#and you know he wears the title with PRIDE

[the-lonelybarricade]

[barbieaemond]

And I dream of a grave

Header by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs 💕💕

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: angst (!), smut, too many references to graves/burying, mentions of Blood & Cheese, miscommunication, Aemond's coping mechanism is violence and sex, in this order (good for him)

Word count: 3.8k

Author's note: the gif is self explanatory. This is a prequel to A Curse for a Curse, but can be read as a standalone. Big thank you to @irenadel for giving me the idea and being one of the most supportive souls <3

Taglist: @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @multyfangirl

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language

This is more than tempting the Gods. This is forsaking and impudently turning their backs on them.

As she sits down at the banquet, her mother’s words echo through her mind like the vexing sound of the wind on a storm’s night. It sets an unpleasant weight on her lungs, the close and yet shapeless feel of something dreadful. She’s almost grateful, looking around, to ascertain she’s not the only fool dreading this whole act.

The Dowager Queen sits at the table, barely able to contain a grimace. Queen Helaena, she is certain, has never looked so pale, her eyes so vacuous and yet so full of something unknown, elusive, smoke clouding and clearing her unnatural stare. The Hand has conveniently made himself absent. She can’t blame him. Actually, she envies him. If only she too could have been spared such a farce. But as the wife of the King’s brother, the very one they’re all supposed to celebrate tonight, she cannot do that, can she?

To cheers and the blaring of trumpets, the King enters shoulder to shoulder with his brother, tall and proud in his stride, wearing dark green velvet for such a special occasion, and such a special title.

“Do you know how they’re going to call you from now on?” the Queen Mother had asked when he came back from Storm’s end, dripping rain and mud and war.

“I do, Mother.” Aegon had answered, twisting a knife from his seat at the head of the table; she had never caught that glint of satisfaction in his eyes, not like that; it wasn’t dimmed by wine or flesh, but sharp as the blade in his hand. “A title he should be proud of.”

Pride was ever the easiest thing to wear for Aemond, the softest glove gliding on his skin, born out of a pit so deep and full of insecurities and negligence that that same endless depth had grown out of proportion in order to fill itself. To even try scratching his pride was like trying to climb the highest mountain with bare hands. She had cut her palms open to do so.

“What happened, Aemond?” she had asked once alone in their chambers.

“You know what happened.”

“What really happened?”

His good eye had pierced her as if she were made of crystal, but his jaw was too set, on the verge of breaking his own teeth if he carried on keeping the guilt, and truth, trapped inside.

“I didn’t want to.” He whispered, coming down from the peak, “I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted—”

“Revenge? Well, you had it. Did it make you feel good? Did you bring that boy peace at last?”

It took him a lifetime to say no; a whispered sound, choked even, as if he had bitten off his tongue to get it out of that pit where he had never looked again.

He was biting his tongue in the council, the faintest clench in his jaw but here, here in the council, here in the world, he had to keep that pit buried and stand straight on the highest peak, looking up and up, never down, never back. How could he, how could he admit he had lost control. It was easier, safer, to let them think of him a monster, rather than just human.

“I salute you, brother.” The King had said, raising his cup “True blood of the dragon! We shall have a feast in your honor!" Otto had merely lowered his head in defiance, going unnoticed in the eyes of his King and grandson, drunk with power and finally free of his mother's leash, unaware that a golden noose now held him in check.

He had summoned jesters, musicians, even some dancers to coddle his brother, and raise him higher and higher. She imagined she just had to wait for the fall. Or perhaps pray to the Seven to overlook the insult, to keep a mortal up there with them for a little more. But then again, they shouldn’t ask the Gods for mercy. Someone more unforgiving, more bloodthirsty. Someone who, just as her husband and his brother and each one of their cursed dynasty, did not listen to either Gods or men.

“A toast!” the King says at one point, turning to his left. “To my brother Aemond and a long overdue justice, is it not?”

Out of courtesy and duty, she grabs her cup and raises it, but as everyone at the table sips their wine, all she tastes is contempt, and the cup hits the surface untouched. But not unseen.

“Brother, wine may cloud my judgment, but it seems to me that your beloved wife does not share the sentiment of this fine evening. I wonder why.”

She holds the King’s demanding stare with a firm one, aware of Aemond looking at her even if his eye is fixed on the table. He has ignored her for the whole night, not sparing her a single glance. Because she owns the truth, doesn’t she, and it’s a knife pointed at his back.  

“May I speak my mind, your Grace?”

There’s the slightest shift in Alicent’s posture, as if she were desperately waiting for her, or anyone, to cease all of this, to say this isn’t right.

Aegon pulls a thin, lazy smile and tilts his silver head, swirling his cup. “Why, of course, Princess. My brother tells me you have a habit of doing so.”

“Did he, now?” she resists the urge to scoff; such a despicable habit for a woman in this world.

“Fret not, good sister, I’m certain he holds no grudges against you for your silver tongue.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain too, your Grace. I know for a fact that he likes it.”

A few lords can do very little to hold their snickering, Aegon himself does not hide his malicious smirk, petty at the edges. It must run in the blood.

“Careful though, you don’t want to spend too much time talking, lest you leave my poor brother without any heir! It’s been a while since you two lovebirds tied the knot, isn’t that right?”

She glances beside her, surely Aemond won’t let that slight insult pass, but he stays still and silent like a statue. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. This is the same man who would call the crowned head at the table wastrel, depraved, disgrace.

So much for a disgrace, now that he fosters your pride and lies.

“I can assure you, good brother, that the talking is well outweighed by other activities that involve very few words.”

Aegon plasters a big grin on his face, yet she’s not finished. “But perhaps the Gods are sparing me the burden of bringing a child in such troubled times. A realm at war is not the best place to live in, is it not?”

“It depends on which side you’re on, Princess.”

There’s suspicion in his tone, but she just blinks at him. “My apologies, I was not aware that my loyalty to your House, and my husband’s, was to be questioned.”

“Come now. We are bound by what if not words?”

“I was under the impression that the Crown should fear his own kin more than a simple foreign girl from the West.”

At that, Helaena lets out a strange noise, something close to a wince, and silence falls all over. It is only now that Aemond undoes the stone he walled himself in and acts as he always does when he feels belittled, or worse, threatened. He shuts her out.

“I’m afraid my wife is growing tired, brother. ’Tis best for her to retire.”

She bites her tongue and turns her head. There’s no mistake in his tone, that is an order. She stares at him and he stares back, blankly, and then, just as it is expected of her, she obeys.

She goes without saying a word, aware of Aemond’s eye on her, of Aegon’s little victorious giggle. He snaps his fingers and two dancing girls flock to his brother. She knows this because she can’t resist but turning before disappearing. The girls are said to come from Lys, no less. But he’s not sparing them a single glance. His eye follows her out of the hall, and even after.

Candles almost extinguished, casting a soft glow in the bedchamber, dim but enough to make the shape of her body visible under the covers.

“I know you’re pretending to be asleep.” He says, placing his dagger and eyepatch on the nightstand.

She doesn’t bother to wait a single moment to fly her eyes open. “Was I not supposed to pretend I was tired?”

When she gets no answer, she turns to face him, finding him on his feet near the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet. His eye is on her, though, wide, as someone ready to hunt but seeing traps everywhere.

“Did you enjoy your feast?” she asks with piqued interest. “Such a shame that I missed most of it. I was eager to watch the girls from Lys dance. How were they?”

“Enough. You should thank me for dismissing you. You were bordering on high treason.”

“Since when telling the truth is considered high treason?”

“Is that what you were going to say? The truth? To make me look like a fool in front of the whole court?”

“I was only going to say that the feast was an insult and a challenge to the Gods or any common sense. And I know that beneath all the pats on the shoulder and the endorsement on your brother’s part, you are of the same mind.” she hopes to see the barest glimpse of validation on his face, at least here, where he can leave behind his pride and admit he made a mistake. Is that what you call starting a war?

But his expression is as closed as ever, wary.

She wishes it would hurt less than it does. “Of all the people ready to betray you, how quick you are to assume I’d be the first.”

“We’re bound by words, are we not?”

“Take your brother off your mouth.” She says absentmindedly; she tries to not let it sting, but it does anyway. It is a low blow, and she knows he does not believe it. He has raised the walls, coiling like a snake, and there’s no point trying to climb and risk cracking her skull open on the ground. She will have to wait for him to come down. “Then perhaps I should consider my father’s proposal.”

She leaves the bed and grabs a letter lying open on the desk. “He wrote me this letter. That is why my mother came all the way here, apparently to see how her daughter was faring.”

Aemond eyes it with the barest twitch in his lips, then looks up into her eyes and, with a sigh, she clears her throat.

“My dearest daughter,

It is with great concern and sadness that I write you this letter.

Words have reached me about the recent events involving Storm’s End and young Prince Lucerys’ demise. My spirits are low when thinking of the fate you’re enduring. But I want you to think carefully of this: annulments are rare but possible. Even more so since you bore no heirs yet. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins. I only need a word from you, daughter, and I shall hastily consult with a High Septon.”

She can barely register his arm moving, only sees his hand snatching the letter out of her grip, crumpling the paper between his fingers. Nostrils flaring, eye widening, she reads insult all over his face. About time.

“Is that it, Aemond? Is that the reason you’d think I would betray you? Because I didn’t bleed on a birthing bed yet? Is that how you measure my loyalty? What of all the times I drew your bath, washed your hair, pulled the boots off your feet? What about that curtain—“ she adds, pointing to the windows “and the fact that I told the maid to keep that side always closed so the sun will not bother your eye? Do you think I did all of this because of some empty words?”

He looks as if she has just slapped him. Mistrust and bewilderment run together all over his sharp features, trying to win one another, and she waits and waits, and she begs as all the purest things must be pleaded, wordlessly.

Come down. Come down. Lay down with me. In our bed, a grave, it matters not. I'll take the shovel and do the burying.

But he stands still on his high and cursed perch, the grip on the letter loosens, his shoulders slump a little, because this, this comes so easily. Violence. It’s the other glove he wears like second skin.

“You will write to your father and tell him if I hear another word about annulments, I will have his head for treason. And as for you… you tell a living soul what you know, and you shall join the Silent Sisters. You won’t even have to vow your silence, for I shall take your sharp tongue first.”

She watches him go, standing in the middle of the room like a fool; her hands bleeding still and a plea, unheard, choking to death in her chest.

Her hands heal, stay whole for so long. She feels she cannot reach him this time, no matter how hard she tries to climb. She finds no footholds, no inlets, until she stops looking for any.

She finds she has no strength to do it anymore. They’re all dead anyway, each of them in their own way, their own burial.

The king drinks and rages and drinks and rages. Helaena rocks on herself all day long, chasing the highs and lows of her laments. Jaehaera stares at her mother with her small lips sewn, her eyes wide and the Queen Mother weeps and weeps, wondering if the little girl is watching her mother go mad with grief or yet again her twin brother’s head rolling on the ground like one of her toys.

And Aemond…she does not know where Aemond chose to bury himself. He spends the day out, trying to escape the smothering grip of the Stranger’s claws, his curse…or is it only retribution?

Sometimes he’s in the training yard, sometimes that same yard becomes theater for revenge. He kills whoever helped Blood and Cheese enter the Keep, man or woman, he doesn’t care. He tortures them, and she wants to beg him to stop, to tell him that torturing one, two, or one hundred men won’t stop guilt from torturing him.

So, he wanders restlessly, basks in small and big cruelties, until the sun sets and she’s aware, as the bed dips under his weight, that she is his own burial. He takes her at any time, in any place, be it the bed, the desk, or bent over the vanity, she cannot do anything to stop him. She doesn’t want to and yet she aches to do it. Because it’s always sudden, and harsh and hurtful when he pulls her hair, when he spares no time to stoke her desire, when he keeps her bent with her back turned and a firm hand on her neck like some kind of punishment.

It never used to be like this. It had been playful, teasing, painfully slow as if he were separating salt from water, and then fast, urgent, unraveling for two inexperienced newlyweds.

But it had never been like that. There was no joy in it. Only a duty to be fulfilled. Some twisted way to gain control, while anyone else kept slipping from his hands. Just as Vhagar slipped out of his control on that fateful night of storm.

He remembered that dark thrill pounding in his veins, the laughter gushing out of his throat like poison. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know whether Vhagar was fueling his fire or the other way around, perhaps both. Just a little more, he’d thought, as Arrax batted his wings frantically, desperate, mirroring his young rider, to escape the gaping jaws of the Queen of All Dragons.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted to relish in his nephew’s dread, he wanted to drink it. He wanted him alone, desperate, hopeless, just as he had been.

And then he felt it, the shift in the ancient fire pit he was riding, like a boat tipping over and there was no helm to grab onto and bring it back to land. He had sunk his own family into the bleak abyss of Daemon Targaryen’s soul.

He had come to collect, thoroughly. A son for a son, yes, but he had taken much more than Jaehaerys. He’d taken Helaena as well. Even Jaehaera.

Will she ever be able to speak again?

Will my Mother ever forgive me?

Words never spoken, stuck on his tongue and then gagged and swallowed. He cannot look down, cannot look back. He must look up and forward, like soldiers do. To the next battle, to war.

But there’s this woman. And the sight of her in his bed that makes his breath hitch and for two reasons entirely opposite to one another. The first is the most ancient one. But she’s also a thorn in his side, for she knows. She knows everything. She knows all his peaks and depths, every brick in his walls and how to dismantle them; she knows he’s strong and weak, that he’s scared and guilty and worthy of his mother’s contempt, but he cannot bear any of this in front of her.

He flees her presence during the day, only to impose himself on her for the whole night. She cannot refuse him. And he cannot have her prying and dismantling his well-crafted walls and lies, so he takes her and takes her and takes her until he works themselves up to exhaustion and she’s a rag doll in his hands. It serves the purpose, though. As long as she has his cock in her mouth, as long as he harshly pounds into her, cutting her breath from the inside, she cannot ask questions. As long as he keeps chasing his pleasure, and his rugged breaths muffle his own ears, he cannot think straight.  

He's close now and it’s the second time already. The sheets are damp beneath their bodies, his back glints with sweat, damps his forehead as he thrusts inside her one more time. They’re lying on their side, but he keeps her caged against him, his arm has slipped on the mattress and under her neck to keep her still, with her back to him. With his cheek glued to hers, he croons praises in her ear, falling mindlessly from his lips but like drops in the ocean. Once, she would redden, smile blissfully, or challenge him, to go deeper, or harder, or both, but she’s a limp thing now. A mere body panting upon being fucked by another, that’s all.

This is possession. Or a desperate attempt to. Each night, he holds her as if it’s the last time and she could slip away from him at any moment, turning her back on him. She can feel it now, in the way he’s gripping her shoulder, the way his nails dig in her skin, carving into her bones: stay with me. Please. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.

But it’s him keeping her away, turning her own back on him.

Don’t you know, she wishes to tell him, that I won’t, ever. I won’t. No matter how cursed you are. I won’t. I won’t.

He grabs her thigh, resting it on his hip, spreading his long fingers on her skin, spreading her legs so he can find the perfect angle and picks up the pace. She shudders with every thrust, gasping with her throat dry, feeling the long bridge of his nose sinking in her cheek, his grunts growing rougher and deeper; some strange choked sound at the back of his throat.

He comes quietly, panting shallowly against the damp fabric of her nightgown. And he stays there, claw gripping her shoulder, head sunk between her neck and collarbone, and deep to the hilt buried in her.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know where it comes from, who she is mourning, she can’t tell these days. Perhaps she’s mourning him, who he was, who he is now and who he is forcing himself to be. She doesn’t know where the deception lies anymore. She wishes she could push it back in, prays that it goes unnoticed, swallowed along with all the others, but she should know by now, the Gods are not in her favor anymore, if they ever had been.

“Why are you crying?”

She turns her head, and her breath hitches. The gemstone glints, yes, but she’s too struck by his eye to even notice the sapphire. There’s something raw there, bare, more than his very skin now. It’s the first time she sees that look on him, torn, heavy lidded and not by pleasure.

This is the burden of grief.

She wonders if that’s the reason he’s so keen on fucking her with her back turned, so she can’t see him. Perhaps she didn’t look hard enough. She thought he had risen too high, out of her reach, of anyone’s. She thought he would never fall, not in every sense of the word.

Hence, she’s at a loss for words, slightly pulling herself up, when he slowly comes down; he curls into himself, into her lap, resting his head there like a child. No Kinslayer, no Dragon Prince, no son, no brother. No husband. Just a human, bare in the skin and soul.

Aemond wraps his hand around her knee, gently, and then tighter and tighter, shutting his eye. He’s on land now, but the room is spinning, the whole world is spinning and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels he started it all, he threw a spinning top and got sucked into it. And she’s the only firm thing he can hold onto.

“Do you think I’m cursed?” he whispers, the barest flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheekbone.

But she has no answer. All she has are her hands, sliding on his naked skin, through his loose hair, gently, as if touching the thinnest glass, sealing the cracks. Her palms slice open again.  

“Aren’t we all?”

And I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."

- The Castle, Franz Kafka.

[yappingwitch]

Say It Ain't So

pairing - Virgin!James Potter x fem!reader

summary - James busts a fat one. Porn with glimpses of plot. Maybe.

warnings - 18+ mdni, smut, awkwardness, James is a desperate virgin in this one, hence the weezer title, premature ejaculation, handjob (m receiving), one sided enemies to ???, slight m sub/f dom dynamics if you squint, legs

wordcount - 1.6k

disclaimer - english is my second language. Don't hesitate to correct me!

You hated James Potter.

Your dislike well-known among your friends, none of them dared to ever mention him anymore, fearing another long-winded rant from you. Remembering when the lot of you would stay up after curfew, sharing gossip and talking about your crushes. All of them gasped when you casually shared your feelings about the headboy after they spent what felt like hours gushing about him. Proceeding to list of every single thing wrong with the guy, making your friends regret ever bringing him up.

Did he have beautiful curly hair you just wanted to run your fingers through? Brilliant hazel eyes in which mischief was ever-present? Pretty plump lips, his slightly crooked, overly confident smirk always on them? Well, yes, you could admit that much. But as soon as he opened his mouth, you couldn’t care less about how pretty it was. He'd always disrupt the lessons, the golden boy having no filter or capability to raise his hand, always yelling the answers out or talking loudly with his posse during dinner, unable to control his volume and barely having to face any consquences for his obnoxious nature.

So when Slughorn, who aside from his quirky nature, you quite liked, decided to pair you both together for the last project of the year, you were fuming. At least internally. Your prideful nature and pureblood customs instilled in you by your parents forced you to keep a blank face, only briefly smiling at the teacher when he uttered your name after James', swallowing your rage.

Shortly after class ended, as you were packing your things after quickly finishing your notes, you suddenly heard one of the old wooden chairs in front of you creak. Looking up at the noise, you saw a certain Gryffindor already staring back, a stupid smirk on his face like always, the air of confidence around him ever-present.

“So…,” James started absent-mindedly going through your notes, but you quickly interrupted whatever he was about to say.

“I’ll take care of the project by myself. Can’t have you messing up my grades,” you simply stated, ripping your notes from his hands, frowning at the way he had smudged the last of your sentence. Ignoring your frown, he loudly exclaimed, “Hey! My grades are stellar.” He tapped his finger against his chest, where his perfect badge was. “They don’t give them away for nothing, you know?”

“I also don’t like you,” you said after a moment of silence, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder, quickly walking out.

But he wouldn't let up, following you all the way to the Great Hall, pestering you until you finally snapped right by the Slytherin table.

“Saturday, library, after lunch. No word from you until then,” you almost yelled, your face twisting in anger. Noticing the other Slytherins' snickers, you quickly composed yourself, swallowing your anger. He, oblivious as always, smiled widely, ignoring your state and simply basking in the glory of having won this little duel of words.

Saturday approached faster than you would’ve liked, dreading the obnoxious boy's presence already. But you approached the surprisingly empty library anyway, not one to go back on your word. You frowned slightly, looking around, realizing even the librarian must have taken the day off. Sighing, you called out to James; he was already there, notes and textbooks scattered about. He quickly jumped up from his chair, beaming like always, until his gaze drifted down, his usual aura of self-assurance dwindling a little.

“What are you wearing?” he asked, mouth hanging slightly agape.

You looked down; you were wearing a simple skirt and long-sleeved top, not too different from what you usually wore in your free time. Confused, you lifted your head again, his gaze quickly following, being previously trained on your bare legs. Realizing he had been caught, a blush appeared on his cheeks as he plopped unceremoniously down, coughing awkwardly and focusing on the books laying before him.

“Weirdo,” you stated, disinterest evident, just wanting this project to be over with. But what you saw once you reached the table he was sitting at piqued your interest suddenly. Looking down, a prominent bulge had formed in the front of his pants, straining against the material. A book was quickly tossed over it, but it was too late.

“You’re such a skeeze. Who gets hard from looking at a girl's legs?” you asked, amused, not really expecting an answer, just continuing to stare him down, enjoying watching the high-and-mighty golden boy begin to tremble under your intense gaze.

“..they are your legs,” he mumbled, blush only deepening as his eyes stayed glued to the table.

This made you laugh out loud, gasping for air.

“Are you a virgin or something? Bloody hell,” you huffed out between laughs, a single tear escaping your eye at the comical twist your day had taken.

James didn't reply, groaning in embarrassment and continuing to hold the book tightly over his lap.

“Cat got your tongue?” you said, still smirking but finally having calmed down. “I didn’t even know you were capable of zipping it.”

This seemed to push him over the edge; he picked up his bag and shoved everything in with lightning speed, until suddenly he froze, hearing your next sentence.

“I can help you out if you want,” you said, a mischievous smile adorning your pretty face, putting his own to shame.

All he got out was a quick “huh,” as you pounced, wordlessly pushing him back down onto the chair. He looked up through his glasses, his eyes wide, the cute blush still evident on his face. Fuck.

“You are so pretty,” you whispered aloud before pressing your mouth against his. Short and sweet. It was almost romantic, the way he gently started to move his mouth and the lovestruck look on his face once you pulled away.

He eagerly leaned forward again, knocking his nose against yours before trying again, this time slower, aiming properly while the book he had previously clenched in his lap dropped to the floor with a thud. He opted to instead take hold of your hips, almost moaning at the feeling of the warmth of your skin touching his, slightly poking out from the bottom of your shirt. You, in turn, moved your hand that gripped the curls at the back of his neck slowly down his chest, delicate fingers grasping at the painful bulge in his pants. This made James quickly pull away, a loud moan leaving his now reddened lips as he grasped your wrist, stopping your movement.

“I-” he gasped out. “I-I’m waiting for the right person.”

He regretted talking the second the words left his mouth, seeing you roll your eyes at him, laughing a little at the bizarre turn of events, moving to remove your hand nonetheless.

He quickly went to grasp at your wrist again, pulling it toward his crotch once more, his body moving on its own.

“You need to make up your mind, pretty boy,” you said softly, looking at him amused.

“You know…,” you started after he continued to be silent, he in turn looked up at you through his lashes, blushing, his glasses a little crooked and a dorky smile on his lips, hearing your voice again. “Maybe I’m not the right person… but… I could be your right hand,” you finished, slightly averting your eyes, cringing at your words.

He didn't notice, though, too lost in need for release; he eagerly nodded his head. You laughed a little, removing his grip on your arm and moving to open the Gryffindor's trousers, just enough for you to pull his now hard member out, precum already coating his tip, while pressing another sweet kiss to his lips. Disconnecting from him once more, you lifted your right hand, holding it up to James' face expectantly.

“Spit,” you commanded, and the boy obliged without a second thought.

One long, loud moan left his mouth as your hand slowly moved against his cock, brushing your thumb over the head, gently mixing the precum with his spit, spreading it all over his length. You moved to press kisses to his bobbing throat, his head thrown back in pleasure, as you started to move your hand up and down in a steady rhythm, sucking a small purple spot onto his neck, his gasps and groans only getting louder.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” James repeated over and over like a prayer, lost in pleasure. You lifted your head, stopping your assault on his neck, to look at his scrunched-up face, eyes tightly shut, mouth hanging open. You couldn't help but stare, the glaring noon sun shining in through the stained glass and making his skin almost appear to glow, colors of the rainbow dancing around his face, sweat bullets forming on his forehead like little diamonds. Fuck. He really was—

“Pretty,” you mumbled, pushing James over the edge-a string of curses leaving him as he came undone over your hand, specks of it staining your skirt all the way to your pretty legs, the reason all of this started in the first place.

He continued to gasp, trying to catch his breath and gasping out apologies for the mess. You silently tugged him back into his pants, amused at the wet spot adorning his own lower half.

You wiped your hand on his pants before zipping him up. Wordlessly, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, swiftly turning around, ready to go take a shower after the ordeal.

“Wait,” you paused in your steps, glancing back at James. “D-do… you… want… to,” he started, before pausing again, finally catching his breath. “Do you want to go to Hogsmeade… with me?”

You glanced ahead, continuing on your path without replying to the desperate boy, only flashing him a quick smirk.

Maybe you didn't hate him after all.

[callsigns-haze]

I love your Tyler fics so much, I just love imagining dad/husband Tyler 😭😭 can I please request something where he always introduces her to people as “my wife”? Like they’re newlyweds and he just loves slipping in “wife” whenever he can 🥹

The Weight of a Word

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Chapter of all fluff

A/N: So I reached 500 followers today and got a few fics done...

The sky above them was a shifting tapestry of dark clouds, a fitting backdrop for the storm-chasing team that had just reunited. The air was thick with tension, the thrill of the chase palpable in every glance and gesture. But amidst the chaos, there was a lightness to Tyler Owens, a quiet joy that radiated from him like sunshine breaking through the storm clouds.

Tyler stood by the team’s van, his arm casually draped over Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her close. They had been together for years now, but something had changed in the past few months—something that Tyler couldn’t quite keep to himself, no matter how hard he tried. He was still basking in the glow of their recent wedding, the memory of saying “I do” still fresh and vivid in his mind. It was a feeling he cherished, a pride that he carried with him everywhere they went.

“Tyler!” one of the team members called, approaching with a wide grin. “You ready for this? We’ve got a big one heading our way.”

Tyler nodded, his eyes flicking from the sky to his teammate, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to share his happiness, had to let the world know how lucky he was. “Yeah, we’re ready,” he replied, a grin spreading across his face as he gave Y/N’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “By the way, have you met my wife?”

There it was again—that word. It rolled off his tongue so easily now, but every time he said it, he felt a surge of pride and love. Wife. The title still felt new, like a shiny badge he got to wear every day, and he couldn’t help but show it off. He turned to Y/N, his eyes sparkling with affection, and she smiled back at him, clearly amused by how much he enjoyed saying it.

The teammate chuckled, extending a hand to Y/N. “Nice to meet you! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Y/N replied with a grin, shaking his hand.

Tyler watched the exchange, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. He loved seeing her here, a part of his world, blending into the life he led so effortlessly. And more than that, he loved the way she looked at him when he called her his wife, like she was just as thrilled by the title as he was.

As they continued to prepare for the storm, Tyler couldn’t resist sneaking in the word whenever he got the chance. Introducing her to anyone new, he would say it with that same proud grin—“This is my wife.” Even in casual conversation with the team, it slipped in naturally: “My wife thinks this storm is going to be a big one,” or “We’ve been talking about this since before we got married.”

It wasn’t just the word itself that mattered, though it did make him feel like he was part of something bigger, something more meaningful. It was the way Y/N’s eyes lit up every time he said it, the way she would squeeze his hand or lean into him just a little bit closer. It was the way she made him feel like he was doing something right, just by loving her, just by being proud to call her his.

As the storm began to close in, the team started moving with more urgency, checking their equipment and finalizing their plans. But even in the midst of the chaos, Tyler couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at Y/N every now and then, his heart swelling with affection. They had always been a team, but this was different. This was forever.

“Tyler,” Y/N said softly, drawing his attention as they stood together, watching the sky. “You know you don’t have to keep introducing me like that, right?”

He looked at her, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “I know, but I can’t help it. I just… I love saying it. I love the way it feels.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head slightly, but the warmth in her eyes told him she understood. “Well, I love hearing it. So I guess we’re both happy.”

Tyler leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and then pulled back to look at her. “I promise, I’ll never get tired of calling you my wife.”

“And I’ll never get tired of being your wife,” she replied, her voice soft and sincere.

As the wind picked up and the first raindrops began to fall, Tyler knew they had to focus on the task at hand. But even as they ran to their positions, as the storm loomed ever closer, he couldn’t shake the joy that filled him every time he said that word.

Wife.

It was more than just a title; it was a promise, a declaration of his love, a reminder of the life they had chosen to build together. And no matter how many storms they faced, no matter how wild the weather got, Tyler knew that this was the one thing that would always anchor him, the one thing that mattered most.

As they stood side by side, ready to face whatever the storm would bring, Tyler took Y/N’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. And with a smile that reached his eyes, he whispered one last time, just for the two of them:

“My wife.”

Requests for Tyler are open be free to send in as much as you wish!

tagging some:

@senawashere

@saviorcomplexrry

@cevansbaby-dove

@saynotononsense

@missdottie

@willowisp7

@taorislover94

@eloquenceinpurple

@86laura11

@rosiahills22

@jessicab1991

@kmc1989

@shanimallina87

@eternalsams

@teen-antisocial

[lovebugism]

omggg im craving a halloween themed , rockstar!eddie x shy!reader at a halloween party , matching costumes and everything & he sees a ton of guys hitting on her & is like ???? my baby?

here you go lovie! hope you like it! — eddie takes his girl to a bar on halloween and gets jealous when guys hit on you like you're not already his (shy!reader, rockstar!eddie, established relationship, 1k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

The world didn’t know you before today.

You’ve been just Eddie Spaghetti’s girlfriend for so long — but now you’re Eddie Munson, up-and-coming rockstar and lead of Corroded Coffin’s girlfriend. The title carries a certain weight with it. You wear it with pride, but it weighs you down just the same. 

What’s weird about tonight, though, is you’re not sharing Eddie with the rest of the world like you thought you would. He’s having to share you, because everyone and their goddamn brother’s been all over you all night. 

Apparently, your coquettish rendition of The Bride of Frankenstein is making everyone else as crazy as it’s making him.

“God, go save your girlfriend, Munson,” Gareth jokes across the booth, laughing into his drink as he watches yet another guy stop you at the bar. “At least one of these assholes is gonna steal her from you.”

“She’s not property, dude. She can’t get stolen,” Jeff scolds from beside him, then flashes Eddie a sheepish glance. “But, yeah, the odds aren’t in your favor, Eds.”

Eddie pays no mind to his friends’ teasing — or the anger swirling like fire in the pit of his stomach. 

“Nah. She’s alright…” he mumbles into the rim of his glass. The whiskey burns his throat going down. It doesn’t match the flame rising in his chest at the sight of his precious girl talking to some douchebag dressed like Elvis Presley.

He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think you weren’t a hundred percent fine. These bozos aren’t trying anything with you — hell, they can barely make conversation with you. You’re just entertaining it because you’re the sweetest thing on the earth.

It’s laughable more than anything.

He’s humored by it all. Not jealous. Definitely not jealous.

“Yeah, who’s the famous one here, again?” Jeff’s girlfriend jokes. She’d left to go to the bathroom with you but came back alone when you got stuck with dollar-store Elvis. She points to the rest of them with a long, manicured finger. “It’s you guys, right? Because I can’t really tell.”

“Fuck off…” Eddie grouses, forcing a grin while the rest of them laugh.

You return then, with a drink in hand and a frown on your face at the sight of your suddenly grumpy boyfriend. “You okay?” you wonder quietly, smoothing down your skirt when you slide into the booth.

The boy moves over to make room for you. “‘M fine,” he answers with a mumble that makes you assume otherwise. 

You reach a hand to his face, smoothing fluffy curls behind his ear. His cheek is warm against your palm. His faded seafoam Frankenstein paint job smears on your wrist.

“‘M sorry for taking so long. Some guy stopped me on the way over. I didn’t wanna be rude.”

Eddie shakes his head. Not a single part of him blamed you.

“It’s okay, babe. Not your fault.” 

He’s full-on beaming now. Just because you called that asshole “some guy.” It feels good to hear you say that, to know that that’s all he is to you — just some fuckin’ guy. You won’t remember him later, if you still do even now.

Honestly, you’ll be lucky to remember your own name at the end of tonight.

“He get that drink for you?” Eddie asks, nodding to the frosted glass in your fist.

You shrug. “Yeah. He bought it, but I watched the bartender make it, so it’s fine.”

He nods, proud and sparkling with it. “Good.”

“What is it?” Gareth wonders, squinting across the table.

“An Old-Fashioned.”

“You hate whiskey,” Eddie laughs, licking the alcohol from the plush of his bottom lip.

“Well, yeah, but he asked what I liked, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just told him your favorite drink,” you ramble, all mousy, as you drag the falling sleeve of your corset back up your shoulder. 

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment, still a bit overwhelmed by the attention.

Eddie’s grinning something fierce beside you. His chest swells with so much pride he thinks he might burst.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest fuckin’ thing?” he singsongs with a rosy grin, wrapping the ripped sleeve of his arm around your shoulders to pull you closer. 

Then he kisses you. Like, really kisses you. 

It’s deep and intimate and sloppy. He opens your mouth with his and slithers his tongue inside. He tastes like bitter-sweet alcohol. You get drunk on him accordingly. 

The rest of the table gags.

Your lips click audibly when Eddie pulls away. His smile glistens with a mixture of your saliva, lips a deeper shade of pink and slightly swollen. You wipe your chin with the back of your mouth — some of Eddie’s face paint comes with it.

“Where’s he now?” the boy asks with a mischievous squint in his deep chocolate eyes.

You shrug, totally uncaring and just wanting to be kissed. “I dunno.”

“Still at the bar,” Gareth answers for you, snickering to himself. “Giving your girl the sex eyes.”

Your face screws up in disgust. “Sex eyes?” you repeat, nose scrunched.

The group laughs.

“Think you can get him to buy you a round? You know, for the table?” Eddie asks you. His fingers trace shapes on your bare shoulder. You have to fight back a shiver.

“You want me to go talk to him?” you gape, like you must’ve heard him wrong.

“I want you to go get us drinks, sweet thing. Work your magic, you know?”

He’s not in the most right headspace right now. You know this. He’s still high on the post-show adrenaline and mellow on the alcohol.  He’s jealous and in love with you and aflame with hatred for bootleg Elvis Presley. He gets rash when he’s raging, risky and unpredictable — a deadly concoction.

“Eds…” you hum quietly, brows scrunched like the idea pains you. “I don’t wanna make you mad…”

“You won’t make me mad, sweet thing,” Eddie assures, squeezing your shoulder. He presses a sanguine peck to your waiting mouth, then his voice gets all low. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll reward you after.”

He smacks one last kiss to your buzzing lips.

You blink at him until your senses return to you. You slide out from the booth and saunter back to Some Guy, who’s seemingly been waiting on your return this whole time. 

There’s a sudden sway to your hips now, but it’s not for him. 

It’s for Eddie.

The boy with the wild hair back at the booth, missing splotches of his face paint and wearing your lipstick knows this too.

[innerfare]

Law Relationship Headcanons 

Summary: A collection of random Law relationship headcanons.

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

———

If he meets someone he likes, he’s just going to ask them to join his crew because he literally has no idea how else to get close to you. Will struggle to broach the topic of liking you, too. Might kiss you on a late night in a dark hallway aboard the Polar Tang, but won’t have much to say about it, despite his heart hammering in his chest. If your first kiss isn’t aboard the Polar Tang, it will be somewhere else that’s dark and closed off so he feels comfortable. 

A lot of the things in your relationship will be unspoken, which can be annoying but he’s really not so good with words. When he does open his mouth, he keeps things short and sweet. Much more of a stolen kisses than whispered sweet nothings sort of guy. 

Victim of near insta-love, fell hard for you the very first time he saw you doing the morning crossword in the newspaper. Quickly became obsessed with the way you smirk victoriously to yourself when you figure out one of the words, even more obsessed with the way you flick him when he answers one for you. 

Started having nightmares not long after he met you, horrid dreams of you dying in gruesome ways, sometimes at the hands of the Donquixote family, other times at the hands of the World Government. Feels physically ill himself when you catch even a slight cold due to his past and the sheer number of people he knew who were taken from him. Tries to keep you out of danger to an almost comical degree, forcing you to sit down and have a conversation about it.  

Will happily answer to both Captain and Doctor and daddy.

If you have long hair, he keeps a hair tie or two on his wrist for you. Claims it’s just because you’re so annoying when you lose all of yours and complain incessantly about it. 

Lays in bed when you get out of the shower and watches you brush your hair. Actually got mad at you the first time he saw you brush your hair in a common space (before you two were an item) because it had such a strong effect on him and he didn’t know what to do; accused you of getting hair all over the place or something equally ridiculous; when you tell him Bepo sheds more than you, he starts grumbling under his breath and leaves the room. 

Writes you small notes on scraps of paper and folds them into origami- swans, rabbits, flowers, butterflies, you name it; he keeps a mental chart of your reaction to each shape and ranks them accordingly, saving the best ones for hard days. The notes aren’t anything particularly heartfelt or special, just small mundane things such as, “y/n-ah, don’t forget to take it easy today. You’re still injured,” or a book title and page number because he read something he thought you might find interesting. You’ve taken to using the origami notes as bookmarks, which makes his heart swell with pride and something else he knows deep down is love but is hesitant to name. 

He also made you a bouquet of origami flowers for you to keep on your nightstand since you complained there’s not enough light under the sea for you to keep a plant alive. Sometimes, he’ll make some new flowers to freshen up the bouquet (you have a box in your desk drawer where you stash the old ones). 

When you two are cooking, he gets a bit annoyed when you munch on some of the ingredients. He’s a ‘measure everything to 1/20 of a teaspoon and not a single pinch more or less’ sort of guy. He’s also a ‘no fries in the car before we get home and eat our burgers’ sort of guy. 

If he buys you gifts, it’s typically practical things, such as a new notebook because you said you needed one, or a better jacket so you don’t steal his on winter islands (you still steal his, it drives him insane because he can't stop blushing when you wear his clothes and he's trying to look intimidating). Also buys you books he thinks you’ll like, sometimes gets it wrong but you don’t tell him because it took him so long to open up and get comfortable and put himself out there and you don’t want to be discouraging for fear he’ll retreat back into his shell. Has also bought you a few dainty pieces of jewelry, expensive but not flashy. 

Is a hand holder, but he doesn’t do it in public. If you pass each other in the hallway, his fingers will always tangle with yours for just a quick second. When the two of you are alone, though, he wants your hand in his constantly. He’ll hold your hand while you’re both reading your books, hold your hand while falling asleep, etc. Sometimes, at meal times, he’ll hold your hand under the table, but that’s only on extra clingy days. (Clingy days are the good days for Law, his bad days being the ones when he retreats into his shell and falls asleep on the sofa in his office without eating.) 

Gives hand kisses. Will kiss each of your knuckles, will catch your hand when you pass him in the hallway and press a kiss into your palm, will climb into bed on a late night and place a few goodnight kisses on the back of your hand, will place his lips on your hand every time he gets it in his. Likes kissing up your wrist and arm before pulling you closer and kissing your neck. His kisses are always warm, btw, and not very messy. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[twisted-wonderland-but-gayer]

Being His Sibling– Jamil ft. Namja Viper

This is based off the headcanon/au that Jamil may have been taught to kill in order to protect Kalim.

Content Stuff: Gn Yuu. Platonic. Older Sib Yuu. Angst with a happy ending (for now). Edgyness that comes with assassins, 6k words

You were the eldest child of the Viper family, renowned by many as the elite servants of the Al-Asim family. It was a title to be held with pride is what you have been told your entire life. This is where you were meant to be. You will be happy serving your master and he will take care of you so there's no need to look outside of your cage. 

A mop was thrusted into your chubby hands when you first started walking. Your fine motor skills were honed on cooking. Your boredom alleviated with chores.

This was the honor of a Viper. Serving one of the most powerful families in the world with their head bowed. Vipers were not just servants— they were butlers, housekeepers, advisers. It was the highest rank a servant can have. Commanding other maids, being directly in charge of orders and standing right alongside the Asims themselves.

Viper was a powerful name in its own right. Yet it was as strong as it was confining. The name was akin to wearing weights in a deep pool, and though you had more privilege than the other maids, a taller birdcage was still a birdcage.

You learned to cook, learned to clean, learn how to act, learned how to fight. That was your way of life.

You cooked. You cleaned. You acted. You trained. You cooked. You cleaned. You acted. You trained. You cooked. You cleaned. You acted. You trained. And you never yearned for anything outside of the bars in front of you.

You knew your place.

***

One day, a new addition to the family was announced: Jamil Viper. Your little brother.

Deep in your heart you knew he would be an amazing servant in the future.

As you looked into the newborn's eyes you also knew he would be your best friend. You remembered the feeling of him in your little arms. The pudge of his face, the softness of the skin, the comfortable weight. 

You faintly remember asking why Jamil was so pale before you felt a little hand grip around your finger. Soft and firm. You looked down at the newborn. You swore there was a smile on his face. 

All of your family duties were put on hold to care for the newborn and you were at his side for every moment of it. Mother would often remark on how she would find you asleep by his cradle, having passed out from standing and staring at him all the time.

Kalim was born not long after. You remember being told that you were to help look over him as well. From the moment he took his first breath your fates were decided. You and Jamil will bow to the young heir and obey him, for he is your master. 

The eldest bore many responsibilities. You cooked. You cleaned. You served. You watched over Kalim and Jamil. You cooked. You cleaned. You learned. You watched as they'd play tag. You cooked. You cleaned. You studied all the skills you could so you could be useful. You'd listen to their laughter.

It made sense mom and dad weren't as hard on Jamil since you do your tasks flawlessly. They didn't need as many hands with your capabilities. So you cooked. You cleaned. You—

“Hey! Hey Yuu!” You perked up from your thoughts as you turned to the boy that clung to your clothes and bounced on his feet. “Do you know what this is?” Jamil held up a box of some sort and you took a step back to look at it.

As your eyes scanned the box you could see Kalim and Jamil look up at you expectantly. “Shatranj– it's just like chess, there's just a few optional rules to it.” You look at all of the pieces inside. The dusty pawns and chipped elephants look to you with the hope of salvation. It's clear they haven't been used in a while. 

“Can you teach us? Please please please please!” Kalim tugged at your sleeve and you chuckle. It was your break time anyways. You suppose your personal studies can wait this time, besides it's not like you to ever reject an order from your master.

You guide Jamil's hand over the board, showing him the pawn’s available movements. You sat between the boys and refereed, letting them experiment with the pieces and pointing out a few strategies. The game came to a close and the children clearly wanted something else to do.

“... I hear one of the perfume parlors in the marketplace is having a live performance today.” Both of them light up and Kalim is pulling on your sleeve again jumping off the wall in excitement. “Can you take us? Please please please Yuu?”

“Yeah yeah! Come on Yuu!” Jamil was pulling on your shirt too, looking up at you with puppy dog eyes and a bright, pleading smile. He always adored music of all kinds, it would be a crime to rob him of it.

“Okay, okay! Fine. But you both stick beside me, got it?”

“Deal!”

As you walked out the playroom Jamil slid something into your hand. You hummed as he closed your hand around it and you lifted it to your face. Opening your hand you saw the small elephant piece, cracked and chipped. “It's broken so maybe you could fix it?” You examined it, then put it into your pocket.

“Maybe.”

You had fond memories of teaching them what you knew. Safe back alleys as shortcuts. The best vendors along the markets. You had Jamil at your side as you haggle the price of an old stereo for his room. How to disguise yourselves. The two would giggle as you wrapped them up and used a spell to make them look like two different kids entirely. You played tag, hide and seek, and so much more. 

You balanced helping Kalim and Jamil among your work as the duo became good friends. And they helped to balance your own schedule, giving you a break from your usual clockwork life. It was fun while it lasted but you all had to grow up eventually.

Jamil got older alongside you and he fell into the same routine as you did. He cooked. He cleaned. He served. But unlike you, his ambitions grew. 

He wanted to be recognized. To be something great. You showed him worlds beyond the life of servants. You showed him the salesmen, the merchants, the travelers that would tell their tales of a life beyond the sands.

And like you, he worked hard. He put his all into everything. His talent shined through over and over again. Eventually, however, it became too bright.

That time he beat Kalim in a race as a kid was when his reality became clear to him. A minor victory had him scolded and his eyes were opened. He was to be an accessory to his master. To hide his true self. That should be his true ambition. 

There was a pang of empathy as Jamil's face fell. Another part of you however, didn't fully understand his sadness. This was expected of you both. Why was he so surprised? This was an honor. You were told it's an honor. Why didn't he see it that way?

He was trained like you. Poison testing. Bodyguarding. You were expected to put your life on the line. He hated all of these tasks and he hated how you didn't seem to care. The first seed of his anger was sewn.

***

A new baby girl was born to the Viper family. Najma Viper. You held the newborn in your arms and dipped her low so Jamil could see. Like with Jamil, you all had time off to celebrate your new addition. Just like before you'd watch over the girl from the cradle as she slept. This time however, Jamil was at your side. 

A comfortable silence danced between in the air occasionally interrupted by an occasional coo or sigh from the little one swaddled in her softest garments.

Jamil broke the silence. “She kinda looks like an alien.”

You snickered a bit at the comment. “Funny. That's what you looked like too, you just had a bigger head.” You snicker even more as Jamil glared at you with a pout.

“Haah? No I didn't!” Jamil huffs at your amusement. “Stop laughing at me!”

“If it makes you feel better, Kalim was a very fat baby. You'd be able to roll him down a hill easily.” At that Jamil pauses to imagine it, and lets out a small laugh of his own.

“He was always hungry too. He'd suck on everything looking for milk. I'd often have to pry him off my clothes and fingers.” You patted Jamil's head and a soft smile formed on his lips as he stared more at Najma.

A small frown then overtakes his features as he thinks. “What's wrong?” Your brother looks up at you with a troubled expression. “She's gonna be like us too…”

You paused for a moment, trying to discern his thoughts. “What do you mean?”

“She's gonna be a servant too.” Jamil sounded dejected, quiet. Why?

“Well, yeah— It's what we're supposed to be.” Your face contorts into confusion. What was the issue?

“But I don't wanna be a servant!” he huffed, resting his head against the crib. “I wanna be a dancer… or an alchemist! Or a really strong mage! I wanna see the world!” The boy then looked up to you, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Don't you?”

“I never thought about it.” Jamil's face falls further at the admission. It was true. Why would you think about it if you were told that this was all there was? “I've never even played with anyone before you and Kalim were born.” 

You turned to Jamil. You understood why Jamil was upset logically, but you also didn't why he didn't just accept it. You already did at a much younger age than him. Why can't he?

Jamil scowled before resigning with a sigh. “But Najma isn't gonna get to choose either… doesn't that bother you…?” Your brows are knit together as you think. Another silence follows. Jamil keeps his gaze on you.

“What would you like to be when you grow up? Like if you could choose anything?” 

Silence. “I don't know.”

Jamil groans. “Just pick something!”

“I just never saw the point of thinking about it,” You shrug and scratch at your eye. “I'm still a servant at the end of the day. Maybe I can become a butler when I'm older?”

Jamil just looks even more frustrated. “Never mind.” The boy starts to storm off with a pout before you speak again.

“I like cooking and baking. Maybe something with that?” You test the idea in your head. “Or maybe somewhere where I can be with you and Najma?” Your voice is a quiet murmur as the idea of a life outside of this mansion is a new thought to you.

“A baker?” Jamil tilts his head at the idea, surprised at the fact you actually answered. You shrug a bit, “I don't really know. You're the first person that ever asked me that.” 

Jamil frowned as leaned on you and you wrapped an arm around him in a side hug. “I'd think you'd be good at it. Your cakes are always the best.” You smile at the praise. Memories of the young boy with frosting all over his cheeks and hands as he shoved as much cake into his mouth he could play in your mind.

You watched over Najma again. Will she feel the same?

Life went on. You cooked. You cleaned. You poison tested. You studied. You entertained Kalim. You checked the treasury. You were praised for being such a good kid. You looked after Najma despite how busy you were.

You also made sure to support Jamil in all the ways you could, taking hours out of your day to do so. He wanted to be a scholar? You used your break to teach him what you knew. He wanted to be a great mage? You would show him some spells to practice. He wanted to be a dancer? Let's go watch a few performances

Najma was no exception either. You got her books. Taught her the ways of an artisan should she want to be one. You played with her. You put on magic shows. 

You made sure to spoil them both rotten. On grocery runs you snagged records from magic shops and jewelry to surprise them on the way back. Extra pastries from the bakery were handed off for Najma to gum on and Jamil to savor. You listened to them and their frustrations. You'd hug them and wipe away tears. You'd take them to the best place to watch the stars.

As they stared in wonder at the night sky you would remind them that they would shine just as bright. They would be more than just servants. They would talk about their dreams and you swore you would make them come true.

You would give up your dreams if it means they could pursue theirs.

***

“I found another chess set.” Jamil shook the box at you and you looked over at it. “It's not as old. Want to play?”

“You don't want to study?” You tilt your head at him, looking at the notes in your book of the spell you wanted to teach him.

“Not today… I want to play with you.” You were weak to his eyes and couldn't help but concede.

You both now sat at the table, setting up the pieces one by one. As you did so, you removed one of the knights, replacing it with the old elephant piece you pocketed. It was still cracked, you never had the time to fix it.

“Oh? You still have that?”

You nod. “Yeah, I like the elephants more.”

Jamil smiled. “I think it suits you.” He admired your side of the board and the broken elephant before leaning back and crossing his arms confidently. He then gestures to you. “White goes first.”

***

Today, Jamil went out to play with Kalim again. You watched the two from the higher floors of the mansion where you swept. The duo sneaked off into the market, using all of the shortcuts you taught them. A smile graces your features and you look down, sweeping again. You glanced up again to watch them 

…

..

.

The broom in your hands clattered to the ground as you dashed through the hall. Your heart pounded in your chest. Adrenaline pumped into your veins. Your feet hit the ground harshly as you covered the distance in no time.

“Jamil?! Jamil are you out there?!” Running through the alley you jumped and ducked and slid under any obstacle in your path. You navigated the alleyways with precision, having memorized every path.

You then saw it. The shadowy stalker from before. They slunk into some shady building, a van of some kind backing into the side of it. There was no license plate and the windows were tinted a deep black. The camouflaging magic around the van gave you an idea.

You concentrated your magic hard, then vanished into thin air. The spell worked. Swallowing thickly, you took your steps carefully as you navigated the building. A familiar shriek reawakens the panic in your veins and you follow it.

“Let us go! Let us go please!” It was Jamil's voice, raspy and desperate between sobs. You slid to the door with a running start, crouching beside it. Looking in you saw Kalim was tied up and sobbing against the duct tape that covered more than half his face. He was wailing and kicking in the chair he was in as the man screamed at him to shut up.

Jamil was dangling off the floor. The man held him by the shirt and shook him slightly as he did everything he could to struggle against him. The Viper managed to lean down and bite the man, making the bastard yelp and throw him against the wall. Jamil let out a cry of pain and shook, looking up at his kidnappers.

“Tch… Intel says that this brat ain't important…” The man says to another lady across the room who merely watched with a cruel gaze.

“Then get rid of him.” The woman sneered with a dismissive wave of her hand. The man then yanked Jamil up by his hair, retrieving a knife from his pocket. The knife was then pressed against the boy's throat and left a shallow cut as it dragged across his neck. Jamil sobbed, magic on his fingers fizzling due to fear. The man was taunting him.

You remember the next moments in brief flashes. The magic from your fingertips was the most concentrated you had ever casted. The smell of blood. Yelling at Jamil and Kalim to run. Cloaking them in an invisibility spell. Their looks of horror. A fierce struggle. 

***

You awoke to the sounds of sirens as you bring the knife in your hands down on a ribcage that is no longer breathing. Your hands are warm, soaked in a deep maroon. The knife clattered on the floor next to you. Your breathing was ragged as reality settles in.

A heavy hand on your shoulder shakes you. None of the words the officer spoke registered in your head as you were pulled into the back of a car. Your eyes are glazed over and dilated.

You were now in a room that was empty aside for the chair you sat on and the table between you and the officer. Your voice was shaky as you looked up at the interrogator. “Are they ok?”

“Yes, they are. You aren't in trouble kid. Tell us what happened.”

You did as you were told. Obedience bred into your veins. No you didn't know the kidnappers. Yes you followed. No you don't remember fighting back.

“I'm sure it was very scary, kid.” You nod. There's tears in your eyes despite the numbness. “Do you feel bad about it?”

“No.”

***

The head of the house himself, Kalim's father, commended your bravery. He held your hand in both of his and thanked you for saving his son. You truly were a Viper at heart and just as deadly. Your family must be proud. 

“A feast will be held in your honor tonight. I will see you there.”

You just nodded.

…

..

.

Chatter and uncomfortable questions of all kinds assaulted you at the dinner table. You shyly nibbled on your baklava as Kalim bounced next to you. He thanked you for saving him and sang your praises out for everyone to hear. 

You hear the people around you making up their own stories on how it happened. Part of you cringes. Was this just a funny story to them?

You look at Jamil who slithered off. Anxiety plastered on his features. You followed.

“Jamil? What's wrong?”

“Nothing I just…” Your brother turned to you. “I'm still processing it all. I've never seen you that angry before.” He looked you in the eyes and warily crossed his arms. “It was scary. You…” 

‘Killed them’ went unsaid but the implication filled the hallway. You frown and take a step forward. Jamil steps back. “I want to be alone right now.” 

“Okay.”

You walk back to the party. The loudness simmered down. You pick at your food. You weren't hungry

…

..

.

“Yuu.” A voice snaps you out of it. You look to see him. The head of the house. He has only spoken to you a handful of times. Twice in one day is an honor anyone would die for.

“Come take a walk with me.” The man turned and stepped down the hallway. The servant in you obeys.

“You have shown great strength over the years.” The man rubs his beard as he speaks, deep in his thoughts. “I have never seen a youth with such physical prowess.” His words were punctuated with each click of his heels.

His words were true. Apprehending burglars and distinguishing assassins was part of your job as a Viper. Your self-defense training was one of your strongest suits. You have chased people without a sweat. Your magic has paralyzed animals that would manage to break into the house. 

And you have just now killed two people.

The authority figure in front of you stops at a window. You look out with him. “I want to offer you a job. Something different than a servant.” You looked up with widened eyes. You have always been a servant, it's what you always would be. He wants to change it? You can be something other than this?

“That brother of yours is a wonderful retainer for my boy. You have taught him well.” You beam at him for a moment, then frown, understanding the implication. Jamil would still be a servant to his master...

“But you?” The man starts, “you have protected us well in other ways. That talent can be put to good use.”

He now looked at you, expectant look in his eyes.. “I have a job for you.”

***

You are Yuu Viper. The eldest child of the Viper family. It was a title to hold with pride. That is what you have been told. 

You were now an elite servant of the Asim family. One that watched from the shadows. An Assassin, born to protect and serve. You were obedient to your master.

How could you say no to such an offer? It was the ultimate honor. To serve this family with your life. It is what you have been told.

You got what you wanted. To be a very high ranking butler. One that could command the other servants. Why did you ever consider anything different?

Though you did have another motive. A plan. If you eliminate every threat, attend to every need, clean every hall, cook every meal— this family will have no need for this many servants. No need for 10 poison testers. No need for 20 bodyguards for each person. No need for artisans to be chained.

You could free your siblings. Swear you will serve them better than they ever could. Swear they can be free for their loyalty. Even if they weren't, maybe you could pay for their freedom with blood. Prove that you would go to any length.

You could fold laundry. Bathe them. Dress them. Feed them. Entertain them. Kill for them. Protect them. Serve them. Die for them.

This is the reason you are fighting so hard. Why you are working yourself to the bone. This is the reason you will excel in your training. The reason why you will learn the curve of every blade. The reason your list of skills is becoming endless. The reason your magic has been focused on stealth and utility. Your unique magic was indicative of your bloody path.

You are the strongest this family has ever seen and you will be the strongest the world has seen. No one would dare mess with this family when they have you in their arsenal. And this family will no doubt listen to your requests. Value them.

Najma and Jamil don't know. They will never know. You swear it. You will give up your freedom so they have theirs. You meant it.

With each mission you complete you are one step closer to achieving your goal.

***

“My liege. A word?” You stood with perfect posture behind the head of the house. Your missions have been most successful. The favor you have garnered with your master was immense.

“What is it, Yuu?” Ruby eyes look into yours from where he sat at his desk. Papers in his hand detailed your most recent report.

“I would like to make a request.”

The man's eyes widened, intrigued smile on his face. “In all these years you have never requested time off.” The man then chuckled. “Very well then, how long?”

You shake your head. “I'm not requesting time off sir.”

“Oh?” He tilts his head with intrigue. “I should have figured as much. Well then, what is your request?”

“My brother Jamil Viper will be selected by Night Raven College. This I know.” You nod to him. “I want to request that he takes time off to pursue higher education, this way he can be a better asset to your family. I will take up all of his duties in his absence.”

The man tapped a pen on the desk as he listened. “Of course.”

***

You aren't the same anymore. Caring smile and warm eyes now jaded and cold. Soft hands now rough and calloused. Calming voice now curt and sharp. Your affections and conversations dwindled into non-existence.

Resentment grew in Jamil's heart. Sadness budded in Najmas. They both miss you. You are gone in recent years and only the memories remain. Even when you are home, there is nothing left but the ghost they once knew. 

They don't have an older sibling to bail them out of the trouble. No one to get advice from. No one to cover their shifts. No one to cry into. No one to spend time with when the other is busy. No more freshly baked sweets just for them. No more gifts. No one to cheer them on. No one to believe in them. 

They miss their older sibling. They miss your lessons. Your magic shows. Your encouragement. Your affections. Your laughter.  The way your arms held them. It was gone. They don't recognize you anymore.

Your eyes have gotten so dull there is no light in the world that could brighten them. You're stiffer. Quieter. Blunt and unfeeling. Tired. Stories you once conjured, a stark contrast from your minimal words.

You never took breaks. You'll scout. You'll scan. You'll shadow. You observe. The closest either of them has gotten to spending time with you was when you'd shadow them or help with a chore just to dismiss yourself right after.

You were always on the job and they began to wonder if the person you were before even existed.

You aren't Yuu. You haven't been Yuu for a long time. They are mourning a person that is still alive and they don't know what to do. They just want you back. They want Yuu back.

As far as Jamil is concerned, the bond between you two is broken.

***

Najma walks up to you one day as you look out the window. You scanned the perimeter, watching over the children playing in the garden. She put her hands on her hips as she approached.

“Hey you! Still moping around?” She tries to laugh at her own joke but it's shaky. “Watching over the place again? Don't you ever get bored?” You shake your head and she frowns.

“Did you pass by my room last night? I could have sworn I felt the angst resonating off of you. Heh heh…” Tears started welling up in her eyes as she fiddled with the old necklace you have given to her years ago. “It's funny cause I'll look up and you're not there anymore, you know?”

She sniffles and wipes away tears with her sleeve, mouth wobbling. “I remember when we were kids and you'd always be there to tell me a story, you know? And now… now…”

The girl froze as she felt firm arms wrap around her. Najma was stunned, looking up at your stony face as you held her. Yet it wasn't the same. It wasn't warm and soothing, rather frigid and detached. An automated response. But that's fine she will take it for now. 

“See? I knew you were in there somewhere…”

***

Jamil was at a loss. How does he cope? His sibling and support system, gone in an instant that fateful night.

He wasn't dumb. He has gotten wise over the years with the nature of your work. He was observant. You taught him that. It also wasn't exactly a tight lipped secret either. The Asims have had secret agents for years.

He can't fully blame you for the person you have become. He cannot imagine all you have seen. But resentment and hatred he had sowed years ago is finally budding.

If it wasn't for this job, for this damn family, if it wasn't for his master— He would have an older sibling. If Kalim didn't need to be coddled every waking moment of his life then there would have been no need for so many people to be at his beck and call.

It was their fault. His fault. That is how he justified it. They took away his freedom, his dreams, his life. And now you. Kalim took you away from him.

He hoped at some point the ice in your veins would melt. It didn't. It froze over and sees it in every facet of you. You were frozen solid. Why else would you be so stiff?

He now looked over a letter in his hand, pristine and elegant. One Najma delivered to him.

Is this…?

Jamil swallowed, heart pounding in his chest as he opened it. He has been selected for the black carriage to attend one of the most prestigious magical academies in Twisted Wonderland.

His hands shook. One of the biggest honors he could have and he won't be able to accept it. He has to stay here. How will he be able to convince everyone that he should go? 

If you were here right now, there's no doubt you would have said something like ‘see? now you can really shine!’ Or something to that effect. And he would laugh and smile and call you corny but cherish your words.

You're not though.

A knock on the door made him jump. Jamil swallowed bitterly and held the letter to the side, opening the door. It was probably Kalim again with another request.

Instead he saw Yuu. Jamil blinked, then looked up at them. “A message. For you.”

Jamil looked at the note in your hand and his brow furrowed. He tentatively took it and opened it, examining the note. 

… Huh…?

He was already approved to attend? To get out of here? He has a chance to be in the spotlight?

“I got approval.. for you.” Your voice is quiet. You did this for him? After all these years you're still looking out for him? Even when you're like this?

Jamil looked up at you again. “Thank you. “ His voice was curt, bitterness on his tongue. 

“I told you you'd make it some day. And I promised I would support you.” Frustration dares to bubble in his heart.

“I didn't know you still remembered.” Jamil tries to play it off, but he cannot deny the sadness within him. “Of course I do. I'm always looking out for you.”

There's a pause in the air. “I'm sorry…” a strained murmur escapes you. “I know I haven't been around as much but…” There's a sadness in his eyes he hasn't seen in a long time. “I still want you to be happy.” 

There was so much bubbling under Jamil's skin. “Then why weren't you here when I needed you?” His voice cracked. Yuu's concern struck a rusted chord in him. For a moment he was 11 and talking to his older sibling again as they held him.

“I did what I had to do. It's my job.” Jamil's face fell.

“You… you…” he clenched his fist, invitation in his hand crinkling. “That's all you care about isn't it?! Your mission! Your servitude! Your loyalty has no limits huh? You'd kill yourself if you were told you to!” Jamil began to laugh in the middle of his outburst, chest heaving and tears falling as he continued. “I… I don't even recognize you anymore! I’ve been having to do this all on my own!”

He was sobbing, there's so much he wants to yell at you for but there's a part of him that loves you so much he can’t. “I know that I can't expect you to be the same after that day. And your job…” Jamil pauses to catch his breath, his fingers gently tracing the nearly faded scar on his neck from that day.

“But I just… Wish you were here…” Jamil looked down at the floor, defeated. Tears running down his face. Kalim. If it wasn't for him. He took them away from him.

“Jamil.” His head snapped up and he looked at Yuu, then at their outstretched hand. The elephant piece rested in your palm. The ivory white was yellowed from its age, the cracks that once covered it, filled and repaired by some sort of gold clay. 

“Do you remember this?” Jamil sniffed and nodded. “Yeah… We'd play with it all the time as kids. You always had it on your side.” They nodded.

“... It reminds me of you…” Yuu turned Jamil's arm and placed it into his hand, making sure to close his fist around it. “Everytime I went out on a mission, I kept this on me to remind me who I was doing it for. You and Najma.”

Jamil examined the piece in his hand then looked up at your brooding expression. “I thought that if I accepted this position, if I did all of this... That you would both get more freedoms. That maybe, no other Viper would be needed except for me.”

Yuu swallowed, their eyes welling with tears. “But I was wrong. I see that now. This is who I became.” Yuu looks down at themself. Unaware to Jamil were the ugly scars that covered them. Painful and deep. A reminder for their eyes only of their place. Their clothing hid it well, but they could still feel them.

“I at least managed to convince the Asims to let you attend Night Raven College.”

Jamil froze, looking up at the chess piece then to Yuu. His heart pounded. What? That's what you meant earlier? You did this? For him? His mind swirled with emotions, he's happy, he’s angry, he’s sad, but most of all there's a warmth that grows in his chest.

“I cannot be saved. I already sealed my fate. It doesn't have to be the same for you and Najma. You go out there. Study hard. Enjoy your freedom. I'll keep looking for a way for you to escape, both of you…” Their voice sounded almost desperate, like these words would be the last they ever speak. “I'll look after her while you're away, so don't worry.” 

Yuu looked down. “I know his isn't enough. I'm sor—” Jamil wrapped his arms around them before they could finish. “You… idiot! You…” Jamil wiped his tears on their shirt, basking in their warmth for the first time in a long time.

It's unknown just how much time has passed when Jamil stops crying and pulls away, face flushed and eyes puffy. Yuus face is still solid, but he could see hints of the warm, charismatic person he once knew. The two stared at each other, before Jamil looked at the piece again.

“I have a board here… want to play?” His voice was hoarse amidst the silence that ensued. A nod from Yuu and they were now setting up the board.

This was far from mending their relationship. There were still plenty of unresolved issues and sore spots between the two. He was still mourning the Yuu he knew and Yuu was still trying to recover who they once were. But this was a start.

“Here.” Jamil tried to hand Yuu the elephant just for them to push it away. “No, not this time.” Yuu says as they rotate the board so the white side faces him. There was a missing knight right where Yuu would usually put it.

Jamil places it down on the board, admiring it as he overlooked the pieces. The elephant stood out amongst them all—A diamond in the rough Yuu would say. Yuu then spoke.

“This time, you go first"

[attapullman]

Silver Screen, Make Me Scream | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: The world is used to seeing Robert Floyd as a Navy admiral on a screen thirty feet tall. You're used to seeing him as the man who spoils you rotten, in and out of the bedroom.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY, older boyfriend AU, movie star AU, daddy k!nk, unprotected pinv, older bf Bob eats it from behind, cowgirl position, age gap, no y/n

A Note from Mo: Uh...this is porn without plot disguised as a filthy, flirty AU and I am waving from the bars of horny jail. Fellow old man fuckers, this one is for you.

It’s his cold pillow that wakes you. 

No deep breaths or soft snores echoing around the vaulted ceiling. The absurdly expensive bedding all yours to take. Your late night should keep you asleep until noon, but it feels wrong to be in bed when you don’t have your lover’s solid warmth against your skin.

You pad down the terracotta-tiled hall and take in the views of the Pacific, the only artwork needed on this side of the house. Stormy blue and glass-riddled sandy white, the picturesque view sells itself. The waves crash on the beach below, their mellow sound seeping into the Mediterranean revival from the open patio doors. 

He’s sitting outside in just his sweatpants, coffee in hand, as he watches the water while flicking through a thick stack of pages. The grey at his temples is bright under the early San Diego sun. You know he’s reading something important because he has those horn-rimmed glasses on, the ones he repeatedly complains are too tight around his ears. Won’t even waste a minute to go grab his preferred wire frames. 

Robert Floyd may be retired from show business, but he’s hotter than the first day he graced screens.

Eyes lifting from the pages, he catches you staring from your spot by the French doors, negligee skimming your body in the soft ocean breeze. The lids of your eyes are still a little heavy with sleep.

“You need something, baby?” He pats his broad thigh and you assume your perch, snuggling against his sun-warmed skin as you shake your head. How is he always the perfect temperature? The chill from the ocean wafts over you as he wraps his arm around your waist.

Your lips part in a contented smile. “Just checking in on you, Daddy. Missed you in bed.”

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, brushing his lips against your temple. His thick pointer taps against the stack of pages that arrived by messenger at sunrise. “Agent asked me to give this a look over, see if I’d be interested.”

You tilt your head to see the title. “Is that-”

“Yes, baby girl. They’re asking me to come back. Just a few scenes with the new regime, but get to wear that admirals uniform one more time.” Despite him saying it so matter of factly, you can detect his giddiness at wearing those pins once again. “Not sure if it’s the right move though.”

You trail your finger along his pectoral, imagining the ironed uniform underneath your touch. 

Robert Floyd had made a career of Naval action films, starting out as a fresh faced Weapons Systems Officer in his debut, to gracing the screen one last time as an Admiral in the franchise’s original conclusion. He’d won over hearts with his steely blue gaze and soft smile, never one for breaking the rules. Yet always the one who celebrated the hardest when his squadron completed a mission.

For military propaganda, he made a compelling poster boy.

Your entire childhood he had been on posters in the mall, trailers on the television during commercial breaks. Those bright sapphire eyes and gleaming pins burnt into your vision, uncontrollably charmed by the strong, silent type. 

And now here he was, putty under your palms as you asked if he wanted more coffee.

Without a doubt he’d take the appearance, spend a day or two on set with the next generation of Naval action stars. The next year he’d appear on every talk show and repeat his modesty over his fifteen minutes on camera. Your Bobby would balk at the attention, but glow with pride as the host played his cameo for the audience. 

Watching him flip through a few pages, you could already see the shy smile he would win the crowd over as he insisted the revival’s cast members were the real stars.

“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” You were so lost in your daydream that you missed his attention turning to you, warm palm running over your hip under your thin robe. 

You stroke his jaw, fingers curling into the regulation-cut greying hair. The cut he’s kept since he was first cast in his early twenties. “You should take the role. You look handsome as an admiral.” You peck a light kiss to his lips. “Dashing, really.”

His blush is striking against the ocean sky. As you get up to go make you both breakfast, you can feel his eyes on you; an extra sway in your hips for his enjoyment. Bob lounges back on the outdoor set and looks between the breaking waves and the now slightly rumpled script. 

He’s coming back.

The view of the ocean as you zip up I-5 is breathtaking, a gorgeous Southern California day. The early call time was less than ideal, but the energy in the car is electric. Bob’s hand wanders into the passenger seat to wrap around your bare knee, thumb tapping out an unknown rhythm as he navigates traffic. 

He looks the vision of wealth and importance sitting in the front seat of his pewter grey Porsche 911 - a sleek upgrade for his 40th from the battered truck he’d been driving since he arrived in Hollywood. The car is understated in its elegance, like its owner. You admire his graceful lines of a life well lived, the pokes of silver woven through his hair. And yet his eyes carry that intelligent, sassy energy that keeps you on your toes, ready for the next challenge he brings you. 

“You’re looking at me.” His eyes don’t leave the road, but the smile on the corner of his thin lips is playful.

You fiddle with his fingers, admiring the large dexterous digits. “Just so handsome, how can I not?”

Bob lifts your hand with his, allowing the platinum and diamonds of your bracelet to catch the morning sun - nearly blinding with their sparkle. He brings your interlocked fingers to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the skin as he finally looks at you. His eyes are the same striking blue as the ocean behind him. 

“Perfect girl, what did I do to deserve you?”

You’re wondering the same when he enters the studio lot, passing through security and finding your way to the set. There’s a bustle of commotion as the two of you join the crowd, everyone immediately hushing their voices as the talent arrives. Bob’s chest swells with power as everyone immediately caters to him before noticing you.

“That must be his assistant?” Rumors spread through the crew like wildfire, watching you prance behind film legend Robert Floyd like an excitable puppy. Eyebrows shooting up when he turns back and rests a hand on the back of your bare thigh, leaning close to ask if you want anything from craft. 

You slide your diamond-covered wrist around his neck and peck his cheek. Definitely not an assistant.

Since the day he’d made his name on marquees, Bob had been surrounded by women. A tall man in Navy blues with the golden touch of Hollywood? His fellow cast joked more than once that tag chasers didn’t care whether you served the country or just did it on screen. Eventually he’d done the responsible thing and tried marriage, settling down with a woman who cared more about his flashy lifestyle than the quiet man behind the lights. Divorce was swift and the introvert reverted inside his shell, his film career quiet as the next generation of aviators took the screen. 

And then you entered his life, with your open face and bright smile. A coffee shop in Coronado he frequented that you happened to pass. A bump of elbows over the creamer, his amused grin when you accidentally grabbed his drink in your fluster. You were so excited to meet a real movie star, a dream come true. And he looked so much bigger than his character - those shoulders brawnier, that jaw sharper. Yet the smile he gave you was heart-melting as you handed him your own coffee cup to sign, nothing else available.

It wasn’t until that afternoon you noticed he’d written his number in neat penmanship. You had to wait until that next night to know you were falling inexplicably in love with a man who the rest of the world already adored. He was bigger than life, your everything.

And for all of your affection, he spoiled you. Dates to restaurants you couldn’t pronounce in Liberty Station, private events with tickets you couldn’t afford. Every week a new trinket left at your bedside, sparkling in the low light while he hummed in the bathroom excited for you to notice. Few things brought him joy at this stage in life, but you traipsing in with nothing on but the latest diamanté left him positively enraptured.

People could stare and point and judge all they wanted. It was love, and it was all yours.

You’ve raided the mini bar and read through the call sheet when Bob finally comes back to his trailer. He strikes a bold figure in his Navy blacks - pins gleaming, white cap under his arm. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, swooping to kiss your cheek. But your breath is already stolen. You’d seen pictures, caught his movies at the old matinee in Balboa Park. But standing in front of you is the sexiest man you’ve ever seen. He looks so…official.

Bob was already feeling good in the wardrobe trailer, the crew he’d worked with for years stroking his ego as they put the final touches to his starched uniform. He’d be on screen for a total of eight minutes and he was going to look important every single second. 

But with your eyes trained on him, pupils wide and mesmerized, it’s the only compliment he needs. 

“They look good on you again,” you coo, tracing your fingertips over the sterling silver insignia pins. It’s hard to quell the rising heat as you look at him, standing tall in this uniform - his uniform - just like the posters and movie trailers of your youth. 

He rubs his temples and grabs his wire frames from the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he straightens up. “Feels good to wear them, baby. Not sure who I am if not in the ‘Navy’.” He chuckles around air quotes, morphing into a moan as you run your nails down his torso. 

Even though he’s not in character, the suit transforms him. 

He’s not your Bob, the man who walks around his big ol’ house in band shirts he got in the 80s and his worn shearling slippers. Squinting through his glasses while trying to read fine print for instruction manuals for more Lego sets than he needs, peppering your head with kisses as you sit between his knees. Your Bobby is always goofy and smiling when you come through the door, eager to wrap his arms around you as he patiently listens to all the friend updates from brunch. He’s warmth and safety, that side of middle age where you have to explain internet fads with a playful eye roll.

But this man…this man in front of you is stern and mighty, seizing the room with his intensity. He’s commanding in his own silent way, back straight and shoulders taught. No nonsense, just like the admiral he plays for screens around the world. His presence is intoxicating. You can’t decide if you want to dominate him or be putty in his hands. 

You twist in his arms, pressing your chest to his as you smooth the lapels of his suit. It’s only natural that those big, practiced hands of his immediately slip to your legs. Two magnets drawn by the promise of touch. But once he’s inches from your pretty face, ready to ask you to help him read over lines, that gleam in your eyes has other plans.

His girl wants him.

“Babygirl, I’m in wardrobe.” His words say no, but the fervent way he’s stroking the skin under your hem says differently. He’s not immune to a tiny dress and puppy eyes. You watch his hand reach up to drag through greying roots before he remembers it’s styled, redirecting his frustration by slipping rough fingers around the nape of your neck. Holding your head still while he fights his sense of responsibility.

It doesn’t matter that you’re in a tin can trailer with no sound proofing. You lick your glossy lips and give him the most innocent smile. “Please? We can be super careful.”

He eyes you warily. The two of you together is messy.

“Please, Daddy?” You rub yourself against him, feeling the way he shivers underneath his stiff uniform. “I wanna know what it’s like to fuck an admiral. Please?”

He’s powerless against you when you’re like this. Needy and heavy-lidded, unsatisfied until you’ve had your fair share of him and then some. It’s only when you’re a panting mess full of his spend that he can regain any control against you.  The age gap is exhilarating and exhausting.

His face dips to rest against your temple, the floral scent of your perfume clouding his senses. So sweet, so soft. You feel his groan against your cheek before he straightens up to his full height, towering over you with a stern expression on his face. Those elegant, practiced fingers tuck under your chin.

“Attention.” Your spine straightens, your breath deepens. “Let’s see if you’re up to regulation, lieutenant.”

A warm gush of excitement floods your body, soaking in your flimsy excuse for underwear. You watch your big, broad, authoritative boyfriend sink down into the plush trailer sofa, knees spread. Patting his thigh with an unamused brow quirk. 

Exhilaration races through your veins as you eagerly straddle his lap, sundress sliding up your thighs as you perch prettily on his thighs. The vision of youthful glow, hoping to impress.

Bob traces your heated skin with callused fingers, lips pursed, before sliding a hand firmly up your back. The world spins as he flips you over his lap, your rounded ass exposed to his eyes, modesty barely covered by a scrap of lace.

“Uniform panty inspection,” Bob huffs out, fingers ghosting over the fabric. His voice is restrained, clipped. You stay as still as possible as you hold your breath. You want to pass this inspection so bad.

The firm touch of his ring finger to your clothed sex forces a moan to slip through your clamped lips. So close to giving you what you want. But he remains diligent, stroking your pussy through the fabric until he’s satisfied with the wet patch he created. “Perfectly up to code.”

His finger wraps around the strap of the thong and yanks it down, forcing you to further immodestly part your knees as he discards the sexy - yet unnecessary - piece of fabric.

Your mind is heavy with lust as you turn your head, trying to understand. Normally he’s between your thighs teasing the fabric for longer than you can handle. Your lips are still dry. But before your eyes and brain connect with the visual, film legend Robert Floyd has a rounded cheek in each hand and his tongue plunged deep in your pretty pink pussy.

Blunt nails dig into the soft skin of your ass as he re-acquaints himself with your taste. Sliding his thick muscle along the velveteen walls of your cunt, lapping up the addicting taste of your lust. Your head is empty as he forces you to take it, to enjoy the way he worships the very core of your being. 

Saliva and arousal mix on his clean shaven face as he presses deeper, moaning as he feels you clench around him. His own pride growing as you wail with only his tongue fucking you. It’s wet and dirty, the heat along your skin eating you alive as you succumb to your pleasure. 

These are the benefits of dating a man with experience.

His tongue retreats, laving over your folds with practiced precision. You bury your head in the rough sofa fabric, muffling the depraved sounds crossing your lips. Your fingers reach up and wrap around his thick wrist, needing a tether to reality. His free hand travels to his belt, loosening the leather and freeing his erection to the humid trailer.

He knows you and your tells. Dragging that wicked tongue back, he corners your little neglected clit. Sucks it into his mouth like an after dinner mint, savoring the tangy sweetness of you. Your hips thrust back at him, desperate for more as you begin your hedonistic descent. 

Time and space lose all meaning as Bob goes in for the kill, switching between the heavy pulls on your clit and the slippery licks along your core. Blowing cool air where you’re most sensitive before sweeping in with his burning tongue. The combination of his stiff muscle fucked into your depths and his thumb bumping your swollen clit finally send you over the edge, a white light overtaking your body as you scream into the plush cushion below.

Film legend Robert Floyd cleans your juices from your shaking thighs thoroughly.

Begrudgingly, your limbs are jelly as you bring yourself to his level. Bob’s hands continue their ministrations to the globes of your ass, squeezing and groping the soft skin. When you finally find yourself sitting upright, his thick cock nestled between the soft lips of your cunt, he gives into his desires and draws his hand up, only to bring it down with a slap! The sound rings through the room and his cheeks tinge pink with arousal and embarrassment.

“Admiral!” you giggle as he repeats the harsh slap on the other cheek. 

While you have the devastatingly sexy view of a sweaty admiral beneath you, his eyes are glued to the mirror across the trailer that captures the dark red handprint he wishes he could tattoo on your perfect ass. 

Lips descend upon his and the trailer is filled with the slick sounds of tongues and moans, four hands grasping with the need to touch. But where to touch? His burning skin? The cool pins of his jacket? It’s almost too easy a choice to wrap your fingers around the bulbous head of his cock while he swallows your desperate little tongue.

“That’s it, feel how hard Daddy is for you.”

He finally pulls himself from your kiss-bitten lips as his hands tug down the neckline of your filmy dress, exposing your heaving breasts to the room. Lips dipping down to wrap around your hardened nipple, leaving teeth marks and wet kisses on tender flesh. Your moans egging him on to bite deeper, suck harder.

The world knows the reserved man who waits to speak, level-headed in the most dire situations. And yet here he is, the remnants of your orgasm staining his chin as he closes his eyes to better enjoy the peaked bud he’s devouring. 

He’s delicious and all yours.

Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck, grasping the short strands with all your might as you pull him off your chest with an audible pop. Those impossibly blue eyes look at you reverently, letting you call the shots so he can continue to enjoy your body as it deserves. You drag your shared gaze to where your bodies meet and a grunt involuntarily leaves him. Finally.

The first touch is a puzzle piece falling into place. The thick head of him asking for entrance, slick with your desire. 

Those unbelievably large hands hold themselves delicately at your waist, assisting your descent. His eyes flicker between yours and the welcoming entrance of your cunt. Your commanding admiral - your sweet Bobby - grasps you securely as you try to sink further on his swollen cock.

“Daddy, it’s too big.” Your voice is pained, teary eyes struggling to hold his gaze just as he likes. His size splitting you open like his own personal cock sleeve.

“You can take it, baby, just breathe.” His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as your impossibly tight cunt squeezes around him. “There’s my good girl, gonna fit all of Daddy, aren’t you?”

Hesitantly lifting your hips, muscle memory takes over as you adjust. The ease of taking his thick cock coming back to you as your breasts bounce with your fervent movement. The lapel of his jacket wrinkles as you hold it, lip between your teeth as he grazes that spongy spot only he can reach.

He guides you in your pursuit of pleasure, admiring the way you thrust you chest out as you clench around him. One hand on his lapel, the other grasping his knee. Truly using his body to get yourself off. So unbelievably sexy.

Your admiral’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing persistent slow circles over the sensitive, swollen bud. Times a hard press with when you are completely full of him, your senses overwhelmed. Bob. Bob. Bob. His balls ache with the need to claim you as his.

Impatient, knowing call time is mere moments away, Bob lifts his hips to yours. Pumping his erection deep, all the way to the hilt as his balls brush your ass. He’s so deep, so perfectly deep. A guttural moan leaves your spit-slicked lips, begging for your orgasm. 

“Are you going to cum for your admiral?” His deep voice rings through your ears as you chase your high, the world clouding as only his cock becomes your reality. Your fingers card through his hair, silver and golden brown weaving together to keep you grounded in your pleasure. “I said, are you going to cum for your admiral?”

“Yes!” The next lot over could probably hear you shout to the heavens, plunging yourself down on Bob’s thick cock as your orgasm plunges you over the cliff. Sweet relief flooding your senses as your pussy pulses around him as a thank you.

Your lips find his neck as you nuzzle in, hips still sunk low on his throbbing erection. You need to be filled with Daddy’s cum.

The stiff fabric of his uniform jacket rubs your bare skin as he holds you close, pressing your nipples to his insignia pins as he strongly thrusts those last few times. Grunting into your cooing mouth as he finally lets go, cock pulsing as thick white jets of his cum coat your walls. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper in his ear when you carefully pull off, barely enough energy to keep your thighs closed for the sake of his uniform. He gently guides you onto your back, ever the gentleman. 

You stretch your sore limbs and relax into the plushness of his trailer sofa, hands wrapping behind your head as you smile, satiated, while Bob’s creamy cum runs past your thighs to pool on the fabric. Your graying lover gives you a wry smile as he regains his breath against the back the couch, uniform crumpled and bearing a stain a little too close to his zipper. 

Always so messy. But so worth it.

There’s a rap at the door, three quick knocks that shake you both from your orgasmic haze. Bob rushes to cover your modesty, fiddling with the hems of your dress with clumsy fingers. Wishing you were home so he could wrap you in his robe and run a bath before watching the ocean from the terrace instead of praying there’s wipes in this shoddy trailer. 

“Mr. Floyd? We’re ready for you,” comes through the door. The PA who whispered you were an assistant, now only steps away from your bare breasts and dirty thighs.

You wiggle your eyebrows at Bob as you fix your own appearance, amused as the bigger than life Robert Floyd shuffles around the room, tucking in his button up and wiping sweat from his collar. Blush in full force as he hands you the thong resting on the kitchenette. He shakes his head at you, mirth softening the edges of his hard gaze. There’s another knock at the door.

Uniform fully back in place, Bob takes a moment to admire you before an afternoon in front of cameras. Enjoying this last moment before he gets into character. Hands on your soft hips, sated cerulean eyes appreciating the curves of your mischievous lips. “Be a good girl for me today and Daddy will give you a reward later. Deal?”

You bite your lip and nod with a smirk, opening the door of the trailer so he’s not later than he already is. Today you get to watch him do the thing he loves, that in itself is already a reward. The crowd outside the trailer watches you turn back and leave one last kiss to his lips.

“Yes…Admiral.”

Bob can’t wait to surprise you with the South Sea pearl and diamond earrings he’s saved for this day. It’s his baby girl’s first day on set, only the best to commemorate the occasion.

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[lxvvie]

Couples Shit with Simon Riley, Missus Princess Daddy edition:

Little Bean Riley (Simon calls her "Beanie" or "Bean" because she looked like a bean when she would scrunch up while sleeping as a baby) is a daddy's girl through and through, the apple of Simon's eye. It's his family's world, mate. He's just living happily in it. He also swears she would look at him like he was the most interesting science experiment and the most traitorous subject ever when she was a baby. Mm. He doesn't know where she got that from. ("You sure about that, Si?")

After you would feed her, she wouldn't be content just sitting in her baby chair. Simon would hold her with one arm and eat and drink with the other. Cue Queen Bean staring at him or, er, his food and drink and grabbing at it. "No, Beanie," Simon would gently say and there goes that stare again. How dare you say no to your Queen Bean, peasant father.

It's a pain in the ass that he has to shave a lot but it is what it is. Queen Bean does not approve, however, because while she loves to touch his scars and crooked nose, she really likes his stubble. For some odd reason. Cue the look of disappointment. Your baby girl turns to you for your support in this betrayal. "I know, sweetheart. I think the same thing," you say and Simon wonders where you two went wrong because you're supposed to be a TEAM lmao.

Queen Bean getting older and while she doesn't know what Simon truly does, the little girl is smart. She knows enough to know that Daddy should not be getting all the boo-boos he's getting when he comes home and she lets him know. "Bad, Daddy. Bad!" You nod in approval. Bloody hell, he's outmatched in his own home. "Sorry, Beanie," Simon says, but Her Majesty shan't be appeased that way. A trip to her and Simon's favorite bakery would suffice. She promises not to tell you about it.

Her Majesty has seen her destiny and come into her role. Thank you, Disney. Bean knows what she must do. She knows what Daddy must do. When Queen Bean can no longer protect the denizens of... Rileyland, Daddy must step up, and so, in pure Disney and Queen Bean flair, she crowns him... Princess Daddy of Rileyland. You tried your damndest not to laugh in Simon's face. Honestly. Truly. Not really. The name has stuck and now Simon is Princess Daddy around the house and he wonders how his eyeballs haven't managed to fall out what with the way he rolls his eyes so much. Just like there can only be one Missus, there can only be one Princess Daddy. It is him, Simon Riley, First of His Name, Missus Princess Daddy. He wears his titles with pride.

Princess Daddy must comport himself with the utmost poise befitting his status. The pinky finger must be out when drinking one's cuppa. He must wave to his subjects (Queen Bean's toys) with regality—bloody hell, he doesn't wave—and SWEAR JAR, Princess Daddy of Rileyland! He must also be available for cuddles, movie time, and daddy-daughter dates to the toy store and bakery. Always, Beanie. Always.

Simon has also become Beanie's personal mobile throne and jungle gym. A Queen's feet should never touch the ground after all. It's the way her eyes light up when she sits atop his shoulders and sees the world around her. The world that can (and will) one day be hers. It's the joy she radiates and it makes Simon's heart swell. And this is why he takes his duty as Missus Princess Daddy, Protector of Rileyland so seriously...

...Well, until he had to undergo a makeover. Because you and Bean watched the Princess Diaries. And because you really love doing self-care. Bloody hell. Have you ever seen a 6'4" mountain of a man, with scars and stubble aplenty, wearing a Hello Kitty face mask and some glittery nail polish on his fingers? Well, Simon supposes there's a first time for anything. His skin's never felt better, though, and he's yet to take the nail polish off. Mm. "Makes the wedding band stand out, yeah?" he asks you, and it actually does. Queen Beanie has impeccable taste as always.

And when your baby girl gets sick, Princess Daddy never leaves his daughter's side. Like hell he ever would. He must protect Rileyland after all. He's there to tuck her in, give her medicine, and soothe her pain as best he can. He risks the back pain, huge frame wrapped protectively around Queen Beanie as they nap in her bed. It's the cutest thing. You drape another blanket over them both before busying yourself with your own devices. You and Beanie couldn't ask for a better Protector.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

I APOLOGIZE IF ITS A LITTLE TOO MUCH, JUST A LITTLE TOO SOON

kirishima x reader

thoughts on how kirishima acts in a relationship

inspired by so american

eijiro kirishima, who texts you goodmorning and goodnight religiously. you're the first person he wants to talk to in the morning and the last person he wants to hear from before he drifts off. his face turns almost as red as his hair and eyes whenever his phone lights up with a buzz, seeing that you've replied to him. he saves your contact with a <3 right next to your name. your photo is a picture he snapped of you wearing one of his tank tops, sitting loosely on you. normally his sculptured biceps fill out the fabric to the brim, but he prefers the way you wear it. he wants to stare at you every time he picks up the phone in the morning to text you.

eijiro kirishima, who lets you help him dye his hair after the third time you insist on it. he feels a slight hint of embarrassment, thinking its un-manly to need help with a simple task, but after the first couple of rounds he insists on you doing it. he loves the way your fingers weave delicately through his hair, touching up his roots and treating him like he’s a glass sculpture. and afterwards while he waits for it to set he’ll help you with menial tasks in return- like finishing your algebra (not that he’s any better, but he means well) or making you a quick dinner. he’s an expert when it comes to self-care, and knows that working out and eating well isn’t healthy if its not accompanied by nourishing your happiness. he knows what candy’s to bring to pick up for you while he’s purchasing his dye, what movies to play in the background while he’s letting his hair soak, and exactly how to hug you when it’s all done.

eijiro kirishima, who becomes a sucker for sappy love songs once you get him introduced to it. at first, he hums along to your playlist in the car. then he’s following the artists you like on instagram and keeping up with their recent music. then it’s actively going out of his way to listen to them because each line about love and longing is about you. he makes a playlist titled [y/n] <3 and its all the songs that have made you come up in his head. little do his gym friends know that he’s streaming the tortured poets department while he’s lifting weights DOWN BAD CRYING AT THE GYM ANYONE

eijiro kirishima, who absolutely loves anything you create. muffins, bread, brownies- you’ve suddenly tested his willpower when it comes to his rigid diet. but he can’t help himself- everything tastes better when he knows you’ve put the time and effort into it. with so many eyes watching the young hero, he often forgets to properly feed himself- which is when you come in, always reminding him to eat. when he’s not looking, you’ll slip an extra treat or two in his bag, and come home greeted with a hug and kiss of gratitude for keeping his tummy full.

eijiro kirishima, who comes to you seeking refuge from his insecurities. he has quirk envy badly, sometimes just staring at the heroes he sees around him and wonders how he could ever live up to them. he feels as though he pails in comparison, not knowing how to articulate his worries into words. sometimes he’ll simply hug you, resting his chiseled chin on your shoulder while a huff escapes his lips. he doesn’t need to say anything because you know him. you know how he gets in his head. so you kiss his temples and remind him that he is exactly how he should be. that he’s enough. enough to be strong. enough to be a great hero. enough to be the red riot you love so much. he’s enough for you. and thats what plants are smile on his face as he leans in to kiss you. it’s enough for him too.

eijiro kirishima, who loves showing you off at the gym. mostly to his friends, who comment on how he seemingly never shuts up about you- but a part of him finds pride in the jealous stares others give him. he almost wants to give them a look of ‘i know, right?’ while they admire your beauty, the way you look when sweat ripples down your skin and your cheeks are flushed pink. but he feels sorry for them. sorry that they can’t have you they he’s got you. his eyes sparkle when he sees you pushing yourself, feeling inspired that he now has someone to be so proud of. he’s always proud of you.

eijiro kirishima, who worries he’ll mess it up with you. that it’s all too good to be true- that theres no way he got so lucky so young. he worries you’ll grow bored, tired, or sick of him. he worries you aren’t as in love with him as he is with you. because eijiro kirishima is so, so in love with you. he knows this is love because he sees more than just a high-school fling, he sees the future. he sees someone he will always run to with open arms. and when you kiss him back, arms wrapped around him in a tender embrace, he gets the feeling that you’re so in love with him, too.

[jenscx]

DAYDREAMIN’ — kim minjeong x f!reader

being forced to marry someone was lunacy, or at least minjeong thought so. how could a mere stranger be her lifelong partner? it was simply impossible (well, not until you came along).

TAGS — fluff, pinch of angst, arranged marriage!au, ceo!minjeong, cold!minjeong, strangers to lovers, making out at the end, silly!yn

WORDCOUNT — 3.8k

you rub your hands gingerly around the ceramic mug filled with warm tea. your footsteps resound against the cold hardwood floors, the sound dampened by the fluffy dog slippers you were wearing. finally reaching the door at the end of the hallway, you take a deep breath and peer into the room through the crack left open.

“winter?” you whisper, scared to alert the girl working tirelessly at her desk. the woman perks up, an eyebrow raised as she shoots daggers at your cowering figure.

“yes?” her voice remains steely, cold.

the mug in your hands feels cooler than before.

“i made you some tea, it’s chamomile,” you say, nervously taking small steps closer to her. minjeong stands up from her desk, eyebrows furrowed and an annoyed look remains on her face.

she reaches out a hand to take the mug, her face scrunching as she feels the warmth of the mug.

“thank you,” minjeong replies quietly, taking her seat at the desk again. nodding, you turn around to leave. as your fingers swirl around the door knob, you hear minjeong’s aloof voice, “knock the next time you come in.”

your head swerves around.

“yes, winter.”

at the corner of your eye, you spot minjeong’s satisfied smile as she sips on the tea happily. an unfamiliar feeling blooms in your chest. it’s almost akin to pride. due to minjeong’s usual unfriendly and aloof nature, making her smile was abnormal. all you could do was savour the moment and go on with your day.

meanwhile, minjeong leans back in her office chair, taking in small gulps of the tea as her free hand works busily on the keyboard. she scrolls down, eyes catching the stray title of an email.

‘re: invitation to dinner.’

her eyes narrow warily. clicking on the email, minjeong reads the rough synopsis. after doing so, her hand inches towards her phone, dialling her father’s number hastily. for a few moments, the phone continues ringing. minjeong almost gives up until he finally picks up.

“good evening, it is quite late, minjeong.”

minjeong rolls her eyes. “i know but i wanted to tell you this in person. i do not want to attend that dinner.”

her father makes a noise of indignation.

“it is an obligation. you cannot reject this.”

“i can and i will, father. you have made me marry into a loveless marriage and you still want more?” minjeong questions incredulously, “i am afraid i do not have more to give. on sunday i will have a business meeting to attend instead. i am not available.”

the man on the phone sighs, “it does not matter. you have agreed to the principles of the situation. the union between our families have helped your company tremendously, have they not?”

minjeong scowls, but she does not deny that the marriage has helped her company flourish, “it was barely an agreement, more of a forceful acknowledgement.”

“then acknowledge this once more,” her father’s voice becomes more and more stern, “she is your wife. not a maid, not a random person who has barged into your life.” minjeong disagrees. you were quite literally a random person who barged into your life.

“does she not treat you well? do you not have the basic courtesy to show your own gratitude? or are you going to remain as cold as people make you out to be?” her father hits a soft spot. if there was one thing winter hated, it would be people judging her based on her looks. she admits, she does look rather unwelcoming at times. but treating her own wife as such, wasn’t that proof of her unfriendliness?

you hadn’t treated her badly, but she can sense the fear in your eyes whenever you interact with her, scared that somehow she’ll treat you like a stranger. it feels nice that even with your fear, you still try your best to make the most out of this situation. minjeong should do the same. it’s only basic courtesy, as her father said.

“i am sure that the girl we have chosen for you will make a good wife. this will not be a loveless marriage if you open your eyes.”

“fine,” minjeong says through gritted teeth, “i’ll see you on sunday.”

“of course you will. good night, minjeong.”

“good night, father.”

you could say it was the best sleep you’ve ever had. finally relieved the burden of annoying winter, you went to bed content and calm. stretching out your arms, you gaze at the clock hung on the wall. it was barely eight and minjeong was still awake at one when you visited her. maybe you could make breakfast for her before she wakes up.

huffing with determination, you get out of bed and ready yourself. after taking a shower, you head down the stairs, eyes squinting at the figure in the living room.

“good morning,” minjeong says quietly. she’s sitting on the couch, watching the news. you’re stunned at the sudden appearance of her. you didn’t expect that she would be awake at this time.

“good morning,” you finally respond, conscious of the way your cheeks burned. minjeong paid you no mind like always. walking towards the kitchen, your eyes widen at the food spread out on the kitchen island. you hear footsteps approaching behind you.

her voice reaches your ears gently, “thank you for the tea last night. i made you breakfast as a thank you.”

“ah…” you can’t stop yourself from smiling, “thank you.” even though you can spot some edges of the toast being burnt, you felt gratitude simmering at minjeong’s kind action.

taking a bite of the toast, you resist the urge to grimace at the smoky taste. minjeong looked genuinely concerned for her cooking skills. you reassure her by putting up a thumbs up. the tips of her lips twitch ever so slightly but you consider it a win.

as you’re devouring your breakfast, minjeong clears her throat. you turn to her, cheeks stuffed with bread.

“are you available on sunday?” she asks, “my father has arranged a dinner with our families.”

you try to recall if you had anything going on.

“yeah, i think i’m free.”

minjeong nods.

“what restaurant are we going to?” you ask.

your wife shrugs, “probably a random restaurant in a hotel. my father likes those.”

“don’t you have a meeting on that day though?”

minjeong’s eyes nearly protrude out of her head. “how do you know that?”

you laugh, “i saw your business calendar. it’s with sung hanbin’s company right?”

“yes,” minjeong notes your expectant look and adds on, “we’re discussing a potential partnership. he has a branch in china and we were considering expanding there.”

your genuine interest catches her off guard, “oh yeah! zhanghao! we have mutual friends.” minjeong hums. maybe your mutual friendship could help her company.

“interesting.”

you finish up your last piece of toast, letting out a pleased sigh. minjeong chuckles but the moment is disrupted by a notification ringing from her phone.

as she’s reading, her eyebrows furrow again. you withstand from smoothening them out.

“what’s up?”

minjeong groans, “stupid aeri wants me to go get dog food for her pets. cooper and lily are apparently protesting against the new kibble she bought for them.”

your eyes light up.

“do you want to go get it together? i wanna visit cooper and lily too,” you hastily inject, scared that minjeong would sense your excitement on spending one-on-one time with her.

“sure, whatever. i can’t believe she’s too lazy to get it herself.”

you giggle, “gigi’s probably just hanging out with somi or ning.”

minjeong bites the inside of her cheek hearing you call her friends using nicknames. it makes her stomach twist uncomfortably. you only knew aeri and yizhuo after meeting them at the engagement party, one that minjeong was unaware of. she had arrived home after a long day at work and right smack in the living room was a three-tier cake with balloons surrounding it. her friends had sprayed her with confetti and startled by the noise, you had rushed down from your room, thinking someone had broken in with the way minjeong was yelling.

it would have been funny if minjeong wasn’t the victim of a near heart attack. but after that, you had so easily started conversing with her friends, blending into their group seamlessly. maybe she was jealous of the way you managed to befriend people so easily while it took her a long time to open up to somebody. or maybe she was jealous that you were talking to them instead of her with that pretty smile of yours—

“right,” she mutters. unaware of minjeong’s inner turmoil, you beam brightly at her, “let’s go now if you’re ready?”

“yes, i’m ready. let’s head out now.” minjeong should rid herself of these weird thoughts.

you smile again. minjeong’s heart nearly stops. perhaps she’s going crazy.

“are you driving? or is mr lee driving us?” you ask as you put on your shoes. minjeong twirls the car keys in her hand, showing it off to you.

“you’ve never driven me before, are you sure i’m safe?” you tease. minjeong’s face turns a sheen of light pink, you think it’s adorable.

“i’m an excellent driver,” she states. you nudge her in the ribs as she walks to the garage.

she squirms cutely away from your attacks. you can conclude that your wife is ticklish.

or maybe everything she does is suddenly cute to you.

“how long is it going to take?” you ask while entering the car.

“around ten minutes, not long,” minjeong starts the engine, turning to you with a look of frustration.

next, she does something completely unimaginable.

reaching over your lap, she pulls the seatbelt down, fastening it for you. your cheeks instantly turn a bright red at her close proximity. you can almost feel her warmth, so unlike the coldness she exudes. it makes your heart flutter.

“do you normally not fasten your seatbelt? it’s dangerous,” she states, disapproval written on her face.

“i forgot about it,” you scoff, “but where did you learn how to flirt like that?”

minjeong temporarily pauses, eyes enlarged, “flirt?”

“you made my heart race,” you sigh, “c’mon, reaching over me to help me put on my seatbelt? that’s a k-drama move.”

your wife turns crimson. her icy exterior finally melts away.

“i— that wasn’t on purpose!” she splutters, turning back to focus on driving. if she doesn’t stop reacting so cutely, you might never stop teasing her.

you understand now why jimin had said she liked teasing minjeong for her reaction.

meanwhile, minjeong tries to calm herself down. she wasn’t flirting right? she was just trying to look out for your safety! if something happens, she wouldn’t want to take the blame for it.

maybe her heart did race when she leaned over you, but anyone’s heart would do the same! close proximity of another person always made her nervous.

noting minjeong’s pink cheeks, you decide to give her a break and instead start shuffling the songs in her playlist. humming to them throughout the ride, it makes the drive duration considerably shorter as minutes after, minjeong parks the car.

“we’re here,” she announces. after getting out of the car, you stare at minjeong, wondering when you got so bold with your teasing. normally, you would never dare to do this to her, scared of her reaction. but with the morning’s conversation and her changed personality, you were no longer afraid of her cold and aloof words.

“is this the brand aeri wants?” minjeong asks, pointing to a large bag of kibble seated on the shelf. you try to recall.

“i think so, she mentioned it before.”

minjeong nods. you try to pull it off the shelf, but the sheer size of it makes you tumble. warm, large hands immediately reach out to steady you, holding your body with care that you’ve never felt in your life.

“a-ah…”

your wife retracts her hands, but instead of putting them at her side, she places them on your shoulders, “are you okay?”

unable to say words without your voice shaking, you settle for a nod. minjeong removes her hands and takes the bag from you.

“be careful next time. let me carry the heavy things.”

you only follow her like a puppy. aeri better appreciate the kibble after all the heart attacks you’ve been through. first fastening your seatbelt, then doing this? was minjeong some sort of play girl that knew how to play with people’s feelings?

“—hey,” she flicks your forehead, “are you listening to me?” you stumble back at the impact, wincing from the pain. pouting, you ask, “what were you saying?”

“i was asking you if you knew what to wear on sunday.”

“oh, i haven’t decided yet.” minjeong takes her card out to pay. as you wonder about your outfit, the cashier swiftly bags the kibble and bows, “thank you! and you two make a cute couple.”

your eyes turn as large as saucers. minjeong stops, but sends a timid smile, “thank you.”

she carries the bag in one hand and grabs you with the other, leading you out of the store. if it weren’t for the interaction between minjeong and the cashier, you would applaud your wife’s strength.

“what was that?” you blurt out as you settle into the car.

“hm? are we not a cute couple?”

you can’t deny that.

minjeong laughs, a heavenly sound that you would cherish for the rest of your life.

your wife was a mystery, you admit. maybe you would be the one to solve her.

between the impromptu errand and the sunday dinner, your bond with minjeong had considerably become closer. slowly but surely, she was no longer stiff and reserved but rather… silly. her actions were strange and eccentric but in an endearing way. you couldn’t help but find her cute. with a stronger friendship, you learnt many things about your wife. apparently she was allergic to tomatoes, which is a fact you stored in your memory in case you cooked for her.

she also liked harry styles a lot. you feel rather envious the way her eyes light up and her smile stretches whenever she hears his music. her family is from busan and sometimes when she calls her mother, you hear hints of her busan accent slip out. minjeong had revealed that she slowly weakened her accent when talking to people in seoul, scared they wouldn’t understand her. after you complimented how attractive and sweet it sounded, minjeong started using it more.

you had also moved into minjeong’s room. after falling asleep in her bed countless times watching dramas, minjeong had just moved your clothes in hers. it was comforting having a warm body to cuddle up to. minjeong didn’t seem to mind anyway.

“winter,” you call out, “does this look nice?” another new development. normally, when you two used to go for family dinners and meetings, you would just put on any other dress and call it a day. but now, ever since winter had made an offhand comment about matching clothes, you decided to call for her opinion. minjeong was forced to sit on the bed and wait for you. as you twirl out of the walk-in closet, minjeong gapes.

“that looks,” minjeong gulps, “great.” you turn to her, grinning, “you look good too.” she stands up and fixes stray strands of your hair.

“you smell nice,” you remark, taking in minjeong’s scent. it was all over her. from the crook of her neck to her fingertips.

“it’s jo malone, jimin unnie recommended it to me.”

you perk up, “blackberry and bay, right? she told me to buy it too.”

minjeong scratches her nape, “i was just trying something new today.” you adore her timid and shy personality. behind all that coldness was just a soft and bashful girl.

she leads you to the car, opening it and greeting the chauffeur inside. you adjust the strap of your black dress. minjeong notices and helps you, leaving lingering hot touches on your shoulders.

the warmth of her hands makes blood rush up to your neck. you silently pray minjeong doesn’t notice the redness residing there.

“mrs kim, we have arrived,” the chauffeur says. minjeong opens the car door, assisting you in getting out. you enjoy the feel of her hand in yours.

“woah,” you gasp at the size of the hotel. minjeong groans, “i hope he hasn’t booked a room here for us.”

you smile, cheekily poking her in the ribs, “it would be fun staying here alone.”

“sure,” she snorts as you enter the hotel, beelining to the restaurant. the waitress at the front leads you two into a private room near the back and minjeong internally groans at how her father stares at your intertwined hands.

you take a seat, pulling minjeong to sit down beside you.

“you’ve finally warmed up, haven’t you?” minjeong’s father whispers.

she remains silent, unwilling to admit that somehow, you have managed to gnaw at the walls surrounding her heart, capturing it for yourself to keep. and somehow, it is so unlike her, that she wants you to keep it.

“how has marriage been treating you?” your mother asks.

you answer, “winter is really sweet to me. it’s nice being married.”

“winter?” your wife’s mother repeats. she turns to minjeong, aghast, “you do not let her call you ‘minjeong’?”

your wife, equally alarmed, instantly denies it, “of course not. we just aren’t used to calling each other’s names so casually.”

“but you are married.”

you mentally curse yourself for forgetting about how you still don’t call minjeong by her birth name.

“you mean to say that you aren’t close enough to drop the honorifics?” her father asks. minjeong repeatedly shakes her head.

“we are close, we just haven’t called each other by our names yet.” at this point, minjeong is digging your graves.

“no pet names either? back when your mother and i were first married, we had all sorts of names for each other! like ‘honeyboo’, ‘sweetheart’—”

you interrupt loudly, “okay, dad! we get it!”

minjeong’s hand slithers back into yours, gripping onto it for comfort.

“we’ll sort all these out later, but can we just eat first please? i’m starving.” your parents compose themselves while minjeong’s father glares at her.

your wife lets out a relieved sigh after they stop interrogating you.

“i’m sorry about that,” you mutter to her.

she looks at you, eyes gleaming with something akin to affection from below her long eyelashes, “it’s okay. we should have dropped the formalities long ago.”

“right,” you test it out, “minjeong.”

her eyes crinkle.

minjeong’s father eyes you weirdly.

“so,” he starts out, smirking, “you are finally attached to her?” minjeong groans. you had left to go to the washroom and her father decided to start questioning her.

“i realised that you are right.” no matter how shameful it is to admit, minjeong’s father was right. “i do like her.”

he grins proudly.

“have you told her?”

minjeong shakes her head. it’s ironic, the fact that you are married yet haven’t even confessed your affection to one another. it’s like you’re doing everything backwards.

“that’s fine, i booked a hotel room here specifically since i knew you would admit it,” he hands her the keycard. she nods.

your parents smile softly at minjeong. she feels a rush of affection at the familiar faces.

“thank you for treating our daughter well. she seems happy.”

“of course,” minjeong whispers.

the door swings open, you take your seat beside minjeong. she flashes you a grin, shaking the keycard in hand. you remember what she said about her father booking a room. laughter bubbles out of your throat.

“i think we’re done here for the night,” minjeong’s father says, “thank you for joining us tonight. let’s meet again soon.”

slowly, the group disperses, leaving you with just minjeong at the hotel lobby.

“shall we go up?”

the room is stunning to say the least. at the top of the building, it hosts a wonderful view of the city skyline. it’s even more gorgeous with kim minjeong standing in the centre of it. you didn’t get to tell her before but she looks absolutely jaw-dropping in a lavish, thin-strapped, dress. her brown hair complementing the white dress. it cinched at her waist, highlighting it, tempting you to wrap your arms around it.

“it’s beautiful,” minjeong exclaims, leaning over the balcony railings to gaze at the view. you slowly inch towards her.

“you’re more beautiful.”

even facing away, you catch sight of her rosy cheeks. it’s simply adorable.

“stop teasing me,” she whines.

“what?” you laugh, “i didn’t get to tell you properly but you really are the most gorgeous girl ever. i nearly fainted when i saw you.”

“me too,” she mumbles. you barely hear her. finally giving into the temptation, you sneak your hands around her waist, pulling her body flush into yours.

her soft gasp makes your head dizzy.

“y/n,” she whispers, making goosebumps rise up on your skin. you’re still not used to her calling your name.

“yes, minjeong?”

she spins around, hands grabbing at your shoulders for support. it sends shivers down your spine.

“i think,” she noses at your cheek affectionately, “i could get used to this married thing.”

“yeah?”

she hums.

you reach for her jaw, caressing it softly.

“you’re too cute, mindoongie. ah, i really like you. what should i do, hm?”

minjeong giggles.

“i really like you too.”

“mindoongie, my ice princess,” you sigh, leaning your forehead onto hers, “you’re just a softie after all.”

“only for you, y/nnie.”

you conclude your experiment. minjeong is indeed soft everywhere. her lips, as light as a feather, sends tingles throughout your body. unintentionally, your lips part for minjeong to slowly slip her tongue into your mouth. it feels like it’s meant to be the way your lips mould perfectly into each other. hands grasping for any more warmth minjeong could provide, you only pull her in even closer, savouring her taste.

every nip, every suck, it lights a fire of desire and affection in you. if being married to minjeong meant that you could do this every day, every hour, every second, it would be a dream come true.

eventually, you feel minjeong smile through the kiss and she pulls away, gasping to catch her breath.

“wow,” you say, eyes wide and chest heaving. minjeong’s no better. she guffaws and drops her head onto your shoulder.

“shut up.”

“who knew mindoongie was such a casanova? hey, let’s do that again.”

your wife turns away, cheeks blazing.

“i like you so much, y/n.”

you sigh, relishing in the after effects of minjeong herself. being married wasn’t so bad after all.

“i really like you too, minjeong.”

[pantherxrogers]

hey! could you write a san version of the sugar daddy/boyfriend smut👀

one-shot: sugar daddy!san x fem!reader ⋆。°  ✮   ⁺

⭐️ pairing: sugar daddy!san (+ boxer!san) x fem!reader

⭐️ warnings: smut (18+ only), explicit language, oral (f receiving), dry humping, swearing, gentle dom!san, slightly sub!reader, crybaby!reader (but they're happy tears), incorrect boxing terminology (boxer!san is just sexy lmao i know nothing about boxing), pet names galore, spit as lube, super fluffy too

also...pee after sex!!

⭐️ summary: sugar daddy!san comes home from Europe with a special gift for his spoiled girl. she's a little bit of a crybaby, but he knows how to remedy that. he may be a boxing world champion but he's devoted on making the reader feel like the winner 😼

⭐️ a/n: lmao, i got carried away writing this one because San is my bias. it's definitely longer than Mingi and Yunho, so i'm calling it a one-shot.

i re-watched the bouncy music video recently, so i had the idea to combine sugar daddy!san with Boxer!san. and also non!idol san. it's a trope salad LMAO. enjoy! 🫶🏾 thank you for the request darling! <3

my masterlist (you can find the mingi and yunho versions here!)

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent real events or the actual personalities of any K-pop idols mentioned. All characters and situations are purely imaginary. This story is created for entertainment purposes only, and no harm or disrespect is intended toward the idols or their fans. Enjoy!

"Good job, baby!" You squeal, rushing towards San as soon as he steps into your shared penthouse.

"Thank you, pretty girl," your boyfriend mumbles, weighed down by jet lag, but already feeling lighter in your presence.

"So proud of my undisputed champion! I wish I could've been there," you coo, basking in the feel of him.

"Me too, baby," he confesses, finally content in your arms. It's always nice to win, but nothing beats his greatest treasure. You.

Standing on your tippy toes, you press a firm kiss to his lips. He meets you with a hunger. San traces his tongue along your plump bottom lip, asking for entry. When he delves into your mouth, you can't help the little moan that slips out. The sound makes San's pants feel tighter.

Your heart's beating faster now, and you melt into your boyfriend's warmth. The thin, silky nightie barely covers anything. A warm chill goes down your spine when your nipples brush against San's firm chest. As you lift your leg to drape around his waist, you notice his arms are locked behind his back.

"Ummm…" you trail off, breaking the kiss to ask for an explanation. This is your first moment to really get a good look at him, which doesn't help the wetness gathering in your thong.

He's smirking at you, and he's just so sexy. The chandelier lighting of the foyer reflects from his thin, gold chain. You notice that he's dressed comfortably, likely still wearing whatever he wore on the private jet to get home.

He's wearing his own merch, Choi San (K-Rocky) World Champion printed across the front of the gray hoodie. It makes you beam with pride every time you see it. Trailing your eyes down, you're met with his matching sweatpants and growing bulge. More pride surges in your chest, happy to know he missed you as much as you missed him. As a result, a girlish giggle slips through your lips.

"Something funny, pretty girl?" he chides, playfully raising an eyebrow at you.

"Is there something in your pocket or are you just excited to see me?" you grin, loving the ways his eyes light up at your cheesy joke. He crowds your space again, smiling down at you before he whispers in your ear.

"Well, I'm definitely excited to see my baby, but I also have a little surprise for her," he grumbles, sending warmth to your lower belly. He steps back again, arms still locked behind his back.

You're fighting back a smile, remembering the promise he made before leaving to reclaim his title.

"Close your eyes, sweet girl," he murmurs. You can't see him, but he smirks again, cock stirring in his pants at your obedience.

"Are you ready?" he teases, chuckling softly at the furrow in your brow. He can't ignore how cute you get when you're feeling bratty.

"Sannieeeee, c'mon," you whine, growing more impatient by the second.

He feels like a pervert the way his eyes lock on your full breasts, biting his lip when they sway in tandem with your little tantrum. He thinks about how they'll feel in his mouth when he gets you underneath him.

"Stop staring at my tits and let me have my gift!" you growl, knowing how spoiled you sound but you've lost the ability to care.

"Hey, be a good girl," he commands, the serious tone in his voice putting an abrupt stop to your antics.

" 'm sorry, sir," you whisper breathily, clit throbbing at the way he effortlessly switches into his dominant side.

San heart aches a little bit when he looks at you. He knows you love playing rough, but he doesn't have it in him to torment you any longer.

" 's okay baby, open your eyes for me," he coos. He nearly jumps back at the shriek you let out.

"Ah! I knew it!" you cry out, reaching forward to snatch the Hermes bag out of his hands. Reaching inside, you almost burst into tears when you feel the handbag of your dreams.

"Sannie," you whimper, looking up at him with teary eyes. He's on you before you can continue, wrapping his strong arms around you.

"Don't cry, baby," he begs softly, unable to watch you cry, even if they're happy tears.

"I can't help it," you sniffle, "I'm so grateful for you," the words are muffled against his chest, you find it hard to continue opening the bag.

"I couldn't do any of this without my baby. This is the least I could do," he answers honestly, pulling your soft body away from his to look into your eyes.

"I love you more than anything." You tear up again at the sincerity in his eyes.

"I love you too," you whimper, trying to stop the tears that flow down your cheeks. San's hands come up, brushing away the tears as lightly as possible, so you don't feel his rough callouses.

He holds you for a few more minutes, quieting your tears with affirmations and soft kisses. You stand there in silence for a while, calmed by the steady sound of his heartbeat.

"How do you feel now, baby? he asks softly, tracing his hand down your back. Another smirk rests on his face, when he watches the goosebumps raise up on your skin.

"Think 'm good now," you answer him, remembering the task at hand.

You finally open the bag, admiring the heavy Birkin in your hands. As you pour out a stream of thank you's and I love you's, when San catches you by surprise.

One moment, you're standing in the foyer and the next moment, he's scooped you up and into the living room. He gently places you on the vast leather couch, settling in beside you.

Drawn to his warmth, you cuddle up next to him, loving the way his strong arm cradles your waist. He carefully takes the bag from you, placing it on the marble coffee table. The two of you sit in a comfortable silence before the TV catches his attention.

"Are you watching my highlights, baby?" he teases, knowing full and well that you always tune into ESPN when he's away.

"Don't tease me, Sannie. I missed you," you mumble, nestling further into his side.

San looks down at you, enchanted by the exposed skin that the nightie doesn't quite cover. He brings a rough hand to your thigh, tracing the smooth skin, admiring how it feels in his grip. He can hear your breathing pick up, knowing exactly what effect he has on you.

"Missed you too, pretty girl," he sighs, using one arm to shift you onto his lap. San helps you adjust, finally content when you're straddling him.

"I missed you more," you breathe out, finding it difficult to concentrate.

He's so warm and strong beneath you, his muscular thighs being the perfect pillow. His hands are lower now, softly groping your ass through the lingerie. You can't help but to grind down on him, both of you letting out a content moan.

"Not possible," he murmurs, "But you're welcome to try to prove it," he finishes his sentence with a sharp smack to your ass, triggering another moan from you.

"Shit," you huff out, overwhelmed by the feeling of his body underneath yours.

His cock is fully hard now, protruding through his sweats. Your thong is basically nonexistent, clinging to your wet pussy. That sensation combined with San's lazy grinding make it hard for you to think clearly.

His lips are on your neck now, sucking on the sensitive skin. He loves the way you moan out into his ear, harshly grinding his hard cock against your pussy.

"C'mon baby, you gonna prove it to me?" he teases, warm breath against your ear.

His words finally click in your head, knowing what you want to do. You start to shimmy off his lap, trying to get on your knees, but San's arms lock you in place.

"Wanna show you how grateful I am," you beg, hooded eyes staring back into his own.

His head lulls back onto the cushion, finding it hard to concentrate when you look at him like that. Messy curls, hard nipples poking through your nightie, and your lips swollen from kissing. You look fucked out and he's barely getting started.

"Then let me taste you, baby. That's all I really want," he groans, quickly switching your position. Your head spins for a moment, barely registering how you changed places so fast.

You're on your back, San's rough hands pinning your thighs to your chest. The leather couch is cool beneath your skin, helping you think a little more clearly. Raising up on your elbows, you look down at him, eyes almost rolling back at the image.

He's bent over in front of you, gray hoodie long forgotten. He's wearing a white tank, muscles on display for you. As you admire him, his smooth lips trail along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Always the tease, he softly kisses your clit through your thong, your hips bucking in response.

"S-Sannie, please," you moan out, trying to push up against his mouth. He pulls back, smirking up at you, loving the neediness in your voice.

"Tell me what you want, pretty girl," he murmurs, faintly tracing his fingertips up and down your plush thighs. He looks at you expectantly.

"Want your mouth," you whine, hating when he does this. It makes you feel shy, but maybe that's why your heart flutters a little bit. Even if you'd never admit it to him.

"Want me to lick your pretty pussy?" he coos before lowering his head, pressing another kiss to your bundle of nerves.

"Mmmm, yes" you moan, eyes rolling back at the light pressure.

"Such a good girl. What my baby wants, my baby gets," he growls, peeling the soaked fabric away from your pussy.

"Fuck," he groans, eyes locked on the trail of wetness still clinging to your thong. He can't help dipping his tongue in it, eager to have a taste. You yelp, surprised by the sudden contact.

"Y-yes, Sannie, feels so good," you pant, unable to focus on anything but the intense pleasure from San's tongue.

He alternates between sucking on your clit and bringing up a finger to rub figures eights. Your hips buck up, doing anything to maximize your pleasure.

"You like that, baby? Like how it feels against your little clit?" The look of pure ecstasy on your face gives him his answer.

He latches back onto your pussy, using his thick tongue to delve between your sopping folds. Your high-pitched moans spur him on, sliding his tongue into your tight hole.

The lewd noises of your boyfriend tongue fucking you is too much for you to bear, your pussy starts to clench around the wet muscle, teetering on the edge of your orgasm.

"F-fuck, yes sir," you huff, spreading your legs even wider, "Gonna cum soon."

He hums against you, the vibrations adding to your pleasure. He's back on your clit again, flicking the nub with the tip of his tongue. When you thrash against the couch, San tightens his grip on your thighs, trapping you into place.

"You can come for me, sweet girl. It's okay," he soothes you, switching back to rubbing fast circles against your clit.

Your hips have lost their rhythm now, aimlessly bucking into the pleasure of San's thumb. He lowers his head again, lewdly spitting on your pussy.

"C'mon on my tongue, baby. That's it," he hums, gravelly voice going directly to your clit.

"Ahhh, fuck," you whine out, feeling his tongue enter your hole again. The pleasure is too much. His rough thumb against your clit and tongue stretching out your pussy push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, San coaxing you through it.

He sits back on his heels, taking in your body. He keeps circling your clit, letting you ride out your high and come back down to him.

When you've calmed down, you see your boyfriend hovering over you. That kind smile is on his face now, stretching all the way up to his eyes. You swear you can feel your heart expanding in your chest.

"Hi, my pretty girl."

"Hi Sannie," you whisper shyly, cheeks burning at the way he admires you.

"C'mere," he snuggles you back into his lap, adjusting your nightie and smoothing down your curls. You giggle at the wet kisses he's pressing to your cheeks, loving the way he cares for you.

"Missed my baby so much," he accentuates his words with a tight squeeze, making your heart do the same. You let out a soft missed you too, feeling sleepy in his arms.

Cradling your body, you feel him rise from the couch. He turns off the TV, but alarm bells ring in the back of your head.

"Sannie."

"Hm?"

"Can you take my Birkin to my wardrobe please?" you mumble. San tries his best to hold in his laugh, so he doesn't disturb you. Not even a mind-shattering orgasm could make you forget about your Birkin.

"Of course, baby," Is the last thing you here before your eyes close for the night.

[jeonstellate]

my future in your eyes

mingyu still holds onto you, even after all this time.

๑彡 kim mingyu x gender neutral!reader

๑彡 divorced!au/ex-husband!au, post-break up!au, exes-to-lovers!au — fluff

๑彡 paragraph format — 1.1K words

masterlist

[gif’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

๑彡 title is taken from zack tabudlo’s as you are.

๑彡 i’m lowk proud of this ngl bc— it’s fluff, but it took me relatively quick to finish?? usually i get stuck for weeks if the wip’s fluff ><

Kim Mingyu is a man of confidence.

Not that he uses his confidence to swindle strangers, as the dictionary suggests the title means. Rather, he exudes confidence — regardless of what he does.

There is always an air confidence around him. He can be in clothes that don’t fit the event’s theme and he’ll still seem perfectly dressed. He can be barely conversant in another language and he’ll still sound like he knows what he’s saying. He can just be standing there, doing nothing, and he’ll still appear like he’s doing something right.

Some people mistake his confidence for arrogance. Most find it admirable. But, in truth, Mingyu hardly cares.

Especially if his so-called confidence vanishes whenever you are in the vicinity and within his line of sight. Just like now.

He sees you in a table with Seokmin. Your back is towards him but he recognizes you, anyway. Despite the distance, he has no problem witnessing how animatedly you talk with your common friend.

It’s almost like he is back in college: you and Seokmin in one row, him and Minghao a few rows back. He can almost hear Minghao state matter-of-factly, "You’re staring," like he often does back then.

Really, all that’s different is Minghao’s currently preoccupied being the groom to comment on his staring. (There are definitely more things that are different now, but he doesn’t want to even begin thinking about them.)

Seokmin catches his stare. Not soon after, specifically before Mingyu can even look away, he sees him leave the table. Seokmin throws him a familiar meaningful look before disappearing into the dance floor.

Truth be told, Mingyu’s confidence comes naturally. It isn’t something that he purposely channels. It’s just always there . . . unless you are involved. Then, suddenly, he has to painstakingly gather the confidence to be near you.

"Is this seat taken?" He tries his hardest to mask his awestruck look with one of kind politeness as he waits your response.

He almost forgot how to breathe when your eyes lock into his. "You may sit if you wish," you offer him a small, polite smile. "I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon."

"Thanks." He effortlessly returns your gesture before situating himself on the chair your common friend abandoned. "How are you enjoying the party?"

"Really well, actually. I didn’t expect to recognize a lot of people from college." Your eyes don’t leave his as you answer. He tries not to stare back too intently, to look within your eyes to see something . . . anything. "And you?"

Mingyu waits for a beat, gathering enough confidence to say what he wants to. "Better now that you’re here." With me.

He lets out a barely audible embarrassed laugh. He has half a mind to take it back, but quickly changes his mind when he sees you biting your lower lip — an obvious attempt to stop yourself from laughing.

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. There’s pride in knowing he’s still able to make you laugh, despite it being your first meeting in literal years.

You look down in a presumable attempt to calm yourself down. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you, though, as he refuses to lose you from his sight. As such, he immediately notices the sudden shift in your expression.

"You’re still wearing it." Mingyu follows your line of sight — and ends up looking at the source of your comment. His hand on the table, specifically the band of gold adorning his ring finger. "Our ring."

Our wedding ring.

You and Mingyu married soon after graduating from college. It had been a blissful marriage, one that filled a home with nothing but love and support.

Your divorce was on the basis of irreconcilable differences. It was a mutual decision, for the interest of your career paths diverging too far. There was never a bad blood.

"Ye— yeah." Mingyu stutters involuntarily. He clears his throat before continuing, "It’s a great conversational piece."

Although the divorce has been finalized years ago, Mingyu still plays the faithful and loving husband role in front of strangers. He uses the ring on his finger to his advantage: may that be to wordlessly signal that he’s already taken or to gain the favor of a potential sponsor.

Likewise, even if he knows the ring might be a disadvantage, he refuses to take it off — nor to purposely hide it from sight. The same way he never tells a stranger that he is no longer tied to someone else.

"Does it work?" You ask in wonder.

"We are conversing now, aren’t we?"

You chuckle, "Touché."

Mingyu wants to tell you that he hasn’t taken the ring off since you slipped it on his finger during your wedding. Not even after your divorce has been finalized all those years ago.

He wants to tell you his ring finger is thinner near his palm because of his adamant refusal to take his wedding ring off once in a while. Not willing to separate from the only physical reminder of your marriage, not even for a second.

He wants to tell you the ring is more than a conversational piece. He wants to tell you it’s his lifeline, something he can’t bear to lose. But he doesn’t.

Instead, Mingyu uses all the confidence he has gathered to ask you a simple question. "Dance with me?"

He offers you the hand adorned by his wedding ring. He tries not to show the uncertainty he feels by masking it behind a smile.

He almost lets out a relieved sigh when you place your hand on top of his. But he stops breathing momentarily when he catches sight of the sole jewelry adorning your hand.

"You’re still wearing it," Mingyu echoes your comment breathlessly. "Our ring."

He snaps his eyes back to your face, just in time to witness your smile widen. "Yeah," you say. "It’s a great talisman to ward off potential suitors."

He leads you to the dance floor, silently marveling at how your hand still fits perfectly with his. "Does it work?"

"It’s very effective," you assure him. "Although I don’t think it works well against ex-husbands."

Another slow song starts playing right when you reach the dance floor. You and Mingyu unconsciously claim your respective hand placements during your first dance — and for any waltz you danced after.

Then, suddenly, it’s like you traveled back in time.

Mingyu pulls you closer, a ghost of a smirk is at the edge of his lips. "I think it works well attracting ex-husbands."

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Running to You

Word count: 725

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: In the midst of a bustling paddock, Y/n, Lando’s biggest supporter, cheers him on with boundless pride, proving that to her, he’s already a champion—no matter the results.

______________________________________________________________

When Lando’s lap time solidified on the board, Y/n’s heart practically exploded with pride. She didn’t care that this was just qualifying — every single session felt monumental because she saw the effort he put in every day. With a laugh that was half a cry, she sprinted toward him, pushing through the paddock crowd until she was within arm’s reach.

“Lando!” she shouted, her voice trembling with excitement. He turned at the sound, and his face softened immediately as he saw her coming, a grin spreading across his face. Y/n didn’t slow down; she flung herself into his arms, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as he caught her effortlessly, pulling her close with a warm laugh.

“Oh my God, Lando, you were amazing!” she cried, her voice full of tears as she clung to him. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he cradled her against him. “Hey, it’s just quali, love,” he murmured softly, but his eyes shone with happiness.

“To me, it’s everything,” she replied, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. Her hands gently cupped his face, and she spoke so only he could hear. “You’re my champion, Lando. Every single lap, every single session, you give your all, and it’s incredible. I don’t need a title to know how amazing you are.”

He gazed at her, speechless for a moment, his eyes glistening with the emotion he didn’t often let himself show. “You make all of this worth it, you know,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Having you here… it’s like having my own little victory every day.”

Y/n’s eyes filled with happy tears, and she was about to reply when she heard a familiar voice call out, breaking into their little bubble.

“Oi, Lando, is your girlfriend crying for you or for your time?” George Russell teased, grinning from a few feet away, arms crossed as he watched them. Around him, a few other drivers had started to gather, each one of them wearing that familiar, playful grin that made Y/n roll her eyes.

She turned, standing a bit taller as she faced them, holding tightly onto Lando’s hand. “Oh, please,” she called out, waving them off. “As if any of you could pull off a lap like that!”

Pierre Gasly chuckled, feigning hurt as he nudged George. “Hey, I put in a pretty decent lap myself!”

“Sure, Pierre, but where’s your biggest fan?” Y/n teased right back, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve got someone who’d sprint across the paddock to scream for you?”

The drivers all laughed, exchanging looks with each other, but Y/n could tell they knew they’d lost this one. Yuki Tsunoda raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. We get it. Lando’s got a personal cheerleader, and the rest of us just have to live with that.”

Y/n grinned, crossing her arms as she leaned into Lando, who was laughing, his face red with both pride and embarrassment. “Exactly,” she replied with a smirk. “And I’ll be cheering louder than any of you guys can handle, so get used to it.”

Carlos Sainz gave a playful shrug, laughing. “Guess we know who’s winning the fan section today.”

As the drivers moved on, still chuckling and throwing each other good-natured teasing glances, Y/n turned back to Lando, feeling the world around them melt away again. She looked up at him, her hands moving to rest on his chest as she took a breath, her smile softening. “They can tease all they want,” she murmured. “But no one will ever understand how proud I am of you.”

He placed his hand over hers, his gaze tender as he looked down at her. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how I got so lucky,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “I just know that having you here… it makes me feel like I’ve already won.”

Y/n felt her cheeks heat up, and she bit her lip to keep her emotions in check. “Well, get used to it,” she replied softly, brushing a hand across his cheek. “I’m always going to be here, cheering for you. In every race, every qualifying, every single lap… you’re my champion, Lando.”

“Good,” he whispered, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

[misspygmypie]

Best Uncle Competition

Part of the "Meet & Greet... and more?" Universe Pairing: Lando Norris x Noah (plus Oscar, Carlos and the two Max's) Words: 1434 Request: Yes by the lovely @littlegrapejuice : I'd love a one shot where lando takes noah karting with other drivers (of your choice) and they all compete to be the best uncle (like letting him win or bribing him with merch). But in the end, noah just cares about his dad lando being the best and the other drivers are just disappointed that no matter how much they show off, they don't/can't compare. Just smth fluffy to show lando and noah's bond bc i just love them sm 🫶 Masterlist

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

The karting track was buzzing with excitement. Lando was thrilled to spend the day with his seven-year-old son, Noah, and had planned a special outing. To make it even more memorable he had invited some of his closest friends: Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Max Fewtrell and Max Verstappen. Little did Noah and Lando know, this wasn't just a friendly karting session - it was a competition to win the title of “Best Uncle”.

Noah’s eyes lit up at the sight of all his favorite drivers, each in their racing gear and ready for action. He bounced with excitement when he saw his dad and the racing stars.

“Dad, this is amazing,” Noah exclaimed, his eyes wide with joy.

“I’m glad you’re excited, buddy,” Lando said, grinning. “Let’s see how everyone does today.”

While they were getting ready Noah’s attention was almost entirely fixed on his dad. To the seven-year-old Lando wasn’t just another racer in the line-up - he was a superhero, an idol and his personal racing champion all rolled into one.

From the moment they arrived Noah’s eyes sparkled every time he looked at Lando. He tried to hide his excitement by pretending to be cool but his wide grin betrayed his bubbling enthusiasm. When Lando adjusted his kart Noah mimicked him with exaggerated seriousness, pretending to check imaginary tire pressure, just like his dad.

Oscar, known for his laid-back demeanor, was the first to make his move. He handed Noah a small bag of McLaren merchandise - a shirt, stickers and an orange cap with the team’s logo. “Hey, Noah, how about you wear this today? It’ll make you look like a real racer,” Oscar said with a smile, his own cap slightly askew.

Noah was thrilled and put on the cap immediately. “Wow, thanks, Oscar,” he said, adjusting the cap with a serious look, as if preparing for a big race. He wore it with an added sense of pride, as if it somehow made him part of the racing team Lando was part of.

Carlos, always competitive but with a warm heart, decided to take a different approach. He gifted him a brand new remote controlled race car. “Here you go, champ. This is the newest model out there. I saw it in the store and immediately had to get it for you.”

Noah beamed, feeling happy with his new toy. “Thanks, Carlos!” he said, admiring the car and already got excited about testing it out later at home. When Carlos showed off his own karting skills, Noah watched but his attention often drifted away from the other drivers to watch Lando, who was adjusting his kart and chatting with the other drivers.

Max Fewtrell, the strategist, took a calculated approach. He decided to let Noah win a few races to boost his confidence. During the first race, Max took a leisurely pace, letting Noah zoom ahead while giving him enthusiastic cheers. “Just remember to keep your eyes on the track and not on me. You’ve got this,” Max cheered, pretending to struggle with his kart’s steering.

The boy, thrilled by his apparent racing powers, waved back at Max as he zipped past. However, his gaze frequently flicked towards his dad, who was cheering the loudest from the sidelines, making Noah feel like a true star.

Max Verstappen, known for his fiery competitive spirit, had a similar but different strategy. He challenged Noah to a friendly race but rather than showcasing his superior skills he took it easy. Max’s plan was to make it look like Noah had a real chance at beating him, making Noah’s victories feel genuine.

“Ready to race, champ?” Max asked with a mischievous grin. He then pretended to have trouble with his kart, driving so slowly that even a snail might have beaten him.

Noah, realizing he had the chance to beat him, shot across the finish line with a triumphant cheer. “I beat Max Verstappen!” he exclaimed, practically glowing with pride. Throughout the race his eyes kept darting towards his dad, whose proud expression seemed to be the ultimate reward for Noah.

As the day progressed, each driver tried to outdo the other in their quest for the Best Uncle title. Oscar gave Noah some candy and chocolate he had brought, Max Fewtrell brought out a bag of energy drinks (non-caffeinated, of course) and Carlos shared some top-secret racing tricks.

The drivers were so engrossed in their mission to win Noah’s favor that they started devising ever more elaborate schemes. Oscar organized a surprise mini-trophy ceremony where Noah was awarded a medal for “Most Improved Racer.” Carlos attempted to perform a dramatic, slow-motion race finish complete with exaggerated victory poses trying to make the boy laugh while Max Verstappen started a playful trash-talking session, jokingly challenging Noah to a rematch in the next race.

Despite all their efforts Noah remained blissfully unaware of the competition happening among the drivers. He was having the time of his life and each driver’s attempts to impress him were met with genuine excitement and delight. However, Noah’s focus was always on his dad. Every time Lando spoke Noah’s eyes lit up, his attention shifting entirely to him, even as the other drivers attempted to engage him in conversations or give him more cool stuff.

At the end of the day the drivers gathered around Noah for a final group photo, each one trying to position themselves close to Noah, hoping to be remembered as the “Best Uncle”.

Lando, ever the proud father, stood beside his son with a beaming smile.

“Alright, everyone,” Lando announced, “let’s get a great shot to wrap up the day!”

Noah, now comfortably surrounded by his racing heroes, looked up with wide eyes, completely engrossed in the moment. The drivers lined up, each trying to position themselves strategically to be as close to Noah as possible. Oscar casually draped an arm around Noah’s shoulders, while Carlos tried to subtly nudge closer, his arm around Noah’s waist.

Max Fewtrell carefully maneuvered himself to ensure he was directly behind Noah, hoping to be prominently visible in the photo. Meanwhile, Max Verstappen, with his competitive edge, found himself in a playful tug-of-war with Oscar over who would stand on Noah’s left side.

As they all posed, Max Verstappen couldn’t resist one last playful gesture. He gave Noah a thumbs-up while leaning in close, trying to make the gesture look as enthusiastic as possible. “Give us your biggest smile, champ,” he said, adding a wink for good measure.

Noah, however, seemed largely unfazed by the antics. His gaze was firmly fixed on his dad who was standing proudly beside him. The little boy’s attention was entirely devoted to Lando, his dad’s beaming smile and affectionate presence overshadowing all the playful efforts of the drivers.

The karting track employee, who had the job of taking the photo, prompted everyone to “Say cheese!”. The moment the photo was taken Noah’s smile was the brightest it had been all day but his focus remained on Lando who had wrapped a comforting arm around his shoulders. The picture captured a perfect moment: Noah in his tiny racing gear, surrounded by some of the best drivers in the world, yet his eyes were solely on his father.

After the photo was taken Max Fewtrell was the one who crouched down to Noah, asking the question everyone was so eager to get the answer to.

“Well, Noah,” Max said, playfully nudging the cap on the boy’s head, “do you have a favorite uncle? Who is the best?”

Noah thought for a moment, looking around at the smiling faces of his racing heroes. He then turned to his dad with a wide smile and said, “Dad, you’re the best!”

The drivers laughed, though there was a hint of good-natured disappointment. Despite their best efforts and playful strategies it was clear that no matter how much fun they had or how many tricks they pulled, Noah’s heart belonged to his dad. They had aimed to win the title of “Best Uncle”, but in the end it all was overshadowed by Lando’s presence and Noah’s love for his dad that made the boy the happiest.

As they packed up both Max’s, Oscar and Carlos exchanged friendly banter about who might get another chance to be the “Best Uncle”. The karting day had been a fun adventure but the true victory lay in the joy and love shared between a father and his son. The group photo, with Noah’s adoring gaze fixed on his dad, would forever be a treasured memory of a day full of fun and laughter - and banter.

________

AN: This was such a cute request!! I hope you like it and if not let me know and I can rewrite 😊🫶

Taglist: @eloriis @pacifierbby @landossainz @littlegrapejuice @barcelonaloverf1life @poppyflower-22 @itsjustfranzi @vickykazuya

[pucksandpower]

Grid Kids: First Times

Sebastian Vettel x wife!Reader x platonic!drivers

Summary: they know you’re their mom … you know they’re your kids … but these are the first times you all say so out loud

Series Masterlist

Max Verstappen: Champion of the World

The roar of the engines has faded, the race has ended, and the stands are filled with jubilant cheers. Among the sea of fans waving flags, the color of the Orange Army is predominant. Max Verstappen has just clinched his first World Championship.

As confetti rains down, Max climbs atop his car, soaking in the euphoria. His face displays a myriad of emotions: triumph … relief … elation. During the celebratory chaos, he searches for a familiar face, and as his eyes find yours, a calm settles over him.

As you approach, he jumps down and without a moment’s hesitation pulls you into a tight embrace. Over the din, he murmurs something almost inaudible.

“Thanks, Mom.”

You pull back, a bit taken aback. The weight of the single word isn’t lost on either of you. Max, ever the tough racer, has tears glistening in his eyes.

He clears his throat, trying to mask the emotion, “I mean, after everything, you’ve been like a second mom to me. I couldn’t have done it without your support.”

Sebastian joins the moment, a proud smile on his face. “Welcome to the champions’ club,” he jokes but the underlying pride in his voice is unmistakable.

You wipe away a tear, “I’ve always believed in you, Max. And no matter what, you’ll always be one of my grid kids.”

Charles Leclerc: What If

The race is intense, the energy palpable. But in a split second, the exhilaration turns to horror as Charles’ car careens off track, crashing into the barriers. The scene is chilling and the paddock holds its collective breath.

Time seems to stretch endlessly until, finally, the screens show Charles moving inside his cockpit. It's a sign — he's conscious. When he is carefully extricated from the wreckage and gives a thumbs-up to the cameras, relief washes over everyone.

As he is taken to the medical center, your grid kids gather, their usual playful banter replaced by anxious glances and silent support.

When you’re finally allowed to see Charles, his face is pale, eyes reflecting the trauma of the crash. Despite the bandages and evident pain, he manages a small smile upon seeing you.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You lean over, brushing the hair from his forehead, your touch filled with motherly concern. “Hey yourself. You gave us all quite the scare.”

He swallows hard, gaze locking onto yours, vulnerability evident. “I thought ... for a moment there ... I thought I wouldn’t ...” he trails off, the gravity of the incident heavy in the room.

You take his hand, offering comfort and strength. “But you’re here, Charles. You’re here.”

He nods, tears forming. And then, in a voice filled with raw emotion, he murmurs, “Thank you, Mom.”

The title that slips out isn’t one of blood or birth but of bond and heart.

You squeeze his hand, “Always, Charles. Always.”

Lance Stroll: Who Needs Wrists Anyway?

After Sebastian’s retirement, life quiets down somewhat. The raucous race weekends are replaced with peaceful moments gardening and beekeeping. But the bond with your grid kids remains as strong as ever.

One evening, a call disturbs the calm. Lance had taken a hard fall while biking and had broken both his wrists. The news shakes you, memories of crashes flooding back. Without hesitation, you pack a bag and book the next flight out to be by his side.

When you enter Lance’s room, you're struck by the sight before you. Both his hands are in casts, his usually playful eyes clouded with pain and frustration. However, seeing you brings a faint smile to his face.

“You didn’t have to come,” he starts, though the gratefulness in his tone betrays him.

You chuckle, pulling a chair beside his bed, “How could I not? I can’t let you starve or wear the same clothes for weeks.”

Lance laughs, “Well, there’s always the option of going commando.”

You both chat, the room filled with light-hearted banter in an attempt to lift the mood. As you prepare to leave for the night after ensuring he is comfortable and has everything he needs, Lance’s voice halts you.

“You know,” he starts, hesitating, “Even after Seb retired, you still ... you’re still here for us, for me. It means a lot.”

You turn back, smiling gently. “Once a family, always a family.”

He swallows, emotion causing his voice to waver, “Thanks, Mom.”

You reach out to squeeze his arm in comfort but remember the reason for your visit. Pulling back before you could hurt Lance, you say, “Get some rest. We’ve got a lot of healing to do.”

George Russell: King of PowerPoint

The rookies sit in the dim room, fidgeting in their chairs, their faces a mix of excitement and nervousness. They’re about to receive their initiation presentation by none other than George Russell, now the Director of the GPDA — an annual tradition to welcome the new drivers, give them insights into the world of F1, and ensure they understand the guidelines, all while keeping it light and enjoyable. It’s also an excuse to give a PowerPoint … and George never turns down an opportunity to put his prowess to good use.

George steps up to the podium, clicking the remote to begin his presentation. The slides cover everything from safety protocols to media interactions. But then, a slide pops up with a familiar face on the screen: yours.

The title reads: “The Heart of Our F1 Family”

George pauses, taking a deep breath. “Now, for those of you new to Formula 1, there’s someone you need to know, someone who has been instrumental for many of us drivers, both on and off the track.”

He clicks to the next slide, showcasing a larger image of you, radiant in the middle of a race weekend while giving one of your famous pep talks to the grid kids.

“This,” George says, voice filled with warmth, “is Y/N Vettel. To the world, she’s known for her contributions to the sport, her philanthropy, and so much more. But to many of us drivers,” he glances at the familiar faces of the other grid kids sitting at the back, “she’s known simply as Mom.”

There’s a hushed silence, the emotional weight of the moment evident.

“She’s our anchor, our guiding light, and sometimes,” George grins, “our stern disciplinarian. If you ever find yourselves needing advice or just someone to talk to, you know where to turn. Welcome to Formula 1!”

Lando Norris: Stream and Shout

Lando is live on Twitch, engaging with thousands upon thousands of fans from around the world while deeply engrossed in a racing simulation game — swerving, overtaking, and trying to claim the top spot. Along with the intense gaming, he’s also juggling questions from fans.

“Hey Lando, any tips for new racers?” one fan asks.

“Just keep training, mate. And don’t get disheartened by failures,” Lando replies, narrowly avoiding a virtual crash.

Another question pops up in the chat, “Who’s been your biggest supporter in F1?”

Lando doesn’t hesitate. “Well, there’s my team, my family, and of course,” he pauses as he navigates a tricky turn on his screen, “there’s Y/N. She is ... well, she’s like a mom to many of us on the grid. Actually,” he corrects himself with a grin, leaning closer to the mic, “She IS mom.”

Fans catch on quickly, and the chat floods with comments.

“Mom? That’s so sweet!”

“Tell us more about her!”

Lando chuckles, “She’s just ... amazing. Always there, always supportive. We’ve had our fair share of fun, chaos, and love. If you’re ever around the paddock, you’ll know. Y/N is magnetic in the best way.”

Mick Schumacher: Drunken Adoration

The end-of-season party is in full swing. It is a tradition where everyone lets loose by either celebrating their successes or shrugging off the stress of the competitive year. The atmosphere is electric with loud music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

Mick has perhaps indulged a bit too much. His usually composed and calm demeanor is replaced with a giddy, slightly wobbly version of himself.

As you navigate through the crowd, ensuring everyone was having a good time and not getting into too much trouble, you find Mick seated at the bar, a glass of something strong in his hand.

“Hey!” you call out, approaching him, “Having fun?”

Mick turns, his eyes slightly glazed but recognizing you instantly. A wide smile spreads across his face, “Hey! You know, you’re really awesome.” He slurs, the alcohol evident in his speech.

Laughing, you reply, “Thanks, Mick. Maybe we should switch to water now?”

He shakes his head, trying to focus. “No, no, you don’t get it. You’re not just awesome. You’re ... you’re like ... my mom. Like, a second mom. But also the first because you’re always there and ... you get it, right?”

You chuckle, moved by his inebriated but sincere confession. “I get it, Mick. And thank you. That means a lot.”

Helping him off the stool, you decide it’s time to get him some coffee and maybe a sandwich. “Come on, let’s sober you up a bit.”

As you lead him away, Mick continues to mumble about how great you are, his drunken words filled with genuine affection.

The party continues but for you, that heartfelt albeit tipsy confession is the highlight of the evening.

You: Sons and Spotlights

It’s a grand evening and the room glistens with opulence. Influential personalities from various fields gather, all in the name of charity and giving back. The annual International Philanthropy Awards Gala is an event where the most generous hearts are recognized, and this year, you’re among the honorees.

As you take the stage to accept the award for your contributions to various charities, the spotlight shines brightly but among the crowd, you spot familiar faces — Charles, Max, Lando, Mick, George, and Lance sitting next to your husband. Their presence is unexpected but deeply touching

You begin your speech, gratitude evident in every word, “Giving back is a principle I have always lived by. We are blessed in so many ways and it’s our duty to share those blessings with others.” As you continue, mentioning the various charities and initiatives you work with, an overwhelming wave of emotion grips you.

Taking a moment to compose yourself, you glance once more at your grid kids and say, “I have had many titles over the years — friend, daughter, wife — but one that has been among the most precious to me is simply being Mom.”

The room seems to hold its collective breath.

“These young men,” you continue, gesturing towards them, “are my sons in every way that matters. Not by birth but by bond. Charles, Max, George, Lando, Mick, and Lance are my source of strength, joy, and sometimes, a bit of frustration,” you add with a twinkle in your eye, causing a ripple of laughter.

“But more than anything, they are my family. And tonight, in this room filled with so many esteemed individuals, I want to take a moment to thank my sons. For their love, for their constant support, and for making me the best possible version of myself.”

As applause fills the room, your grid kids stand, pride evident in their glassy eyes that mirror your own, joining the crowd in honoring you. They might be champions on the track, but off it, they are just sons, celebrating their mom.

Bonus: A Family Holiday

Mother’s Day arrives and you wake to find a beautiful bouquet of flowers on your doorstep accompanied by a heartfelt note that reads:

For the woman who has been a mother to us all.

Touched by the gesture, you make your way to the living room. As you enter, warm smiles greet you and the scent of a homemade breakfast wafts through the air.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” your grid kids chorus, raising their glasses.

Max grins, “We know you’re not our biological mom but you’ve definitely earned the title.”

Charles, holding a tray with a stack of pancakes, adds, “We couldn’t ask for a better mentor and friend.”

Lance, with a card in hand, steps forward, “And we wanted to show our appreciation.”

You take the card, and as you read, your heart swells. It’s filled with their personal messages, anecdotes, and memories — marking the journey you’ve all shared.

George, holds out a gift bag with a sheepish grin, “We thought you might like this.”

Inside the bag is a beautiful necklace with six interconnected rings, each representing one of your grid kids. It symbolizes the bond you share, a connection as unbreakable as those rings.

Tears well up in your eyes, “This ... this is so thoughtful.”

Mick smiles softly, “You’ve always been there, through everything. This is just a small token of our gratitude.”

You pull them all into a group hug, the love and warmth radiating through the room. “Thank you, my sons. This means the world to me.”

And as you all sit down to enjoy the homemade (only slightly charred) breakfast, the simple yet emotional celebration of Mother's Day reminds you that family isn’t just about blood ties. It’s about the connections forged through shared experiences, tireless support, and love that transcends convention.