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pucksandpower · 1 month

Text

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

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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bonchobrick · 1 year

Text

Dead on Main au where Jason is of course Danny’s Fright Knight and like all knights do he has a weapon—except it’s his gun.

The batfam + justice league + everyone (except ghosts duh) don’t know that his normal average everyday gun is actually like a super powerful spiritual soul shooter that is, yaknow, capable of blasting someone into an alternate dimension where their greatest fears become real.

So imagine there’s like a big battle where a ghastly ghoul reigns terror on Gotham. The world sends their best hero’s—wizards and occultists are notably high highest in demand—to stop the ghost but, nothing works. All of the weapons and spells and chants fail.

But,

As the fights worsens and the heros scream for people to flee suddenly--

Loud squeaking footsteps echo across the ground. Jason yawns strolling into the battle zone in a ghostbusters t-shirt plaid pants bunny slippers--he strolls up in pajamas--as if annoyed at being woken up and cocks his fucking normal 'i could buy you at walmart' gun at the ghost.

His brothers screech at him yelling ”Are you insane” and to "get the hell out of here" in fear and panic because their idiot brother is trying to kill a real life ghost with a damn gun.

But then Jason shoots the ghost and it works.

The ghost fizzles down with a cry into just a little blob.

The young man then spends 30 minutes lecturing the spirit saying things like “you’re glad I’m not calling the big guy” and “you know our highness would not be happy learning what you’ve been doing” before taking out a thermos of all things and sucking the ghost into it.

Jason then sighs and walks away as if he hadn’t just defeated a hell raising ghost with a gun people can buy off a corner pawn store and a soup container.

Immediately the bat family swarms him with questions

Dick grabs him by his shoulders tense with worry, “Are you okay?”

“Um yeah—“ Jason tries to reply squirming in his hold

Damian cuts him off, “How the hell did your gun a physical weapon hurt that ghastly demonic spirit!”

“Uh that ghost is actually pretty chill you guys just pissed him off." Jason replies plain

They stare at him with a look saying 'you did not call a ghost that has been decimating gotham chill' probably because he did just that.

Tim is the first to break out of the disbelief stupor as he very inteligently says, "What?"

Jason responds easily with a confused quirk in his brow, "Second, my gun affects entities of all sorts, perks to my job and all that."

"How did being a vigilante and also probably crime boss give you a gun that could do that?" Dick asks

Jason sends him a look saying "are you an idiot" as he replies, "Yea, sure, kicking petty thieves and druggies got me my all powerful spirit weapon--No you dumbass, it's from being the bodyguard of the King of the Infinite Realms! How the hell did you guys not think of that!”

Tim breathes in, then breathes out, then breathes in again and screams, "Why the HELL WOULD WE THINK OF THAT JAY?!"

"The--" Batman, suddenly beside them, chokes, "Bodyguard of T-the what."

Jason blinks at his family then his eyes widen, "Oh shit."

"What?!" His family screech in panic

"Oh fuck," Jason says with a growing hysteric smile, "Danny's gonna have a big ol' fucking laugh with this."

"Brother who is Danny!" Damian demands for an answer

Jason coughs into his palm, "Oh yeah you guys really dont dont know. So I may have forgotten to explain some... things."

Bruce levels him with a stare that says "you think?"

Jason chuckles nervously, "So y'know how I'm half dead?"

pause

Damian very eloquently responds for the suddenly dying screaming combusting members of his family, "...sure."

"Well I met the King of the afterlife which is like the Ruler of Everything and he was really cute--" Jason says distant in his own world

"Theres a afterlife?" Superman asks casually appearing beside the emotionally wrecked family

"Yea its pretty cool. So I start flirting a bit with the guy and we hit it off, I now im his zombie ghost knight boyfriend lover for all time. Oh and i got this sickass gun." Jason says with a happy grin

"That is a pretty sick gun." John Constantine nods

"I know right?" Jason chirps

"You wouldn't mind if I inspected--" John reaches his hand

Jason slaps it away, "Not a chance you soul whore. Y'know your basically the tax evasionist of the Ghost Zone right?"

John only sighs and leaves

"But yea so I'm like the ghost world equivalent to married with the king and became his knight and thats how I was able to stop that ghost guy." Jason reiterates as if explaining a simple question, "Y'guys get that?"

Tim is on the ground trying to decide whether; sobbing hysterically, interogating jason to find out all the things he doesn't want to know or sleeping would be a better use of his time.

Dick has decided to blame himself and has started to draft a reddit post in the middle of the street starting with "I (23 m) have a younger brother (19 m), who I used to resent but really regret now, he died and came back and doesn't even tell me about what goes on in his life anymore. How do I fix our--"

Damian is just staring at the gun and... Jason pushes it deeper in his holster and shifts to the side, better to be safe than sorry with this thieving shit.

As Jason adjusts his weaponry he hears Bruce sob in the background, "He didn't even invite me to the wedding! Am I that horrible of a father!"

Wonder Woman pats his shoulder reasuringly whilst the rest of the League seem to be trying to calm him down

Jason looks around tiredly at the mess he had created and decides fuck it

"Alright I'm heading out for the night, you guys get home safe!" He yells and without caring to listen to anyone and everyone voicing their confusion he zips open a green portal and stumbles in

He crashes down on an unbelievably comfortable bed

Danny blinks blearily before sending the young man a sleepy smile, "Hey Jay, what kept you up so long?"

Jason slipping under the blankets with a yawn says, "You would not believe the night I just had."

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

Edit: UMM HII The fic is out now here!! you guys are awesome I'll post the new chapter 2 in a hot sec after editting ^^

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writingforatwistedworld · 1 year

Note

Maybe can I request with Vil, Ace and Silver in self aware au ?

The reader is stressed after a day of work/school and while playing they just stare at them in silence until they start caressing or touching their faces just to say that "Your pretty face is all that is good in my life" or something like that. Oh, I hope you understand 😣

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, violence, death, poison

Ace Trappola/Vil Schoenheit/Silver-“Your pretty face really cheers me up!”

Ace isn’t exactly known for “pretty boy” esthetics. Heck, he doesn’t even care that much about his appearance and all that he wants is to look decent

But then there is you, Overseer extravagance, the uncrowned ruler of the Queendom, the God of Briar Valley and the Island of Woes, a freaking legend wherever you go

And apparently, you like pretty faces but ok, who does not have a weakness or two

But Ace didn’t exactly count himself as “sparkle face with silky skin” or something along those lines

Then one day, ONE DAY, “I paint a heart on my face every day” guy over here was getting ready to go to his lessons, you having decided that apparently he needed more flying lessons

And even his house warden who was present at the scene would look like he was about to collapse any second after witnessing what was about to happen

Here he was, sitting on his broom, flying in mid-air up in the sky, suppressing screeches of horror

And then you had to drop that one line

“Your pretty face really cheers me up!”

Guess what else was dropping? Oh yeah, a first-year heartslabyul student

This simple sentence was too much for his body, making him drop off of his broom

But no need to worry, Vargas got him, levitation magic is a neat thing. Didn’t mean it would levitate his failing grades up into better places though…

If Ace had social media he would now surpass Vil, news travel fast you know?

And if the Overseer, I don’t think you know what kind of influence you have, THE OVERSEER said that someone was pretty then oh boy, you better believe they are!

And whilst we are on the subject of beauty, Vil is going absolutely bananas somewhere in the background, screaming “HOW??!” and other not-so-beautiful things

Ace though? Just pure shock. From that day on he is painting that heart extra carefully

And if someone just slightly smudges the heart? Well, I hope they have someone to help them adjust because they won’t leave the hospital for a long time. They and their crushed spine.

Vil is used to compliments about his apperance. I mean, come on, he has five million followers

So a compliment is usually met with a simple “thank you” and then he moves on with his day

Here we are, a normal day for Vil, sitting in his room, taking off the make-up to get to sleep

And then he feels your presence

Really bad timing. REALLY bad timing!

So whilst he sitts there like he just turned into a stone statue, a very beautiful stone statue, you just go along with your day, assigning students to go to lessons, yada yada

And then your gaze falls on him (aka your home screen). The statue stopped breathing

This is it. Now he has done it. He has shown him to you whilst he was at his most disgraceful

And whilst Vil is already crying in his head you are still staring at him

“Your pretty face really cheers me up!” And then you carass his face

This… this can not be real, right?

There is no way you complimented him whilst he is like this

But alas Vil finally gets that you geniunely mean your compliment

Sadly there was no one to witness it but boy, Vil is happy

Now whenever Vil looks in the mirror he is proud that you think he is beautiful and imagines what he would do to the wretched rats who dare and try to steal your attention from him

Rook even commented the next day that his skin seemed to glow brighter than usual, Vil during all of that not able to stop smiling

Does that mean he will take it easier now? No. After all, he can’t loose his “Oh he pwetty” status

And if he does… well, there are a lot of poisons he can make and don’t forget his special magic…

Silver, good old Silver being himself and accedentaly sleeping the day away

Now saying that the poeple of the Valley of Thorns are a bit too interested in you is a understatement

And who could blame them? You are their God (I blame them. In fact, I blame them a lot)

So here he is, laying on the grass, dreaming of spending a day with you…

And everything is good and dandy and fine and you opened the app

Silver is not a fae so he doesn’t have that sixth sense that tingles whenever you are even glancing at the app but he had been trained to be cautious

And cautious he is, waking up the second he feels your gaze on himself

So you are back. Good to see you! He hopes you have a- why are you touching his face?

“Your pretty face really cheers me up!”

The rest of the day Silver is in a daze and only after his father, pardon me, vice house warden Lilia asks him what is wrong Silver finally snaps out of it

“They called me pretty…” “Who called you pretty?” “The Overseer.” “Ah, I see… WAIT WHAT??!”

Yeah, Silver is just happy

He even uses skin care products after that day

But if someone would dare to take away his special status, being called pretty, away from him then good luck

All I can say is that he knows how to use a sword… and he probably knows how to get rid of a body

Just don’t leave him and Vil alone in a room, ok? Otherwise one will be poisoned and the other might be a bit scratched up

“Your pretty face really cheers me up!”

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staysaneathome · 10 months

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The Start of the Ravening War

The Ravening War starts with the death of Queen Pamela Rocks, first of her name, beloved matriarch of the realm and of her family. A fructeran who knew the truth of her adopted home’s motto well before she married into it, found not killed but splattered all over the interior of the disguised carriage she was travelling in, arousing the wrath of five, of a thousand, grieving their mother/queen.

No, no, that’s late, far too late. Here, try again.

The Ravening War starts when a little radish is driven to fits of screaming at the sight of bladed teeth and viscera when he falls and scrapes his knee. His parents drag him to the nearest Bulbian church, where religious icons are pressed to his face and hands and body until the edges break flesh and the pain starts anew. The young radish learns that the only way to make it stop is to pretend it worked. To give praise to a light he has never truly known nor understood the warmth of, never questioning anything for that is how the pain comes back. That those who bestow such pain upon a little boy have power. That they have the power to ensure it never happens to them.

No, no, that is too early. What about this?

The Ravening War starts when a widow-to-be emerges from her toilette, all traces of her vomiting carefully hidden. She realizes she had been tricked, the heavy drinking, the promises that her old friend took herbs that ensured his impotency, the tisane that he swore would ensure her own. That she is trapped in the prison he has made of her own body, an eternal blackmail victim regardless if the child dies or lives, but oh, she is surprised by how much she wants the child to. To be a queen is to be a mother, after all, to sire the next generation of rulers. But queens are not blackmail victims. She will need to talk to someone.

Tangential, much too tangential. Perhaps this way?

The Ravening War starts when a tiny chili pepper watches as her big brother is beaten into the dirt by his friends. He refuses to take up with the strange adults (is it adults? All those different faces, yet the same eyes every time) who pay kids to watch and listen, and now he is paying for it. She sees how he’s made small, made broken, when he seemed so big and strong before. She flings herself at his attackers in a whirl of teeth and nails and screeching, manages to drive off two through sheer fury alone. The strange adult watching smiles. He can use this.

A tragedy to be sure, but not the start of a war. What about that?

The Ravening War starts when a young meatlander fidgets in the toga of the Ceresian Senate, not quite able to hide behind the spaghetti of his venerable grandfather. He is loved dearly by both sides of his disparate family, but the force of his mother’s personality has made him a shy boy, desperate for direction, for purpose. He has been sent here to learn the ways of his grandfather, to learn how to smile and to charm and to speak in the Senate. The senator smiles as she shakes his sweaty hand in greeting, as he blushes at the waft of her perfume. This will be even easier than she thought.

A dalliance, but again, hardly the start of a war. Perhaps here?

The Ravening War starts when a small boy watches his father get melted in the middle of the square. He is squeezed between legs, can only see the way the air distorts with heat and a vague figure flailing on a hook, but he can hear the screams. Dear Bulb, can he hear the screams. He’s almost transfixed by them, but not enough to not notice the guards, wading through the crowd, heads down and searching, like they’re looking for someone small. Looking for him. He runs and runs and runs, tears greasing his cheeks as he vanishes into the alleys he grew up in.

No, not that, but getting closer. How about—?

The Ravening War starts when a handmaiden reassures a hyperventilating bride on her wedding day that she was, of course, born to be queen. She is a silly girl, a naive one, who has fallen in love with the man she is to be wed to, but that’s alright. She is a du Pêche, soon to be a Cardoon, and above all else that means she has breeding. She has poise, she has manners, she has charm, there is no one else more suited to be Queen than she. Amangeaux will make new friends in this court soon, and if all else fails, Chutney will always be there for her mistress, to comfort and guide her. She promises.

Still not quite right. What about—?

The Ravening War starts when a spymaster wearing the flesh of her ex-mentor hears whispers in the streets of a count who would unify Fructera and Vegetania. Unification would mean ease of travel, a significant expansion of her network, the chance to walk among the court of Greenhold in her true form and have all those pompous nobles bow in deference to the royal spymaster. For all Karna is a spymaster, she is still a twelve year old girl, still prone to getting swept up by the promising ideals of men who could give her more, prone to setting her whole heart on a goal and doing whatever she must to see it through. It will be her downfall someday.

Closer but no cigar. Maybe—?

The Ravening War starts when a senator sprays her favorite negligee down with scent and folds it delicately to be placed in a package. It’s a shame she won’t get to wear it again, but she can always flutter her eyelashes at Focaccia, and she will have three nicer ones by the end of the week. It’s a kindness, truly, to give the boy a scrap of hope, a memento of something he will never truly have. And with the work she has done on him, she has no doubt her little Deli will prove to be one of the most valuable pieces the Sanctus Putris will have on the board, his loyalty and eagerness to please translating making him a useful pawn to fulfill their goals and prevent the end of days.

No, no, that’s way out. Why not—?

The Ravening War starts when a bishop overhears an old chorister remark at length about how King Cardoon has his great grandmother’s taste in spouses. The bishop, preparing for his responsibilities ministering to the new king and queen, engages the member of his flock in conversation, where the old woman’s knowledge sparks an interest in genealogy. Soon there are intricate charts of lineage and birthright spread out in the bishop’s quarters, and though he does not realize it, the head gardener is getting paid very well indeed to look the other way when Father Charlock goes to gather herbs for His Majesty’s tea.

Not yet but getting warmer. Perhaps—?

The Ravening War starts when a cheesy sellsword walks into the Chieftess of the Beef Clans. The buffoon stutters apologies and pleas for mercy, relying more on Provolone coming over to attempt to smooth ruffled feathers, the Chieftess’ son far more proficient in soothing his mother’s wrath. From there the conversation turns to needing to hire guards, a carriage to Comida, and by the end of the day the two of them are on strawberries riding to Fructera. Colton Gouda touches the emblem of pressed palms and a feather deep in his pocket. He’s fulfilled his part—now it’s up to his fellows to do the same.

No, no, it’s almost but doesn’t get everything, not at all. Here, tell it this way:

The Ravening War starts when a drunken tomato makes a wild claim, fueled by ire at the lack of deference from his perceived inferiors. He is made all the more furious, all the more resolved by their refusal to recognize his rightful place as king, and so even once sober, rallies his countrymen to fight for his birthright. He truly does not know what ruin this stupid, shortsighted, selfish decision will bring.

Hardly better than all the rest, but it will do. With so many machinations in play, how could it ever come down to a single event?

#the ravening war #trw spoilers #the ravening war spoilers #dimension 20 trw #dimension 20 #d20 #trw #karna solara #thane delissandro katzon #colin provolone #lady amangeaux epicée du peche #queen amangeaux epicee du peche #bishop raphaniel charlock #archdeacon raphaniel charlock #ariana gemelli #colton gouda #chutney trw #pamela rocks

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yandere-wishes · 9 months

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He's Just Ken

Summary: You're just Barbie, perfect on the outside, dead on the inside. He's just Ken, neither perfect on the outside nor on the inside.

Author's note: I condone neither patriarchy nor matriarchy. But I do love exploring different forms of mental exhaustion and extreme emotional dependency.

Warnings: Mental abuse, dark mental headspace, mentions of suicide and self-harm (only if you read between the lines), yandere behavior, yandere Ken,

Not every Barbie has a Ken. Not one for herself anyway. Every Barbie knows a Ken, but that Ken most likely belongs to her friend, or her neighbor, or one of the other Barbies. Not every Barbie has a Ken, but every Barbie knows a Ken. You know one too, one with sandy hair and ocean eyes. And a look that longs for something more. You know a Ken who keeps his heart from breaking by crossing his fingers and praying to the Malibu sun. You know a Ken who's only happy if a certain Barbie looks his way. Or rather you knew. This was before the world fell apart. This was before he destroyed it.

Ken returned without Barbie and the universe began to crack. It's fine you thought. It's fine you hoped. Ken -That Ken, the one who waited on the beach for hours on end until his Barbie walked by- returned from the real world preaching sermons on how the Kens were better, superior, the rightful rulers of Barbieland. How they didn't need the Barbies, how they no longer needed to settle for being treated as anything less than perfect. How they needn't be number two any longer. Ken returned without Barbie and the universe wept.

You've always known the real world was a messed up place. It had become evident when the thoughts started to creep in. That was years ago-albeit you'll admit you have no idea if Barbie years and human years aligned- years since you started to feel like a constant failure. Years since that harrowing voice began screeching endless dreadful thoughts into your cranium. Notions that festered your mind and heart, tiny maggots that chewed away at your soul. There was always something wrong and it was somehow always your fault. Then came the pain. Horizontal pangs that shot across your arm. Always in the same spot, always in a cluster of three. Barbies don't feel pain as intensely as humans, at least they're not supposed to.

You worried for your human back then. You truly did. But you were always too scared to leave Barbieland. Never brave enough to go find her. She's fine you hope...you doubt it though.

You also refused to go see Weird Barbie. Too scared of being labeled as anything less than perfect. So long as these thoughts merely remained inside you and no outward defects began to show, you would be fine. You could just pretend like everything was as perfect as it always had been.

Ken came back from the real world unscratched. Yet his words hit a chord within every other Ken. They began to take over. The Barbies were reduced to accessories. Pretty little things that clung to their lovers. Dressed in short skirts and maid outfits. Turned into what they weren't.

Ken destroyed what once was perfect. Yet all you could think as you watch the pillars of your homeland cripple and your friends descend into madness. Was how utterly beautiful he was.

The world turned upside down.

Barbieland fell.

Kendome rose.

And yet as everything the Barbies had worked all so hard to build came crumbling down. As your friends and neighbors began to lose themselves and submit to a tyrannical patriarchy. You found yourself utterly unaltered. Your world had been destroyed long ago. This was just another calamity that you would fake your way through. It would be easy, a lifetime of practice finally paying off. Stay quiet, stay in the shadows, no one would notice.

No one was supposed to notice...

Ken found you on the beach one night. A day or two after the hostile Ken takeover. He walked up behind you out of breath as if he'd been running.

The bonfire crackles, a warning, and a love song. Until now you'd only ever existed in his sideview. An afterthought as he impaled his heart and called it love. You had burned yourself in his rays and called it love. You're convinced neither of you knows what love truly is. The moon's rays dance as you two sit side by side. In the distance, you see Blue Mermaid Barbie and Mermaid Ken share a tender kiss. An unparalleled sight.

Ken sits next to you. Eyes following your every move. Scanning every dip and curve of your plastic corpse. He's just Ken you remind yourself with an uneasy breath. He's just Ken, nothing to fear. Although you're not entirely sure if those old ideologies shine through. He's Ken but somehow he's become unstable at worst, flammable at best. Something radioactive ticks inside of him waiting to detonate. Waiting to make the world feel a trace of his pain.

Ken's fingers intertwine with yours as waves of helplessness crash across your body. You were created to be ethereal yet all you see is perfection molded in the shape of Ken's face. He leans in, carelessly placing his chin in the subspace of your neck as he whispers. "I see the way you look at me" his warm breath tickles the shell of your ear. You flinch, in time with the breaking of the waves. "I know you want me" Reality blurs when Ken touches you. He pulls you between his legs as his lips kiss the back of your neck. His fingers run up and down your arm as if he's trying to memorize your shape, your soul, you. It's romantic you think but all you feel is puka shell shards stabbing your flesh. You know he's dreamed of this intimacy with the other Barbie.

you wonder if in his eyes you are merely a ghost. One he resurrected with desperate love and a broken heart. You wonder if he sees her, feels her, wants her. Yet he'll settle for you. The next best thing. The other stereotypical Barbie. Somewhere along the line, your own voice sounds, foreign to you. He's talking, his voice is smooth like silk. Fragile like window glass after a bombing. He asks you something, something you've dreamed of for all so long. He asks you to be his bride wife. You agree despite how degrading it sounds.

What once was a pink haven of fun and joy has now been turned into a mess of horses and black sunglasses. Barbie's dreamhouse is now Ken's Mojo Dojo Casa House. You feel like an intruder, like a traitor. You feel loved, wanted, needed. Someone once told you that truths can co-exist. It's all you can think to save yourself from going mad.

There's an unspoken easiness that comes with being with Ken. The way he's always around. His hands never leave you, tracing stars on your arms, running through your hair. He wants his presence to be felt.

"I like this" you confess one night as you rest your head on his arm. "I've always felt...less than perfect. Like I couldn't be good at anything like the other Barbies." Ken laughs and it feels like the stars have cladded you in their warmth. He pinches your nose with a soft smile. "I know the feeling," he mutters and you feel your heart crack. "But you don't have to worry about that. I'm here and so long as you're with me. We're both going to be perfect." You snuggle into his chest as you close your eyes. "Ken and Barbie" you sing, a mantra, a prayer. One for a better future. One for a happy life.

You have a dream house. Had one at least. You sometimes wonder which Ken lives there now. You wonder if his Barbie feels your presence radiating off the walls and the floor and the heart-shaped night lamp you once treasured. You certainly feel Stereotypical Barbie's presence echoing from every corner. You see her ghost whenever Ken pulls you onto his lap to watch a horse flick. Infuriated and distressed. You wonder if she's angry because you didn't join the rebellion. You wonder if she's angry because she thinks you took Ken away. You see her ghost again, feel her between the pause of two breaths. She glitches and fades as you hide your face in Ken's mink coat.

"I don't like being apart from you" Ken claims as he lays your body on top of his. One hand dangling off the couch the other curling your loose locks. To Ken a touch away feels like being galaxies apart. You kiss his chin and his cheek and his nose and finally his lips. It feels like a dream. One you refuse to wake up from.

Ken is gold.

Unmetable and solid.A kaleidoscope of hope

He has so much potential rotting inside of him.

Ken is gold.

Beautiful and everlasting.

His value lies in how pretty he is. How good of an accessory he's willing to be.

You wonder if he's sick of being gold.

You felt Barbie's ghost again today. This time looming and aggravated. She wants her presence acknowledged. She has something she needs to say. Ken was out, one of the rare times you two spend apart. Something about a beach off and rock paper scissors.

You wonder if a ghost haunting is their way of showing love.

You wonder if the Kens starting a rebellion is their way of showing love.

Barbie talks for ten minutes straight. You cling to every word, you forgot how much you missed the Other Barbie's voice. It's in the final beat of her sentence that you notice she's not a ghost. Not this time. This is Barbie, the girl who had been your friend since the day you left your box. "Help me" she pleads as she grabs your shoulders. "We need to fix this", you turn your head and smile a broken smile. "I can't" you confess.

It's easy to undo brainwashing. Even easier to reinstate it. What Stereotypical Barbie and her friends can undo. You can simply redo. Even Barbies prefer ease, a few simple half-truths sung into the right ear at the right time. And the once normalized Barbies are running back to their Kens. You turn, in the rays of the golden sun, you see Barbie. Her eyes hold glimmers of unshed tears. She wears her betrayal on her pink sleeve. "Why" she whispers as her fingers reach out to hover over your heart before she retracts them. You think you may have burned her. You think she's afraid of being plagued by your depravity.

You feel like a traitor, like a monster. A creature made of pink lipgloss and shattered vows. should Kendom fall, you know your delicate dream life will fall with it. You stare into her eyes. And the words that leave your mouth feel so rehearsed, yet you swear it's the first time you've uttered them. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you both when you went through hell. I'm sorry I wasn't there when the world collapsed and you ran from the debris. I'm sorry I can't help you pick up the pieces and rebuild what once was yours.., ours. I'm sorry I'm so selfish".

Immortal hearts are cursed with the loneliest beats. Maybe that's why the other Barbies never bothered to ponder their endless existence. Maybe that's why the Kens always clung to false promises of love. Maybe saying I love you is the same as saying I'm letting you go. Stereotypical Barbie has already reached this conclusion, you know this. For a fraction of a juncture, she looks into your eyes. Trying to reason and plea and hope all in the same breath. When you say nothing more her eyes shine with grief as she turns on her heels and runs for the hilled house. You reach out to her, yet only grasp the warm Malibu breeze.

What do you call a person such as yourself?

Coward...

That sounds about right.

Ken kisses your neck, and it feels like lava sprinkling along your skin. You feel like a defeated soldier drowning in a sea of guilt. Survivor's guilt a voice echo inside your head familiar yet all so distant. A ghost from a past life or a current one unseeable to you. "I have it too" the voice replies. You wonder if it's the voice of an angel or a mortal girl. You don't tell him about the Barbie resistance or how easily they can reverse the brainwashing. You work best alone anyway.

You hear the word death replay in the background as Ken bites a sensitive spot. A faint noise, a haunting whisper. You hear the word death and it sounds more familiar than the name Barbie that has rolled off your tongue every day since birth.

Ken harbors you inside the once was dreamhouse like a forbidden secret. Sometimes the skirts feel too short. Sometimes the world feels too heavy. You always feel the eyes of the other Kens on you. You think Ken planned it that way to show the Ken world who you belong to. Just last week he took you to the beach. Both of you wearing matching pastel blues and silver earrings. Other Ken was there also adorned in pastel blue and silver earrings. You see the twitch in your Ken's jaw, the icy glare when Other Ken waves to you. "Let's go," he says, commandes really. He throws you over his shoulder and you're heading back the way you came. "I really wanted to see Mermaid Barbie..." You pout. "No no, you wanted to see a movie remember?" Ken corrects you, to be honest, he does that often. You're starting to doubt you even know your own wants anymore.

Today Ken has you dressed in a pink and white dress. You remember Setrotypical Barbie use to love this dress. You run around the kitchen cooking a pretend dinner. You really want to go shipping, to pick out something you'd like. A rose pink Lolita skirt and a matching button-up. You really want to die. Although that's normal you always want to go shopping. You always want to die. You wonder if Ken will ever let you pick out your own dresses. You leave his plate in front of him as you loop your arms around his neck. You rest your chin on his head as he pulls you closer. Not picking your own clothes is a small price to pay for the intimacy you've craved for far too long.

"Never has there ever been a girl as pretty" Ken whispers as he relishes in your presence.

"Do you have any idea what you are?" He rasps, his lips hovering over yours. You're both sitting on the bed, watching the sun die for the day.

Ken is a monster. At least that's what you're supposed to think. You have something in your mind something that squirmes around in what can only be described as reason. To call it wits and a conscious would be an overstatement. Lucide is a better word. Weak and brittle yet somehow still standing. Deep inside, your heart refuses to call Ken anything other than hero, savior, salvation.

"I'm yours" it's the first truth that's left your mouth in a long long time. You cup his cheeks and kiss him with all the doom and gratitude that lies within you. And Wow Ken tastes like mint ice cream and shooting stars. Like dead dreams that lay on the tip of your tongue. He's the beach at night and the evermore gardens during the day. He's everything good and confusing and painful and sweet. Ken nibbles your ear, playfully, and coos sweet words into your soul. Spinning tales of how you'll be together forever. You soak in his presence, rolling his name around in your head. You keep your head filled with him before your own thoughts give you a heart attack.

You're Barbie but now you are so much more than that. You're his Barbie. Ken's Barbie. Damaged yet simultaneously perfect. And he's perfect too, mesmerizing when the sun's rouge rays kiss his pretty face, bathing him in golden ichor.

You wonder if perfection and imperfection have always been in love.

Sometimes in the dead of night, you think of the little girl playing with you. Albit she isn't a little girl anymore, is she? Kids grow up. clawing and biting through the painful transformation. Sometimes it leaves their minds fragmented. Sometimes it leaves them less than whole.

Judging by how long it's been, your little girl is grown up by now. You close your eyes and give Ken a final kiss before sleep overtakes you. You hope she's okay, even though you know that can never be true. Being "okay" doesn't seem to be a real thing in this universe.

Because girls are broken and the universe knows this

Because boys are broken and the universe knows this

Because the universe does nothing. Just sits there and watches as life bends and breaks itself over and over again

Barbieland is broken too, imperfect and destroyed.

And so are the two of you.

Yet in the end, it doesn't matter.

For as broken as the world is the most important of things has been resolved.

Ken has his Barbie.

And Barbie has her Ken.

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ruershrimo · 4 months

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f. megumi x reader | one moment longer

under the light of the moon, he looks more beautiful than anything.

spiky black hair shining like stunning silver, eyelashes weaved of the silkiest threads one’s genes could offer, green eyes shimmering, scrutinised by the moon’s glow. if there was a painting to describe the epitome of beauty he would be its subject.

the collar of that tidy black uniform you can nuzzle your face into, the hyaline scent of detergent and a freshly cleaned room, the rhythm of his breaths, faint and light, as lithe, warm hands rest on your back the same way puzzle pieces stay connected.

“i love you,” you hear. it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

you aren’t a jujutsu sorcerer yourself, so maybe you wouldn’t know enough. still, you know some people say that the world of sorcery is one devoid of hope and humanity; you know the general sentiment among them is that this has always been a sisyphean task, that it was born from the resistance of impermanent lives against an evil which would last for all eternity.

yet how can they let their worlds be entrenched in such darkness and lovelessness?

love and good are everywhere, you think, no matter how much loss there is to endure. you’ve felt so yourself.

you see it when you sip from teacups in cafes where the saucers come with biscuits on the side and your ears notice the shutter of his camera and you gaze at the mellow grin resting on his face. you hear it when he sends you whatever tune he’s been listening to for the past few days, sent with a text saying, “thought you might like this”. you taste it when he presses his lips to yours and kisses him back out of joy in a bold defiance of this world’s sorrows. love and good is everywhere in the mundanity of life and it’s minuscule, quiet moments.

“i love you,” he whispers again, voice as soft as a gentle breeze in an autumn-touched street, but with enough conviction to make the mightiest of rulers fall, you’re sure. you shut your eyes slowly as his feet move languidly in tandem with yours.

“you do?” you ask, “i love you too, megumi.”

one day the world he resides in will take him away from you. one day you’ll be left alone with no one to hold you under the moonlight while it spills into their wooden-tiled dorm room, one day you won’t have anyone to dance with you despite the chills outside.

but today is not that day. tonight is not the night you’ll be screeching and crying as you hear news of his death from a cellphone call. it’s not the night when you’ll be shaking and collapsing over his mangled corpse, if there even is one left.

you want a future together. you want for him to stay even after he leaves graduates, for years and years and years of his life. but even you know that with the life he’s living, with the kind of life where any night is one when he may die, you just wish that it can last for a while longer. if not two years, then maybe two months. if not two months, then maybe two weeks. or perhaps…

…just one moment longer. one moment longer with fushiguro megumi.

I don’t even write for jjk haha, I was just simping at 3 am (I want to sleep. I’ve to wake up before 9 tomorrow. someone pry my phone away from me.) I’m also doing this to cope because gege is cruel. someone help this is probably so bad I didn’t even do any formatting or anything bro that picture isn’t even one of the moon

#lmao what am I doing it’s like 3am #I’m going to sleep this is probably so bad #megumi fushiguro #jjk megumi #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #megumi fluff #ruer writes #stuff that isn’t genshin #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #fushiguro megumi #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 1 year

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Birth of Dragons

Pairing(s): Aegon i Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader, Aegon i Targaryen x Rhaenys Targaryen, Aegon i Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: canon Targaryen sibling in*est

Words:2625

Summary: It wasn’t fair of him to choose a favorite between his sisters. Fearless Visenya, playful Rhaenys and loving (y/n). Above them all he secretly placed (y/n) close to his heart.

Part 2

It wasn’t fair of him to choose a favorite between his sisters. Fearless Visenya, playful Rhaenys and loving (y/n). Above them all he secretly placed (y/n) close to his heart. She was the baby, needed the most protection as she was the youngest. Visenya and Rhaenys agreed on this as well, for she was their favorite and most beloved. Many often speculated that Aegon married Visenya out of duty, Rhaenys out of desire, and (y/n) out of pure love.

With such a sweet demeanor it was a shock to all the day she mounted Balerion. The Black Dread wasn’t phased at all and allowed the third Targaryen queen to climb onto his back She was just a small speck among his black scales. Even he wouldn’t let Rhaenys or Visenya on top of him. He would bare his sharp teeth at either of the sisters if they dared try. Not (y/n). She coaxed him with a soft voice and delicate caress to his nose. (y/n) had her own dragon, an albino that she lovingly named Renoxa. The bond between rider and dragon was a strong one to begin with but (y/n) and Renoxa seemed to always be in such perfect sync with one another. Dragons couldn’t truly be tamed yet Renoxa was close to it. While even Balerion snapped at Aegon a few times, Renoxa would never dare do such a thing to (y/n). She was something different.

She had a way with all matters of beasts. Whether they were dragons or men, she was a beast tamer. In Visenya’s fits of rage, (y/n) was the only one to soothe her anger.

(y/n) was equally fierce though, determined to stay by her siblings’ side no matter what.

When she started showing signs of sickness, the other three Targaryen rulers were quick to forbade her from riding alongside them to conquer the north.

“Really, I’m alright. All of you worry too much.” (y/n) says and once again tries to reach for her armor, but Visenya pushes her aside and back down onto her bed. The youngest didn’t put up much of a fight since she had been vomiting all morning, her energy greatly drained.

Rhaenys shakes her head. “Look at yourself, sweetling. You’re in no shape to be riding.”

Aegon agrees. “She’s right. I’m not about to put you at risk.”

“What risk? We have four fully grown dragons. They’ll give up easily.” (y/n) tries to protest. Large violet eyes beg them to let her come. Normally they would have bent to the will of those lovely Valyrian eyes. No one wanted to risk (y/n) getting hurt though.

“No (y/n). You can barely even sit up. If you were to ride in your state you would fall off of your dragon and to your death.” Aegon firmly tells her. “You stay here and let the maesters tend to you. That’s final.”

Outside their fort they could catch the screeches of Renoxa and the other dragons as they leisurely roamed around their territory, loving the open air and freedom as dragons should have.

With the tone her brother had used (y/n) knew there was no way of making him budge. His rule was law. She looks away from her siblings feeling ever like the petulant child, her fingers fiddling with the dragon head ring she wore. Rubies in the eye sockets glistening in the daylight that crept through the window.

Unable to bear her sister looking so rejected, Rhaenys takes (y/n)’s face in her hands and gives her a kiss on the lips. “Don’t look like that. We’ll be back before you know it. Like you said, we have fully grown dragons on our side. What are direwolves compared to our beautiful dragons?” Her fingers brush away (y/n)’s silvery bangs and she places another kiss on her forehead. “Don’t be upset ñuha jorrāelagon.”

It was hard for you to not feel left out as your siblings donned their glorious black armor and set off on their dragons to finish taking over the rest of Westeros. You had been with them through it all, through every battle. You and Renoxa paving the way to Targaryen victory and conquest.

What else were you supposed to do? You could tell that even Renoxa was getting restless. You wanted to go outside and comfort her but the maesters that Aegon had put in charge of your welfare refused to let you out of your chambers. Any other time you would have tried to threaten them, stating that you were their queen and could not be kept locked up but in all honesty you were tired.

You spent most of the time sleeping. Any little thing made you so incredibly tired that you wanted nothing else but to take a long nap. You would sleep for hours and many times you wouldn’t even be aware that you had fallen asleep until you had woken up. It was then that the maesters had started bombarding you with questions. When was your last moon’s blood, when was the last time you had sex with Aegon; questions that had you blushing. You were still young after all. If they had asked the same thing to Rhaenys she would have just smiled and coyly replied without feeling any embarrassment.

When the third week had rolled in of your siblings being absent, the maesters gave you the news that you were pregnant.

The news was quite shocking to you. Of course you weren’t naive enough to not know what happened after sex. Pregnancy was a possibility. You just never thought you would be the first one out of your sisters to become pregnant.

To have a living thing growing inside of you was an odd thought. Your stomach was still flat and showed no signs of there being any baby. When you placed your hands over your stomach though you swore that you felt a heat that wasn’t usually there. Like a fire suddenly lit inside of you. You were going to be a mother. Your child, if they were to be born a boy, would be Aegon’s heir. His first heir.

Smiling slightly to yourself you grow even more antsy for your family to return.

The news that Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar had been spotted nearing Aegonsfort had you sprinting out to greet them. Maesters yelling after you, you slowed down remembering your condition but walk quickly.

Renoxa is already up in the air, almost as white as the clouds. Even from way up there she spots you and begins her descent. Your hair whips in the gusts she builds up as she lands on the ground, her mighty wings beating against the air as she steadies herself. Her scales were bright, almost to the point of blinding. It was a great contrast when she stood next to Balerion or any of the other dragons. Her blood red eyes gaze at you, unblinking as she gingerly nuzzles your cheek with her snout.

You kiss her giant nose, you could feel her hot breath from her nostrils. Lovely, smooth, scales like priceless ivory. She was a gorgeous creature despite her small size; she was as young as you were after all and was still growing. Renoxa was slightly larger than Vhagar but not by much and no bigger than Meraxes. Still she was perfect to you. Even though your siblings loved their dragons it was nothing compared to your adoration for Renoxa and it showed through your strong bond. You doted on one another. You were as protective over Renoxa as she was over you.

And now you hoped she would be equally protective over your child.

“You must know that I’m pregnant.” Smiling against her snout, a gentle sound vibrates from her barrel of a chest. Yes, she knew.

There’s a cry in the air of a dragon, Balerion’s cry to be exact. They were closer now and you noticed the Black Dread picking up speed as he tilted downward to the earth. Both him and Aegon must be excited to see you.

Renoxa cranes her head, opening her mouth to bellow out a greeting. To others it might have been ear piercing, a sound of horror, but to you it was the sound of utter joy. You grin when Meraxes joins in with Balerion in wanting to see you.

Soon enough the three dragons were shaking the earth as they landed. Normally there would have been a crowd to welcome back the king and queens, but people were still standoffish when all four dragons were together. They made for an intimidating sight. Bannermen cheered at the arrival, the good news of Torrhen Stark bending the knee had already reached Aegonsfort.

Balerion lowers down onto the ground so that Aegon could dismount him.

“(y/n)!” Aegon’s smile is big at the sight of you and you have to control yourself from yelling that you were pregnant. “You look much better! How are you feeling?” His fingers weave through your hair, slightly undoing the braid that the maids had spent a while in designing. His eyes were sparkling as he leaned down to pepper your face in kisses. Sometimes you forgot how young your brother actually was. Being a ruler made him act so much older, but his true age always came out when he was lavishing love and affection upon you.

You giggle and cling to him. Rhaenys was soon to join the two of you while Visenya chose to stand off to the side with her arms crossed yet holding a gentle smile on her otherwise harsh face.

“Oh my (y/n)!” Rhaenys sings and nearly pushes Aegon out of the way to hug you next. Aegon only chuckles and allows his beautiful sister to coddle you. When she took in all of you though her face changed. Not in a bad way, but in disbelief. “Your pregnant.”

Aegon’s eyes grew large at what his sister had said. It wasn’t even posed as a question but a fact. Even Visenya let her arms fall down to her sides. The news must have been a little upsetting to your older sister as she had yet to get pregnant despite being the first to marry Aegon.

Scared to jinx the news, Aegon asks with hopefulness in his tone “Is it true (y/n)? Are you really pregnant?”

Giddy you nod your head uncontrollably. “Yes!”

Rhaenys breaks out into tears. “My sweet (y/n) is going to be a mom!!” She hugs you, refusing to let you go or share you with Aegon.

Even though there was still much left to do, Aegon refused to leave your side during your pregnancy. That is why Aegon put Rhaenys and Visenya in charge of overseeing the rest of what needed to be done in order to truly construct a kingdom for the Targaryens to rule over for generations to come. And you were playing the part of beginning the future generations.

Aegon marveled as your belly grew larger and rounder. He loved showing you off to his new vassals at how much your child was growing and that surely they would grow up to be a strong leader of Westeros. Even other noblewomen who were pregnant as well didn’t have a belly compared to your’s. It worried you at first, the size of your belly. Wasn’t it too large? You would ask Rhaenys if it was normal but she had as much knowledge of being pregnant as you did.

“Perhaps it’ll be an actual dragon.” She teased. Her hands roamed all over your exposed abdomen, feeling the heat coming off of it. Rhaenys pressed her cheek against your swollen belly. “Or maybe you’ll be having two.”

You gawk at your sister. “Two?!”

Her laugh is as clear and tinkling like a bell. “Yes, women can have two at once. It’s not that common but it does happen.”

“Dear gods I hope it’s not two.”

“Regardless of how many you have we’ll love them all the same. Even if you do happen to pop out an actual dragon. It’ll just show the people how strong you and the Targaryen family is.” Quiet in contemplation, Rhaenys kisses your belly. “You have done our family much pride (y/n).”

Regret eats at you for your older sister Visenya. “It should be Visenya who is pregnant. She’s been married to Aegon longer.”

A frowning Rhaenys rolls onto her back next to you on your grand bed. She had forced Aegon away from you so that he could be part in building his kingdom. The only thing that soothed Aegon was the idea that she would be with you. “She has never been happy in this marriage, (y/n). A baby would have made no difference. But yes, I suppose it does sting her a little bit. She knows though, knows out of the three of us you would be the first one to be pregnant with Aegon’s child. He may warm my bed a few nights but at the end of the night he goes back to you.”

“He loves you too, Rhaenys.”

“Oh I know he does sweetling.” She taps your nose dotingly. “But there is one thing that Aegon and I can agree on and that is that we adore you above anyone else. He loves you more than me and I love you more than I love him.”

You curl up against her, you had always found Rhaenys’ heartbeat to be so soothing. Ever since you were a small child you ran to her for comfort. She would always embrace you with ready arms.

And Rhaenys stayed to comfort you during your labor. She never left your side and held your hand as you screamed in pain. Her hair had been braided and pulled back into a bun as to not get in the way as she was assisting with the birth.

Aegon and Visenya had been forced to wait outside and listen to your wails of agony. They had never heard anything like it. At first when you started screaming,

Visenya had gone for her sword with fear that something had happened to you. That maybe an assassin had snuck into the labor room. Aegon had stopped her with a hand to her shoulder and had her wait with him.

You had never gone through anything as painful in your entire life. Many times you had been wounded in battle but no wounds compared to the pain you were in now.

Finally after hours of screaming and pushing, your son was born.

A beautiful baby that screamed much louder than you ever managed to. Hair as fine as white silk. Even if he was covered in afterbirth you wanted to hold him close to you.

But he was taken away before you could even touch him.

“M-My baby. . .” You reach out imploringly to him.

Rhaenys scowls at the midwife. “What’s the meaning of this. Give your queen her baby.”

“I-I’m sorry your grace, but she isn’t finished yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“There comes another baby.”

“WHAT??!!”

“Visemarys and Baelyx Targaryen.” Aegon smiles down at his newborn sons. Rhaenys held your firstborn Visemarys while Visenya awkwardly held onto Baelyx. You were exhausted from giving birth to not one, but two babies and had no energy to continue to hold them.

“How will you tell them apart?” Visenya asks skeptically as she looks from one scrunched up face to the other. “They look the same.”

Right then Baelyx started shrieking out of nowhere, startling Visenya. His older brother merely looked at him, puzzled as to why he was crying. Switching from his crying brother he looks back up at his Aunt Rhaenys and gurgles in delight.

Aegon chuckles. “Well that could be one way.”

#aegon targaryen x reader #aegon the conqueror #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #asoiaf fanfiction #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire fanfic #asoiaf fanfic #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #asoiaf fandom #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones reader insert

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genshinluvr · 1 year

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Into the Void

Pairings: Various Genshin Men x Isekai'd!Reader

Summary: You never had a single thought about falling into the Abyss until it happened to you while you were in Sumeru trying to gather some Viparyas for your research. Who knew that you being a mortal, would be stripped from you so soon all because the Abyss needed a new ruler.

Note: I have decided to combine two requests together because I have been lagging behind on completing requests because of how busy I am with my university. So I've been thinking about posting mini stories (either for the Isekai'd!reader series or for individual characters), but I'm not entirely sure if I should do it because of how busy I am with school. Anyway, I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).

Warnings: Blood, slight violence, but it's just a pinch of violence; other than those two, I'm not entirely sure if there's another warning needed 🤔 it's hurt/comfort

Word Count: 9.7k

You run as fast as you can. Your heart is racing in your chest; your blood is pounding in your eardrums. You’re panting so hard that you can taste the coppery blood in your mouth. You have no idea where you’re running or who you’re running from. All you can do is run and not look back at what’s chasing you through the thick forest of Sumeru. The last thing you remember was having to trek up the mountains of Sumeru in search of the Viparyas to study the mysterious plant, only for something or someone to chase you through the forest of Sumeru.

“Leave me alone!” You screech.

You quicken your pace and dodge the trees; the scenery around you becomes a blur as you race through the forest, trying to flee from what’s chasing after you. All you want is to grab a Viparyas or two, bring them back to the Akademiya, and study the flowers for your botany class. But due to unforeseen circumstances, you will not be able to gather some Viparyas for your studies until you’re able to lose whatever is chasing after you.

It was like you have gotten slower, and the thing has gotten faster. You jump and hide behind the bushes, hoping to catch your breath quickly before having to make a run again. Yes, you do not know what you’re running from or who you’re running from, but alarms go off in your head, telling you to run immediately. You clutch your hands to your chest, press yourself up against a tree behind the bush, and try your best to even out your breath. Your legs are sore, your chest and throat hurt, your head is pounding, and you feel like you’re going to pass out at any moment.

SNAP!

Your head shoots up from the sound of a twig snapping a foot in front of you. Without a second thought, you jump out from behind the bushes and continue to run for your life in the forest. Your heart is racing in your chest so much that it is starting to hurt, causing you to slow down in your tracks, stumbling over vines. The tree branches whip across your face as you race further into the forest, not knowing where you’re going. As far as you know, you’re straying farther and farther away from Vanarana.

You continue to venture deeper into the forest, hoping to catch sight of a familiar surrounding that Tighnari once showed you. Unfortunately for you, with every tree you see and every corner you turn, everything looks the same, and you know that there’s no way for you to get out of the forest quickly without getting caught. Heck, you’re not even sure if you’ll be able to leave the forest and return to the Akademiya.

Your right foot ends up getting caught on a vine on the ground, causing you to stumble and fall into the large crack in the ground. You feel your stomach drop, and you flail your arms to try to get a hold of something so you wouldn’t fall further into the cracks, but you end up grabbing nothing but air. Your hair whips around your face, obscuring your vision, and your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach as you’re free-falling somewhere unknown.

“Xiao!!!” You screamed, hoping the Yaksha would come to your rescue.

To your dismay, the Yaksha never shows up to rescue you from your doom. You continue to plummet into the unknown. Your eyes blur with tears with each passing second. You then land on the hard ground, wailing in pain when you land on your arm, bending it in the way arms aren’t supposed to be bent.

You slowly kneel and clutch your injured arm to your chest, tears rolling down your cheeks as you look at your surroundings. It did not look like an underground of some sort. You’re in an endless darkness of void; there is little to no light. You slowly get up from the ground, your arm still pressing up against your chest. You don’t know what you look like currently, but you’re certain that your Akademiya uniform is dirty and ripped at the ends from running and getting caught onto branches in the forest. You look up, hoping to see the entrance where you have fallen from, but to no avail. It’s like the ground has opened up underneath your feet and swallowed you whole before zipping the entrance away.

You swallow the lump in your throat, wiping the endless tears that continue to roll down your cheeks. “Where am I?” You whisper, your lower lips trembling, your body shaking with fear.

You squint into the darkness and begin to wander around aimlessly, hoping to find an exit. You’re taking baby steps, afraid that you’re going to trip and fall over something that can lead you to another endless void of darkness. You stop in your tracks when you feel something staring directly at you; goosebumps form on your arms, the hairs at the back of your neck stand up, and your heartbeat begins to race against your ribcage.

“Oh, what’s this? I see that we have a visitor from the outer realms.” A deep voice coming from the darkness chuckles.

You freeze and tense up. “Who are you? Where am I?” You squeak, curling into yourself, seeking comfort.

“Oh? You don’t know where you are? You poor thing.” The voice coos mockingly.

This time, the voice from the darkness is closer to where you’re standing. You shrink away from the voice and slowly back up, hoping to find a corner somewhere to hide and seek comfort like a terrified deer that is cornered by a predator.

You grit your teeth together. “Answer my question,” You growl, digging your nails into the palm of your hands as you wait for the voice to give you answers.

A figure is now looming over you, staring down at you with its red eyes. Just the mere sight of the creature made your heart fall out of your ass. Standing in front of you is the Pyro Abyss Lector. You stumble back when the Pyro Abyss Lector hovers closer to you, holding your uninjured arm out in front of you, hoping it would stop the Pyro Abyss Lector from coming any closer to you.

The Pyro Abyss Lector holds his hand out. “I am Enjou, the Pyro Abyss Lector. And you, my dear, are in the Abyss.”

“The Abyss?! How did I end up in the Abyss!?” You whisper to yourself. You continue to back away from the Pyro Abyss Lector named Enjou. “No, no, no, no, no.” You shake your head and pat your cheeks, trying to keep your sanity together. “I fell through the cracks in the forest of Sumeru. There’s no way for me to end up in the Abyss,” You tremble.

Enjou chuckles. “In denial, are we? I can feel your sanity deteriorate as we speak.” From the tone of his voice, you can tell that he is smirking at your misery.

“How do I get out of here?” You demand.

Enjou lets out a snort before bursting out laughing at your sudden burst of confidence and determination to get out of the Abyss. How cute. Now he can see why the former Abyss Prince and Princess were so enthralled by you. Your little burst of confidence is adorable but not cute enough to get you out of the Abyss easily.

You look at the Pyro Abyss Lector with a confused glare, wondering why he finds your comment amusing. Is he mocking you? “What’s so funny!? Do you really think that I’ll be stuck in the Abyss for the rest of my life!?” You demand.

Enjou wipes his imaginary tears, crossing his arms over his chest. You can almost see a smile on his face if he had a mouth. “Your confidence and determination are adorable. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt that you’ll be able to make it out of the Abyss, but I can’t promise you anything. Especially when you’re not from this universe.” Enjou squats in front of you and taps on the tip of your nose mockingly.

“What do you mean? I am from this universe. Are you crazy?” You squeak.

Enjou towers over you and slams his hand on the wall behind you beside your head. You flinch and glare up at Enjou, who is drilling holes into your skull with scrutiny. “I know you’re not from this world, human. We all do.”

You look at Enjou with confusion. “Who’s we?” You whisper.

Enjou leans in close to your face; you turn your head and close your eyes. You don’t like how close he’s standing in front of you, nor do you like how close his face is to yours. Enjou reaches forward, grabs you by your cheeks, his palm caressing your chin, and turns your head so you can face him.

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me now, [Y/N]. We’ve been watching you since the beginning; the Abyss is always watching.” Enjou whispers into your ears, sending chills down your spine.

“What do you want from me?” You spat, clenching your jaws while glaring up at the Pyro Abyss Lector.

Enjou tightens his grip around your face, making you visibly wince. “Instead of prancing around Teyvat, how do you feel about becoming the next ruler of the Abyss?”

You squirm in his grasp, grabbing Enjou’s wrist, attempting to pry his hands away from your face, only to fail. “Never!” You grunt, thrashing around in Enjou’s grasp. “I will never rule the Abyss, and I refuse to!” You growl.

Enjou chuckles. “Oh, you think you have a choice! How cute.”

Back at the abode, there is nothing but chaos. People are shouting over each other, pointing accusing fingers at each other. It has been a day since you disappeared out of thin air without a single trace, and no one can track you down. Not even the best Harbingers can track down your location.

“Xiao,” Zhongli says, looking over at the brooding Yaksha, “you said that [Y/N] called out your name, but when you appeared after they called you, they disappeared out of thin air. Is that correct?” Zhongli asks.

Xiao shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know how to describe it. I tried to grab them as they were falling; it was like my hands went through theirs.” Xiao clenches his fist, reminiscing about the horrors a day prior.

Scaramouche narrows his eyes and props his feet up on the ottoman. “How come you didn’t jump in after them when that happened?”

Xiao sighs and closes his eyes. “If I could, I would. But when I tried to go after them, it was like the ground had closed up,” Xiao replies.

“How strange….” Ayato murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Dainsleif looks around the room. “Does anyone know about their whereabouts when they were in Sumeru?” Dainsleif asks.

“[Y/N] mentioned gathering Viparyas for their botany class to study the flower,” replied Albedo.

Tighnari lets out a hum, propping his left hand on his hip while stroking his chin with his right hand. “Viparyas can only be found in Vanarana, in the Grove of Dreams. If [Y/N] were to go to the real version of the Vanarana, they’ll only find the Padisarahs,” Tighnari murmurs.

“Could it be that [Y/N] went to the Grove of Dreams?” Thoma asks, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.

Aether shakes his head at Thoma’s question. “There’s no strange hole that closes up when you fall into it in the Grove of Dreams. It’s possible that [Y/N] could have fallen into a cave, but after hearing Xiao say that the ground swallowed [Y/N] up, I’m not too sure anymore.” Aether sighs in defeat.

“I really hope that [Y/N]’s okay. They’ve been gone for one day, and we don’t know where they are exactly. I’m really worried about them.” Heizou expresses, his shoulders slumping as he holds the throw pillow to his chest.

Cyno crosses his arms over his chest. “One day doesn’t sound too bad, as long as it doesn’t drag on for over a week,” said Cyno.

Venti scrunches his face up. “Being away from [Y/N] for that long and not seeing their face for over a day or almost a week sounds awful,” Venti grumbles, messing with his braids.

“Where’s Childe? He’s been gone for a few hours, and we still haven’t heard anything back from him.” Al Haitham comments, leaning against the wooden pillar in the estate.

Gorou shrugs his shoulders at Al Haitham’s question. “The last thing he said was that he’ll be scouting the area where [Y/N] was last seen. It’s a good thing that Dottore made a bracelet for [Y/N] that has an elemental trace on the bracelet,” Gorou says, sitting down on the wooden stool with a shaky sigh as he runs his hands through his hair.

“Yeah, it’s a good thing that the creepy doctor did that,” Itto says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder to the icy blue-haired man.

Dottore raises his eyebrows at Itto. “Creepy doctor?” Dottore mutters to himself.

Pantalone snickers. “A fitting nickname for the Doctor,” Pantalone whispers to Dottore, earning an elbow to the gut from Dottore.

“I really hope that Childe comes back with some good news. I have a bad feeling about [Y/N]’s sudden disappearance while they’re out in the forest looking for Viparyas. Their disappearance feels intentional,” Baizhu mutters, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

Diluc raises his eyebrows at Baizhu. “What, like their disappearance was planned, or are you implying that they were targeted by someone?” Diluc asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Someone is targeting [Y/N], for sure. I don’t think [Y/N] would ever intentionally disappear. The only time they “disappear” is to hide away in their bedroom to take extra naps between their studies. Other than that, [Y/N] wouldn’t disappear without a trace,” Kaeya sighs, closing his eyes and resting his head on the palm of his hands.

Kazuha sighs from the comfort of the couch. A throw blanket draped over Kazuha’s legs as he clutches the throw pillow to his chest. “I can’t help but notice that there has been an increase in danger lately,” Kazuha murmurs, playing with the tassels on the throw pillow.

The door to the estate slams open, and Childe runs into the mansion with Ganyu and Lumine following after him; the three of them look frantic and almost terrified.

“Rex Lapis,” Ganyu whispers, breathing heavily as she tries to catch her breath. “We have found some traces of [Y/N],” Ganyu swallows the lump in her throat and nudges Lumine lightly in the ribs with her elbow.

Lumine looks over at Aether, her eyes brimmed with tears as she holds up a blood-stained fabric. Al Haitham snatches the cloth from Lumine’s grasp and examines the material closely, with Tighnari and Cyno standing by his side.

“It’s [Y/N]’s Akademiya uniform.” Lumine croaks, wiping the tears that made their way down her cheeks.

Childe grits his teeth and clenches his hands into tight fists. “I know where [Y/N] is, but you’re not going to like it,” Childe states. Everyone in the room looks falls quiet and over at Childe.

“Where are they?” Cyno asks, crossing his arms over his chest, occasionally looking down at the white fabric that is now stained with dried blood.

Childe takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “[Y/N] fell into the Abyss, just like how I fell into the Abyss when I was fourteen,” Childe says.

“But how? How can we know for sure that [Y/N] has fallen into the Abyss?” Al Haitham demands, clutching onto the torn, bloody fabric tightly.

Lumine lets out a shaky breath. “[Y/N] was being chased by an Abyss Lector. After they have fallen through the crack in the Earth, the Abyss Lector sealed the cracks and disappeared,” Lumine explains.

“Are you implying that they have planned this entire time?” Pierro asks, crossing his arms over his chest with a deep frown on his face.

Lumine shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t say for certain, but what I do know is that the Abyss have been watching [Y/N] since their first arrival at Teyvat,” said Lumine.

Baizhu narrows his eyes, gripping his arms tightly, his nails digging into the skin of his arms, leaving a mark. “I thought the Abyss had been taken down,” Baizhu mutters.

Dainsleif sighs. “Unfortunately, the Abyss is still as active as they were since the beginning. Only they don’t have an Abyss Prince or Princess ruling over them,” Dainsleif replies.

“Oh no….” Aether trails off, his face turning almost as white as Paimon’s hair.

Everyone turns to look at Aether, confused by his reaction. Aether looks visibly sick; he looks like he’s about to pass out or go into cardiac arrest. Aether holds up his index finger and walks over to the wall, and leans against it, trying to steady his racing heart.

“Oh no? What do you mean by oh no?” Venti squeaks, looking at Aether nervously.

Aether looks over at Lumine, who fumbles with her gloves nervously. The two trade looks before nodding their heads as if they were mentally communicating with each other. Lumine takes a step forward and gulps. “Since the Abyss doesn’t have a ruler anymore and they have been watching [Y/N]’s every move since their arrival, there’s a very high chance that the Abyss is going to make [Y/N] the new Abyss ruler,” Lumine says softly.

“What?!” Heizou gasps, looking at Lumine and Aether in disbelief.

Ayato raises his hand, his eyebrows narrowing. “And how are they going to make [Y/N] the new ruler of the Abyss when they’re not even from this world, nor are they immortal or a god.”

Tighnari strokes his chin. “I heard that there was a group of scholars at the Akademiya that tried to make their own archon, but that project was later scrapped twenty percent into the project,” Tighnari murmurs.

“What are you implying, Tighnari?” Scaramouche asks.

Albedo frowns and closes his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh. “Tighnari is implying that there’s a possible chance that the Abyss is going to find a way to make [Y/N] an immortal being before making [Y/N] the new ruler of the Abyss,” Albedo answers.

“Is that even possible? To make a mortal immortal, that is.” Kazuha asks, looking over at Dottore and Albedo.

Dottore hesitates for a moment before nodding his head slowly. “It is possible, but experiments like that take time and many trials and errors. If the Abyss were to find a way to turn [Y/N] into an immortal being in a short amount of time, it could cause detrimental damages to [Y/N],” Dottore says, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“How detrimental are we speaking?” Kaeya whispers.

Dottore presses his lips into a thin line and looks away, unsure whether he should answer Kaeya’s question truthfully or not. Making a human into an immortal being not only takes time, but there are a lot of risks in doing such experiments. One of the risks is the test subject’s potentially losing their life before the experiment is completed.

Zhongli sighs and clenches his jaws. “If [Y/N]’s mind and body are strong enough for it, they will live. If not, then they will die from the excessive experiments performed on them.”

“I’m going to kill them all if they lay a single hand on [Y/N]’s head,” Diluc growls, his jaws tensing up.

Gorou suddenly stands up and begins to pace back and forth in the living room. “We need to find a way to get [Y/N] out of there as soon as possible! I don’t want them to be in the Abyss any longer, or else something bad is going to happen.”

“Relax, Gorou! I’m sure [Y/N] will be okay! We’ll find them very soon, and they’ll be back at the abode in no time, safe and sound.” Itto says, placing his hand on Gorou’s shoulders.

Thoma chuckles weakly, letting his hands fall to his side. “One day is too long. We don’t even know whether [Y/N] is safe and uninjured or not.” Thoma lets out a deflated sigh and swallows the lump in his throat.

Childe clears his throat to grab everyone’s attention. “A day may have only passed in Teyvat, but in the Abyss, a month has gone by,” said Childe.

“So, for us, [Y/N] has been gone for a day. But in the Abyss, [Y/N] has been trapped in the Abyss for a month now?” Heizou asks.

Childe nods his head at Heizou’s question. Childe couldn’t help but think of the time when he was fourteen, the age when he fell into the Abyss himself. Childe spent three Teyvat days in the Abyss but three months of Abyss time. Times pass differently in Teyvat and in the Abyss, and it makes Childe wonder if you knew how much time has passed or not.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Shouldn’t we start looking for [Y/N] immediately if we don’t want them to wait any further?” Al Haitham asks, his gaze falling to the cloth in his hands.

Cyno nods his head. “Right. The longer we make them wait, the more we’re letting the Abyss corrupt them,” said Cyno.

In the Abyss, the sound of metal clashing rings throughout the void. You grunt and grip onto the hilt of the sword with a tight fist, pushing against Enjou’s blade. You didn’t know how you ended up in this situation where you’re sword fighting with a Pyro Abyss Lector in the Abyss. You lost track of time, only to find yourself in this situation where Enjou demands that you fight for your freedom from the Abyss.

“I will never be the ruler of the Abyss! Release me from the Void Realm, or else!” You demand, gritting your teeth together.

Enjou lets out a loud laugh and shoves you back; you stumble and drop your sword on the ground, landing beside the worn weapon. While you’re no fighter, you managed to keep up with thy Pyro Abyss Lector. It was all thanks to Childe and his persistence in getting you to spar with him. Without Childe making you spar with him and the others, you would be in a different situation with the Abyss Lector. You quickly roll out of the way when a ball of flame flies in your direction, burning the ends of your Akademiya uniform.

Enjou stands in front of you, crossing his arms over his chest. “For someone inexperience with combat, you hold up quite well,” Enjou sounds amused.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead and glare at Enjou. “Answer my question: why should I be the new ruler for the Abyss when I’m not from your universe, nor am I immortal?” You get up from the ground and wipe the sweat off the palm of your hands on your sullied Akademiya uniform and take a deep breath.

Enjou snorts sarcastically. “Why would you not want to be the new ruler of the Abyss? You get infinite power.”

You roll your eyes. “That sounds lame and boring,” You said. “Being immortal sounds fun, but it sounds torturous. Imagine watching those die around you while you live on for thousands of years.” You cross your arms over your chest with a dissatisfied frown on your face.

“Then you’ll know how that Bough Keeper feels,” Enjou replies. “He was never immortal; he was cursed with immortality.”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, taking in slow deep breaths to calm your nerves. “I already know that information, Enjou. After all, he is my lover, and I know everything about him.” You look up at Enjou, who is now towering over you. “What’s next? You’re going to force me to become immortal as well?”

“Yes.” Enjou nods his head.

You blink at Enjou. “Wait, what?” You back away from Enjou, only to feel hands grasping onto both of your biceps, keeping you in place. You look up and see two Abyss Lectors holding onto your biceps firmly, preventing you from thrashing and escaping from their grips. You have thought about stepping on their feet to catch them off guard, but you then realize that the Abyss Lector and Herald float in the air. Their feet hardly touch the ground, the tip of their toes grazing the floor ever so slightly.

An Abyss Herald appears by Enjou’s side, tapping him on the shoulders. Enjou turns to look at the Hydro Abyss Herald, who leans in to whisper, “The former Abyss Prince and Princess know about [Y/N]’s whereabouts and are currently searching for a way to rescue [Y/N].”

Enjou lets out a thoughtful hum, almost huffing with laughter. “Take them away. We have no time to waste,” Enjou orders.

The Hydro Abyss Herald and the Electro Abyss Lector nod their heads and escort you deeper into the Abyss. You can’t help but notice that the further you’re led into the Abyss, the more disoriented you’re beginning to feel. Your head is hurting, and your vision will lose its focus and refocus. You shake your head weakly and try to fight back, only to fail.

The Abyss Herald tightens his grip around your biceps. “There’s no way for you to escape the Abyss. Accept your fate, and it will all be painless.”

“Painless? What do you mean by painless?!” You demand, squeezing your eyes shut and grinding your teeth together as the headache gradually becomes unbearable. It felt like you got hit in the head by the Harpastum repeatedly.

The Abyss Lector lets out a sharp “tsk,” and digs his claws into your arms, drawing blood. “You talk too much,” He mutters, dragging you further into the Abyss. The Abyss Lector, Enjou, and the Abyss Herald soon pull you into an unfamiliar environment. The tower in the distance has a bright shine to it, almost blinding if you stare at it any longer. You squint your eyes and look away from the glowing tower. Once your eyes adjust to your surroundings, you realize that they didn’t just drag you to the deepest part of the Abyss. Somehow, they have taken you to Enkanomiya.

“What the—” You did a double take. “How in the world did we end up in Enkanomiya? I thought we were in the Abyss.” You whisper, rubbing your eyes tiredly. You don’t know how many days have passed; you lost track of time because of the sudden sword fight between you and Enjou. You’re convinced that Enjou is testing your strength and skills with a weapon before they can make you “immortal,” if that’s even possible.

Enjou huffs. “We were in the Abyss, but because there are people who are searching for you and have small clues about your location, we have to change the scenery so the experiment won’t be interrupted.”

You slump to the ground, arms still being held by the Abyss Lector and Abyss Herald. Your head hangs low, and you close your eyes. Despite you not being in the Abyss as of now, you can still feel the effects of being in the Abyss for some time. You can feel your sanity beginning to slip away; the pounding headache is getting even worse.

“Fine,” you whisper. “Let’s get this stupid experiment over with so it can end my misery once and for all,” You said.

“Oh? Giving up already now, are we? I didn’t think you were a quitter because, from what I can recall, you were so determined and confident about getting out of the Abyss,” Enjou says.

Enjou walks up to you, the Abyss Herald, and the Abyss Lector. He stops in front of you and kneels in front of you, grabs you by the chin, and tilts your head up. “Where was that spark almost two months ago?” Enjou quirks his eyebrows at you.

You blink at him with bleary eyes. Two months? You’ve been stuck in the Abyss for two months now? “I’ve been gone for that long?” You ask weakly.

You squeeze your eyes shut when the pain courses through your body; you can feel it in your veins, and you don’t like it at all. Yes, you were determined to leave the Abyss, but hearing how long you’ve been stuck in the Abyss made you lose hope. You gulp your saliva and visibly flinch when you taste blood in your mouth.

“Two months, and you struggle to leave the Abyss. Your determination was adorable but futile.” Enjou releases your chin and stands back up. “Come, we must get the experiment over with. We’re wasting precious time,” Enjou says. He turns around and begins to walk.

The Abyss Herald and Abyss Lector follow behind Enjou, dragging you along with them. You let yourself become limp in their grasp, trying to process how time has gone by so fast when it felt like you fell into the Abyss for only a few hours. You shake your head and close your eyes; you know that the Abyss is different from Teyvat, so why are you so surprised to hear that almost two months have gone by? Maybe it’s not actually two months in Teyvat, but it sure does feel like it the longer you’re held captive by the Abyss Lectors and Herald.

Meanwhile, back on Teyvat, the men walk around Varanara, searching for the crack in the Earth that you could have fallen into that led to you being in the Abyss. It was hard to get a precise location on where you could have disappeared off to, but because of the bracelet that is infused with elements, it should make the search a little bit easier. The men stop in front near the entrance of Varanara, peeking inside to see whether there’s an elemental trace or not.

Dainsleif turns to look at the men, crossing his arms over his chest. “How do we know for sure if they walked into Varanara?”

“They were searching for Viparyas to bring back to the Akademiya to study, remember? Viparyas only exist in Varanara.” Aether says, his eyes scanning around for any traces of you.

Heizou nods his head. “While that is true, do you remember what Tighnari said? You can only get access to Viparyas if you’re in the Grove of Dreams. We don’t know whether [Y/N] was able to make it into the Grove of Dreams or if they were in the real version of the Varanara,” said Heizou.

“Well, what are we seeing right now? To me, it doesn’t look like the Grove of Dreams at all. In fact, it looks like the complete opposite of a dream,” Venti comments, peeking from the corner of the wall.

Scaramouche furrows his eyebrows. “A nightmare?” Scaramouche guesses.

Tighnari lets out a long sigh and flicks his ears with his hands out of irritation. “Well, since we’re not seeing any Viparyas and it doesn’t look like the Garden of Dreams, then we can assume that [Y/N] never made it to the Grove of Dreams.”

Something shiny ends up catching Itto’s eyes. He turns to look at the shining object and slowly walks over to where it lies. Itto squats down and grabs the item from the patches of grass, and lifts it up, only to realize that it is the bracelet that has elements infused into the bracelet.

“Uh, guys?” Itto speaks up, slowly rising up without taking his eyes off the bracelet in his hand.

Thoma looks at Itto quizzically. “What is it, Itto?” Thoma asks.

Itto looks over at the men and holds up the bracelet in the air. “This belongs to [Y/N], right?”

“Let me see that bracelet,” Ayato demands; Ayato walks over to Itto and grabs the bracelet from the oni’s hands, holding it close to his face to inspect the bracelet that was once wrapped around your wrist.

Baizhu approaches Ayato and stares at the bracelet closely. “The bracelet is broken, the chains are snapped, and the charm is cracked,” Baizhu murmurs. He looks at Ayato, silently asking if it is okay for him to take the bracelet from Ayato’s grasp. Ayato sighs and hands the bracelet over to the green-haired Dendro user.

Baizhu walks over to Dottore and hands the Fatui Harbinger the bracelet that he has made for you. Dottore grabs the bracelet from Baizhu’s grasp, frowning deeply when he sees the condition your bracelet is in.

“What a shame that someone has broken a bracelet that I have made for [Y/N],” Dottore mutters, tightening his grip around the bracelet.

Kazuha rubs his eyes tiredly, feeling exhaustion and hopelessness hit him all at once. “So, what are we going to do now? We can’t go into the Abyss; it’ll affect us all, and we’re not entirely sure if [Y/N] is still in the Abyss or not,” Kazuha says.

“Wait, we were going to go into the Abyss!? Is that even possible?!” Gorou squeaks, his eyes widening with fear.

Kaeya nods his head. “How else are we going to get [Y/N] out of the Abyss? They can’t escape from the Abyss themself. It’s impossible to do so,” said Kaeya.

“Then how did Childe escape the Abyss? He did fall into the Abyss when he was fourteen,” Diluc says, looking over at the ginger-haired Harbinger.

Albedo hums and taps on his chin. “From what I can recall, someone taught him how to escape the Abyss without getting harmed,” Albedo replies, looking over at Childe, who nods his head grimly.

Zhongli sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “We need to find [Y/N] as soon as possible. The longer they remain in the Abyss, the more corrupted they’ll be. Who knows what’s going on right now in the Abyss,”

Xiao narrows his eyes. “I have a strange feeling that they’re not in the Abyss….” Xiao trails off, stroking his chin while pressing his lips into a thin line.

“Oh? And why do you think that, Xiao?” Capitano asks, crossing his arms over his chest and turning to look over at the Yaksha.

Before Xiao could respond to Capitano’s question, hurried footsteps approach in their direction, causing everyone to freeze and pull their weapons out. Emerging from a distance is Kokomi and the four members of the Watasumi’s Army.

“Your Excellency!” Gorou’s eyes widen as Kokomi approaches the group.

Kokomi stops in front of Gorou and looks at him worriedly. “There’s something going on at the Sangonomiya Shrine,” Kokomi pants, trying to catch her breath.

Ayato steps up and stands next to Gorou. “What’s going on at the Sangonomiya Shrine?” Ayato asks, gazing at Kokomi quizzically.

Kokomi lets out a shaky sigh. “It’s hard for me to explain. Please come with me and see for yourself,” Kokomi says, looking at each man standing before her.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Tighnari whispers to Albedo.

Upon their arrival at Watasumi Island, they walk to the edge of the Sangonomiya Shrine, which looks out to the beautiful island. Kokomi turns to look at the men and points down at the swirling waters down below that lead to Enkanomiya. The men peek from the edge and notice something strange about the once-glowing blue waters.

“There’s a strange glow coming from the waters,” Kazuha murmurs, analyzing the waters below.

Albedo narrows his eyes. “The waters are gradually turning black. As if something is tainting it,” Albedo whispers.

Kokomi nods her head. “That is correct. This leads to Enkanomiya, but because there’s nothing but monsters and spirits in Enkanomiya, we do not know what is causing the water to become this way,” said Kokomi.

“You want us to go check and see what’s tainting the waters of Watasumi Island,” Aether states, looking over at Kokomi after staring at the swirling waters below.

Kokomi hesitates for a second before slowly nodding her head. “That is correct.”

Heizou looks at Kokomi for a moment before looking down at the swirling water that is gradually turning black like the night sky. “Do you, by any chance, know what is going on beneath the waters?” Heizou asks, stroking his chin with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Unfortunately, I do not,” Kokomi says, sighing in defeat while shaking her head.

Kaeya looks at everyone and steps to the edge of the pink seashell. “Well, gentlemen, it looks like we have some investigating to do for Her Excellency,” said Kaeya, a smile ghosting over his face.

“Who will do the honors and jump in first?” Cyno asks, leaning over the edge to get a better look at the waters below.

Al Haitham steps up a foot behind Cyno while Cyno is occupied with looking down at the ominous swirling water. “You will, General Mahamatra,” Al Haitham snorts and kicks Cyno off the edge.

“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” Cyno screams as he falls to the swirling waters below.

The men stare at Al Haitham blankly, slowly stepping back from the Scribe. Al Haitham smirks and crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at the others. It’s like Al Haitham is telepathically asking if there are any more volunteers.

Venti clears his throat. “You know what, I’ll go next because I don’t want to be kicked into the waters,” Venti raises his hand. Venti runs to the edge and jumps off, canon-balling into the waters below.

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “The damn kitsune would have the time of her life if she was in your spot and I was in the Mahamatra’s spot,” Scaramouche says, pointing at Al Haitham with a scowl on his face before walking up to the edge of the shell.

“Ah, I forgot that Lady Miko and Scaramouche have an interesting history,” Thoma laughs nervously while scratching the back of his neck.

Scaramouche stands at the edge, turns to look at everyone, and makes eye contact with Childe. The two lock gazes for a moment before Scaramouche raises both of his hands and flips Childe off with two middle fingers. Childe does a double take and blinks at Scaramouche with wide eyes, his mouth agape with shock. The men around Scaramouche and Childe snicker. Scaramouche smirks before doing a backflip off the edge of the shell and dove into the waters.

“That was… something,” Kokomi trails off and looks over at Childe. “Do you two have a history with each other or something?” Kokomi asks.

Childe takes a step towards the edge with his arms over his chest, a bitter smirk on his face. “You can say that we’re both comrades. Well, former comrades, once I catch up to his ass in Enkanomiya,” Childe replies. He waves the other men goodbye before jumping into the water after Scaramouche, determined to smack some sense into his fellow (ex) Harbinger.

After Childe jumps into the water, the other men take that as a sign for them to enter the waters. Aside from checking what is going on in Enkanomiya, they also want to prevent Childe and Scaramouche from killing each other.

“Let’s get this over with,” Xiao rolls his eyes with a long sigh before jumping into the water.

Meanwhile, in Enkanomiya, your arms are bound together by a chain. The same chain is connected to the wall of Dainichi Mikoshi below the tower, where the mechanism that changes the sun and moon is located. You have never felt so weak and powerless before. It’s like the energy in your body is being sucked out of you; every last bit of it is almost gone, along with your sanity. You tug at the chains weakly; you feel your hands trembling each time you pull at the chains.

“How do you feel?” Enjou asks, nudging you with the tip of his foot.

You let your hands fall to the ground and look up at Enjou blankly. “How do you think I feel? I feel like my life and sanity are being sucked out of me,” You spat.

Enjou looks over at the Abyss Herald and the Abyss Lector, motioning them to walk to where you and Enjou are at. The Abyss Herald and the Abyss Lector stand behind you and stare at Enjou, waiting for an order.

You smirk at Enjou. “Since these two listen to your orders, why don’t you become the new ruler of the Abyss instead?” You ask bitterly, glaring up at Enjoy through your lashes. “I’m just a weak, little mortal who doesn’t wield any elements. Surely I cannot rule the Abyss, or else I’ll lead you all into a catastrophic situation,” You said dramatically. You know your dramatic theatrical act wouldn’t get you out of the situation, but it was worth the try. Plus, since you’re going to die anyway, pissing the Abyss Lectors and Herald off is on your bucket list. The bucket list that you have created just now in your head.

“That won’t do,” Enjou says, crossing his arms over his chest. You can almost hear him roll his eyes if he has one. It’s hard to tell from the blood that is rolling down your face from how hard you have hit your head on the ground when thrashing around in the clutches of the Abyss Herald and Abyss Lector.

You growl and stand up, your legs beginning to shake. “I’m going to kill you myself if it’s the last thing I do!” You exclaim.

You run towards Enjou, only to be stopped halfway when the Abyss Herald grabs ahold of the chain and yanks you back. You jerk back and land on the dusty ground with a dull thud, the air knocking out of your lungs from the impact. You wheeze and struggle to get up from the ground, trying to catch your breath.

“Weak and pathetic,” Enjou scoffs, “Start the process now. I sense something in the air,” Enjou grumbles, turning around, and walking away.

Your head perks up. “Wait, where do you think you’re going?!” You try to get up from the ground, but the Abyss Herald grabs onto your shoulders to keep you in place. The Abyss Lector stands in front of you and places his hand over your head, his hand almost engulfing your entire head.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, wanting to reach up and grab at his hand, but your hands are still bound together behind your back with the cuffs.

The Abyss Lector stares down at you. “Stay still,” The Abyss Lector orders.

You stare at him in confusion, and before you can process a single thought, you feel sharp pains in your head and behind your eyes. You let out a bloodcurdling scream and begin to thrash around, trying to shake the Abyss Lector’s hand off your head, only to fail. The Abyss Herald standing behind you digs his nails into your shoulders to keep you still. Warm liquid trickles down your face and onto the pavement below you, staining it.

Your heart clenches in your chest painfully; your throat tightens, and your once bloodcurdling screams are hoarse and choked. The pain in your head increases so much that you almost lose consciousness from the immense pain you’re feeling. You feel your body slump, your head pressing further against the Abyss Lector’s grasp, your visions dotting, and the soft ringing in your ears getting louder and louder.

“So! This is Enkanomiya, huh,” Diluc murmurs, his eyes scanning around the ominous land that is plagued with monsters and devoid of human life.

Dainsleif looks around Enkanomiya and crosses his arms over his chest. “Where do you think the problem lies in Enkanomiya that is affecting Watasumi Island?” Dainsleif asks.

“It’s interesting how Enkanomiya is still part of Teyvat, and yet they’re disconnected from Teyvat by being beneath Watasumi Island,” Pantalone murmurs, tapping his index finger on his biceps.

“Trapped beneath Watasumi Island, artificial sunlight, and plagued with monsters….” Baizhu trails off, clenching his hands into tight fists.

Pierro looks at the men and sighs. “We need to hurry up and find the source of the problem for Watasumi Island. We shouldn’t let [Y/N] wait in the Abyss any longer just to solve another issue that doesn’t have anything to do with us or [Y/N],” Pierro sighs, pinching the space between his eyebrows.

Before the men can start walking around Enkanoiya to search for the cause of the darkening waters of Watasumi Island, Zhongli holds his arm out in front of the others, halting them from walking any further.

“Something wrong?” Ayato asks, raising his eyebrows at the retired Archon.

Zhongli slowly turns his head, deep in his thoughts. “Does anyone hear that?” Zhongli murmurs, turning to look at the men around him.

Dottore raises his eyebrows at Zhongli. “Hear what?” Dottore asks, cocking his eyebrows at Zhongli with his head tilting to the side.

“I hear a scream,” Zhongli states in a low voice.

Al Haitham closes his eyes and focuses on the sound around him, trying to listen for the sound of screaming that Zhongli claims to have heard. Al Haitham opens his eyes and shakes his head at Zhongli, who look around in confusion.

“I don’t hear any screaming at all. Perhaps the screams are from hilichurls in the distance,” Al Haitham suggests.

Venti pats Zhongli on the back. “Blockhead, you’re getting old. Maybe you’re hearing things and are mistaking these noises for screaming,” Venti comments.

Heizou grabs onto the end of Zhongli’s tailcoat; Heizou looks like he’s going to pass out at any moment after realizing something. “There are Abyss Lectors and Heralds here,” Heizou whispers. Heizou’s face is almost as white as paper, gulping the lump in his throat loudly.

Aether pats Heizou’s shoulders. “Enkanomiya has always been plagued with the Abyss here. I’ve been to Enkanomiya a few times in the past, and it was surprising to see them here in Enkanomiya at first,” said Aether.

“Hold on, so you’re telling me that the Abyss Lectors and Heralds occupy Enkanomiya like how hilichurls and mitachurls would hang around in all parts of Teyvat?” Itto asks, crossing his arms over his chest with an incredulous look on his face. “Yes, so be on the lookout for any Abyss Heralds or Lectors. It’s a huge possibility that they are the ones that are tainting the waters of Watasumi Island,” Gorou says, crossing his arms over his chest with a deep frown on his face.

About fifteen minutes into the search for the source of Watasumi Island’s problem, the men come to a halt when they notice the light tower in the distance turning off. Evernight has fallen over Enkanomiya, engulfing Enkanomiya in darkness.

“Did someone happen to switch it to Evernight by any chance?” Kazuha asks.

The men shake their heads at Kazuha’s question. Kazuha looks at their surroundings to find the device that switches from Whitenight to Evernight, only to find no device. It was strange. How is it Evernight when none of them are near the mechanisms? Before Childe can open his mouth to say something, a loud bloodcurdling scream echoes through Enkanomiya, causing the others to freeze in their spot.

“That scream….” Kaeya whispers, his eyes darting over to the central building of Enkanomiya. They are a couple of meters from the building, and yet they’re able to hear the bloodcurdling scream from a great distance.

“We need to get to that tower immediately,” Capitano orders.

Everyone runs to the central tower in the center of Enkanomiya; the screams get louder and louder the closer they approach the building. Below the tower is a small room tucked underneath the floor that has the mechanism. The room can be easily missed if people aren’t keen on searching around the structure on Dainichi Mikoshi.

The men rush into the room before stopping in their tracks when they see what is going on in the room. Blood is dripping down from your face, the whites of your eyes are pitch black, and a stream of blood runs down your mouth and nose. You’re holding onto a blade that was pierced through your abdomen, glaring at the Abyss Herald that stands before you.

“[Y/N]!” Childe screams, grabbing your, the Abyss Herald, and Abyss Lector’s attention.

You push the Abyss Herald back and yank the blade out from your abdomen. Blood immediately gushes out from the gaping wound in your stomach, yet you don’t flinch. If you did, you did really well at hiding it.

“Sorry I took a while to return from the Akademiya. I was…. Busy.” You murmur, tossing the blade to the ground and covering the gaping hole in your stomach. “I don’t feel so good,” You whisper, clutching onto your throbbing head.

“Are you still the [Y/N] that we know and love?” Thoma asks nervously, watching you lean on the wall and close your eyes; blood continues to trickle down your face as you let out a ragged breath.

You laugh bitterly and shake your head. “As much as I want to say yes, I can feel the last of my sanity slipping away from me before I go berserk,” You look up. “I need you to kill me,” You whisper.

Diluc’s eyes widen, and he does a double-take at your statement. “What?!”

“We refuse to kill you!” Xiao glares at you. His eyebrows soon smooth over, and he frowns at you, his hands beginning to tremble.

“Why should we kill you? There has to be another way to save you.” Albedo mutters as Baizhu walks over to where you stand, only to stop in his tracks when you shake your head at him.

“Please don’t come any closer. I don’t want either of you to see me like this,” You swallow a mouth full of blood and wince. “They’re trying to make me immortal, but I know it’s not working because my body is destroying itself.”

You hear a familiar chuckle and see Enjou walking into the room where everyone is standing. “Oh, it’s working. You’re assuming that it’s not working because of the symptoms you’re feeling. But worry not, the experiment is working, and you will be immortal in no time,” said Enjou. Enjou’s eyes land on Aether. “Oh? Well, if it isn’t the former Abyss Prince. What a surprise.”

You grit your teeth together and cough. “Fine, if none of you are going to kill me before I go berserk, then I’ll do it myself.” You spat.

“Uh, what do you mean by that?” Tighnari asks nervously.

You ignore Tighnari and push through the crowd of men and walk out of the room that you were confined in for who knows how long. Dainsleif catches up to you and grabs you by your arm, pulling you to his chest while you thrash in his arms, screaming and crying while covering the gaping wound in your abdomen that is stained crimson and black.

“You don’t have to do this; we can find a way to undo all of this mess,” Dainsleif says, tightening his grip around you.

“I don’t think there’s a way to reverse the damages that have been done,” Dottore comments, accessing the damage that has been done to your body.

You slump in Dainsleif’s arms and close your eyes, wincing every now and then when you feel your heart clench in your chest. “Just end my suffering already.” You grumble, your head lolling back onto Dainsleif’s shoulders.

Scaramouche scoffs. “Don’t be dramatic. We’ll find a way to revert you to a mortal,” Scaramouche says, walking up to you.

You didn’t reply. Instead, you lay there in Dainsleif’s arms, limp and unresponsive. Scaramouche furrows his eyebrows in confusion before lightly tapping you on the cheeks. You didn’t flinch or have any reaction from the sudden contact.

“Are they….” Baizhu trails off, rushing to you and Dainsleif. Baizhu presses his hand on your neck, searching for a pulse. Baizhu turns to look at the men that are surrounding you, Dainsleif, Scaramouche, and Baizhu. Before Baizhu can say anything, the Abyss Lectors and Herald lets out a maniacal laugh. Their laughter filled the once-silent air.

“[Y/N]!” Heizou screams, collapsing to the ground in tears.

Aether shakes his head, tears blurring his vision. “This can’t be real,” Aether whispers, shaking his head as tears cascade down his cheeks.

“[Y/N]!!” Diluc screams at the top of his lungs.

Diluc jolts up from his bed and looks around. He touches his cheeks and notices that his cheeks are wet from the tears that continuously roll down his cheeks. Was it all a dream? Diluc slowly gets out of bed and walks to the door, and opens it. Diluc notices that the others are coming out of their bedrooms, too, they all look distraught, and some even have tears running down their cheeks.

“Why are you guys crying?” Scaramouche asks, quickly wiping his tears away.

Al Haitham furrows his eyebrows. “Was it all just a dream?” Al Haitham asks.

Cyno raises his eyebrows and runs his fingers through his hair. “It seems like we all have the same dream,” Cyno mutters.

“How are we sure that it was a dream and not something that we relived in our dreams?” Diluc asks, pressing his hand against his chest while taking deep breaths to slow his racing heart.

Kaeya looks over at your closed bedroom door. “One way to find out,” said Kaeya as he slowly approached the door. Kaeya looks at the other men as if he’s asking them if they’re going to follow along or not.

Kaeya stands in front of your bedroom door and grabs the door handle, twists it, and slowly opens the door. The men crowd behind Kaeya and peek over each other. Your bedroom is almost pitch black; the only thing that is illuminating your bedroom is the small nightlight that is plugged into the wall beneath your desk.

Kaeya looks towards your bed and sees you facing the door, cuddling up against your body pillow, unharmed, asleep, safe, and sound. The men all collectively let out a quiet sigh of relief. Zhongli walks into your bedroom and sits down on your bed. He reaches towards you and tucks your hair behind your ears. Zhongli hovers his index finger in front of your nose, making sure that you’re breathing. When Zhongli feels your soft breaths on his finger, Zhongli visibly sighs in relief and lets his hands rest on his lap.

You suddenly move around on your bed and crack your eyes open. You rub your eyes sleepily and blink up at Zhongli and the others when you notice them crowding at your bedroom door. You lift your head to look at the clock and notice that it is only three in the morning. “Why are you guys awake so early? Go back to bed,” You grumble, letting your head fall down on your pillow and hugging the body pillow tightly.

“We were checking up to see if you’re asleep or not,” Gorou says, giving you a small smile.

You hum softly and close your eyes. “Well, I was asleep, but I am going back to sleep now. All of you should do the same thing,” you sigh.

“Can we sleep in here with you tonight?” Thoma asks, stepping into your room with a nervous smile on his face.

You slowly open your eyes and blink at Thoma owlishly. “All of you?” You ask.

The men nod their heads at your question.

“How are you guys going to sleep in my room? I don’t think I have space for twenty extra people,” You said softly.

Tighnari waves your comment off. “That’s okay. We’ll bring our blankets and pillows over and will sleep on the floor.” The men nod their heads at Tighnari’s reply.

“But I don’t want either of you to sleep on the ground. It’s uncomfortable.” You frown.

Childe smiles at you and leans on the door frame. “It’s okay! As long as we’re in the same room as you with our pillows and blankets, we don’t mind sleeping on the ground.”

You sigh in defeat and nod your head. “Alright, alright. You guys can sleep in the same room as me for tonight.”

The men cheer and quickly rush out of your bedroom to grab their pillows and blankets. You shake your head with a small smile and snuggle up against the body pillow. One by one, the men start to pile into your bedroom with their pillows and blankets. They all lay around you on the floor, all facing your direction. You were tempted to ask them why they suddenly wanted to sleep in the same room as you, but you decided not to ask after seeing how they were looking at you. You smile at each of them and close your eyes.

“Goodnight,” You said softly, letting out a small yawn before slowly drifting off to sleep.

“Goodnight, [Y/N].” The men whisper.

Before you fall asleep, you hear quiet shuffling in your bedroom. You feel something press against your forehead; you crack one eye open and see the men hovering above you, pressing goodnight kisses on your face before going back to where they laid their pillows and blankets out on the ground.

Once everyone has fallen asleep, Diluc slowly gets up from his spot and gets into your bed, nudging you to the side lightly. You move over to make space for Diluc and let him lay in your bed, his chest pressing up against your back, and he wraps his arms around your waist. Diluc tightens his grip around your waist and presses a small kiss on the back of your neck, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of your shampoo and conditioner. As long as you’re safe and sound, Diluc doesn’t care if he wakes up to twenty-plus other men who are peeved off by him sneaking into your bed while they are unconscious.

Note: Listen, I was thinking about making this an all angst fanfic, but I can't mentally or emotionally deal with angst right now 💀 The Abyss "request" wasn't a request, but I decided to make it into a request because I had ideas for it that are too long. So might as well turn it into a request. I do have some ideas for an angst fanfic, but the person requested it on AO3, and I'm debating on whether I should fulfill it or not ._. Either way, I hope you all like this fanfic! :'> It's almost 2:30 AM for me, and I need to go to bed soon! 💀 Anyway, to my new or returning readers, I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!

Taglist for "Various Genshin Men x Isekai'd!Reader" and my overall taglist: @xxkatsusjinsux, @huboi, @crazyrichdaughter, @sucker-for-angst-and-fluff, @patata52, @honeybedo, @thedivinepriestress, @pencil-of-ashes, @samarill, @bakuhve, @yukima, @chaosinanutshell, @emperatris-rinaka, @neilify, @ksjjkthpjm, @jaisithebird, @mouchie, @emerald-smile, @jixlem, @the-blob-fish, @jiminscarmex, @bananazzzen, @thelost-in-time, @kryloxen, @ayolk, @tomansimp, @lordbugs, @c-camellias, @chihawari, @lilliansstuff, @zhongloml, @sweethcnvy, @wolf-chan2134, @simp4-fictional-men, @dai-tsukki-desu, @trash-queen-af, @tamayakii, @stellaris999, @hispasian-otaku, @stygianoir, @crispynutduck (if you have not been tagged, it's because you have your settings turned off for people to tag you in posts)

Read more of my works on my Masterlist | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon (hopefully)!

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madhatterbri · 6 months

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Savior | E.M.

Summary: Elijah may prove useful to you in more ways than one.

"Come on, Gertrude. Don't fail me now," you frantically begged while looking at the speedometer of your old car. The old girl was over twenty years old and on her last legs. The car shook at the speed you were going but you had to get away. If they caught you, you would be dead.

A werewolf, you, was spotted in New Orleans. Marcel, the vampire ruler of New Orleans, hated werewolves. He wasn't shy of letting that be known. In fact, he would often leave the bodies of past werewolves scattered around as a reminder. His men constantly patrolled for any wandering werewolves and they spotted you.

You knew it was stupid to go but you had no choice. One of your friends is sick. They needed a potion that one of the quarter's witches could cook up. Despite wearing a hoodie and baggy clothing they easily spotted you. Marcel had your picture engraved in all his followers' minds. You so happened to be one of his biggest protestors.

In the rear view mirror, you could no longer see the two vampires chasing you. Maybe they had given up trying to catch you. The bayou wasn't much farther ahead. Once you turned your attention back to the road you saw how mistaken you were.

The two vampires stood in the middle of the road. You were gaining speed on them fast. They wanted to play a game of chicken. You looked at the brown paper bag in the seat next to you. The potion had to make it to your friend before tomorrow. Maybe you could somehow turn the car to avoid hitting them and run in the woods to the bayou. At the last second you turned the wheel towards the side.

The tires screeched loudly while turning. The momentum caused the car to flip over with you inside. You slipped out of your open window and onto the ground. Your body screamed in pain. Blood covered your face, ribs, and legs. Slowly, you rolled over to crawl away.

The two vampires appeared before you. Their faces stern as they accepted your defeat. Tears sprung to your eyes. Your friend was going to die because you failed. Your pack needed all the members they could hold if they ever wanted to take down Marcel.

A brunette man in a suit appeared behind them. You stared at the stranger unsure if this was a friend or foe. He had a serious look on his face that was hard to read. One of your chasers turned to look at him.

The attack happened in an instant. The mysterious man pulled two stakes and stabbed the vampires. The vampires fell to the ground dead. You laid your head down trying to catch your breath. You never noticed you had been holding it.

"Are you going to kill me instead? I must have a nice bounty on my head from Marcel. Maybe you will get one of those rings," you gasped trying to hide that you were in pain. Your head pounded.

The man said nothing. He adjusted his sweater and approached you. He stood above you. His brown eyes narrowed as he assessed your body.

"You are hurt," he pointed out.

"No shit," you spoke sarcastically.

"Despite the fact that you grew up in the backwaters of some swamp," he started while crouching down. "Do show a little respect. I am an Original after all,"

"You are one of the ones Marcel is worried about," you spoke softly. A gleam of hope twinkled in your eye. Maybe you could ally with this man and his family to have more freedom.

"I am and I believe you and I have some business to discuss," Elijah smiled.

#fanfiction #imagine #the originals #elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah tvd #elijah x reader #elijah x you #elijah mikaelson x you #tvd

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thecreaturecodex · 2 months

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Shobolon

[Sponsored by @glarnboudin. Bone is a comic series that I remember reading and loving in undergraduate. And the "Stupid Stupid Rat Creatures" were my favorite characters. They pivot from menacing to comical and back on a dime, and have a very distinctive look. Their culture (or lack of it) has some very interesting world building implications, and they're one of the better riffs on the "evil minion species" in fantasy literature that doesn't go for wholesale deconstruction. However, they don't have much in the way of distinctive abilities in the comic. So I had to do some work to ensure that they were mechanically interesting.

A word about the name. In Bone, they are only known as "rat creatures", which says some alarming things if rats are sapient and seven feet tall. The name I went with was suggested by @abominationimperatrix. It's an Eastern European rat-ogre, but information on it in English is super sparse, to the point where different sources disagree whether it's Romanian or Romani.]

Shobolon CR 2 NE Monstrous Humanoid This shaggy, bulky humanoid has wide red eyes and a wide mouth full of sharp teeth. Its ears rise to a sharp point, and it walks on its knuckles.

Shobolons are voracious monsters that tend to live in large numbers. They are larger, stronger and slightly dimmer relatives of ratfolk, although the two species rarely interact on friendly terms. Their endonym is rarely spoken—most people just refer to shobolons as “rat-creatures”. Shobolons are omnivorous, but greatly prefer meat, and they don’t particularly care if their meat comes from sapient sources. They tend to fight from ambush, using their skill at climbing, swimming and squeezing into tight spaces to attack from unusual angles. They are fond of using the Intimidate skill to demoralize their foes, screeching hideously before moving to set up flanking positions or retreat from a losing battle.

Most shobolons engage in dramatic body modification. Their long scaly tails are docked shortly after birth (shobolon legends tell of these tails being used as handles by a wrestling demigod who humiliated them in the past), and their ears are cropped upon reaching adulthood in order to grant them a more threatening appearance. Shobolons do not have names of their own unless granted by a member of another species, or by their rulers as a reward for meritorious service. Despite their foolishness and lack of material culture, shobolons tend to be erudite, and like using long words in order to sound smarter (“hello, small mammal” is a common greeting/threat). Shobolons tend towards religion, and different hordes often venerate different gods or powerful fiends. Shobolons universally fear and hate dragons.

Shobolon Rulers Shobolons are very long lived, and display indeterminate growth. One that lives for hundreds of years and feeds well may grow to immense size and power. This growth is somewhat disproportionate, as their arms do not grow to scale with the rest of their bodies. A shobolon ruler often uses titles like King or Queen, regardless of how many shobolons they rule over. Such creatures are Large in size with 12 racial HD. A shobolon ruler has improved grab and swallow whole with its bite attack, gains frightful presence as a special attack and has undersized weapons as an SQ. A shobolon ruler is at least a CR 8 creature—many of them have levels in fighter or cleric beyond their racial HD.

Shobolon CR 2 XP 600 NE Medium monstrous humanoid (ratfolk) Init +5; Senses darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +4 Defense AC 14, touch 11, flat-footed 13 (+1 Dex, +3 natural) hp 19 (3d10+3) Fort +2, Ref +4, Will +2 Defensive Abilities tight fit Offense Speed 30 ft. Melee 2 claws +4 (1d4+1), bite +4 (1d6+1) Special Attacks startle Statistics Str 13, Dex 12, Con 13, Int 10, Wis 9, Cha 10 Base Atk +3; CMB +4; CMD 15 Feats Improved Initiative,Skill Focus (Intimidate) Skills Climb +10, Escape Artist +7, Intimidate +8, Perception +4, Stealth +6, Swim +10; Racial Modifiers +4 Climb, +4 Escape Artist, +4 Swim Languages Common Ecology Environment temperate forests and hills Organization solitary, pair, troop (3-8), army (9-24 plus 1 2nd-4th level fighter per 20 individuals) or horde (25-200 plus 1 2nd-4th level fighter per 20 individuals and 1 ruler) Treasure standard Special Abilities Startle (Ex) A shobolon can make an Intimidate check to demoralize an opponent as a move action. An opponent intimidated by a shobolon cannot make attacks of opportunity as long as it suffers from a fear effect. Tight Fit (Ex) A shobolon suffers only half the usual penalty to Armor Class and attack rolls when squeezing. Two shobolons can fit in the same space and fight without penalty.

#shobolon #rat creatures #bone #comics #sponsored post #pathfinder 1e #pathfinder rpg #monstrous humanoid

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azsazz · 1 year

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Lips of an Angel (Part 3)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the song ‘Lips of an Angel’ by Hinder. Azriel left you for Elain. After finding out that he has a child he didn’t know about, he’s furious.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1,121

(Part 1) (Part 2)

Notes: Literally so short but hopefully it’s worth it. 💙

_________________________________________

Rhysand feels Azriel before he even arrives.

There’s a dark static in the air, charged like lightning ready to strike. The shadows of the room grow darker around him; seeping through the cracks of every floorboard, crawling down the corners of the walls, painting them in long, black strokes. Tendrils of anger soaked night billow in from the slats of the framed windows like thick fumes, as if Azriel is trying to smoke him out.

If Rhysand could understand their inky whispers, he thinks they would be screeching.

He feels his own powers reacting, zipping through his blood in excitement, eager at the chance to play. It’s his inner beast, calling and clawing its way up his throat in response to the dark power of his brother, trying to intimidate him.

His shadowsinger is looking for a fight.

Tendrils of black climb up the sides of his oak desk like an amoeba seeking a host, pincers ready to grab on and not let go. He has to plant his palms flat over his work to keep them from getting swept away in the tornado of rage.

Rhysand’s eyes glow violet as the faelight is swallowed by the onyx shadows. His heart beats unevenly in his chest as he waits, spine stiff and body frozen in his chair, the creature within him threatening to burst forth from his chest as he waits for Azriel.

The shadowsinger winnows into the room, splintering through his shadows with ease. They’re wailing like lost souls, coiling around Rhysand’s limbs to trap the High Lord in his spot should he try and pounce. He’s breathing harshly, well past the point of seeing red. His siphons are glowing the brightest he’s ever seen, thrumming with a newfound power he’d been hiding within himself for far too long.

Seven blazing blue beams are consumed by the wall of black he’s met with when he appears in Rhysand’s office. They’re vibrating with so much power Azriel’s half convinced that they’ll shatter like his aching heart.

Betrayal hangs heavy in the air and its putrid scent chokes Rhysand as it mixes with Azriel’s smoldering fury. Fingers sharpen into dark claws, scraping against the desk, tearing through the thin documents with ease and digging into the thick wood. It’s as much restraint he has, for if Azriel does not remove his shadows, he will take matters into his own hands.

Azriel’s furious as he realizes, the apples of his cheeks red with rage. He’s panting like a feral hound but acts as their master as he calls his shadows to him. They melt against Rhysands wrists, pinpricks of acid against his tan skin as the obey.

A shadow snakes its way back towards Azriel, weaving its way around shaking hands curled into tight fists. It rests at his shoulder like a crow, its caw of war is something even Rhysand can make out clearly.

Violet eyes meet blazing gold, a war between two brothers.

Rhysand had to give it to his spymaster. He could see how the male was spiraling, even without having to look into his mind. He had nearly felt the realm shift on its axis when his nightmarish powers released, sleeping throughout the city like icy death.

“What’s on your mind, Azriel?” Rhysand questions. His tone is the same coolness he uses when talking to Beron or Tamlin. It’s never been directed at Azriel before and it only makes him angrier, wings tightening and shadows hissing threats in his ears.

“Don’t play coy, Rhysand,” his shadowsinger spits. His fingers twitch, begging to uncurl and reach for the familiar cool hilts of his swords. He hates it. Hates that Rhysand is taking the easy way out and putting on his front as High Lord, making it known that he is the true ruler, instead of acting that as an understanding brother.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” The enervated lilt to his voice sharpens as he catches Azriel’s slight movements, his instinct to carve answers from the flesh of his brother. But Rhysand is no fool and he will not be treated as such.

He’s toying with him, of this Azriel knows. Waiting to see how he reacts. If he was a better male he would sit down in the plush chair across from his brother and talk about it. But he’s not. He’s steaming mad and Rhysand knows this. The beast lurking beneath his skin transforms the emotions to feral rage. Azriel blinks the red from his vision. Once. Twice.

Rhysand understands exactly why he’s here because the darkness has reported no other bodies within the River House with them. He’s sent his mate and his son away, sensing his burning wrath through whatever mental bonds he shared with them.

Protecting his mate and his kin.

Something Azriel has never gotten the chance to do, because he hadn’t even been aware he had a child of his own.

His stomach twists and the flare of outrage nearly shoves him over the edge. Acid rips through his organs and up his throat and Azriel takes a shuddering breath as he pulls on the reins with all his might. The darkness inside of him feels like that of a crow, picking at the cracks in his armor like a sledgehammer with its beak, slowly chipping away at his hold.

He growls at the feeling in his chest, a hot knife to his heart as he thinks about what Rhys has kept from him, from what he’s done to you, to his son.

“I have a son.” The admission alone both soothes and angers him. A storm of warmth and bitter darkness battle for power.

Rhysand only hums, and the darkness wins out.

Azriel bares his teeth, speaking before his brother deigns to respond with an indifferent goad that will only make him more furious. “Why didn’t I know, but you do?”

Watching the stars wink out of the violet skies that are Rhysand eyes should scare his beast away, but it only reacts to it, the gold of his eyes swirling with black shadows.

“You never realized or asked about what we were doing when you weren’t around because you were too busy with your head shoved up Elain’s skirts. Maybe I should appoint a new spymaster,” Rhysand rasps lowly, and they both flinch. A brutal admission that sends shame zinging up his spine. His knees nearly give out with it and he growls like a rabid animal in response, Rhysand’s power and his shadows swathing the room into complete black.

They’ve fought in his darkness before, and now, as Azriel launches himself across the large desk, Rhys is ready, his own beast waiting for him with raised fists.

#Azriel #azriel x reader #azriel/reader #azriel x you #azriel/you #azriel angst #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acotarxreader #au!wren #azsazz

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inkblot-mirror · 4 months

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Octavinelle Dorm Headcanons:

-The Mostro Lounge is staffed mostly by Octavinelle students, but some students from other dorms (like Ruggie) work there too.

-And yes, working there is mandatory. Workers get paid, but just barely above minimum wage. And Azul takes away a certain amount of their earnings as ‘tax’. And more is taken away for the smallest of infringements.

-As expected, the dorm with the majority of merfolk students. This doesn’t mean most members are merfolk, just that out of all the dorms at NRC, Octavinelle has the most merfolk.

-Cooler environment as its underwater. One can see all sorts of sea life outside swimming pass the glass windows.

-Has big indoor swimming pools!

-Jazz music plays in the Mostro Lounge and they have live music night every Friday. The Pop Music Club is banned from performing bc once Lilia metal screeched so loud that he broke more than a few of the glasses at the bar.

-Dorm has a lingering scent of saltwater.

-The actual dorm lounge is quite small and not many people spend time there as they’re at the Mostro usually. The students who are there are often crashing after work or waiting for their shifts to start.

-Students dread working the same shift as Floyd.

-Students in this dorm are usually numerically proficient. The only thing scarier than a pissed off Floyd is being forced to take remedial business math class with Azul. And he WILL make you count every madol in the till by hand.

-Lights inside the dorm are always either dimmed or some sort of blue or purple, to simulate the deep sea environment.

-Azul absolutely got the Housewarden position through a devious combination of ass-kissing and blackmail.

-A common punishment is for students to work multiple shifts without pay. And they’re all forced to sign contracts before, agreeing to act as ‘volunteers’.

-Azul hates dealing with fae clients the most because they always try to trick and turn his own contracts against him. Good thing his own dorm doesn’t have many of them as members.

-Lava lamps. There’s tons of them inside the dorm.

———————

Savanaclaw Dorm Headcanons:

-Dorm has the most beastman students of all the dorms in NRC, but they have human residents too. There’s a bit of a tension and rivalry between the beastman and human students, but overall they’re still a team together.

-The beastmen tend to be of the carnivorous species: in addition to lion, hyena, and wolf, there’s also cheetah, bear, tiger, and panther to name a few. Herbivores belong in Heartslaybul and other dorms.

-Dorm smells like body spray, sweat. Basically a gym.

-Those seen as ‘weaklings’ are tossed into the lounge pool/waterfall.

-Physical hazing occurs, nothing too extreme. Freshmen in particular get hazed alot their first few weeks, but it all stops once they prove that they can handle it.

-Disputes are solved through either a game of Spelldrive or physical combat.

-(Frat and gym bro dorm).

-Whenever there’s an important Spelldrive game going on, members gather to watch in the lounge. Ruggie makes a fortune through all the bets.

-As punishment, students have to run multiple laps around the Spelldrive field, clean up the unused storage rooms (which means lugging around heavy junk all day) Or do all of Leona’s chores—Ruggie is cheering.

-Just like how Malleus is king of Diasomnia, Leona is ruler of Savanaclaw. His word is law.

-Super dry and arid, almost as bad as Scarabia.

-A celebratory party was held when Rook transferred to Pomefiore.

-Big parties filled with grilled meat and bbq whenever they win in Spelldrive.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #my headcanons #my hcs #savanaclaw #octavinelle

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