breath caught in his throat again as he saw Miguel’s hulking figure carrying a baby that wasn't Mayday. Just like Pavitr had said.
Gwen, Hobie and Pav approached behind Miles, they had been watching from the other side of the street and we're too tempted to not see the scene unfold for themselves.
"¿Qué pasó?" (What's wrong?)
His voice low as the baby was falling asleep in his arms.
"I didn't know we had some entrepreneurs in the neighborhood. They wanna know if we need anything this week."
"No" Miguel shook his head softly, the toddler in his arm stirred. A thick eyebrow of him raised at the expression of the four teens. A 'The legend is real' expression, all eyes settled on the golden ring around his finger, matching yours.
Hobie however just smirked. 30 bucks on his pockets would do nice things for him.
"Will go prepare dinner then. Nice to meet you guys!" You chirped and waved your goodbyes, leaving Miguel alone with them.
"So..."
His sharp features went blank
"You're married. And have kids."
"Oh! We can babysit that pretty baby too" Pavitr sing sung
"The lawn is enough for now." Miguel’s voice still remained low, but firm.
"Right. Uh, thanks. We'll be back."
A hurried 'have a good evening Mr. O'Hara' was thrown his way as they fled from his door.
Once they were far enough, Miles couldn't help but hold his head and gasp.
"He is married!"
"Yeah, noted." Gwen nodded
"Did you see that toddler?! Oh so chubby and precious!"
" Yeah, cool family and all. Y' owe me 30"
"You seriously know how to sour the moment" Pavitr slid two five bills on his hand.
"Well, mystery solved." Gwen slid another two bills on Hobie's hands
"That explains the baby chair in his car."
"You peeked into his car?!" Mile's freaked out
"Wut? Ya said you wanted to go in his home."
Gwen rolled her eyes.
"Kids."
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mvltisstuff · 9 months
Note
hi hi
idk if you’re accepting requests but if you are pls could i request an evan buckley where he has a gf/wife and a baby but the 118 doesn’t know, and maybe one day reader/kid is injured and they either turn up at the fire house or the 118 is called to the scene and buck has to come clean about his secret wife/gf and kid?
thank you bestie, i love your writing <3
lover - e.b
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summary: request
evan buckley x reader
gif from @eddiemunsens
a/n: what tswift album do u guys think the 118 are 🤭 also what happens to yn is inspired by an episode of s19 that i love sm it’s so funny :))
buck knew the second y/n got pregnant that he wasn’t leaving. two years of dating is a short time to have a child, but they loved each other more than anyone. they knew they could give a child a good life, so they went with it.
all three of them moved to la, so buck could work with the LAFD and y/n could get to a higher position at work. their life there was immaculate. their little family was thriving, so buck put a ring on her finger. he didn’t even hesitate to buy the biggest one he saw, because he loved y/n the second he met her, and he emotionally couldn’t wait anymore. the words husband and wife rang in his ears, making him drop a dumbfounded grin.
no one at work knew, he didn’t really know what they thought of him. his team knew he was too fine to not have anyone, so they figured he was just with some girls here and there. the last thing they expected was a child and a fiancé along with it. it never came up in conversation, but buck still didn’t bother. he didn’t want to face any judgement from people that he didn’t already get from his family. the constant scrutiny about his age and his girl was exhausting.
now, neither of them would’ve changed it for the world. buck can’t imagine himself happier or in a life without them. it hurts him to even consider what would happen if y/n and his little boy weren’t there. he always gazed at them playing, sometimes just wanting to observe their brilliance.
buck knew he would have to explain to his team that he’s married, and that doesn’t mean he’s ashamed. he wants the world to know, but he doesn’t want y/n to be hurt by opinions from other people. he didn’t realize how soon he would have to until the alarm rang and until dispatch came through with the address. it was their house. the house where buck and y/n raised their son and the one where either could be hurt. every single scenario waved over buck, making him panic more by the second.
“you good, kid?” bobby asks, taking note of his bouncing knee.
“uh.. yeah! yeah, i’m fine,” he lies. buck hasn’t been with them for more than a year, so they just pass it along, not knowing any better. buck climbs out of the truck, grabbing a few tools before sprinting toward the house. now, the teams more alarmed. what is it about this house is making him act like a maniac?
“y/n?” buck calls out, running around trying to find her.
“kitchen!” she yells out, sounded distressed which only makes buck move even quicker. when he walks in, he immediately notices her leaning over the sink, her hand in the disposal. bobby and the rest of his crew walk in behind him, the four of them standing in the kitchen staring at her. “well?”
“oh-“ bobby moves, starting to gather some more tools out of his bag.
“what the hell happened?”
“i dropped my ring down, and i was trying to make him lunch,” she nods to the baby, sitting on the floor happily, clearly having no idea what’s happening. “i don’t even know why i tried to grab it, like some idiot!”
“hey,” buck says, walking over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “you’ll be fine, y/s/n is fine, yeah?” she looks up at him and nods, brushing her hair with her free hand.
“should we know the kids name too?” chim asks, giving buck a completely bamboozled expression. y/n passes buck the same face as hen walks over to check her hand. buck can’t get around it this time, and he wants them to know for once.
“um, guys,” he starts. “this is my fiancé, y/n and my son.”
“your what?” hen shouts, peeking her head out from behind y/n’s shoulder. she gives hen an awkward smile and buck stands there stiffly, worried about their reaction. everyone looks around at each other in shock that buck has his own family, and they didn’t even know.
“why didn’t you tell us?” bobby wonders.
“because i didn’t know how you’d react! i’ve heard it all from my parents, i didn’t need any more.”
“buck, we would’ve welcomed you no matter what your home life is. we’d love to get to know you and your family despite how it might’ve happened,” hen tells him, kindly. buck is confronted with immediate love, something he’s not to familiar with other than when his shifts end and he’s in y/n’s arms again. he’s surprised to say the least. he expected at lease some judgement, but there was nothing of the sort in the room.
“i’m thrilled you’re all having a nice moment here,” y/n interrupts. “but can we maybe get my hand out of my sink?”
buck and bobby pull the cabinets open and start drilling at the pipes underneath. buck secures the ring in his fingers before beaming up at y/n, showing her that he found it. “i got it!” he replies excitedly. “thank god, i don’t know if i have insurance for this thing. cost me my left leg,” he whispers to bobby. once they fully disconnect the system, hen slowly drags her bloody hand out and wraps it up. she hisses at the contact of the gauze and antiseptics. chimney starts to clean up the rest of the supplies, as hen treats the wound.
“so,” chimney begins. “when’s the wedding?”
“time and place, chim,” hen tells him. “time and place. but, yeah, are we invited?”
“yes,” buck says, obviously. “you’re invited.” he moves over to scoop his baby off the ground, carrying him over to his friends. they all speak to him in their little baby voices, and y/n watches with a shining smile on her face. buck knows he did the right thing, but he wishes he didn’t wait as long. now, he is certain that he has two solid families.
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Imagine breaking Sanji’s heart so that he joins the Strawhats…
“I told Zeff that I’m not going to be a waiter.” Sanji’s voice rose, already tense from the shouting match he had with Zeff about leaving the Baratie to follow his dreams.
“Well, you can’t be a cook here either.” You argued, fighting the urge not to throw up at the lies tumbling out of your mouth. “Why do you even want to stay if you know that?”
Sanji stared at you incredulously. “Zeff can’t run this place by himself and I wouldn’t dare to leave you. You know this.” He turned and resumed cleaning the broken plates.
You watched him work quietly. How had your innocent love transform into a flame that slowly swallowed his bridge for opportunity?
He wouldn’t leave the Baratie, Zeff failed to convince his decision and you felt your stomach drop at the realisation of what you had to do to push him over the edge.
You had to break his heart. Composing yourself, you hardened your expression, bracing for what was likely going to be your end.
“I want to be with someone who isn’t a coward.”
Sanji physically reacted to the words. The broken dishes clattered as they hit the floor while his muscles tensed under his shirt.
“Excuse me?” He frowned, looking over his shoulder.
Holding firm, you turned your bones into steel the second that you felt them going weak. As much as it hurt you, you had to hammer further.
“You’re a coward, Sanji. You call yourself a chef with dreams but when the opportunity rises, you hide behind your comforts.”
“I am not a coward.” His tone told you a nerve had been struck.
“You are. You always have been. I just ignored it while being swept by your affection. But not anymore.” You reaffirmed. “I don’t deserve someone so low.”
Picking up the towel from his shoulder, Sanji tossed it on a broken table angrily.
“No, you don’t.” He commented bitterly.
Turning on his heel, the young man stormed out of the Baratie. The only uplifting thought that crossed your mind was that he was headed in the direction of Luffy and his crew.
Now standing in the silence. The realisation of what you had said finally caught up. You had spent countless days laying in his lap dreaming of a future where you’d both sail the seas endlessly for the All Blue.
That’s all it was - a dream.
A choked sob escaped and just like that you were crying, dropping to the floor amongst the broken plates and the shattered remnants of your heart.
Zeff barged in when he heard the loud thump. Worried, the ex-pirate rushed over. He saw the tears and the shaking shoulders and his stomach dropped.
“What have you done? What did you say to him?”
“Nothing that will bring him back.” You whispered.
Zeff bent down and wrapped his arms around you to console but his comfort only forced your heartbreak to the surface. “I’ve lost him, Zeff.”
Running a hand over your back, Zeff was devastated. He was convinced that Sanji would marry you - in fact, Zeff was so convinced that he had already planned out the catering for the day and had a theme or two in mind for the decor.
All he needed was Sanji to place a ring on your finger. But as the day had unfolded, it was clear that it was merely the dream of a fool.
You had achieved what the head chef couldn’t, paying the heaviest price of all - love.
~ More imagines here ~
A/n: This made my heart hurt too x
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