#and it really does feel like watching it for the first time again

[uarmygguk]

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ . . . in which he learns you, in a way no other can. it's the intimacy of being understood. of having fate bring you together, and you hold on for eternity.

starring, CEO!jungkook x potteress!oc tags/warnings, an argument, work-time injury and everything in between, explicit content: fingering, use of nicknames like "baby", unprotected penetrative sex (wrap it up), kitchen sex, soft aftercare and confrontation. note, i'm not entirely sure how this is— it's prolly js a pwp, an old piece which i modified a bit. tell me what you feel! feedback motivates me to write more! :3 word count, 2k+ permanent taglist : @ggukivrse @bangatanily @koosluvss @hobiseightbracelet @seokjinthescientist* * - (not able to tag!)

masterlist • taglist

Another miraculously orange morning and you excitedly pace towards the small out-house where you spend half of every day at. You were a potter, one with immaculate skills and rated a whooping five-star among the customers who you attended to. You harbor signature styles and originality in each creation. 

A pretty smile danced across your face as you opened your workstation for the day, setting aside all the pieces that were ready for delivery, drawing the curtains that opened to a sunlit view of the backyard. You have a sip of some freshly brewed coffee, that tasted a bit off, but still the effort counts. 

Jungkook had made you some as soon as you woke up, unusually so, because every morning unfurls into a scene of either him following you around as you help find his keys, or even important files that he was supposed to take care of.

Despite these, he’s always trying to become better. Even the best for you. 

3 years since you vowed to be bound to him for life, under really unforeseen circumstances. Betrayal that still stung in your heart, embarrassment that was hard to wipe off. 

A mistake, or maybe something intentional, you don’t dwell anymore. His brother, Junghoon, who was arranged to marry you, backed out at the last minute and in a haste, Jungkook stepped forward, saving your family’s generational dignity. Binding the both of you forever.

“Good Morning!!” Your husband chimed and opened the door further with a tray of pancakes and maple syrup.

“I wanted to make breakfast in bed, but you wake up so early everyday.” He pushes the door shut with his legs, carefully balancing the food in hand.

You peek further into the tray only to find some pancakes that barely made it alive and the majority completely burned off. You shook your head at his failed attempt in cooking, which wasn't novel.

"Oh lord, you cooked?" You approached him after washing  the clay off your hands and drying them.

"You don't seem impressed.. Do they look that bad, your honor?" He carefully checked the tray in his hold, doe eyes that held the galaxy in them, stared at yours, waiting for a response.

"Okay okay, let's see how it tastes first, then I'll give you the verdict, yeah?" You picked up the fork and dug into the relatively good one.

"It's not bad, I see, you've definitely improved." He presses a kiss onto your temple, feeling victorious as you smile and set the tray aside.

—

"Bye __ !! I'm leaving, see you soon and please take care." His daily reminders pass through your ears once again, as you wave at him with those clay coated hands of yours, a result of the carefully designed pots you're crafting.

You watch him inspect the car, ensuring it's in good condition as always, as his gaze shifts to the window of your workstation, catching yours like a lover's caress, brief and fleeting before driving off.

Your eyes divert back to the small pots you've already made. There were five, but you needed two more to finish with an order. It was for decorating a baby shower venue, so you had extra flowers and ribbons prepared to adorn them once they’re done.

Somehow feeling overwhelmed at the workload and deadlines, you whisper a final “I got this” in attempts of hyping yourself up, before leaning forward and placing the measured amount of clay on the wheel.

The moment you started, however, its sharp blades wounded your hands, and you jerked them back in pain and reflex.

"That.. hurts… where's the first aid." You gaze around the room in such a hurry as it adds to the giddiness in your head along with the blood loss as you somehow manage to get the coffee and gulp it down quickly before tightly tying the cloth you use to wipe your hands, to stop the blood flow.

You did try to finish the order and barely pack them up, before finally deciding to retreat for the day.

___

Plopping down on the couch back at home, you stare at the clock, realizing the time, you quickly rush towards the kitchen in order to prepare something before Jungkook arrives. You were completely focused on work, forgetting to make breakfast in the morning, which ended up in Jungkook's burnt pancakes, so you needed to have something proper for dinner, but with those injuries, it was hard.

Weighing the condition and thinking about what to do snatched away the remaining time, as the sound of Jungkook’s car pulling up into the garage became evident.

"Crap, he's here, what do I do" Nevertheless, you rushed towards the door to open it, only to scrape your injured palm on the coat stand nearby as you hissed in pain, and Jungkook walked in on the sight of his wife holding her palm and wincing.

"Y/N?! What is this, there's so much blood !! Didn't I tell you to stay safe and take care? Is this what I get in return?!" He raised his voice, throwing away his suitcase aimlessly before cradling your hands in his.

"I'm guessing you injured yourself while working,, damn it Y/N why can't you be careful?? If you can't take enough care, then please don't do something you cannot." He blew onto your palm to soothe it down, but you jerked your hands off of his grip and stared at his eyes.

“I’m perfectly aware of what I can, and cannot.” Your glare pierced through his face contorted in a “oh shit I fucked up” expression as his eyes widened further seeing your figure walk off cutting his words, right in front of him.

He shut his eyes tightly in rage, before storming upstairs.

— 

You had to cook dinner anyways and there's no other alternative, thus you managed to set the pan and crack open some eggs, deciding to fry them and finish it off with some cup noodles and chicken.

"Damn this is so hard how do I stir them now" in the end, you had to use your elbows to try beating the eggs, uncomfortably bent over the bowl. Just then, a hand was placed on your waist, straightening your figure up, before taking the whisk in the firm hold of none other than your husband, Jungkook.

"I'm sorry, please let me do this. Go sit down." He apologized and tried to help you, but you wouldn't budge.

"If you wanna eat today, move. I'll manage this." You said, with a tint of hesitation. You needed a helping hand, but your ego was too big to let go.

His breath fanned over the subtle skin of your neck as he bent forward and placed a kiss there, a fresh floral scent wrapping around yours. Like the known, simple assurance of “I got you, baby.”

"Please." He rasped as your hands involuntarily left the whisk as he started with the eggs again, with you still trapped in his arms. 

He gets them perfectly fluffy and ready to be cooked, before pushing it aside as if to make space for something.

Or someone, as his hand comes around you, placing you on the counter with such practiced ease.

“This is why I said I’ll cook and you can wait.” You mumble, but he hears it sharp and clear. 

“Trust me baby, I don’t wanna wait. You know I was just concerned for you right?” He whispers with a genuine apology evident in his voice.

“I know you just wanted to help, Kook. It’s just that.. I just hate… feeling out of control. ” You look down, at his hands on your lap, holding it intact.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, ___. I’m here, and I just want you to be okay.”

“I think I overreacted, a bit?” Your lips morph into a grin, as he rubs his chin in mock-doubt.

A bit.. too much?” He joked, forehead colliding with yours, holding you close, neither of you moving, afraid that this moment would shatter and fade.

You break it, nonetheless into a million pieces and more, clutching the collar of his white shirt just enough to draw him closer. His lips onto yours.

You could feel how he almost stopped breathing, trying to comprehend your new found instinct, the atmosphere shifting heavily.

Regaining composure, his hands slowly began to trace patterns on the sliver of skin exposed through your crop top, yours gripping his shoulders in attempts to bring him impossibly closer. His lips hover over yours in a beat, like a question, as you close your eyes for a second, letting the thoughts sink in, giving him the green light he needed to continue.

He takes your face between his hands then lifts your hand up and places them flat onto the cabinet doors above — all in a frenzy. You don’t care how it might’ve left a mark that you’d have to wipe off later.

All of this, and he suddenly pulls apart, the distance established again between your faces.

“Do you want me to wait? We can take this slow.” He sounded so cocky, and annoyingly hot at the same time.

“Too late.” You bring your hands down, actions biting back on your words as his lips find yours again, like it’s gotten a will of its own, more so at your affirmation. His hands rake over your soft cotton shorts that sit just right on your thighs, slightly hiked up. Rough hands palm through them, just close to where you’re aching the most.

“Y’know, you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad?” The ends of his mouth trace the skin beneath your ears, finding the spot that makes you squirm.

“You’re pushing it, Kook.” You let out a small whimper, goosebumps igniting your senses.

“Hmm, I think not.” His head tips to the side, hands pushing your panties aside, dangerously close, but not touching.

Not yet.

“Pleas..e” You choke out, arching forth, hips twitching against his palm to find some kind of relief. Jungkook traces his fingers through your folds, excruciatingly slow.

“Uh-huh, now you wait, okay?” He brushes another hand through your top, lifting it up to brush the underside of your breasts. Your hands move south, tracing his sweatpants before stroking him faintly through the fabric.

He groans, dark eyes staring into yours, “God, do you wanna be the death of me, baby?” Nevertheless he moved his hands relentlessly, fingers slipping in with absolutely no trouble.

“Yes? I don’t know?” You couldn’t even bring yourself to register anything that’s happening. Desperately wanting to make a comeback but failing at each nudge of his hands between your thighs and the way they curl in, taking you then and there.

His thumb runs in circles on your clit, as the pressure builds in just right, your legs start to shake as you whimper something like “Oh, right there” and he hears it. Again.

“You do know now, huh? Right here? Fuck okay.” And oh how he curls his ring finger in, the cold metal of it adding to the tight knot forming in your lower belly.

And you completely shatter. Shake and thrash around, the sight of your wedding band on his finger that’s absolutely ruining you right now— almost tips you over the edge.

“That’s it baby, you’re doing so fucking well.” Your nails dig into his shoulder, letting your orgasm take over, as he lets out a low guttural “uh” that descends to a groan, eyebrows furrowed as he watches you.

“Shit, is this all f’me, darling?” He looked dazed. As if it was all a dream. You falling apart on his hands, back arched, all for him.

“Mhmm” You owed him a better response but you were too fucked out to care. Straightening your clothes, his calloused hands lifted you down, the sudden contact with the cold tiles feeling foreign to your feet.

“Turn around, hands on the counter so I can fuck you better.” 

Your stomach flips at the tone, hands immediately gripping on the edge and in a heartbeat, shorts hitting the floor as he fumbles with his own pants, as you slowly look at him behind, helping him pull it off. 

The eye contact snapped through your spine like a bolt of lightning.

“What? I just wanted to help.” You shrug.

“Fuck, if you pull shit like this, I fear I won’t last long.” He shuffles closer, angling your bodies better, sweaty palms pressing onto the back of your neck.

“I should take you to bed, fuck you deep and slow,” you arch back, growing arousal becoming too much to handle, seeking some sort of friction on his cock that’s almost touching your wet folds.

“What’s stopping you then?” You reach back to palm him, from the tip, upwards as a broken chant of your name rumbles through his chest pressed against your back, the heat of the moment leaving your bodies sweaty and craving for more.

That was more than enough for him to come out of the daze your figure— sprawled out under him on the kitchen counter— put him in as hands covered in your slick from earlier pushed your torso down flat onto the counter.

“I’m so fucking glad I married you. I love how you’re always all ready for me, just like this.” He lines up behind you, sliding inside without friction.

“J-jungkook, you’re so-” He fills you up, raw and deep like promised, hips thrusting confidently, hands probably leaving a mark on your ass with a grip so tight.

“You’re soaked, love. So pretty, fuck.” He slurs, your cheek rubbing against the counter every time he fucks into you.

All of this puts you in a state of mind too unclear, hazy, your whole body giving in to whatever he’s doing to you, and you feel it, all too familiar. His hands reach forward, rubbing your nipples through the tank top still clad on you, the rhythm never faltering as he brings you closer to the edge again.

“I can feel you, baby, tell me how badly you wanna cum ‘round me.” He slows down a little, breath hitching with each slow brush of his dick in you.

“Please, Kook, More- I need to- fuck please let me cum please.” Your eyes shut close, squinting at the feeling of the high that’s approaching fast. This was something new… real, for you in just a year of marriage. Like you’re becoming one.

“Need it so bad, don’t you?” He picks up again, ramming into you with a force that has your hands almost bruising with the grip on the edge of the table. 

“Take it then. Take me, you’re d-doing fuck, wanna feel you, let go, ___” palming your ass, his thumb comes in contact with your clit, and all too sudden, “I’m- Jungkook I can’t ohgod- fuckk”  like he said, you let go, around him in the most intense orgasm of your life.

“You feel so f’good.” He helps you ride it out while chasing his own high, as you let out a weak shivering cry at the sensation.

“Do you want me to pull out?” His voice was fucked up, the sentence forming in a half-growl as you disapprove, making him mumble a string of profanities and a broken moan, which was all it took for hot ropes of cum to fill you up completely. 

“Oh my fuck, love, do you feel that?” He stills and exhales a shaky breath behind you, that hits the nape of your neck as he plants a few kisses there.

“Are you okay, __?” 

“Hmm stay, please.” You say, too tired, completely basking in the afterglow.

“I’m going nowhere, but we gotta clean up, yeah?” He pulls you up, holding you close to keep you on two feet, kissing your half-lidded eyes open.

“Stay awake, we’ll hit the bed soon okay? C’mon.”

____

The low hum of the aircon and the soft scent of your shower gel filled the room, head resting on Jungkook’s arm around you, as his other arm continued to soothe the wound in your hand with brief touches.

“I’m sorry for storming out like that, I couldn’t complete the order and everything was just out of place.” You intertwined his fingers with yours, which never seemed to leave the bandage on your hand.

“It’s okay, what matters is we learnt something about each other today.” His eyes, however, remained zeroed in on the wound as you shake your head with a light chuckle. 

“I’m fine, Kook. Don’t push it.” You look up at his face that now carried the same lopsided grin from earlier. Annoying, but yours.

“Yeah, sure, who was the one begging to cum on my- ouch!” You swat at his chest, narrowing your eyes at his laugh that echoed through the room.

He hovers over you, pressing a long kiss to your lips, the smile never fading.

“We’re just starting with this relationship, and I'm more than ready to learn everything about you. Are you?"

"Yes I am." You kiss him again, feeling whole. Feeling like you’re his. 

I'm ready to learn everything about you, was the new "I love you". 

[ijustwannabecool]

Just Like Him - All Drivers

Dad!Drivers x Reader

Summary... Genetics are wild — and a little bit magical. They say kids get their genes from both parents. But Y/N’s pretty sure hers got 97% dad, 2% chaos and 1% mom.

A/N: Just a little blur of dad!fluff and cuteness overload. This one has Max, Lewis, Charles, Carlos, Lando, and Danny. If you want to see more drivers let me know!! I hope you guys enjoy this one.

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy :)

Have a lovely day today!!

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 comfort chaos like this, feel free to buy me a coke.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Max Verstappen

You catch it the first time when Isa is just shy of two.

She’s strapped into her high chair, smearing avocado across her tray like she’s painting a masterpiece. There’s a soft lull of music playing from the speaker, and Max is leaned over beside her, trying to coax a spoonful of rice into her mouth. She ignores him completely, staring off into the distance, tapping one tiny hand on the tray in a steady rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Y/N blinks. Because that—that—is exactly what Max does when he’s annoyed but trying to hide it. When he’s in a meeting and the strategy isn’t making sense. When he’s trying to stay polite. When he’s being patient but barely.

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Max finally sighs and puts the spoon down. “She’s stubborn.”

“She’s you,” Y/N says under her breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she hums, already storing the moment away in that secret part of her heart labeled reasons I love you.

--

The second time, Leo’s barely one. A warm, heavy baby who loves cuddles and hates shoes. He’s napping in their bed after a long morning of teething tears and clinginess, and Y/N comes in with her phone, planning to snap a quiet photo.

And then she sees it.

The scowl.

He’s frowning in his sleep. Like full-on deep Verstappen forehead crease frowning. Lips pressed tight. Eyebrows drawn in. All of it.

Y/N actually snorts. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Max walks in behind her, towel slung over his shoulder, fresh from a workout. “What?”

“Look at him.”

He squints. “He’s sleeping.”

“No. Look at his face.”

Max shrugs. “He’s probably dreaming about milk. Or getting overtaken.” He says it so casually and then kisses her cheek and walks away.

Y/N just stands there, staring at this frowning baby. “You’re not real,” she whispers to Leo. “You’re literally his clone.”

--

When Isa’s five, she builds an entire Lego village on the living room floor. Carefully. Methodically. Quietly.

Y/N is folding laundry in the hallway when she hears it.

“Ugh. No one listens to me.”

Soft. Mumbled. Annoyed.

She freezes.

Because those are the exact words Max said three weeks ago, after his radio calls got ignored during a wet qualifying.

She peers around the corner. Isa’s trying to explain how the Lego airport works to Leo, who is eating the red bricks and not listening at all.

Y/N presses her lips together to keep from laughing. “She really said that, huh?”

“What?” Max walks by, sipping coffee.

“She’s your daughter.”

“She’s our daughter.”

“Mhm. Keep telling yourself that.”

--

Leo’s four when it happens again. It’s a rainy day, and Y/N’s pulled out a big wooden puzzle to keep them busy while Max’s away at the factory.

Leo crouches over the pieces like a man on a mission. He studies the edges. Frowns. Runs his hand through his hair dramatically — a move Y/N has definitely seen during race weekends.

Then he starts pacing.

Pacing.

She’s leaned against the doorway in disbelief. Her mouth is actually hanging open.

Leo mumbles, “This doesn’t make sense,” under his breath and throws himself down on the couch like it’s the end of the world.

She laughs. Out loud. Can’t help it.

He looks up, blinking. “Mama?”

“Nothing, baby. You’re doing amazing. Just like Papa.”

--

It hits her one night when everything is still.

Max is home. The kids are finally asleep after a chaotic bedtime full of bubble beards, mismatched pajamas, and Leo insisting Isa stole his favorite sock.

She walks into the living room to find all three of them piled onto the couch. Max is half-asleep with both kids flopped on top of him like puppies. Isa is curled into his chest. Leo is on his stomach, tiny hand fisted in Max’s shirt. They’re all breathing the same way — slow, deep, synchronized.

She just stares for a second. Heart in her throat.

Max cracks one eye open. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

He lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers until she walks over and kneels beside them.

“What is it?” he murmurs, brushing her cheek with his knuckles.

She smiles. “You don’t even see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“You made two tiny versions of yourself.” She smooths Isa’s curls, brushes Leo’s lashes. “And they have no idea how much they’re just like you.”

Max blinks, half-asleep. “That good or bad?”

She kisses his hand. “It’s the best thing in the world.”

--

It’s a Sunday morning when she catches it again — and this time, she gets proof.

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and butter. Isa’s standing on a stool stirring pancake batter. Leo’s at the counter pressing blueberries into already-cooked pancakes with sticky, purple-stained fingers. Max is manning the pan, flipping like a pro.

Y/N walks in, still sleep-rumpled, mug in hand — and stops dead in her tracks.

Because all three of them are standing exactly the same way.

One hip popped. Left foot slightly forward. Right hand resting lazily on the counter. Even their heads are tilted at the same angle as they concentrate.

She doesn’t say a word. Just sets her mug down silently and grabs her phone.

Click.

Max glances up at the sound. “What are you—?”

She flips the phone around to show him the picture. “Look.”

He squints. “Okay…?”

“Look, Max.”

His eyes flick between the photo and the real-life lineup in front of him. Then he blinks. “What the hell.”

“I told you. You’re not raising children. You’re multiplying.”

Isa looks up. “Mama, what’s multiplying?”

Max just shakes his head, laughing softly as he flips another pancake. “That’s terrifying.”

Y/N smiles into her mug. “That’s love.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Charles Leclerc

Mila is six the first time Y/N really notices it.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, coloring a Ferrari red car with the kind of focus usually reserved for real race engineers. Her little tongue pokes out between her lips. Her eyebrows are knitted. Every few seconds, she mutters something under her breath in French — barely audible, but deeply unimpressed.

Y/N pauses, spatula in hand. Because that face? That concentration? That muttering?

It’s so Charles.

She watches for a moment longer before calling out, “Mila?”

Her daughter doesn’t even look up. “I told you, Mama, this line isn’t straight. I have to fix it.”

Y/N grins. “Of course you do.”

---

Luca and Jules — age four, chaotic energy personified — are building a blanket fort in the living room. Or, more accurately, Luca is building it and Jules is providing dramatic commentary and helpful criticism.

At one point, the blanket slips off the top.

Luca gasps, drops the pillow he’s holding, and stomps his foot. Actually stomps it.

Y/N blinks.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmurs.

Because that’s exactly what Charles did last week when he lost a board game to Mila. Same frustrated stomp. Same “I will fix this” energy.

She sneaks a photo from behind the couch.

---

Later that week, they’re at a birthday party and Jules is asked if he wants cake or ice cream.

He frowns, thinks, and says in a tiny but dramatic voice, “That’s too much pressure.”

Y/N nearly spits out her drink. Because what.

She grabs Charles’s sleeve. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That’s too much pressure. That’s what you said when we had to pick a Netflix movie last week.”

Charles laughs, clearly delighted. “He listens, huh?”

“He absorbs,” Y/N corrects. “Like a sponge. A dramatic little sponge.”

---

That night, Charles tucks Mila in.

She pulls the covers up to her chin and says, very seriously, “Can we work on tire strategy for my soapbox car tomorrow?”

He freezes. “Tire—strategy?”

She nods. “Papa, we’re losing time on the corners. I have ideas.”

He walks back into the bedroom with wide eyes. “Mon amour, I think we might be raising a future world champion.”

Y/N smirks. “I think you’re raising yourself.”

---

But it’s not all Charles.

Sometimes it’s her.

And Charles sees it — quietly, when no one else is watching.

He catches Jules humming while folding laundry. The tune is one Y/N always hums when she’s focused — soft, familiar, warm.

He sees Mila do her “thinking face,” the one where she looks up and bites the inside of her cheek. Just like her mama.

He watches Luca walk away after getting told “no,” muttering under his breath in exactly Y/N’s cadence, “That’s fine. I didn’t even want it.”

And sometimes it makes him laugh, sometimes it makes him melt — but every time, it makes him fall a little more in love.

---

One evening, all three kids are sitting around the kitchen island, coloring and munching on fruit.

Charles walks in from a call and stops. They’re all hunched forward, elbows on the counter, chewing pens as they draw — the exact way Y/N sits when she’s journaling.

He pulls his phone out and snaps a photo.

Later, he shows her.

“You see it now, don’t you?” she teases.

Charles nods. “They’re just like me.”

She smiles.

“And just like you.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Carlos Sainz

Camila is three when Y/N first catches it.

They’re in the kitchen, and Y/N has just said the forbidden phrase: “No more cookies.”

Camila gasps. One hand flies to her chest. The other reaches out in despair. She staggers backward like she’s been wounded.

“Mamá,” she says with a trembling voice. “You break my heart.”

Y/N stares.

Carlos, across the room, doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Maybe just one more for after lunch,” he mumbles.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “Carlos.”

He glances up. “What?”

“She’s you. That was you in toddler form.”

He squints at their daughter, who’s now slumped dramatically over the kitchen chair. “She’s just expressive.”

“She’s you. And you don’t even see it.”

---

Later that week, they’re at the park and Camila trips on her shoelace. It’s a tiny stumble — no injury, just a scrape — but she collapses to the ground and groans.

Not a cry. Not a whimper.

A full-bodied, frustrated, Carlos Sainz on team radio after a bad pit stop groan.

Y/N runs over. “You okay, baby?”

Camila lays flat on the grass. “I’ll never recover.”

Y/N covers her mouth to keep from laughing. “Oh my god.”

Carlos, jogging up behind them, doesn’t bat an eye. “She’ll be fine.”

“She just said she’ll never recover,” Y/N hisses.

Carlos shrugs. “She’s dramatic.”

“She’s you!”

---

Nico’s only ten months, but he’s already in on it.

He sighs. All the time. Little dramatic baby exhales whenever he doesn’t get picked up immediately or if someone dares to interrupt his snack time.

Once, he actually rolled over, stared at the ceiling, and let out a moan like life had defeated him.

Y/N caught it on video.

She showed Carlos.

He laughed. “He’s a passionate boy.”

“You’re raising a baby telenovela, Carlos.”

“He is Spanish.”

“So are you!”

Carlos just winked. “Exactly.”

---

One night, they’re reading bedtime stories, and Camila interrupts to dramatically whisper, “Mamá, if I had to choose between cake and Papa… I would cry.”

Y/N blinks. “You… what?”

“I love cake. But I love Papa.”

Carlos kisses her forehead proudly. “Mi niña romántica.”

Y/N stares at him. “Do you hear yourself?”

Carlos frowns. “What?”

“She’s literally you.”

---

The final straw comes on a lazy Sunday.

Carlos is on the couch, watching football. Camila is sitting next to him with a play microphone, pretending to do interviews.

“Mila Sainz,” she announces in a posh voice, “do you think you are the most handsome driver in the world?”

She pauses. Flips her hair.

Then replies to herself, “I do. But I also want to be remembered for my heart.”

Carlos gives a thumbs up. “That’s a good answer.”

Y/N walks in with Nico on her hip and just stares.

“She did your post-race interview voice.”

Carlos shrugs. “It’s a good voice.”

“You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And apparently, so are they.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Lando Norris

Ollie talks nonstop.

Y/N counted once — he asked seventeen questions before she’d finished her coffee. Seventeen. Before 8 a.m.

He narrates everything. His thoughts. His snack choices. The way his sock feels “sad” because it’s the wrong color. It’s so Lando it’s ridiculous.

Lando denies it, of course. “He’s just curious,” he says, as Ollie launches into a passionate TED Talk about worms.

“You literally talked through our entire first date,” Y/N replies.

“Yeah, but I was charming.”

Y/N gestures to their son, who is now taping two juice boxes together with painter’s tape. “So is he.”

---

Mornings with Ollie are… loud.

It starts in the bathroom.

Lando’s brushing his teeth, shirtless, hair a mess, doing a little shuffle dance to the music playing off his phone.

Ollie climbs up onto the stool next to him, toothbrush already hanging out of his mouth like a pro.

They lock eyes in the mirror.

And then it begins: synchronized chaos.

They both brush like it’s a sport — dramatic arm movements, mouth foam everywhere, wiggly hips and head bobs.

Ollie spits. Lando spits.

Ollie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Lando does the same.

Y/N walks in just as both of them slap cold water on their faces at the same time — and then both yell “AAAAH!” like it’s so refreshing and totally not freezing.

She stares. “You guys good?”

Lando gives her a toothpastey grin. “Mornin’, babe.”

Ollie copies him perfectly. “Mornin’, babe.”

Y/N presses a hand to her mouth to hide the smile. “I’m leaving. I can’t parent two of you today.”

“Technically,” Lando calls after her, “you created this.”

---

It’s the little things, too.

The way Ollie laughs — full belly, nose scrunch, falling-over kind of laughter.

The way he claps when he thinks he’s made a good joke (which is every time).

The way he races everything — his scooter, his cereal, his toothbrush. “It’s lights out and away we go!” is heard daily in their house.

Y/N once caught him giving himself a pretend podium interview using a banana. “I think I could’ve gone faster if Mum let me eat cake for breakfast.”

Lando just beamed. “He’s got media training already.”

---

And then there’s the livestream.

Lando’s mid-sentence, talking sim setups and gear ratios, when the door creaks open behind him.

“Ollie—” Y/N says off-camera. “He’s working.”

“I am working,” Ollie insists, popping into frame.

Lando turns around just as Ollie climbs onto his lap like he owns the stream.

“Say hi,” Lando mutters, adjusting his mic.

Ollie leans in, dead serious. “Hi. I’m his boss.”

Lando snorts. “You’re not my boss.”

“I am, because I said so.”

Then he slaps Lando’s cheeks between his palms and says, “Focus, Lando. You’re losing concentration.”

The chat explodes.

THE LITTLE YOU OMG 😭 He’s got the same attitude I can’t breathe NOT THE “YOU’RE LOSING CONCENTRATION” I’M GONE I swear I’ve heard Lando say that on team radio apple didn’t even fall. it’s still attached.

Lando scrolls through the comments, eyes wide.

Y/N walks by in the background, completely unfazed. “I told you.”

That night, they’re curled up on the couch.

Ollie’s passed out on Lando’s chest, mouth open, hand fisted in his shirt.

“You know,” Y/N whispers, brushing a curl off Ollie’s forehead, “he’s just like you.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “He’s louder.”

“He’s you, baby. Just… uncensored.”

Lando looks down at his son and grins.

“Poor world.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis is in the studio, pinky finger against his lip, focused on the track in his headphones.

From the kitchen, Y/N watches five-year-old Sofia on the floor with a coloring book. Head tilted, one arm propped on her knee, pinky tapping her bottom lip — exact same posture.

Not imitating. Just being.

“Lew,” Y/N says softly. “Come here.”

He leans out. “What—?”

She points.

He stares for a long second, then quietly laughs. “No way.”

“You do that every time you’re deep in thought.”

He watches her for another beat. “She’s got my thinking face.”

“She’s got you, period.”

---

In Lewis’s mum’s backyard, three-year-old Mateo crouches near a bee on the porch.

“It’s okay, little guy,” he says, calm and careful. “You can fly by me. I’m just watching.”

Lewis pauses mid-step. Y/N sees it — the soft smile, the little catch in his breath.

“That’s you,” she whispers.

He clears his throat. “We respect all creatures.”

“You once whispered ‘sorry’ to a snail for moving it off the sidewalk.”

“I mean… it was in the middle of its journey.”

Y/N grins. “So is he.”

---

Lewis is on a call, pacing, only half-listening when Sofia looks out the window.

“Papa,” she says, “why do the clouds look like they’re holding their breath?”

Lewis freezes.

Y/N turns from the sink. “Did she just—?”

He nods slowly. “I said that once. About heavy skies.”

“She remembered.”

“She listens?”

“She sees you, Lewis. Even when you don’t see yourself.”

---

It’s been a long day. Y/N is quiet, curled up on the couch.

Without saying a word, Leo (now two) walks over with the Bluetooth speaker, pressing the exact button Lewis always does. Lo-fi jazz fills the room.

Y/N blinks hard. “Lew…”

Lewis is frozen, eyes wide.

“I didn’t teach him that,” she whispers.

“I did,” Lewis says, voice cracking. “I just didn’t know he was watching.”

Y/N reaches for his hand. “He was.”

---

Sofia’s drawing again. Galaxies. A rocket ship. A microphone. Earth in gentle colors.

“What is it, baby?” Y/N asks.

“My future,” Sofia says. “I want to sing. And go to space. And fix the world.”

Lewis is quiet.

“I used to say that,” he murmurs. “People laughed.”

Y/N brushes her fingers through his curls. “She doesn’t even think anyone would. Because in this house, dreams are sacred.”

Lewis swallows. Kneels beside Sofia.

“Can I come to your concert?” he asks.

Sofia beams. “You can sit in the front row.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Daniel Ricciardo

His son, four-year-old Rafi, wins a race at the go-kart track (against imaginary competition — he was the only one racing).

He hops out of the kart, rips off his helmet, throws both arms in the air and yelps, “YEEEW!” before spraying juice everywhere like it’s champagne.

Y/N is frozen on the sideline. Daniel is cheering like it’s a world championship.

“He didn’t even race anyone!” Y/N laughs.

Daniel shrugs. “A win’s a win.”

She just points. “That was literally you in Monza.”

Danny grins. “He’s got taste.”

---

Two-year-old Evie walks into the kitchen, sees Y/N holding pancakes, and does a slow-pointing double finger-gun gesture while saying, “Ohhhh yeahhh.”

Daniel almost drops his coffee.

“What was that?” Y/N whispers.

Danny shrugs, too fast. “She’s enthusiastic.”

“You did that at the airport last week. To customs.”

“She cleared me quickly.”

“She’s two.”

“She’s iconic.”

---

Rafi lets out a wild, cackling, snorty laugh at a cartoon — the kind that doubles him over and ends with a wheeze.

Daniel literally stops walking.

“That’s… that’s my laugh.”

Y/N pats his back. “Yes, babe. Your exact laugh. Pitch, rhythm, everything.”

“She didn’t even hear me laugh just now!”

“She didn’t need to. It’s coded into her DNA.”

---

Evie is explaining something to her grandma — arms flailing, eyebrows lifting, dramatic pauses, a fake gasp — like she’s doing a full one-woman theater piece about how the neighbor’s cat sat in the flower bed.

Daniel’s mum turns to Y/N and just wheezes.

“Oh my god,” she says. “She’s Daniel. She’s baby Daniel. That’s how he explained spaghetti sauce at age five.”

Daniel protests from the kitchen, mouth full of toast. “It was very good sauce.”

---

They’re at the playground. Rafi falls off a tiny climbing wall and lands on his bum.

He hops up and yells: “I’M GOOD. JUST ADDING CHARACTER.”

Y/N freezes. So does Daniel.

“That’s… that’s what I said when I broke my toe last year,” Daniel mutters.

She side-eyes him. “You say it all the time. You spilled milk last week and said that.”

Rafi shrugs like it’s no big deal and keeps playing.

Daniel turns to his mum.

She sips her coffee calmly. “You’re not raising children, darling. You’re raising Ricciardos.”

---

Family photo day.

Evie grins, throws a peace sign over one eye, tilts her head and sticks out her tongue like it’s a Red Bull era classic.

The photographer pauses. “That’s a very… specific pose.”

Y/N doesn’t even flinch. “It’s Daniel’s 2018 media day face.”

Daniel just blinks. “No it’s not—”

Y/N whips out her phone. “Side-by-side, Ricciardo. Don’t make me do it.”

His mum leans in. “You really did copy/paste yourself.”

Danny finally groans. “I didn’t even try to do this!”

Y/N just smiles. “Exactly.”

---

The end.

[robinminustherichard]

Just Remember, I'm On Your Side

8×17 Coda/Fix It | BuckTommy | G

Someone is knocking on Tommy's door at 10:30 PM, and he knows he's in for it when he peaks out and sees a familiar truck in his driveway. He sighs, braces himself, and opens the door.

He gets one look at Evan and everything he was thinking flies out the window.

Evan is disheveled--he's got a hoodie thrown on over pajama pants and his hair looks like he's run his hands through it a hundred times. Worst, however, are his red eyes and long lashes clumped together with the remnants of tears.

"Evan--" Tommy says, knowing he sounds concerned and his face probably matches.

Evan swallows thickly and looks up at Tommy in the way that always seemed to lead Tommy to trouble.

"You," Evan starts, and takes a deep hiccuping breath, "you said once that you thought maybe my friends weren't always the nicest they could be to me--"

Tommy does remember saying that. Evan had blown it off then, excusing behavior from some of the 118 as he told stories of things they had been through.

"--I didn't want to hear it, then." Evan finishes. He runs his hand through his hair, looks around like someone is watching them. His eyes track back to Tommy's. "I think I'm ready to hear it, now."

Tommy feels shell shocked for a moment, not knowing quite what to say when your ex-boyfriend shows up following what's gotta be the worst few weeks of his life and suddenly wants to hear about how his friends frankly are kind of jerks sometimes.

Evan fidgets in the silence, nervous. He begins talking.

"And, and I know, Tommy, that I don't have the right to come here after what I said. But I think you might be the first person in a long time that has--has thought about me. Really thought about me and how I feel, and I got in this fight with Eddie and he said I make everything about myself, and then he brought Chris from El Paso and they're in my house now and I had to get out before I--"

"Evan," Tommy interrupts gently. He holds out a hand across the threshold, "Do you want to come in?"

Evan stops, blinking back new dampness in his eyes. He nods quickly before agreeing verbally.

"Th-thank you, Tommy," Evan whispers, grabbing on to Tommy's hand and letting himself be pulled inside.

He stumbles a bit and Tommy catches him; and maybe it's the exhaustion that's been dogging him since the night at the lab, but Tommy affords himself the comfort of gathering Evan up into his arms, tucking him into Tommy's body as much as one could with someone of Evan's physique.

Evan seemed to go boneless, choking back an unmistakable sob and burying his face into Tommy's shoulder.

"Eddie came at me," Buck says shakily, mumbled and nearly inaudible, "it was the first time that...I thought he might actually hit me."

"I'll kill him," Tommy says simply and without thought, knowing he meant it.

Evan snorts unattractively at that, pulling out of Tommy's shoulder and looking him in the eyes.

"I know you would." Evan says simply.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I've already committed two crimes for you, Evan Buckley. What's a little manslaughter?"

Evan laughs outright at that, wet and still a little miserable but a grin comes with it. It falls a bit though, and his eyes skitter around before speaking again.

"Can we...can we talk? Please?" Evan asks, biting at his lip.

Tommy knows how this is going to go. He knew it when he answered Evan's call three weeks ago, he knew it when he watched Evan break down on those monitors, he knew it when he saw the detached stoicism Evan maintained with a white knuckle grip at the funeral.

"How about..." Tommy says, pulling away but keeping their hands together, "I make you a sandwhich and you drink a glass of water, and then we get into bed and then, if you're still awake, we can talk?"

Evan breathes out, and hesitant smile lighting up his face.

"Yes--yes, please," he says in a rush, nodding again, "I would--I would love that, Tommy."

Tommy takes a chance then, he pulls Evan in to his side and presses his lips to Evan's birthmark. He feels something within himself settle, and he hears Evan sigh and feels his shoulders relax.

"Come on, sweetheart."

[liminalmemories21]

Epiphanies on a bathroom floor (911 ficlet - post episode 8x17)

@cecilyv and I took a crack at another version of what could have happened post 8x17. (entertainingly, I still haven't seen the episode - @cecilyv has though, so slightly more informed vibes this time around)

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

Buck gets back from the scene, from the building falling to pieces around them, and locks himself in Eddie’s bathroom. Doesn’t feel like his house. Again. He stands, staring at himself in the mirror, rocking forward on his toes. His heart pounding in his chest, hammering against his breast bone like it's trying to escape. 

He barely recognizes the person looking back. 

Eddie knocks, asks if he’s okay. Buck’s not sure exactly what to say, what he should say, what Eddie wants to hear. Whatever he ends up saying must have been good enough because Eddie tells him that he and Chris are going to Pepa’s. 

Good, that’s good. More people Buck doesn’t have to put a brave face on for, any longer.  He listens to them leave.  In theory the house is empty now. He could unlock the door, go sit somewhere more comfortable for his breakdown. Go back to the church, double the number of times he’s gone in a decade in a weekend.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t know if the earthquake was a sign from God that he was blaspheming, but he can’t tempt fate again. Doesn’t have another earthquake or lightning strike in him right now. Bobby, God, whomever is watching over him and letting him royally fuck up.

There’s a noise, someone opening the front door, footsteps.  He wonders what Eddie forgot. Then a knock on the door and, “Evan?”

He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and squeezes them shut. Grips the edge of the counter until he feels it digging into his palms. Can’t start crying now.  Not sure he’d ever stop.  Breathes through it until he thinks his voice will be steady.

“Tommy?”

“Hen called me.  Said she was worried about you after that last call.”

And she’d called Tommy?  Has no idea what to do with that.

“She thought Eddie would be here, but apparently he’s at his aunt’s?”  Tommy sounds baffled. He doesn’t have the energy to explain.  He’s not sure what to think about the idea that Tommy was Hen’s first call after Eddie.

Just says, “Yeah.”  And then out of some kind of loyalty, or something, adds, “I, uh, I said it was okay.” It’s not Eddie’s fault that he was made wrong. 

Tommy makes a non-committal noise.  “Do you want to come out?”  He doesn’t think he makes a noise, but he must, because Tommy’s instantly backtracking, “Or I can sit here and wait until you’re ready.”

It takes him a second to place that tone of voice, and then he wants to cringe his way into a corner, because that’s the ‘talk the crazy person off the ledge’ voice. The first responder, ‘calm the victim down’ voice. He knows that voice; he uses that voice. 

Ma’am, I’m not Satan, my name is Buck. He really was begging to get smited, wasn’t he?

Slides down the wall instead, down down down, until he’s sitting on the floor. Wraps his arms around his legs, thinks he’s as small as he can be. Tilts his head against the door with a thunk. He’s sure that Tommy has better places to be, things he should be doing. He sits, for a second, a minute, expecting him to go. He should go. But then he hears Tommy moving, swearing softly, grunting when he hits the ground. His hip must be hurting him again, it does sometimes -- had always enjoyed getting his hands on him when it had, before, rubbing muscle cream into it, finding the knots and pushing until they loosened, making it better. 

Now, he thinks he should get back up, open the door -- keeping Tommy down here, with him -- he’s doing exactly what Eddie said he always did. Worries his lip between his teeth. Maybe he’d never made it better; maybe he’d always made it worse.

Can’t bring himself to move.  If he’s quiet, he thinks he can hear Tommy breathing and that has to be enough. 

He’s silent too long, because Tommy says, "Evan, I need you to keep talking to me.”

He's foggy enough that it takes a minute to figure out why. "You think I have a concussion?"

"Well, Hen thinks it’s a possibility, and I make it a policy not to argue with Hen." He snorts wetly.  Gets an amused hum in response, and then, “Since I can't get in there and check, I'm going to need you to talk to me until I can. Okay?"

Concussion protocols.  He can do that.  Could do it in his sleep.  "Um, my name is Evan Buckley." Pauses. "Do you know you and Maddie are the only people who call me Evan. Well, my parents. But I don't like it when they do it. You and Maddie are the only people who do it and I like it."

Hears Tommy make an indistinct noise he can't parse. Keeps going.

"President is, uh, Trump. Fuck all our lives." He hadn’t cared the first time, Washington was so far away, had so little impact on his day to day until fire season rolled around. He thinks about Tommy, Hen and Karen and Josh and all the other people who dealt with the fear and anxiety every single day. He should have cared. It should have mattered. It’s just another way he failed them without knowing; another way he could have, should have been better.

"Umm, what else. Oh right, what day of the week is it." That stumps him. Thinks backwards, flips through the shift calendar in his head. Still nothing. "Okay, I don't know that. But, to be fair, I don't think I knew what day of the week it was before the earthquake, so it shouldn't count."

He can tell you how many days it's been since Bobby died though. How many days he's been trying to hold everything and everyone together with tape and string and he's not Bobby, he's not enough. He can't do it.  Eddie made that very clear. 

“Two out of three,” Tommy says.  “Good enough for government work.” He waits for Tommy to leave.  He’s done his duty. Checked on him. One more way he’s making himself the problem - pulling Tommy away from whatever he’d been doing, making him drive out of his way to come check on him. Hears Tommy shift to find a different position on the other side of the door instead, jeans rustling when his legs rub together.  “Now that’s out of the way, how’ve you been doing?”

Pepa told him to accept change and Bobby told him to be there for people, that they’d need him, that he’d be alright — and he whispers, soft enough that Tommy shouldn’t be able to hear him, even back to back against the same door, “I’m not okay, Bobby said, but I’m not — and Eddie said--“ and trails off.

Closes his eyes.  Swallows it down.  Waits until he’s sure his voice won’t give him away. “I’m okay. You don’t need to stay.”

Tommy makes a hmming noise. “But I just got myself settled. I’m not as young as I used to be, I think I’ll stay for a minute if that’s okay with you.”

He wants to ask why Tommy’s here. Why Tommy came when Hen called. Why he keeps coming when Buck calls, when all Buck ever is is mean to him. Thinks he should tell Tommy he’s not worth it, that whatever Tommy thinks he sees, it’s not real.

Hears Tommy shifting again.  There are blankets and pillows in the bedroom. He should tell Tommy to grab some if he’s planning on staying.  Floor’s not going to get any softer. 

Thinks about asking what he’d have to do to make Tommy want to stay. With him, not just here on this floor. Reminds himself not to make it about him, what he wants.  

He doesn’t want any of this. Wants a do-over.  

There’s a stretch of silence, then Tommy breaks it. “I watched the new Blue Planet the other day. Or well, I guess it’s not new, but I missed it when it came out, so new to me.”

He appreciates what Tommy’s trying to do. It’s still a little bit -- talk the crazy guy off the ledge, but well, he feels a little bit like he’s balancing on a ledge, so maybe Tommy knows something he doesn’t.

“Proof of life,” Tommy asks him, and oh, yea, didn’t respond. Out loud, anyway. Guesses that’s the only response that really matters. 

“Did you like it?” his voice sounds rusty, like it’s been scrapped over the shards of his throat. He wipes his eyes. Doesn’t know when he started crying. Must have been for a while. 

“It lacked commentary,” is all Tommy says, which is weird because it has a good narrator, and he-- oh. 

“You mean, uh, me?” 

It’s an old house, Eddie’s, his, whoever's it is right now. There’s a gap under the door — he watches Tommy’s fingers slide under, like a cat’s paw.  He hooks his finger with Tommy’s.

“I mean, you.” Buck lets that settle inside him, feels his lips quirk upward. “Think you’re ready to let me in?”

Could be talking about the bathroom. Could be about something bigger.  Either way. “I’ll only hurt you, I’m no good for anyone I love.”

And Tommy’s quiet again for a long time and when he speaks, his voice is funny -- not talk the crazy person down, more like he’s trying to talk around a lump in his throat. “I’m someone you love?” 

“Yes,” he says, affronted, before he can stop himself.  Because that’s never been up for debate.  “But that doesn’t matter, it’s not about me — what I want.”

“It matters a lot to me,” Tommy points out.  “And, I think it’s a little bit about what you want.”

Buck puts his other hand on the door, presses until his knuckles whiten. It’s what he wants, but he never gets what he wants.

He can’t believe they’re having this conversation while he’s locked in a bathroom, sitting on cold tiles, staring at the toilet. The lights are harsh, because he never bothered to change them from the cheap fluorescents Eddie put in. They expose every flaw for anyone who can see — God. Bobby. Himself. Maybe Tommy. 

“Think you can open the door now?”

He looks down at their fingers, still wrapped around each other. “I’ll have to let go.” Doesn’t want to let go, never did; right now it feels like the only thing tethering him, making him feel safe, wanted.

“Just for a second,” Tommy concedes. “I’ve got you.”

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── JAKE'S THING . ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka when you realize exactly what jake's thing is.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 566 ⌗ fluff, y/n makes fun of jake, jake LOVES y/n,,,yadda yadda what's new...

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── this one is short & sweet,,,a preemptive apology for the next one...it won't be as fluffy that's for sure (that's my spoiler .) hehehe i'll post the next one sooner since this one is quite short :)

Jake does this thing.

It’s a small thing.

Barely even worth noticing.

But you notice.

Of course you do.

Because it’s Jake.

You’re at a party. A big one—one of those industry events that Jake frequently gets invited to. Filled with producers, idols, people you’ve really only ever seen on screens. The kind of event he hypothetically should be thriving in—music pumping through the walls, flashing lights, and endless people he should be schmoozing the hell out of.

And yet—

Jake is right next to you.

Still next to you.

Unmoving.

“Shouldn’t you be talking to people?” you murmur, eyeing at him over the rim of your drink. “This is, like, prime mingling real estate.”

Jake hums thoughtfully, blinking before glancing around like he just remembered where he is.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess.” A shrug. Then an easy smile. “But I’d rather be here. With you.”

Your stomach flips traitorously. You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small quirk of your lips, “I know I’m great company and all, but you don’t have to babysit me. I’ll find Jungwo—”

“I’m not,” he insists, tilting his head at you with a simple grin, like the answer is obvious. “I’m just…staying where I’m happiest.”

You choke slightly on your drink—to his amusement.

“That’s stupid,” you mutter once you recover, feeling your cheeks burning.

Jake fakes a gasp from beside you, “Loving my girlfriend is stupid?”

“You're so silly, Sim Jaeyun."

“And yet, here I am,” he sing-songs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Next to you. Choosing you. Again and again.”

Your chest tightens.

Because—

It’s true.

You think back—to all the late-night drives when he lets you pick the playlist—even though you play the same five songs on loop and he probably secretly hates it. To how he always goes twenty minutes out of his way just to stay over at yours, even though it means waking up at an ungodly hour in the morning for practice—just so he can end every night and start every morning with you. To how he will always carry a hoodie on him whenever you’re together—because he knows you never check the weather app and the slightest breeze gets you cold.

To how he always—always—shows up.

Quietly. Consistently.

Just Jake.

Your Jake.

Your Jake—and that’s why you notice it. Jake’s thing—

Jake chooses you.

Every time.

Not just in the big, grand gestures. But in quiet, certain ways. Ways so soft, they’re like a whispered secret shared only between the two of you.

Like now—

Standing here, in the middle of a room filled with important people. People who could elevate his career. People who could change his life. And yet—

He’s looking at you like you’re the only future he’s interested in building.

Like you’re the only person worth knowing.

You laugh under your breath, tilting your head to hide the sudden burn behind your eyes—because if you keep looking at him you might just combust.

And when you glance back—Jake’s already watching you, patient and warm. Like he’s been waiting for you to catch up to the thing he’s always known.

You set your drink down.

You step closer.

And you grab his hand—intertwining your fingers with his, anchoring yourself to the feeling you now know by heart.

Jake doesn’t say a word.

He just squeezes your hand, twice—

Once for hi.

Once for I love you.

Like he always does.

Like he always will.

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[p0orbaby]

Touch starved Alessia x reader

-

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You’ve told yourself this for years. It works. Mostly. You’ve gotten very good at the kind of okay that looks like stillness. No tears, no yelling, no grand declarations of emotion or triumph. Just a nod, a breath, a slow, measured awareness of where your body is in space. Grounded. Neutral. Present.

Everyone else is screaming.

Lia’s on her knees on the pitch crying into her hands, inconsolable in the way that only winning can make you. Lotte is jumping so high it’s like her calves are spring-loaded. Even Katie—unbothered, unflinching, ironclad Katie—has tears in her eyes as she lifts her phone and shouts something unintelligible into it. The noise is ridiculous. Explosive. Pockets of champagne opening in succession like small fireworks. A child screams from the stands. Someone’s mum is on FaceTime already.

And you’re… here.

Just to the left of the huddle. Still in your kit. Mud on your socks. Jaw clenched. Hands behind your back like you’re standing for inspection. You smile—barely—when someone catches your eye, but the corners of your mouth barely lift. You’ve never been able to do that thing everyone else does, that reckless emotional abandonment. That showy sort of joy.

You want to.

You want to so badly it burns. It’s not that you don’t feel it—it’s that you don’t know where to put it. You don’t know how to do it.

Your hands twitch.

You watch your teammates jump and shout and tackle each other like schoolkids on Red Bull. You see arms slung over shoulders, cheeks pressed together, a kind of sweaty, breathless intimacy you can’t help but envy. You don’t know how to join it. You’ve always been the kind of person who needs to be invited in. Not just once—every time.

And no one’s invited you yet.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, slow and unobtrusive, like maybe that’ll make someone notice. You scan for a familiar face—nothing. Everyone’s too busy. Too wrapped up in the glittering, messy swirl of victory. Your throat is tight. You keep blinking because your eyes won’t stop watering and it’s not even emotional, not really. You’re just tired. Hot. Overstimulated.

You cross your arms.

Then, as if summoned by some internal compass—there she is.

Coming through the crowd like she’s got a tracking device on you. Eyes laser-focused. Kit half untucked. Hairline soaked. She’s scanning, scanning, and then she sees you. Her whole face softens like she’s just found what she was looking for. There’s this look—something quiet and electric—and then she’s crossing the pitch, dodging camera crews and fans and overexcited interns with lanyards. Straight to you.

You brace for teasing. For a joke. For something witty and public and flirtatious.

But all she does is stop in front of you. Look at you, properly. And then wrap her arms around you like she means it.

No warning. No ask. Just herself, pressed up against you, chest to chest, arms locked around your shoulders like the hug was already waiting and you’ve finally walked into it.

You freeze.

Your first instinct is to hold your breath. You don’t do this. You’ve trained your whole life not to. But Alessia doesn’t care. She doesn’t give you time to back away or joke it off. She just holds you, firm and steady and unbelievably warm, and everything in your ribcage softens at once.

It’s like being cracked open with nothing but touch.

You melt.

Not gracefully. Not immediately. It’s a slow, unravelling thing. At first, you just let her. Then you’re breathing again—into her shoulder. Then your arms move—hesitantly—around her waist. Then they tighten. Desperately. Like you might fall through the earth if you let go.

And she knows. You can feel it in the way she shifts her stance to support your weight, the way one hand smooths up your back like she’s trying to soothe the part of you no one else even knows is aching.

Her voice is quiet, right against your ear.

“Knew I’d get a hug out of you eventually.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just press closer. Eyes shut. Face half-buried in her neck, where she smells like salt and fig and victory. Your fingers curl into the fabric of her kit. You feel the rise and fall of her breathing. The impossible right-ness of it.

She strokes your hair once, slow.

“Bet you’re not even blinking,” she murmurs.

You smile, then. A real one. And it cracks something open that’s been sealed shut for months. You don’t cry. But you feel very, very close to it.

“Shut up,” you mumble into her skin.

“Make me,” she says, laughing now. Her hands grip you tighter, like she wants to be the reason you learn how to feel out loud.

And you think—maybe she will be.

[nanasrkives]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

"FOR HER" — Sakusa Kiyoomi

a/n : its official i am entering my baby fever era :) content : GIRL DAD SAKUSA. fluff. post timeskip. headcanon.

Girl dad! Sakusa who doesn’t cry in the delivery room, but when the nurse places her in your arms, you see the change happen in his expression before he even speaks. He stands beside you with one hand resting on the bedrail, still in his zip-up, curls flattened from the long hours, eyes fixed so intently on her tiny face that he barely breathes. You offer her to him, gently, and although he nods and reaches out, it’s with a kind of quiet reverence, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might shatter something fragile. When she’s finally in his arms, wrapped in that standard-issue hospital blanket, he doesn’t look away once. “She’s really ours,” he says after a long silence, voice soft and level like he’s stating a fact that still hasn’t settled in. You’re tired and aching and overwhelmed, but in that moment — watching him fall in love so quietly — you feel steadier than you’ve felt all day.

Girl dad! Sakusa who approaches parenting the way he’s approached everything else that’s ever mattered to him — with focus, with discipline, and with the same determination that made him the top ace in the country. He just does it. He reads every product label, tracks feeding times in his phone, and practices swaddling until the corners lie flat like muscle memory. You find him at night adjusting the baby carrier straps with one of her stuffed animals, narrowing his eyes like it’s something to be mastered. In the nursery, everything has its place: pacifiers in labeled containers, diapers stacked perfectly, bottles washed and sterilized on a rotating schedule that no one asked him to create. He’s not afraid of mess — he’s an athlete, after all — but this kind of order calms him. It’s the only way he knows to make sense of something this overwhelming. When you catch him in the early mornings rearranging the drawer of onesies so the softest fabrics are on top, you don’t interrupt. You just watch because you know that this is how he’s learning to love her.

Girl dad! Sakusa who is the first to notice that post-partum hit you. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach, the way your hands linger over chores but don’t quite start them, the way you keep saying you’re fine even when your voice betrays how deeply tired you are. He doesn’t corner you about it — he just starts making it easier to breathe. He finishes bottles without being asked. He folds laundry without announcing it. He draws a bath and offers you the quiet without implying you owe him anything in return. And when you finally sit down beside him on the bed and admit, barely above a whisper, “I think something’s wrong,” he takes your hand and says, without even flinching. “We’ll take care of it. You don’t have to do it alone.” That night, when the house is quiet, he tucks her in and then tucks you in too, placing your tea on the nightstand and brushing your hair back from your forehead before placing a kiss on your forehead like he’s reminding you that you’re still being held.

Girl dad! Sakusa who keeps her world structured, calm, and clean — not out of fear, but out of habit, and a deep belief that consistency makes kids feel safe. He doesn’t scold when she forgets to wash her hands before dinner. He just walks her to the sink, adjusts the faucet for her, and says, “Let’s try again,” with the same steady tone he uses when coaching a teammate through a play. You can already see how much of him lives in her — not just in her temperament, but in her tiny routines. The way she lines up her shoes by the door. The way she wipes the table with a napkin after dinner. He never told her to do any of that — she just watched him and followed his steps.

Girl dad! Sakusa who always stops what he’s doing when she calls for him. He never rolls his eyes or tells her to wait. Whether she’s holding a drawing she drew or asking him to see the rain outside on the balcony, he gives her his full attention. She brings him stories, toys, questions he doesn’t have answers to yet, and he listens to every single one. Sometimes, she climbs into his lap mid-stretch, legs crossed beneath her, curls sticking to her forehead, and just rests there like she knows there’s nowhere safer. You glance over from the kitchen and watch as he adjusts his posture just slightly to keep her steady, continuing his cooldown stretches like her presence is just part of the routine now.

Girl dad! Sakusa who teaches himself to braid because one morning she tugs at his sleeve and says, "Papa me want hair like Mama” and he doesn’t want to be the kind of father who says i don't know how to something like that. That night, while the house is quiet, you find him on the couch with one of her dolls in his lap, video tutorial paused on his phone, fingers fumbling but determined. He practices until the parts are clean, until the elastics hold. The first few mornings, the braid sits crooked on her head — slipping by lunchtime — but she runs to you saying, “Papa did it !” every single time. When he finally gets it right, she wraps her arms around him like he just won a trophy. And later, when you're brushing your own hair before bed, he watches you for a moment from the doorway, then comes up behind you, fingers gently sweeping your strands aside. “I didn’t realize how much of you she carries,” he says, quiet and sincere. “It makes me want to do everything right.”

Girl dad! Sakusa who brushes through her damp curls with more care than you thought possible. The spirals are his — the same exact texture that still coils around his forehead after a shower — but the color is yours, unmistakable in the morning light. When she’s sitting between his legs and he’s sectioning off her hair into neat parts, you sometimes find him pausing just to look. Not because he’s unsure of the process — he’s got the rhythm down by now — but because every time he sees her, it’s a new reminder that she’s equal parts both of you.

Girl dad! Sakusa who brings her to matches and never says a word about it being a distraction, though you know how seriously he takes preparation. She always sits with you, gripping a wrinkled “Go Papa !” sign in her fists, her legs swinging off the bleachers while she yells his name through a mouthful of fruit snacks. He rarely looks into the crowd — he’s too focused for that — but today, when she screams his name mid-serve, you swear you see the smallest flicker of a smile on his face. After the game, he comes straight to you both, drops to one knee, and listens to her long-winded play-by-play with a patience that makes even the camera crew step back. You take her hand as he packs up his bag, and she says, “Papa did good today !” He doesn’t say anything, but you notice how he walks just a little taller after that.

Girl dad! Sakusa who changes his phone ringtone to a voice memo of her calling for him because he says it’s easier to hear. It plays once during a team meeting and Atsumu nearly falls out of his chair laughing, but Sakusa doesn’t even flinch. “She’s loud,” he says calmly, setting his phone face down on the table, “but she gets my attention.” When you hear it go off at home, it always makes you smile.

Girl dad! Sakusa who never talks about how much he loves being a father — not in words, at least. But you see it in how he shows up. In the way he learns her favorite breakfast, remembers the exact way she likes her blanket tucked in, memorizes the lyrics to a show he pretends to hate. You see it in how he looks at her when she doesn’t notice — like she’s the most surprising, most important thing that’s ever happened to him.

Girl dad! Sakusa who holds her hand tightly on her first day of school, walking her up to the gate with slow, even steps. She’s excited and confident. She lets go of his hand the second she sees her teacher and runs inside without looking back. You expect him to say something — maybe a joke, maybe a quiet sigh — but instead, he just stands there for a long moment. When you brush your fingers against his, he finally speaks. “She didn’t even turn around.” You lean your head on his shoulder and whisper, “She''s growing up.”

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @angelkiyo @itsmeaudrieee @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @dazaisfavgf @virgothesimp @kurooangel @evamame

[batsovergotham]

CHAPTER 3 PART 3

you called it “a one-time thing” and then did it again immediately

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

summary - you were supposed to form an alliance. instead you slept with him three days in and now you have no idea what’s happening.

content notice: 18+ SMUT (fingering, blowjobs, cunnilingus, 69, voyeurism, biting (?), squirting, overstimulation, mean mark (not really he's just jealous), mentions of SA

a/n: thank you for all of your lovely asks and comments <3 also sorry for any mistakes its currently 3am for me

A ping wakes you like a ripple under glass.

Soft. Subtle. Persistent.

Your eyes open slowly to the dim light of the quarters. The ambient glow from the wall panels gives everything a muted, bluish tone. It's still early. Or very late. You’re not sure.

Mark is beside you, his body warm and still, one arm draped across the pillow between you. His chest rises and falls evenly. Deep sleep. He’s completely out. The kind of sleep people only have when they finally feel safe.

You blink toward the sound.

Another soft ping. A glow on the console across the room.

Transmission incoming — AQUATICA Encrypted Diplomatic Channel. Visual pending.

You don’t move for a long moment.

Just lie there, watching the pulse of the alert light up the corner of the room.

You already know what it is.

Who it is.

And you don’t want to answer it, not like this. Not half-asleep, not wrapped in silk, not with bare legs and salt-dried hair. Not with Mark asleep beside you, his hand still just barely brushing the edge of yours.

You slip out of bed carefully.

One foot to the floor. Then the other.

You move like a shadow, silently retrieving your robe from where it hangs near the headboard. But when you reach the room’s corner, you hesitate. The robe isn’t enough. You don’t want him to see you like this. Vulnerable. Disarmed.

You cross to the small standing locker near the console and quietly pull the latch.

Inside is a slate-gray wrap tunic. High collar. Neutral. Political. You dress quickly, deliberately, smoothing the fabric, trying to look somewhat presentable. You don’t make a sound. You move like you’ve done this before.

Because you have.

By the time you reach the console, your heartbeat has steadied. You exhale slowly, one hand braced on the desk, the other hovering over the interface.

You stare at the words on the screen.

AQUATICA.

You don’t need to see the image preview. You know who’s waiting on the other end.

Mer-Man.

You could ignore it. Let it time out.

You don’t.

Your fingers press against the console’s control panel.

The screen flickers.

The call connects.

The screen brightens into the murky depths of Aquatica’s royal chamber, pillars of shimmering kelp, filtration streams moving like currents behind draped coral silks, all carefully arranged to look regal. Still, the water distorts the image, gives it a ghostly blue cast, like you're speaking to something from a dream you’d rather not remember.

And then his face resolves.

Golden armor gleaming beneath aquatic plating, wide fish eyes unblinking, mouth already twitching with the kind of smile you’ve come to loathe. His teeth look sharper tonight.

“Princess,” he says, voice rolling like a tide across sand. “It soothes me to see your face again.”

You say nothing at first. You stand straight in your slate tunic, arms crossed just off-camera, expression unreadable.

He tilts his head, gills flaring with what could almost be amusement. “I was told you’d been… occupied.”

You lift your chin slightly. “You were told correctly.”

“A curious term,” he replies. “Occupied. I do wonder by what. Or by whom.”

His eyes drop.

And then linger.

Not subtle. Not passing.

They rake over the line of your collarbone, the shadow of your nightgown still visible beneath your clothing. You see it happen, the twitch of his throat, the way he leans in like he’s savoring something.

The heat rises in your chest.

You don't flinch.

But your voice sharpens like steel.

“Eyes up.”

He does not obey. At least, not immediately.

“I would have thought someone carrying Grayskull’s blade would know the value of being admired,” he purrs.

You step forward once. The console catches your full face now, jaw tight, eyes cold.

“Say another word like that, and I’ll show you exactly how Eternia deals with those who mistake reverence for ownership.”

His expression flickers.

You continue, voice low and furious.

“You think because my father pushes this alliance, I’m going to tolerate being spoken to like I’m already yours?”

He straightens, suddenly less smug. “He believes—”

“I know what he believes,” you cut in. “And I don’t care. I’m not an emissary. I’m not a bride. I’m a sword. If you’re too stupid to remember that, I’ll carve it into your throne room wall myself.”

Mer-Man blinks, and for a second, the screen flickers, like the current shifted on his end. His mouth parts, something slithering just under the surface of his expression, but he doesn’t speak.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen what this is,” you add, softer now. Dangerous. “You waited until I was visible. Valuable. Not once before that did you speak of loyalty, of admiration. But now I’ve stepped foot in the Empire, and suddenly my father’s in your ear? Suddenly you think you’ve earned a place beside me?”

He leans back, jaw tightening.

You take one step closer to the console, voice cutting low.

“You haven’t earned a damn thing.”

The silence stretches.

Then, slowly, Mer-Man’s mouth curls into something smaller. A thin smile. Less performative. Less confident.

“Strong as ever,” he murmurs. “Though I wonder how long your resolve holds, when your father’s voice becomes a command.”

Your fingers twitch at your side. You don’t summon the blade. Not yet.

But the threat of it is in the air now. It hums in your silence. In the way your shoulders roll back. In the way your eyes don’t break from his for even a second.

Behind you, the bed shifts.

At first it’s faint, the whisper of a mattress under weight, a breath caught halfway in sleep. But you hear it. You feel it. The air changes.

You don’t turn.

You’re still staring down Mer-Man through the transmission screen, holding your ground as he postures from his coral-draped throne room.

But his eyes shift past you.

And then his smile curls, slightly different now. Less smug. More amused.

“Well now,” he says, voice syrup-thick, “I see the Viltrumite Empire’s hospitality has extended… beyond protocol.”

You tense.

Mark’s voice follows, rough with sleep. Low.

“I didn’t realize you were on a call.”

You turn just enough to glance at him.

He’s barefoot, shirtless, eyes half-lidded and jaw shadowed with sleep but already watching. Already alert.

Already reading everything in the room.

You nod once. “It’s him.”

Mark’s gaze shifts to the screen. His brows rise slightly. You can see it happen, recognition landing with a muted thud.

“So that’s Mer-Man,” he says flatly. “Huh.”

He’s not impressed.

Mer-Man’s gaze lingers far too long. “So this is the one you’ve chosen to entertain instead of honoring your obligations.”

Mark blinks once. Then lifts his chin slightly.

And smiles.

But there’s nothing warm in it.

“I’m guessing this is your first time seeing someone she actually likes.”

You freeze, not because of what he said, but the tone.

Calm. Measured.

But cold enough to crack ice.

“Careful,” Mer-Man warns. “You stand in the middle of Eternia’s internal affairs.”

“Eternia sent its affairs across the galaxy,” Mark replies, still watching him. “Into my empire. I’m just making sure no one mistakes her patience for weakness.”

He walks closer, slow and casual, but it changes the whole feel of the room.

You glance up at him fully now. “Mark.”

He stops beside you.

“I’m fine,” you say, quiet but firm.

He doesn’t argue.

But he doesn’t leave either.

His posture is strange, somewhere between relaxed and ready to break something.

Mer-Man leans forward slightly looking toward Mark, his amusement starting to thin out. “You overestimate your position.”

“And you underestimate mine.”

The tension between them coils tight, two different kinds of power, neither raised in the same world, neither willing to bow.

You learn forward, slicing the moment clean.

“I’ve told you no,” you say to Mer-Man. “And no matter what my father wants, that will never change. Not for your throne. Not for politics. And not because I share a bed with someone you’ll never measure up to.”

Mer-Man’s gills twitch. His smile finally breaks.

“I should speak with your father,” he says tightly.

“You should reconsider ever speaking to me again,” you snap.

The moment Mer-Man opens his mouth again, you know.

He’s not done. He’s not scared. He’s cornered.

And cornered men, especially the petty ones, go for the throat.

“I always knew,” he says, voice curling with contempt, “that the so-called Princess of Eternia would open her legs for someone eventually.”

Mark doesn’t move behind you. Not yet. But the silence grows sharp.

Mer-Man leans forward, his teeth gleaming behind that stretched, mockery of a smile.

“I just didn’t think it’d be for some half-naked Viltrumite savage with more muscle than manners. You had the whole realm watching you. Waiting for you. And this is how you decide to show your worth? Biting him like a wild dog in heat?”

You don’t breathe.

You burn.

Mer-Man keeps going.

“You were meant to be a symbol. A weapon forged by honor. But no, it turns out you were just waiting for the first warm body with a title and enough stamina to keep you moaning for days. And now you stand there like a queen, when all you are is a—”

Mark steps forward.

“You’ve said more than enough.”

Mer-Man scoffs. “Why? Because your little conquest gets defensive when someone points out that her dignity got washed down your shower drain?”

Mark doesn’t raise his voice. “Because you're saying things that’ll get you killed.”

But it’s your voice that cuts through next, calm, quiet, sharp.

“I’ve killed people for less than what you just said.”

Mer-Man blinks.

You lean forward.

“I’ve torn men open for implying I was soft. For thinking my title meant I could be traded like an ornament. You want to stand there and call me a whore? Say my choices made me dirty?”

You tilt your head. Just enough.

“I’ve buried better men with cleaner hands than yours. And their last words weren’t nearly this stupid.”

Mark is still. Silent.

But the weight of him at your back is a presence Mer-Man can’t ignore.

You continue.

“You think this is about purity? About being first?” You scoff. “You don’t even see me. You see a woman you didn’t get to break in. You think sleeping with him makes me yours by default, because now I’m used.”

Mer-Man’s face twists.

You step closer to the console.

“He touched me because I wanted him to. Marked me because I begged for it. You weren’t even a thought.”

Mer-Man quickly snaps back at Mark, “You didn’t even care about her, you just wanted to see if you could take her from me.”

Mark speaks again. Voice low.

“You think this is about sex? You think I needed to fuck her to prove anything to you?”

He lifts his chin slightly.

“I’ve seen her fight. She doesn’t need saving, and she sure as hell doesn’t need whatever fucked-up loyalty you think you’re offering.”

He looks at the man, jaw tight.

“She chose me because she wanted to.”

A breath. Quiet. 

“And I still can’t believe she let me close.”

You swallow.

But your rage hasn’t cooled.

Mer-Man hisses, “You could’ve been my queen—”

“I would’ve rather died.”

His breath catches.

You stare him down, unflinching.

“All that power, and still nothing but a tantrum in a throne room. Try to shame me again, and next time I don’t stop at words, I'll put you and your empire on your knees.”

Mark’s hand brushes your back. Light. Grounding.

But you don’t look away.

And then, without waiting for his next breath, you cut the call.

The screen goes black.

And the silence it leaves behind is beautiful.

Mark exhales.

And says nothing.

You stand there, jaw tight, chest burning.

Then you feel his hand settle more firmly at your back. Just a touch.

“You didn’t need me,” he murmurs.

You nod.

“But I’m glad you were there.”

You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until the words are already out.

“It’s only been a few days. We don’t really know each other. Not all the way. But it’s been… fast. And I’m not trying to say that’s bad, I just—” You stop. Try again. “I don’t usually move like this. Or feel like this.”

Another beat.

“And earlier. When Marky called me mom…”

Mark stiffens.

You notice.

Your voice drops.

“I saw the way your whole face changed. You shut down. You didn’t yell or flinch, but I could feel it. Like a door closing between us.”

Mark exhales softly, but still says nothing.

“I don’t blame you,” you add quickly. “I’m not mad. I just—I don’t want to make things harder for you. Or for him.”

Your throat tightens.

“And then I remembered what you told me. About her. About what she did to you.”

Mark’s eyes are on you now, fully.

“I’m not bringing it up to make you talk about it again,” you say, a little faster now, like you’re trying to get ahead of the pain. “I just keep thinking, I don’t want to be another thing that happened to you. Another moment you didn’t really choose.”

Mark blinks. His jaw clenches once, then relaxes.

“If being with me… in that way… is too close to that memory, or if it feels like pressure, then I can stop. I mean it.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“I’ll stop.”

Silence stretches between you like a tight wire.

Mark steps forward, slow. Controlled. No sudden movements.

“You think I didn’t want you?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “I think maybe I moved too fast. Or maybe I asked for something you weren’t ready to give.”

Mark shakes his head.

“No. You didn’t ask for anything. You offered something. And I said yes. I wanted it.”

His voice is low, but steady. Careful.

“I still want it.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t trust your voice yet.

Mark shifts again. His expression is harder to read now. Like he’s choosing every word carefully before it leaves his mouth.

“What happened with Anissa… it wasn’t sex. It wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t anything. She took something I didn’t offer. I didn’t get to choose.”

He pauses.

“You’re not like her.”

That lands hard.

Mark continues, voice tight. “I know it’s only been a few days. I know we don’t have history. But everything you’ve given me, your time, your trust, your body, you chose that. You didn’t try to own me. You didn’t try to fix me. You just… showed up.”

He looks down for a second. Runs a hand over his jaw.

“When Marky called you mom, yeah, it messed me up. Not because it was wrong. But because it didn’t feel wrong.”

You blink.

Mark nods slowly. “I didn’t expect to feel that. It hit me in a weird place. Not bad. Just loud. I didn’t know what I was allowed to feel about it.”

You soften slightly. “So it wasn’t me?”

He looks up, straight into your eyes.

“No. It was me trying not to get ahead of myself.”

Your breath shakes a little.

Mark steps closer again, slow. His hand lifts, like he wants to touch your face but won’t unless you let him.

“I don’t want to push you away,” he says. “And I don’t want you to pull back because you think I’m not ready. I am. I just…” He exhales. “I’m still figuring out how to let good things in again.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t mean to make anything harder.”

“You didn’t.”

“I don’t want to be a stand-in for something else you lost.”

“You’re not.”

You look at him for a long time.

And then, finally, you step forward, just a little. Close enough that your hand brushes his chest.

“You sure?”

Mark lets out the softest breath. Almost a laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He reaches for your hand and laces your fingers together.

“I want you here. I don’t care if it’s been two days or two years. You’re not someone I regret.”

You lean into him. Slowly. Like testing your weight on a frozen river.

And when his arms come around you, it’s solid. Steady.

No shaking.

Just him.

Holding you like you’re the only thing in the room that makes sense.

Mark doesn’t speak again. And you don’t push for more.

Some things don’t need to be said twice.

Instead, you shift slightly, letting the quiet settle between you like something warm and real. There’s no tension in it. No hesitation. Just breath. Yours and his. In rhythm. In reach.

You glance toward the bed, still turned down, sheets rumpled from where you sat earlier when everything felt heavier. You hadn’t expected company. You hadn’t expected him to stay.

But now, he’s here.

The nightgown you changed into earlier still clings to your skin in the way light silk does after warmth has passed through it. The hem is short, riding high on your thighs, and when you lie back on the bed, it slips even further. You don’t bother adjusting it.

You’re too tired to feel modest. And too honest to pretend you're not past pretending.

Mark follows you, slower now. His bare chest, still marked with the evidence of you, catches the low light.

You watch the way he exhales. Like he’s not sure if this is too much. If staying is too close to something he lost before.

But then he looks at you.

And whatever doubt was left disappears.

He comes to you carefully, like a man used to breaking things by accident. Not because he’s careless, but because he doesn’t always realize what’s fragile until it’s in his hands.

When he sits beside you, the mattress dips under his weight. His thigh presses lightly against yours, bare skin to bare skin, and your breath catches, not because it’s sexual, but because it’s real.

You turn first.

Rolling into him slowly, like the tide pulling toward shore. One arm finds his stomach, resting lightly across the warmth of his skin. His breathing hitches once, then evens out again as your touch settles him.

Mark wraps around you without needing instruction.

His arm comes over your waist. His hand slides up your back, warm and broad, fingers splaying gently between your shoulder blades. His body curves into yours with a kind of practiced protectiveness that doesn’t feel like instinct, it feels like choice.

He pulls you close. Not to claim. Not to control.

To hold.

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

He’s still asleep when your eyes open, the soft hum of the Viltrumite ship’s systems casting a faint blue glow through the viewport. No alarms, no voices over comms, no footsteps in the corridor. Just this quiet pocket of stillness, rare, almost sacred. You don't move. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting just under the hem of your nightgown, warm against your stomach. The slow rise and fall of his chest behind you is hypnotic, comforting.

He’s turned the other way, back mostly exposed to you except where the sheets hang low on his hips, clinging to that sharp V that vanishes into the waistband of his boxers. His shoulders stretch broad and solid, the muscle under his skin carved tight from years of war and gravity-defying flight. You follow the slope of his spine with your eyes, the faint scars and mottled patches of healed skin speaking to things he’s never fully put into words. You know what he is, what he was raised to be, but none of that matters here. Not now. In sleep, he doesn’t look like a soldier or a leader. He looks like a man who finally let himself rest.

And it does something to you. Quiet, aching heat that spreads through your chest, down between your legs.

You don’t touch him. Don’t even shift. Just lie there and take him in. The way the early light kisses the ridge of his shoulder. The soft tangle of dark hair at the base of his neck. His lips slightly parted, breath slow and warm when it drifts across the space between you.

You imagine what it would be like to reach out and trace that line down his back with your fingers. To feel him stir beneath your touch. You imagine pressing your lips there instead, tasting sleep-warmed skin, hearing the way his voice might rasp your name without fully waking.

But you don't. He’s been through too much, confessions, wounds, Marky calling you “Mommy” in his sleep like it was instinct. You know he's still carrying that.

So you wait.

It starts small, the change in his breathing. Just a shift in rhythm, more shallow, more awake. You feel the barest twitch of his fingers at your stomach before his arm tightens around you, pulling you back, flush against the heat of his chest.

And then his lips are on your neck.

Not eager or demanding. Just soft at first. Curious. Slow. He breathes you in, nose brushing the dip below your ear before he kisses it, barely more than a graze, as if testing whether you’re awake or still dreaming.

He presses another kiss, lower this time, where your jaw meets the base of your throat. It lingers, the shape of his mouth warm and careful. His teeth scrapes faintly across your skin, and you exhale, trying not to move. Trying not to chase that contact. His hand on your waist shifts with you, keeping you close.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, burying his face there for a moment like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. The heat of him surrounds you. The press of his body, the quiet weight of his presence. His breath hits your shoulder, warm and uneven now.

Then he kisses you again. Slower. Deeper. His lips part slightly, tongue flicking the spot he just kissed. It makes you shiver.

“You were watching me sleep, weren’t you?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement.

You hesitate, caught. He smiles against your throat, his hand sliding from your waist to your thigh. Just a touch. Not pushing. Not taking. Just holding you there like he needs you to stay anchored to him.

“Didn’t think you’d wake up,” you say, your voice soft.

“Didn’t think you’d be checking me out,” he counters, kissing the hollow just beneath your ear. “You like what you see?”

You scoff, trying to turn your face away, but he follows you, lips brushing your neck again, slower this time, more deliberate. His teeth graze you lightly. You inhale too sharply. His smile grows.

“You do,” he whispers, sliding his hand up again, over your stomach, fingers splaying just under your ribs. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to look. I’m yours to look at.”

That shuts you up.

He kisses you again, lower, firmer now, right where your shoulder meets your collarbone, like he’s trying to leave a memory there. You feel the press of him at your lower back, the warm hardness through his boxers undeniable now. He’s not asking for anything. Just showing you he’s here. That he wants to be.

“I can feel your heart beating,” he murmurs, voice gone quiet again. “It’s fast.”

You finally speak. “You’re the one with your mouth on my neck.”

“Mmm,” he chuckles softly, dragging his teeth over your skin again. “So tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you reach behind, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him there.

Your legs tangle, one of his knees slipping between your thighs in a way that feels more like safety than anything else. You shift slightly, the soft fabric of your nightgown brushing his hips, and you feel him exhale into your hair.

His nose grazes the side of your temple. You tilt your face up, and your foreheads touch, barely there.

“Are you warm enough?” he murmurs.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah.”

“You comfortable?”

“Yes.”

He pauses.

“Are you okay with this?”

You open your eyes just enough to see his face, lit only by the faint glow from the console screen still humming in standby.

“I want this,” you whisper.

His hand slides lower on your back, thumb brushing idly along your spine.

“You sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more sure of anything while lying down.”

He lets out a low breath, quiet and soft. You feel the sound more than you hear it, the way it moves through his chest and into your cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

And for once, it doesn’t feel like something someone says just to make the dark feel smaller.

You believe him.

His hand stills between your shoulder blades. You feel the rise and fall of his chest. The slow, even rhythm of breath finally settling into peace. His lips press once, just once, into your hairline.

And for the first time since you left Eternia, since you stepped onto a ship that wasn't yours, into a world that didn’t know your name, you feel like you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

His fingers don’t let go of yours when you say it. Like maybe you weren’t just tolerating this, letting him kiss you because of some broken night or raw emotion, but wanting it. Wanting him. And something in him exhales. You feel it against your back, a quiet release of tension you hadn’t realized was still strung through his chest.

He shifts behind you, slow and deliberate. The arm around your waist draws you in, folding you back into the heat of him. His bare chest presses against your spine, his breath grazing your neck in shallow, hungry bursts. The sheets rustle, bodies aligning under them without a word. His thigh slides between yours, his hip nudging against your backside, and your body fits into his like you were meant to wake up this way.

His lips return to your neck, but this time they linger. The kisses deepen, less soft, more open-mouthed now. More claiming. He finds a spot just beneath your ear and breathes against it first, like he's memorizing the shape of your skin before committing it to touch. Then he closes his mouth around it, tongue warm, lips plush, and begins to suck.

You feel the pull immediately. That dull, electric throb blooming under the surface as blood rises to meet his mouth. It’s not hard, not at first. Just enough pressure to make you squirm and bite your lip. You shift under him slightly, the friction against your thighs sending sparks through you. Your breath catches when he pulls off with a wet sound, only to soothe the sore spot with a lazy stroke of his tongue.

“You’re gonna bruise me again,” you whisper, but your voice betrays you, it’s not a protest.

He hums low, pleased. His hand slides under your shirt again, splaying wide over your bare stomach. Warm. Anchoring. “That’s the idea,” he murmurs against your skin.

He moves down, leaving a trail. Lower. His mouth finds the soft place between your shoulder and collarbone. He sucks harder this time, teeth grazing the spot gently before his tongue laps over it. You flinch, more from sensation than pain, and he tightens his arm around you in response, murmuring something wordless against your skin. Like he doesn’t want you to slip away now that he has you close.

Another hickey. This one deeper. You know it’ll last. You feel the heat of it blooming even after his mouth moves on.

And still he isn’t rushing. Each kiss is slow, calculated, like he’s thinking through the shape of every bruise he leaves behind. Like each one is a sentence he doesn’t have the words for yet. You exhale shakily when he returns to your neck, closer to your throat now, the suction deeper, the pressure firmer. You can’t help the sound that escapes you then, a small, helpless gasp, and you feel him smile against you.

“God, I like that,” he murmurs. “Look at you, squirming under me, all flushed and pretty looking. Can’t even take a little teasing, can you?”

His voice is softer now, still low, but there’s something darker edging in. Not dangerous. Not possessive in a cruel way. Just want. Bare, unfiltered want. And he isn’t hiding it.

He nudges your hair with his nose, tongue flicking the fresh bruise as his other hand rises to cradle your jaw, tipping your head just enough to bare more of your neck to him. His thumb rests under your chin. Not pushing, just holding.

“I wanted to do this last night,” he admits, kissing just beneath your jaw. “After you shut him down. When you told him no. Told him you chose me.”

His hand at your stomach slides up slightly, fingers brushing the swell beneath your breast. Not groping, just... there. Like he’s too full of feeling to keep still.

“I didn’t think I’d get something like this,” he says quietly. “Not after her. Not after everything that Ileft behind.”

He pauses, breath brushing your skin before he presses a slow kiss to the base of your throat.

“But you… you make it feel like I don’t have to be that version of me anymore.”

Then his mouth is back, and the next mark he leaves is just under your collarbone, darker than the rest. You can feel your heart thudding under it.

You reach back without thinking, threading your fingers into his hair, anchoring him there. He groans quietly when you do, like your touch lit something raw under his skin. His hips shift, pressing harder against you. You can feel the shape of him now, thick and half-hard, pressed right into the dip of your backside. But he doesn’t push it. He just holds you tighter, breath hot at your neck.

“You’re mine here,” he says again, this time firmer, whisper-rough against your skin. “I want them to see you’re mine.”

You swallow hard. Your voice is barely there when you speak.

“Then don’t stop.”

His fingers don’t just slide, they sink into you with purpose, and you feel every inch of it. The moment he pushes in, the heat of your core envelops him, walls clenching instinctively around the intrusion, slick and hot and aching for more. He breathes hard against your skin when he feels it, how soaked you are already, how your body pulses around the stretch like it’s been waiting for him all night.

He stays still for a second, two fingers buried inside, letting you feel how deep he is, letting you adjust to the fullness. His knuckles press against your entrance, his palm flush against the curve of your mound. Then he starts to move, slow, deliberate pumps that drag against the soft ridges inside you, his fingers curling upward on every stroke, nudging that sweet, tender spot that makes your stomach knot.

You jerk under the intensity, hips rolling forward, chasing the pressure, and he adjusts without missing a beat. His other arm tightens around your middle, holding you steady against him, anchoring you while he works you open from the inside out. His mouth never leaves your skin, kissing the base of your neck, then lower, down your shoulder, his tongue flicking out to taste the sweat already rising on your skin.

Every stroke of his fingers is measured, he draws them out almost to the tips, teasing the edge of you, then pushes back in, deeper, curling just enough to make your toes curl. The pads of his fingers rub against the spot inside you that makes your whole body flutter. And then his palm rocks up in perfect counterpoint, grinding against your clit with every thrust.

The friction builds fast. You bite your lip, then bite your own wrist, trying to stay quiet. You’re soaked now, so wet that the sound of his fingers sliding in and out of your cunt fills the room with slick, obscene sounds. It should embarrass you. It doesn’t. Not with the way he’s holding you. Not with the way he’s working you, like he knows your body better than you do.

“Right here,” he breathes, lips dragging over your throat. “So tight around me… like you don’t want to let go.”

He thrusts his fingers harder then, and your hips buck back against him. The angle changes, sharper, deeper. He curls them again, and your legs tremble around his thigh, thighs trying to close but caught open by his body behind you.

He doesn’t stop. His fingers piston into you now with a relentless rhythm, steady and slick and deep. His palm presses harder against your clit, grinding slow, rhythmic circles. Your body responds on instinct, hips rocking, spine arching, your breath breaking in gasps. The tension in your belly coils tight, impossibly tight, your orgasm building like a storm.

“That's it,” he whispers, kissing your jaw, your shoulder, your cheek, everything he can reach without letting you go. “Let it happen. Come on, baby, come for me.”

The words hit something raw in you, something tender and wide open. Your whole body locks up for a moment, every nerve on fire, and then you’re coming. Hard. Gasping, shaking in his arms, your cunt clenching violently around his fingers. The pulse of it rips through you in waves, and he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t slow down, he works you through every second of it, rubbing tight circles on your clit until you’re trembling so hard you can barely breathe.

Your voice breaks, half a sob, half a moan, as your orgasm crashes down and flows through you. He groans behind you, low and quiet, but never moves to take. He just keeps holding you, fucking you through it with slow, deep strokes until you whimper and squirm away, too sensitive to bear another touch.

Only then does he ease his fingers out of you, careful, slow. Your slick coats them, shining in the low light. He brings them to his mouth without hesitation and sucks them clean, watching you the whole time with something quiet and intense in his eyes. Then he pulls you in tighter, chest pressed to your back, breath warm and steady at your ear.

Your body’s still humming, every inch of skin hypersensitive, heat blooming low in your belly even as your legs tremble from the orgasm he coaxed out of you minutes ago. But he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t backed off. Hasn’t even let go. One arm stays wrapped tight around your waist, anchoring you to him, while the other traces slow, lazy patterns across your bare stomach, his fingers dragging through the thin sheen of sweat and slick he helped put there. He breathes deep against the back of your neck, chest rising and falling against your spine, slow but tight, like he’s trying to keep himself calm, and failing.

He shifts, just slightly, grinding his hips forward, nothing forceful, just enough to make you feel him. The thick press of his cock, rock-hard and insistent through his boxers, nudges right against the curve of your ass. And it’s so much, all of him, the heat, the weight, the want radiating off his body. You gasp softly, and he smiles into your shoulder, lips brushing your skin.

He presses a kiss there, then another. Then a bite, firm enough to make you jolt, a flash of sensation that sparks straight down your spine. His tongue follows it, slow and warm. Then he murmurs against the damp skin of your shoulder blade.

“Open your mouth for me.”

It’s not a command. Not rough or performative. It’s soft. Intimate. An invitation more than anything else, though there’s an edge of certainty in his tone, like he knows you will. Like you’ve already said yes, and now he’s just taking what’s his.

You tilt your head instinctively, eyes fluttering half-closed as you part your lips. There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing. You’re open before he even finishes the thought, breath catching in your throat, body already aching for whatever comes next.

His hand drifts up your torso, fingertips ghosting along your ribs until his thumb brushes your chin, guiding you just slightly, just enough so he can see your mouth. He groans softly when he does, voice quiet and a little too breathless.

“Fuck,” he says, just under his breath. “Look at you.”

Then he leans over you, his mouth parting just above yours. You feel it before you see it, his tongue sliding against his lip, the sharp inhale through his nose. And then—

Spit.

A slow, warm string drops from his mouth to yours, thick and deliberate, landing heavy on your tongue. It’s immediate heat, shock and thrill and raw intimacy all at once. Your lips stay parted, your breath hitching. You swallow without even meaning to, a reflex wrapped in want.

And he watches you do it.

His fingers trail down your throat as you swallow, tracing the movement, and the sound he makes, deep, low in his chest, is somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. “You stayed so still. You liked it, didn’t you?”

He’s not mocking. There’s no smugness, no pride in the usual sense. It’s wonder. A kind of reverent disbelief, like he didn’t expect this from you, not because he thought you couldn’t, but because no one’s ever wanted him enough to take it like that. No one’s ever let him get this close.

And then he kisses you.

Deep, messy, slow. His mouth crashes into yours, tongue sweeping in to taste his own spit, to taste you. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb pressing gently into your cheek as he drags the kiss deeper, wetter, until your lips are slick and swollen and you’re gasping into him.

You moan, low and helpless, and he answers with a quiet curse, his hips rolling again, this time with more pressure, more need. His cock throbs where it’s pressed against you, still trapped behind fabric, but he doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t rush to tear clothes off or shove inside you. He just grinds, slow and steady, letting you feel exactly how undone you’ve made him.

“You feel what you fucking do to me?” he pants into your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and uneven. “You don’t even know…”

His hand slips back down between your legs, fingers sliding effortlessly through your slick folds again. You’re soaked, still throbbing, still open, still aching, and he groans when he feels it.

He mumbles, almost to himself, dragging a thick line through your slit and up to circle your clit again. “Didn’t even need to touch you again, and you’re still this wet…”

You move like you already know what he needs, slow, steady, aching with purpose. The room hums around you, quiet but thick with heat, with breath, with everything unsaid. You shift above him this time, straddling his chest, his hands already on your thighs, wide palms smoothing up the curve of your ass, guiding you up the length of his body. He watches every inch of the motion with that same dark, focused gaze, like he’s trying to burn you into memory.

You turn around, knees planted on either side of his ribs, the cool air brushing your wet folds as you hover above his face. His cock lies heavy against his stomach beneath you, flushed deep, the tip shining, twitching with the pulse racing under his skin. You feel it throb when you lean down, just hovering over it, your breath ghosting across the head as you brace your palms beside his hips.

“Come here,” he breathes, voice thick. “Sit on my face. Please.”

And it’s the please that undoes you.

You shift back, slow and trembling, your thighs tensing as you lower yourself. His hands grip your hips, firm but not forceful, guiding you down that last inch until your cunt presses flush to his mouth, and then he groans.

Not just at the taste. At the feel. The weight of you. The heat. The slick.

He licks you like he’s been craving it for days. Broad, deep strokes from the bottom of your folds to your clit, tongue hot and flat and slow, gathering every drop. Your breath catches instantly, thighs twitching around his head, hips jerking as you grind down against the rhythm of his mouth.

“Fuck—Mark…” You try to lift off him, overwhelmed, but he growls against you and pulls you down harder.

“Stay,” he pants, voice muffled, tongue already sliding between your folds again, fucking into you with messy, eager strokes. “Don’t run. I’ve got you.”

And he does. His hands settle on your ass, spreading you open as he buries his mouth in you, licking with an obscene, desperate hunger. His nose presses against your clit with every drag of his tongue, every tilt of his jaw, and the way he moans under you, like he’s drowning in it, loving every second, sends lightning through your spine.

Your thighs shake. Your whole body starts to hum. But you’re not just melting, you’re moving.

Because below you, his cock is still there. Waiting.

You lower your mouth to him, breath shaking as you press a kiss to the tip, tasting the salt of him. Then you drag your tongue down the length of his shaft, slow and firm, licking all the way to the base. He groans against your cunt, his tongue flicking faster at your clit in response, hips twitching beneath your mouth.

You take him in, inch by inch, your lips stretching, jaw wide around the thick weight of him. Your hand strokes what you can’t fit, and when you moan around him, his whole body reacts, his mouth pressing harder against you, tongue circling, then flattening, then flicking in rhythm that makes your vision blur.

It’s a loop. A climb. You suck him slow and deep, moaning softly, and he licks you harder for it. He groans into you, and your mouth tightens around him in answer. Your hips start to move, grinding over his tongue, chasing the peak building low in your belly. Every wet suck, every flick of his tongue, every stroke of your lips up his cock, it feeds the fire, heightens the mess of it all.

Your mouth pulls off him with a gasp as your climax hits. Your thighs clamp around his head, your back arches, and you cry out, your slick gushing into his mouth as you come, hard and sudden, your whole body trembling above him. He doesn’t stop. He groans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down, keeping you on his mouth while he licks you through it, tasting every twitch, every drop.

“Fuck, Mark, fuck—” you breathe, half a sob.

And when the tremors start to fade, when your arms nearly collapse, you lean forward again and take him back into your mouth, more desperate now. Your hands grip his thighs for balance as you suck him hard and deep, your saliva mixing with the precum already leaking from the tip, your lips wet and stretched as you take more of him.

He gasps beneath you, voice rough. “Shit—baby—”

You suck faster, your tongue swirling, your throat relaxing as you take him deeper, almost to the base. His thighs tense. His hips jerk once, twice, but he holds still, letting you work him with your mouth, your jaw aching, your mouth soaked.

And then he breaks.

His cock throbs on your tongue as he groans beneath you, long and ragged, his hands squeezing your hips hard as he comes, hot, thick spurts filling your mouth as you suck him through it. You swallow, one deep, slow gulp, then lick him clean, your tongue gentle now, soothing.

His breath stutters. His tongue slows. Then stops. He presses one last kiss to your soaked cunt, lips dragging across the crease of your thigh.

You shift off him gently, your legs shaky, your mouth tingling, every inch of you glowing and exhausted and electric. He presses his forehead to yours, thumb stroking your jaw. His lips are wet, slick with you, and he kisses you slow, like he’s proud to wear it.

Your body’s wrung out and buzzing, skin flushed all over, still damp with sweat and slick, trembling in the aftermath of the last orgasm that ripped through you like lightning. You can barely keep your eyes open, lashes fluttering against your cheeks, lips parted as you gasp for breath, but Mark hasn’t moved away.

He’s is between your thighs now, hands steady, holding you open like he owns this space between your legs. His broad palms keep your legs spread wide, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs while your cunt pulses, twitching from the aftershocks. He hasn’t let go. Hasn’t stopped.

And neither has his thumb.

He’s rubbing your clit again, still. That same unbearable rhythm. Soft. Tight circles. Slow enough to make you sob.

“Mark,” you plead, your voice breaking, throat raw. Your hands reach down, desperate, clawing at his wrist. “It’s too much. I can’t—please, please—”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. His expression is calm, focused, his brows drawn, lips parted slightly as he stares down at your cunt like it’s something divine. You’re gushing wet again, thighs sticky, every movement of his thumb drawing another helpless twitch from your hips.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs finally, voice deep and low, brushing against your ribs like a shiver. His hand doesn’t stop moving. “Don’t push me away.”

You whimper, hips jerking. You’re trying to close your legs, but his grip stays steady, unshakable. He spreads you wider, the stretch of it burning through your hips, and his thumb never leaves your clit. The motion is maddening, tight little circles, just enough pressure, never enough relief.

“Mark, please—” your voice breaks again, and your eyes roll back as your thighs convulse around his shoulders.

“You can take it,” he says softly. He leans forward, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another. “I know you can. You’ve already done it once. You’ll do it again.”

“I—I can’t—” you sob, full-body trembling now.

“You will,” he breathes, and his voice is so soft it hurts. “One more. Just one more. That’s all I want. One more, and then I’ll stop.”

But you don’t believe him.

Your body’s already unraveling again, already clenched so tight around the heat building low in your belly it’s painful. Your clit is so sensitive it feels like you’re on fire, and every time his thumb circles, just a little slower, just a little more pressure, you flinch, breath shattering in your chest.

Your hands are useless now. You tried to push him away, tried to grab his wrist, but your strength’s gone. Melted. Your arms tremble where they lay limp at your sides, your knuckles white from how hard you gripped the sheets.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart,” he says, quiet and warm. “I can see how badly you want it.”

“Can you hear it?” He presses just a little harder on your clit, and the slick sound is unmistakable, wet, obscene. “That’s you. That’s all you.”

You whine, high and broken, and he leans in, his mouth brushing your cheek, his breath hot at your ear.

“Let go again,” he murmurs, and there’s no teasing in his voice now. Just quiet reverence. “I’m right here. Let me see you come again.”

You shake your head, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t. I can’t, Mark—”

“Yes, you can,” he says, and his hand starts moving faster now, his thumb rubbing quicker, tighter, his fingers pressing into your thigh like he’s grounding you. “You’re almost there. I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. So fucking close.”

And then your body snaps.

Your hips buck off the bed. Your back arches so hard your shoulders lift off the sheets. You sob, loud and broken, as the orgasm crashes through you like a wave, harder than the first, sharper, more overwhelming. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, spasming, and then—

You squirt.

It hits hard, gushing past your folds, spraying his hand, his chest, soaking the sheets under you in a hot, wet flood. The release is violent, beautiful, and he groans deep in his throat, still rubbing your clit as you cry out again, louder this time, tears spilling from your eyes as your whole body convulses.

“There it is,” he says, voice awed. “Fuck, look at you.”

Your legs kick weakly against his hands, thighs twitching out of control. Your hips can’t stay still, spasming with every flick of his thumb. You sob again, broken open, too raw to form words, and he finally slows down, finally eases the pressure, his thumb rubbing gentler now, dragging soft, wet circles over your trembling clit.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing your thigh again. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

You can’t. Not at first. Your lungs shudder as you gasp in air, your chest heaving, your body slick with sweat and slick and tears. Your hands reach for him blindly, needing something to hold onto, and he moves without hesitation, sliding up over your body, gathering you into his arms.

He’s warm. Steady. Solid.

His lips brush your temple. “That’s my girl.”

And you collapse into him, shaking, completely undone.

He cradles you close, your body still trembling from the last orgasm he wrung out of you, your inner thighs slick and twitching, every breath a shiver in your lungs. The bed is soaked beneath you, the air warm and wet with your scent, your skin, your cries.

But then he shifts above you, slow, deliberate, pressing his chest against yours, his hand sliding down your side until he’s gripping your thigh, lifting it to his hip. He lines himself up between your folds, the thick weight of his cock dragging against your soaked slit, teasing.

You moan, too loud. Your voice cracks the silence like a bolt, and Mark freezes.

He glances toward the door. Listens.

Footsteps echo faintly in the corridor. Muffled. Distant. Too close.

Then his eyes are back on yours, darker now, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not amused. Knowing.

“Can’t be loud, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your jaw. “Not here. You don’t want them to hear, do you?”

You shake your head, your lips already parting to answer, but before the sound can escape, his palm is over your mouth.

“Good girl,” he breathes, and then he pushes inside.

You arch under him, a choked gasp breaking against his hand. He groans quietly, his forehead pressing against yours as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. Your cunt’s still soaked and swollen, so he glides in smoothly, but the stretch, the pressure, it steals your breath all over again.

He bottoms out with a low grunt, and your eyes roll back.

“Shh…” he whispers. “We’ve got to be quiet.”

He starts to move. Slow at first, deep thrusts that grind into you with precision. His hips rock forward and roll back, fucking you into the wet, ruined sheets with a steady rhythm. His cock hits just right, dragging against every sensitive spot that’s still raw from what he already gave you.

He’s still inside you, deep, slow, steady, fucking you with the kind of control that borders on cruelty. Your body’s already overworked, soft with exhaustion, hypersensitive and wet from everything he’s already dragged out of you, but now he’s moving again, hips rolling in a rhythm that’s deeper, heavier, not frantic, but relentless.

You moan before you even mean to, the sound raw, high, helpless.

And that’s when he clamps his hand over your mouth.

You freeze, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat, and his thrust doesn’t stop for even a second. He lowers his body over yours, the weight of him pinning you down, chest to chest, skin to burning skin, and he leans close to your ear, voice low and quiet and so calm.

“Shhh, baby. No noise,” he breathes, his breath hot across your temple. “You want someone hearing you like this?”

You shake your head, the sound of your muffled whimper catching under his palm. You can’t even nod properly, your head pinned between the pillow and his body, but he feels your answer, the frantic shudder that runs through you when he drives back into your soaked, pulsing cunt.

He grins into your skin, soft and wicked.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. “So you’re gonna be good for me, yeah? Keep those pretty sounds tucked right here?”

He taps two fingers lightly against your lips.

You try, God, you try, but his cock is dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every slow, rolling thrust, and your body’s going tight again already, every nerve screaming for release, hips twitching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He fucks you harder.

Your cry slips out, muffled against his palm, soaked into his skin, and he doesn’t miss a beat. His pace picks up, thrusts sharper now, your wetness making each one louder, filthier, the slap of his hips against your thighs echoing in the room.

“Thought you said you could stay quiet,” he growls softly, dragging his hand down your face just enough to slip two fingers into your open mouth.

You suck them in instantly, desperate to be filled anywhere, your tongue curling around his fingers as you moan into them. His hips grind deep again, burying his cock in you to the hilt, and your eyes roll back, thighs trembling around his waist.

“That’s better,” he breathes, watching you fall apart with his fingers in your mouth. “There we go. Keep your mouth full, baby. Helps you think, doesn’t it?”

You nod, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his back, your nails dragging down the slick plane of muscle there as your climax spirals toward you again, too fast, too much, but inevitable.

He keeps fucking you, deep and hard and slow, fingers in your mouth, eyes on your face.

“You’re such a mess,” he whispers. “Dripping down my cock. Shaking under me. If they heard the sounds you're making? If they saw what I’m doing to you?” He bites down on your neck, soft, but enough to make you cry out around his fingers. “They’d never look at you the same.”

Your cunt clenches hard around him at that, body jolting, your legs tightening around his waist, and he feels it. Groans against your throat, fingers sliding deeper into your mouth until you gag, tears springing to your eyes.

He loves it.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take all of it.”

Your orgasm crashes down without warning, white-hot, blinding, brutal. Your body locks up, spasming beneath him, your cunt pulsing around his cock so hard it punches a groan out of his chest. You sob around his fingers, legs clenching, tears spilling down your temples as your back arches off the bed.

He fucks you through it. Doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let you go.

And your body obeys, like it belongs to him now, like it’s been trained to break apart under his hands and no one else’s.

Your body is already far past what you thought it could handle, limbs trembling, mouth slack, thighs soaked and spread wide beneath him. Your skin hums, hypersensitive, every nerve raw from the overload of touch and pressure and heat he’s carved into you with every breath, every inch of his cock.

Mark is still inside you, buried deep, moving slow but unrelenting. Not teasing. Not gentle. Not anymore.

He’s fucking you like he’s etching himself into your body, deep, grinding thrusts that make your legs twitch and your breath catch in your throat. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs dragging possessive circles into your skin, his body pressed tight to yours. You’re surrounded by him, his weight, his scent, the heat of his breath in your ear.

And then his voice drops, low and quiet, heat coiled tight in every word.

“Tell me you were never gonna marry him.”

You freeze for half a second, brain fogged and flickering under the rhythm of his hips. The name doesn’t pass his lips, but you know who he means. The one they tried to push you toward. The one they paraded around like a solution to everything.

You moan instead of answering, breath shuddering in your lungs.

But he slows.

His thrusts drag out, deep, grinding, holding at the edge of pain and pressure, and his fingers dig in just a little harder.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, his voice low and patient in that way that makes your core clench around him. “Say it.”

You try. Your mouth opens. But the words catch somewhere behind your tongue.

He pulls back, just an inch, and slams back into you, hard enough to rock you up the bed.

“Say it.”

You cry out, breath breaking in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets. “I—I wasn’t—”

Another thrust. Deeper. The slap of his hips against yours echoes loud in the quiet room.

“I wasn’t gonna marry him!” you gasp. “I wasn’t—I never was!”

And that’s when he groans, low and guttural, and starts fucking you harder.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes. “That’s the truth. Say it again.”

You do.

“I wasn’t gonna marry him—Mark, fuck—never—”

He grins into your neck, biting your shoulder just enough to make your back arch.

“Good. Because this—” he thrusts again, grinding in so deep it knocks the wind from you “—this is the only thing that belongs inside you.”

You moan, breathless, wrecked, your cunt clenching hard around him.

“You feel that?” he growls. “How deep I am? How full I make you?”

You nod, helpless, body jerking as he hits that perfect spot again and again.

And then his voice drops even lower, like he’s whispering something meant for your body, not your ears.

“Now tell me,” he says, “this is the only cock you need.”

Your eyes snap open, tears welling. The pressure inside you is unbearable, climbing again, your orgasm building like a wave about to crash and take everything with it.

He pulls back and fucks into you hard, hips snapping against yours. “Say it.”

You whimper. “I—I can’t—”

Another thrust. Brutal. Deep.

“You can,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll stop. I’ll pull out and leave you like this.”

Your hands claw at his back, legs tightening around his waist.

“Say it,” he groans, voice hoarse. “Or I’ll make you come around nothing.”

You break.

“This—fuck—this is the only cock I need,” you gasp. “Only yours, Mark. No one else. Just yours.”

He moans low in his throat, thrusting harder now, his hand sliding under your ass to angle you up, hitting even deeper. Your body bows up into him, and you sob the words again.

“Yours! I need yours—only yours—please don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t. He fucks you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, hips pounding, voice in your ear, filthy and hungry and so sure.

“That’s it. Say it again. Louder.”

“Yours! Just you—only you—I’m yours—”

Your orgasm tears through you again, your cunt pulsing, gushing around him, body shaking so violently your hands lose grip of the sheets. You scream his name, eyes fluttering, mouth open wide as you ride it out.

He fucks you through it, thrusts growing ragged, and then he groans, loud and broken, and comes deep inside you, hips snapping hard one last time, grinding in until you feel every pulse of his release flooding your cunt.

And even then, he doesn’t pull out.

He stays inside you, chest heaving, lips at your ear.

“Say it one more time,” he whispers, voice shaking. “While I’m still inside you.”

You do.

“I’m yours,” you breathe, body limp, lips brushing his cheek. “Always.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been lying there.

Time feels suspended. Like the ship is somewhere outside of space now. No duty. No throne. No war room.

Just him. And you.

It’s late.

The kind of late that makes the stars outside the ship’s windows look slower, softer. Like time has curled in on itself just to give the two of you this moment. No noise. No decisions. Just breath.

You’re in his arms, one of his legs tangled with yours, your body tucked under his in the kind of closeness that feels earned.

Mark’s hand is warm against your back. His thumb strokes along your ribs like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. And for a while, you think maybe that’s it. That the night has finally gone quiet.

The room is dim, your bodies still tangled in the warmth of too many moments to count. His arm is wrapped around your waist. Your hand rests over his chest, steady with the beat of his heart.

Mark hasn’t said anything in minutes. Neither have you.

There’s another knock at the door.

Mark’s body tenses instantly.

You go completely still.

A beat.

Then the voice. Calm. Too calm.

“Emperor Grayson.”

Your eyes fly open.

Mark groans into the pillow. “No.”

You sit up slowly. “That’s not—”

“Yes,” Mark mutters darkly, already dragging the sheet up over his face.

“I thought I should let you know,” Ursaal continues, tone suspiciously measured, “that Marky woke up. He was… a little concerned. He asked me if you were okay.’”

You slap a hand over your mouth. Mark makes a strangled noise into the mattress.

He rolls flat onto his back, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. “She’s enjoying this. I can feel it.”

You let out a choked laugh, burying your face in the pillow.

“Ursaal,” Mark says tightly, “I’m going to demote you to mop duty on Thraxa.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies cheerfully through the door. “Also? Might wanna check the ventilation dampeners. That headboard hit structural paneling. Again.”

You groan.

Mark groans louder.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I am the ruler of an empire.”

“An empire with ears,” Ursaal replies. “And very thin walls.”

You bury your face into the crook of Mark’s neck, laughing so hard it hurts. He’s flat on his back, one arm draped over his face, the other thrown across your hip like if he keeps you down, maybe the embarrassment won’t reach you.

Mark groans. “She’s never letting me live this down.”

“She teased you.”

“She mocked me.”

“She complimented me.”

He sighs. “She’ll talk about this in the next war briefing.”

“I hope she does.”

“You’re a monster.”

You grin and roll onto your side, draping an arm over his chest. “You didn’t hate it.”

“I hated everything.”

“You didn’t hate me.”

He pauses.

Then, quietly, grudgingly. “No. That’s the problem.”

He exhales like a man accepting death. “God help me.”

Then Ursaal’s voice again, suspiciously chipper.

“Since you signed off after dinner, we’ve rerouted for Earth. Departure’s scheduled at 0700. I know you remember, just thought I’d be a good officer and remind you after your… distracting evening.”

Mark closes his eyes. “I signed off. I read the file. I sent the confirmation. Why is she talking to me right now.”

“She’s invested in your aftercare,” you murmur into the pillow.

Ursaal continues, undeterred.

“I’ve already briefed the staff. Marky will accompany the Emperor for personal time. And I’ve made a note in the logs that tonight’s incident was… ‘non-disruptive to command integrity.’”

You choke.

Mark exhales slowly. “I’m going to destroy the logs.”

“You won’t,” Ursaal calls through the door, “because I exported a backup. For morale purposes.”

You sit up. “I’m sorry, morale?”

“Oh yes,” she says brightly. “The militia’s thrilled. Apparently the Emperor’s libido confirms long-term galactic stability.”

Mark rolls over and presses both hands over his face. “I am ending conscription. No one deserves this.”

“And,” Ursaal adds casually, “Marky says he’s very excited to see Terra again. He packed his things and asked if you would be bringing your sword, because quote, ‘She’s the coolest person I know after Dad.’”

Your heart clenches. Mark flinches.

You’re still smiling when he pulls the blanket over both your heads, wrapping you up like maybe if no one can see you, the humiliation doesn’t count.

She doesn’t say anything else.

Just footsteps. Fading.

Gone.

Silence.

Mark lies back down flat, eyes on the ceiling.

“I hate it when she’s sentimental,” he mutters.

You go quiet.

Mark continues, softer now.

“Marky remembers Earth. Bits of it. The smells, the colors. He’s been asking for months. I kept putting it off.”

You say nothing, just listen.

He exhales. “I think I was waiting to have something… figured out. Something to bring back with me that made it feel less like I failed there.”

You press your hand to his.

“And now?”

His thumb brushes yours. “Now I have both of you.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “And the logs.”

“Don’t.”

“The very stable galactic morale logs.”

Mark groans.

You can’t help but smile.

Because despite the teasing. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Ursaal’s war crime-level commentary, this feels real now. Like something solid. Something that can survive the trip back home.

✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

taglist is OPEN. drop a comment in the replies if you wanna be tagged in future updates.

@saturnalya / @liliesclouds / @maki-ki / @isnt-itstrange / @camilo-uwu / @noxiousness-obnay / @ketsuekiakane / @nympheagain / @verysynical / @gvre / @cookiemonsterboss / @weirdstartshere / @wifeofmarkgrayson / @pixviee / @sugawoonie / @uselesstutor09 / @monaekelis / @tr3nzit444s / @mikevi / @the-good-kooshe / @moraxussy / @ladynoirx321 / @just-a-harmless-patato / @whenicaniwont / @faephoria / @teriyakiitae / @qxuanii / @nwestra / @xoyumiqls /

[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆ MARRIED LIFE WITH DEAN HEADCANONS

⭑.ᐟ so I lied…. Just got inspired so quickly wrote this! I’ll really be back tomorrow or Sunday but here’s a cute one<3 please interact and send requests if u have any!! (Here’s dad!dean headcanons, and dating Dean headcanons!)

supernatural masterlist/full masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

⭑.ᐟ He’s so touch starved like he’s never been touched before…. It’s like something’s different the moment your status changes because now he’s a husband and he wants to spoil you even more but he needs your touch EVERY TIME like he’s actually almost annoying in a cute way.

⭑.ᐟdean’s the type of guy who puts everyone above himself, he’ll never prioritize himself over the people he loves. So sometimes he’ll skip entire nights of sleeping so he can watch you, make sure you’re safe next to him, and just be on the verge of tears cuz he can’t believe how lucky he is. Impostor syndrome at its finest he feels like he doesn’t deserve you/this no matter how many times you tell him that he does.

⭑.ᐟ The moment you’ve settled down and promise each other to never go back to that hell of a life, deans never been happier. You’ll catch him cooking breakfast fully singing, dancing or whistling. He’s genuinely happy. His smile doesn’t feel forced, he wants to be here, with you, and you know he misses it sometimes but he’ll never go back because now he has you.

⭑.ᐟlong mornings tangled up in bed together, just the sound of your breathing, not talking, because you’re with each other and you don’t need to talk. You need to take the moment in, and that happens so often at some point that’s just what every morning looks like. Then he’ll cook breakfast, which he’s surprisingly great at, you’ll get ready together and get on with work etc.. whenever you’re together again at night, falling asleep will be the same. Silence, enjoying the moment together without even sleeping until eventually you doze off.

⭑.ᐟhe never falls asleep first. He always finds a way of knowing if you’re asleep or not, and when he gets confirmation he’ll either stay up all night looking out for you even if he doesn’t have to, or he’ll be at peace knowing you’re safe next to him, he’ll fall asleep. Even though he still gets nightmares most nights, they’re not as bad as they used to be because you’re here so he feels better, more grounded, safer.

⭑.ᐟmovie night every Friday, you never miss one. It’s just you and him, either the movie is in the background and you’re having a hot make out session, or you’re wrapped up together on the couch enjoying a shitty movie with snacks all around. Sometimes he’ll take you to dinner before or cook your favorite food. Or sometimes you’ll just go to the movies period. Maybe Dean will fall asleep, and you tease him about it all the time so he’d rather stay home with you.

⭑.ᐟ he sings in the shower… if you’re both in the shower together he’ll go full concert mode and it’s so hilarious that’s almost your favorite time of the day.

⭑.ᐟhe’s such a shit talker…. When he comes home from work he’ll gossip for hours if he has too many things to say, you’ll sit back and laugh in silence because he’s sooooooo annoyingly funny!

⭑.ᐟDean gets hotter with age, so do you. So the passion grows even hotter, day by day. He’s always been hot but his charisma and charm is just so unmatched. AHHHHHHHHHH

⭑.ᐟhe’s always loved making you feel good in bed. But ever since getting married, he’s more careful, softer but also rougher when he needs to be, or when you ask for it. He’ll just do whatever you ask of him. HOWEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hes lowkey a sub sometimes. He’ll whine, he’ll beg. YOU LOVE IT.

⭑.ᐟhe’s so worried all the time he’ll snap his fingers and you’ll be gone. He’s always worried too much about everything and anything, but with you he just doesn’t know why you’re still with him. You make him feel like the best husband ever but there’s still this bit of doubt in the back of his mind that worries you’ll leave. He knows that’s not you- but he’s scared if you don’t leave, you’ll be taken away from him because eventually everyone does in his life. Everyone leaves, or dies.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

taglist: @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @mostlymarvelgirl @that-stanford-girlie @sunnyteume @bohoooitsme @beelzebzb @l0v33-rey (comment to be added!)

[xjulixred45x]

Wahhhhhh

Your neglected child Yuu was so cute and now I can’t help thinking about the Vices

Trey probably dotes on them a lot. He might even see it as a way to redeem himself for being unable to help Riddle as a kid

Ruggie def has a soft spot for kids and you can fight me on that. Would probably be a great babysitter

Jade… what can I say about Jade. Idk actually

I can’t imagine Jamil would be as gung-ho about brainwashing a child but he’d also definitely want to use Crowley’s favoritism to his advantage

Rook would probably find child Yuu adorable. I can imagine him teaching them how to shoot a tiny little bow (no one knows how he got one)

Ortho and child Yuu bestie supremacy. That’s all I have to say. No it’s not. I imagine Ortho and Yuu would have this whole “discovering the world together dynamic” due to their separate circumstances but they’d also do it together

Lilia would see child Yuu and scoop them up before presenting them to Silver like “new sibling just dropped” especially if he felt they weren’t being properly cared for

Aww, this is so sweet.

Trey goes into dad/big brother mode as soon as he finds out there's a little kid at NRC without parents and, above all, with clear signs of being malnourished. Trey tries to balance giving Yuu lots of sweets and sugary things with healthier options so they doesn't end up with any additional health problems. They've also developed a great habit of cooking together! This way, Trey knows exactly what Yuu likes and dislikes, ensuring he won't have a problem if the kid is picky—we all have our tastes!

Whenever Yuu says something related to the way they was raised or about their parents, Trey can't help but get a strange feeling of nostalgia that makes him feel sick. He tries to keep Yuu from thinking about their parents most of the time, but above all, he tries to be as assertive as possible about the fact that what Yuu's parents did was WRONG, that they're a good kid, that they're not a burden, etc. Basically, he's trying to do what he should have done a long time ago.

Ruggie initially thought Yuu was a lost child, maybe a teacher's kid. He doesn't trust Crowley AT ALL to take care of Yuu, so every time he sees them (be it in the cafeteria or somewhere else), he tries to check on them in a lively way (asking them if they're okay, if they're eaten anything recently, if Crowley is watching them). Yuu likes to be around Ruggie to play; they thinks he's fun, and Ruggie takes it as a compliment.

Ruggie is used to children and can read them well, so he notices something is wrong with Yuu (and at first, he thought Crowley was the culprit). Ruggie tells Yuu that if an adult hurts them, they should go directly to him for help (Leona owes him one, after all). But he calms down and feels bad when Yuu explains about their parents. At least he assures Yuu that they won't have to see them again.

Jade is terrifying to Yuu; whenever he tries to interact with them, Yuu runs away like their life depends on it. Ironically, they're friendlier to Floyd (because he's much friendlier to little kids in general), and they tend to play a few games when Yuu has nothing to do and Floyd is bored (things like racing Yuu on Floyd's shoulders, Floyd grabbing Yuu by the arms and spinning them around, etc.).

Floyd doesn't really realize that Yuu has a troubled past until Jade points it out. When he does, however, he assures Yuu that if their parents (or anyone, really) try to hurt them again, he'll happily squeeze them :)

Jamil has mixed feelings about Yuu. On one hand, they're the sweetest kid around, but on the other, he uses Crowley's favoritism toward them whenever he can. This doesn't mean Jamil doesn't take care of Yuu, of course not. He makes sure they eat at least three times a day, get some exercise, and study. He's like a mother hen, and he worries A LOT when Yuu gets hurt or starts crying for any reason. He has a younger sister, so I like to think he's relatively good at comforting them.

Jamil doesn't really treat Yuu any differently after learning of their past, but he does make a point of not doing certain things that might remind them of their trauma, things like leaving them alone for too long, yelling at them, and raising his hands when angry (along with teaching Yuu that if they feels bad, whether physically or emotionally, to go to him or an adult). Above all, Jamil got used to Yuu feeling SAFE around him and made sure it stays that way.

Rook thinks Yuu is the cutest little thing ever, constantly lifting them up in the air like they're a stuffed animal and hugging them (if they complains to him he'll stop, but if not, he'll carry on as if Yuu were his personal teddy bear). The idea of him trying to teach Yuu how to shoot a tiny bow and arrow is hilarious (everyone is worried about two things: 1- Rook using himself to prop up Yuu's apples for a target shoot, and 2- WHERE THE HELL DID HE GET A BOW FOR SUCH A YOUNG KID?). Vil is going to have a heart attack because of them both.

Rook is a big brother; let's just say he has a sixth sense when Yuu is feeling particularly bad. During these times, Rook tends to act especially theatrical in an attempt to cheer them up, or he even tries to talk to Yuu about how they're feeling to see if he can do anything for them (Rook definitely joins Floyd and Ruggie's "I hate Yuu's biological parents" squad, but he's more silly and discreet about it).

I've already talked about Ortho and the first-years here.

Lilia formally knows Yuu as a friend of Malleus, but he thinks they're the cutest things in life. he's constantly on their tail, appearing out of nowhere (scaring Yuu in the process, though Lilia is good at calming them down with a lullaby), showing up at Ramshackle to make sure they have food and good living conditions, though eventually he just shows up one day, grabs Yuu and Grim like a sack of potatoes, and decides they'd have better living conditions in Diasomnia (partly to spite Crowley. The custody battle will be legendary).

Lilia does the typical things a father should do with his children: read them a bedtime story, tuck them in, pack them lunch for the day (he doesn't cook it, Silver or Sebek does), and is very likely one of the few adults Yuu ends up accidentally calling "dad" (Lilia will have to be restrained from doing an express adoption right there). Overall, the little kid has made its way into the old general's heart.

For this reason, he is very patient when it comes to comforting Yuu about their original "family." He usually soothes them with a lullaby and puts them to bed in Diasomnia, but not before going to "talk" to Crowley about it.

Let's just say Yuu has all of NRC in the palm of their little hand, but it's not something the students complain about.

________

(ESPAÑOL)

Awwwww esto es tan dulce

Trey activa el modo papá/hermano mayor en cuanto se entera que hay un niño pequeño en NRC sin padres y sobretodo, con claros signos de estar mal alimentado. Trey trata de equilibrar entre darle muchos dulces y cosas azucaradas a Yuu, y cosas más saludables para que no termine con algún problema de salud adicional. Tambien un gran habito que tomaron es de cocinar juntos! Así Trey sabe con exactitud qué cosas le gustan a Yuu y que cosas no, le asegura que no tiene problemas si el nene es quisquilloso ¡todos tenemos nuestros gustos!

Cada vez que Yuu dice algo relacionado a la forma en la que fue criado o con relación a sus padres, Trey no puede evitar tener un extraño sentimiento de nostalgia que lo deja sintiendo enfermo. Él trata de que Yuu no piense en sus padres la mayoría del tiempo, pero sobretodo, trata de ser lo más asertivo posible en que lo que los padres de Yuu hacían estaba MAL, que él es un buen niño, que no es una carga, etc. Básicamente trata de hacer lo que debió hace mucho tiempo.

Ruggie pensó al principio que Yuu era un niño perdido que talvez era el hijo de algún profesor, él realmente no confía PARA NADA en Crowley para cuidar de Yuu, por lo que cada vez que lo ve (ya sea en la cafetería o algún otro lugar) trata de checar que este bien de forma animada (preguntarle si está bien, si ha comido algo recientemente, si Crowley le esta cuidando). A Yuu le gusta estar cerca de Ruggie para jugar, cree que es divertido y Ruggie lo toma como un cumplido.

Ruggie esta acostumbrado a los niños y sabe leerlos bien, por lo que nota que algo malo pasa con Yuu (y al principio pensó que Crowley era el culpable), digamos que Ruggie le dice a Yuu que si un adulto le hace daño, que vaya directamente a él por ayuda (Leona le debe una después de todo), pero entre que se tranquiliza y se siente mal cuando Yuu le explica lo de sus padres. Al menos le asegura a Yuu que no tendrá que verlos de nuevo.

Jade es aterrador para Yuu, cada vez que el intenta interactuar con ellos, Yuu corre como si su vida dependiera de ello. Irónicamente es mas amigable con Floyd (porque el es mucho mas amigable con los niños pequeños en general), y tienden a jugar algunos juegos cuando Yuu no tiene nada que hacer y Floyd esta aburrido (cosas como carreras con Yuu en los hombros de Floyd, Floyd agarrando a Yuu de sus brazos y haciéndole girar a toda velocidad, etc).

Floyd realmente no se da cuenta de que Yuu tiene un pasado turbulento hasta que Jade se lo señala, cuando lo hace, sin embargo, le asegura a Yuu que si sus padres (o cualquier persona en realidad) intentan lastimarle otra vez, el felizmente los apretara 

Jamil tiene sentimientos encontrados con respecto a Yuu, por una parte, es el niño más dulce que hay, pero por otra parte usa el favoritismo de Crowley hacia ellos cada que puede. Esto no quiere decir que Jamil no cuide de Yuu, claro que no, él se asegura que coman mínimo 3 veces al día, hagan algo de ejercicio, estudien, es como una mamá gallina, y se preocupa MUCHO cuando Yuu se lastima o empieza a llorar por cualquier razón. Él tiene una hermana menor, me gusta pensar que es relativamente bueno en el confort.

Jamil realmente no trata diferente a Yuu tras saber su pasado, pero si tiene en cuenta de no hacer ciertas cosas que puedan recordarle su trauma, cosas como dejarle solo mucho tiempo, gritarle, alzar las manos estando enojado (junto a enseñarle a Yuu que si se siente mal, ya sea física o emocionalmente, vaya con el o algún adulto). Por encima de todo, Jamil se acostumbró a que Yuu se sienta SEGURO cerca de él y se asegurara de que se mantenga así.

Rook piensa que Yuu es la cosita más adorable que puede existir, constantemente lo esta levantando en el aire como si fuera un peluche y abrazándolo (el para si Yuu se queja, pero si no, el seguirá como si Yuu fuera su oso de felpa personal). La idea de que trate de enseñarle a Yuu a disparar un pequeño arco y flecha es súper graciosa (todos están preocupados sobre dos cosas: 1- que Rook se use a sí mismo para apoyar las manzanas de tiro al blanco para Yuu y 2- ¿DE DONDE DIABLOS SACO UN ARCO PARA UN NIÑO TAN JOVEN?). Vil va a tener un ataque cardiaco por culpa de los dos.

Rook es un hermano mayor, digamos que tiene un sexto sentido cuando Yuu se siente especialmente mal. Para esos momentos, Rook suele actuar especialmente teatral en un intento de animarle, o directamente trata de hablar de Yuu sobre cómo se siente para saber si puede hacer algo por ellos (definitivamente Rook se une a Floyd y Ruggie al Squad de “odio a los padres biológicos de Yuu” pero es más silly y discreto al respecto).

Ya hablé de Ortho y los de primer año aquí.

Lilia conoce formalmente a Yuu como un amigo de Malleus, pero cree que son la cosa mas tierna de la vida. Constantemente está detrás de ellos, apareciendo de la nada (asustando a Yuu en el proceso, aunque Lilia es bueno calmándole con una canción de cuna), apareciendo en Ramshackle para ver que tengan comida y buenas condiciones, aunque eventualmente el solo aparece un día, los agarra como un saco de papas a Yuu y Grim, y decide que tendrían mejores condiciones de vida en Diasomnia (y en parte para molestar a Crowley. La batalla por la custodia será legendaria).

Lilia hace las típicas cosas que debería hacer un padre con sus hijos con Yuu, leerles un cuento para dormir, arroparle, aprontarle un almuerzo para el dia (no lo cocina el, lo cocina Silver o Sebek), y es muy probable que sea uno de los pocos adultos que Yuu termina llamando “papá” por accidente (Lilia tendrá que ser contenido de hacer una adopción express ahí mismo). En general el nene ha hecho su camino en el corazón del viejo general.

Por lo mismo, es muy paciente cuando se trata de consolar a Yuu con respecto a su “familia” original. Suele calmarle con una canción de cuna y lo pone en su cama en Diasomnia, no sin antes ir a “hablar” con Crowley al respecto.

Digamos que Yuu tiene todo NRC en la palma de su pequeña mano, pero no es algo de lo que los estudiantes se quejen.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - part xi

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons and/or events

series: part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | ...

bonus: one, two, three

June 2-3, 2025

[Excerpt: True or False with Babolat Ambassador Y/N L/N] True or False – you’ve never won Wimbledon or the US Open

True, for now! Trying to change it this year. I did get to the final of Wimbledon two years ago, so hoping I can at least get there again.

True or False – Your favourite tv series is Abbott Elementary

Oooh, favourite tv series ever? I don’t know about that, that’s really difficult. But I do love it as one of my favourite tv series that’s currently on tv for sure. Especially because it's funny and low-stakes, but also still very real and touching.

True or False – Every tennis player also is an avid watcher of tennis

Definitely false. There’s a pretty clear divide between those of us who watch tennis for entertainment, and those of us who cannot stand it – because you can’t escape your need to analyse every single millisecond of a match. I’ll leave it up to you to guess which category I belong to.

True or False – you had a small background part in the movie Challengers

Ha, I wish!

True or False – Using the right, fresh balls makes all the difference in a championship match.

That’s actually true. The more you’ve used them and hit them over the course of a match, even in as much as 20 minutes the balls degrade. And so does the quality. It means you have to adjust your hitting style constantly, and that takes a lot of effort. It also depends on the surface a bit. Clay is a lot more physical than hard court, for example.

True or False – If you hadn’t become a tennis player, you would have wanted to be a location scout for movies.

How do you guys know that? Yeah, I just think it’d be such a cool and creative job. You’d get to travel a lot, which I get to do now as well – but you’d actually get to spend time exploring the place with a purpose in mind. I don’t know, I think capturing what the world looks like is so beautiful. Sometimes we forget just how beautiful it is, and just how precious our environment is.

True or False – your celebrity crush is Sebastian Stan

True. Has been since I first watched him in Once Upon A Time.

True or False – Your favourite racket is a Babolat Aero.

Hmmm trick question! I actually have my own modified version as of this year. It’s now available for people to pre-order – the Babolat Aero Pro L/N. I’m so excited to bring the racket that I’m using this tour to stores. It’s been a very rigorous process of designing and developing this racket to suit me the best, and give me the most feel and spin control as possible.

True or False – Your dream holiday destination is Japan.

True again. This year I actually got to spend my birthday there. It was absolutely wonderful, and also a complete surprise that my best friend had organised for me. I don't think anyone's ever given me such a thoughtful gift. I thought I was being dropped off at the airport, and instead we drove straight to Niigata for Sakura. I'm pretty sure I'll never forget just how breathtaking it was to be surrounded by so much beauty, and to share that with such special people who mean the world to me.

June 4-5, 2025

[Excerpt Max Fewtrell Twitch Stream, June 5th, 2025]

"Yeah, he is in Paris right now. What a life he leads, huh? Terrible. No, as much as I loved the Australian Open - I won't be going to the tennis this time. I'll be back to support Lando during his next race though. We do have our own lives, I know it might not look like it, but we do."

“Am I following the tournament? Yes I am, though I must say the atmosphere in a stadium is hard to replicate through a screen. It's such an intense sport. Really rooting for Y/N L/N of course.”

“If I have a favourite for the men? Ohh I can't really say. Let's first see who gets into the final, because it does take a while with tennis.”

“What else is coming from Quadrant? Quite a lot actually. It’s been very exciting, we’ve been working hard behind the scenes for a while. So just have to be patient for a little while longer chat, but I promise you it’ll be well worth the wait.”

June 6-8, 2025

A/N: omg so much has happened irl between previous chapter and this one, podium wins, the MET, there's a new pope, and i now have a new laptop woohoo. Next up in WSIIL: get in, we're going shopping with an increasingly unraveling y/n and loverboy lando :) :)

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

taglist (open): @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne @glow-ish @batsratswrites @blushmimi @colmathgames2 @esw1012 @sadiemack9

[keithyp00]

The Very First Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: longing, nostalgia, reconnection, second chances, bittersweet joy, soft reunion, emotional intimacy, kissing, implications of sex

Song Inspiration: The Very First Night by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 824

Author Note: Hi again! Hopefully I'll be able to keep a schedule going with posting but I have my APUSH exam for school tomorrow so this is my good luck post to myself to make me feel better. Hope you enjoy and thanks for the continued support!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You hadn't seen Bucky Barnes in two years.

Not since the mission that split everything apart. Not since you chose separate paths- different coasts, different causes, different people- because neither of you were ready to stay still. Or maybe, because you were both too afraid to try.

But here you were now, standing in a hallway that buzzed with bad overhead lighting and too many memories, waiting for a man you tried desperately to forget.

Until you couldn't anymore.

The door opened.

And just like that- two years collapsed.

He looked the same. A little more tired around the eyes. A little scruffier. Broader, maybe. Still devastatingly handsome.

"Hey," he said softly.

Your throat was too full to answer. So you just smiled.

______________________________________________________________

Two Years Ago- The Very First Night

The hotel room in Belgium was nothing special. Beige walls, humming radiator, one flickering lamp.

But you still remembered everything about that night.

The way Bucky looked at you from across the room- half smile, hair wet from the shower he had taken, feet bare on the worn carpet.

The quiet conversation shared over whiskey and strawberries that were bought from the hotel's little corner store in the lobby.

The way his laugh- low and rare- filled up the space like music. You'd leaned into him, arms brushing, knees touching.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You'd whispered.

"Because I know," he replied.

"Know what?"

"That this'll be the night I'll think about when I miss you."

You'd kissed him then. Soft, slow, and unforgettable.

The rest was a blur of heat and tenderness, hands memorizing each other like it would have to last a lifetime. Because, deep down, maybe you both knew it might.

______________________________________________________________

It wasn't messy when you parted.

No fights. Just two soldiers fighting different wars.

He was rebuilding in New York. You were chasing ghosts in Europe. You promised to stay in touch. But promise like that rarely survive the drastically different time zones and aching hearts that came from late nights alone.

Still, on certain nights, you'd pull out your phone. Reread old texts. Replay voicemails. Watch the grainy video you took of him singing off-key at 2AM when you were both drunk off your minds.

Once, you even dreamed he was beside you- his hand on your hip, whispering stupid jokes into your hair into the late hours of the night.

You woke up crying the following morning.

______________________________________________________________

Now, back in the present, you sat across from him in a quiet cafe.

Everything around you felt too loud.

"I didn't think you'd come," Bucky said, his voice low.

"I almost didn't," you admitted. "Thought maybe it'd hurt too much."

He nodded. "It does. But not seeing you again? That hurts more."

You looked at him then, really looked- at the man who still carried the weight of the world, but now sat with shoulders that were just a bit looser.

"I missed you," you stated. A breath. Then two. "I missed us."

His hand reached across the table, slow and steady. "I still think about that night," he said. "The very first one. The real one. It ruined me, you know."

You laughed, soft and fond. "Why?"

"Because no one else ever felt like that. Like home."

______________________________________________________________

You walked the city together after that.

Passed the old record shop you once ducked into during a thunderstorm. The bookstore where he read you poetry in a gruff whisper. The street corner where he kissed you like the world was ending.

He turned to you once you both reached the park, stopping in your tracks collectively.

"I thought maybe, if I saw you again, I could be just... your friend. But I can't."

"Bucky-"

"I don't want to forget. I don't want something new. I want you."

And despite everything- the time, the pain, the years apart- your heart whispered the same truth it had screamed in silence every night. I want you too.

You kissed him under the streetlight.

Slow. Hopeful. Like you'd been waiting two years just to remember how it felt.

And he held you like he'd never let go again. And this time- he didn't.

______________________________________________________________

Months later, you were in a new apartment. Shared. Full of photos and plants you kept forgetting to water. Bucky was sprawled on the couch, reading a book that you didn't recognize, most likely from a period you didn't really know.

"You know," he murmured, catching you staring, "we never really got another 'first night.'"

You smiled. "Maybe not. But we got a second chance."

He grinned. "And I'm not going to waste it."

You joined him on the couch, curled into his side, heart full with love for the boy you really got to know in a hotel room in Belgium and the man he grew into.

And this time, there was no leaving. Because now- you had a love worth staying for.

[kakashisacademia]

ೃ⁀➷ how they’d react if some guy flirts with you

Satoru Gojo - smirks like it’s a game…until it’s not

He watches the guy flirt like it’s entertainment. Leaning back, arms crossed, shades low. You think he’s not bothered until the guy gets a little too close. That’s when Gojo’s hand is suddenly on your waist, lips brushing your ear.

“Oh? You’re really trying that hard when I’m standing right here? That’s brave.” His words are light, but his cursed energy spikes just enough to make the guy pale and back off. He doesn’t need to fight. He just makes it very clear: she’s his.

Later he teases you relentlessly. “Didn’t know you were such a heartbreaker, babe. Gotta keep an eye on you now.”

Suguru Geto - cold smile and dangerously quiet

He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t make a scene. He watches the guy flirt with a calm that’s too calm. Steps closer, standing just behind you. When the guy tries to keep talking, Geto tilts his head.

“She’s taken. I’d suggest you leave while you still can.”

There’s no smile now. His voice is soft, but heavy with threat. If the guy doesn’t get the hint, Geto doesn’t start a fight, he ends it before it begins. Not because he’s jealous, but because he’s territorial. You’re his sanctuary in a godless world.

Afterwards he kisses your forehead like nothing happened. “Don’t worry. I’d never let anyone touch what’s mine.”

Choso Kamo - emotionally confused, but physically imposing

At first he’s not sure what’s happening. He just sees some guy talking to you and gets this tight feeling in his chest. His expression doesn’t change, but he’s moving, hovering near, protective like a ghost.

When the guy flirts more openly?

“No,” Choso says firmly, stepping in front of you. “Back off.”

The guy might laugh until he realizes Choso isn’t kidding. Choso stares him down like it’s life or death. Not because he’s angry, because he doesn’t understand how someone could be that disrespectful.

Later he’ll ask, “Are you alright? Did he touch you?” And he’ll hold you gently for a long time like he almost lost you.

Toji Fushiguro - lethal, no warnings

Toji doesn’t do jealousy. He does ownership. The second some guy flirts with you, Toji is right there, eyes sharp. He doesn’t say much. Just moves between you and the guy, calm and terrifying.

“She’s with me.”

If the guy mouths off? Toji smirks. “You wanna try that again with your jaw broken?”

He doesn’t give second chances. Violence is fast and efficient and he’ll leave the guy with a bruise and a warning.

Later he grabs your chin, tilting your face up. “You let him talk to you like that?” You say no and he smirks. “Good girl.”

Kento Nanami - polite… until he’s not

At first Nanami gives the guy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he doesn’t know you’re taken. But when the guy keeps flirting, Nanami sighs and adjusts his tie.

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped. She’s my partner.”

If that doesn’t work? He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t threaten. He just stares with that weary, cold glare that says he has exactly zero time for this. If needed, he’ll use his cursed technique with surgical precision, no wasted effort.

Later he apologizes for the scene. “I don’t enjoy violence. But no one disrespects you.”

Ryomen Sukuna - possessive, deranged. god help the guy

He doesn’t warn anyone. He doesn’t ask nicely. The second someone flirts with you, the ground might shake. His cursed energy floods the room like a storm. He’s suddenly beside you, claws flexing.

“What’s this? A little insect trying to steal from me?”

He doesn’t care if you’re embarrassed. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He’ll kill the guy for daring to even look at what’s his. If you try to calm him down, he growls, “You belong to me. Let them watch me tear him apart.”

Later he’s calmer, but not by much. “Next time, I’ll rip out his tongue before he speaks to what’s mine.”

[caitlinsnicket]

yelena belova relationship headcanons

warnings: angst if you look really hard for it, mostly fluff

a/n: i have become enchanted by these people and now i cant stop please send help. also who knew i still could write things this long? ha!

masterlist | 🍉 | ko-fi

so so so touch-starved, just melts whenever she gets to hug you.

holding her face and kissing her cheeks and forehead used to make her eyes water, heart ready to burst out of her chest, her arms almost automatically jumping up to hold you closer and feel your warmth.

she likes it when you hold her from behind, your hands coming to rest on her stomach like a warm anchor. she insists you do it when she cooks or brushes her teeth, every now and then pulling you to her in front of others. she just enjoys the closeness and the pressure.

loves eye contact. could spend a long time just looking straight into your eyes without blinking. you might be watching a movie or showing her something on your phone, and suddenly she’ll go quiet. when you look back at her, she’s just… staring back.

whenever the two of you are having a conversation (important or unimportant), she’ll look right at you and give you her full attention. that’s also happened when she was driving, which you had to call her out for. she just laughed you off, as if paying attention to the road instead of you rambling about something you read recently was an insane request.

gets anxious if the two of you go too long without talking, even if everything is okay. she doesn’t like being left alone with her thoughts and always wants to make sure you’re okay.

she’s also a little scared of coming off as clingy or too emotional, but she can’t help herself, and after a lot of reassurance, she eases up bit by bit until she’s completely comfortable with you.

you know her humor is less than kind at best, but the more time the two of you spend together, the less bite there is behind her words. she’ll banter with you, pull lightly on your hair, and pinch your sides when it’s just the two of you and she feels extra bold, but it seems like she’s incapable of joking around with you as rudely as she does with others.

when the two of you fight, it’s mostly over trivial things rather than anything serious. she’s always weirded out that you seem to be completely okay with the fighting, going away for weeks and often bringing work home, but end up bickering about unwashed dishes or the way you said something.

and at first, she’s fine. but as things progress and your voices start to rise, she can’t help the tears that well in her eyes, the way her voice cracks and her lip quivers. she holds your hand then, no matter how angry the two of you are, and says, “i love you right now, okay?” she only stops crying after you say it back. it’s the only way she can get through those moments without having a full mental breakdown.

she always gets creative with her makeup, eyeliner colorful and dark lipstick as usual, and sometimes she sits in front of you with her makeup bag, eyes closed, waiting for you to do it for her. she does it once a week now, excited about how you portray her and what you think looks best on her (might invite bob to one of your makeup sessions).

after you get to know her completely, you understand how much she loves building her own style and personality little by little. that means she’ll love gifts and clothing you surprise her with, but she’ll adore it even more when you take her out to pick her own stuff and then buy it for her.

she’ll start off self-conscious and shy, but as the two of you go through more stores and you reassure her that she’s free to choose whatever she wants (even that damn ugly sweater with the puffy sleeves), she lets herself get whatever catches her eye. she holds your hand the entire time and pulls you along with her.

once she found youtube tutorials on how to sew and modify clothes, she started stealing yours every now and again to add new pockets, embroidery, and other little details just to make your day. the next time you wear it, not only will it smell like her, but it’ll be way more useful (in her words).

she also feels like she’s marked you. not in a possessive way, but as a way for you to always carry her close.

your clothes are no longer just your clothes, and the same goes for hers. after a few months, she’ll just put all your clothing in her own wardrobe and get rid of any other place where you might keep your things. excluding underwear, it’s become normal for the two of you to morph into each other, your smells mingling into something entirely new.

if someone asks, she’ll say it was hers all along. but deep down, she likes that she can wear something that belonged to you, that she’s now shared the same space as you. she might deny it, but her heart always flutters whenever the two of you go to sleep in each other’s clothes. the sense of belonging floods her, and all she can do is squeeze you against her to stop her eyes from watering.

she’ll always have something ready for you to eat when you get home after a day out, maybe some of that mac and cheese that she loves so much, or a full-course meal that’ll last a few days so you can reheat it whenever you want. she also cooks extra portions when she has to be away for a while on a mission, worrying about your well being.

when you pack her lunch for the first time, it becomes her favorite meal of the day, not so much for your cooking, but because you made something for her. you thought about her before starting your day, and that’s what gets her. she likes being looked after, even though she doesn’t need to be. she refuses to share even a bite with anyone (no one asks anymore).

rainy days are her favorite days. she remakes the bed with fresh sheets, new blankets, the few stuffed animals she won for you at a fair sitting politely in the very center of it. the two of you drink tea in the kitchen, socks on your feet mismatched from the laundry, and after you put the cups in the sink, she holds your hand and pulls you toward the nest she’s made.

the window stays closed, the curtains pulled so the two of you can watch the sun go down and the rain fall. yelena sings a lullaby so low you think you might be imagining it. she lays with her head under your chin, nose buried in your neck, hands tracing shapes beneath your shirt. she can’t help but sigh happily when you hold her back, kissing her forehead and tangling your feet with hers.

she drifts off still humming, warm and soft in the safest place in the world.

[pukefactory]

The way you write Eternal sugar X Angel reader got my heart pumping!! If it isn't too much to ask and you feel up to it, Eternal sugar x outgoing angel reader? Like this angel is trying so hard to catch her gaze, even going to the extent of expanding their wings and fluttering them like a bird trying to flirt and show off to a potential partner ( they find her so captivating despise the devil she is, they know what she is but they are still so into her )

₊˚⊹⋆ ♡〜 DO IT ALL FOR HER 〜♡ ₊˚⊹⋆

˗ˏˋ ♡ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Eternal Sugar Cookie X An Outgoing Angel Reader Trying Too Hard To Get Her Attention

˗ˏˋ ♡ Character(s): Eternal Sugar Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

˗ˏˋ ♡ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

˗ˏˋ ♡ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

˗ˏˋ ♡ Image Credits: @fluffettis

❤︎ You shine like starlight—annoyingly so. Eternal Sugar Cookie first notices you when you crash through a cloud bank like some caffeinated dove, declaring your intentions with the unflinching enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t known the weight of sin. “YOU! I THINK YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!” you chirp like a lovebird. She laughs, soft and slow. “Darling… Are you trying to get hurt?”

❤︎ You try to flirt like other angels do. Spread your wings wide. Puffing out your chest. Maybe even humming softly, your voice sugary-sweet in hopes she’ll join in with her lyre. She never does. But her gaze lingers longer than it should. She watches you through lowered lashes like you’re a bird preening too close to a panther. “You’ll pull something, sweetheart,” she says, and smiles.

❤︎ The Garden of Delights is a place where most cookies lose themselves. But you? You run in headfirst, eyes round and mouth agape, asking questions she hasn’t heard in eons. “Why are the clouds pink? Is that syrup on the trees? Do you ever get lonely here?” She should shoo you off. Instead, she finds herself pausing mid-haze to answer, if only to hear you giggle again.

❤︎ You gift her feathers. Your own. You claim they’re blessed, warm with pure intention. You leave them in teacups, pressed into books, tucked under the strings of her lyre. The first time she catches you mid-delivery, you freeze like a guilty cherub. Her hand lifts your chin. “I’ve had many things offered to me,” she purrs. “But never pieces of someone else’s soul. How precious.”

❤︎ When Eternal Sugar moves, it’s like slow honey—graceful, intoxicating, impossible to look away from. You mirror her, flitting beside her like a starstruck songbird. “You’re so cool,” you whisper one day, eyes round. “You’re like… a forbidden love song.” She blinks once, twice. Laughs. “And you, my little feather-duster, are a glittering headache I’m learning to adore.”

❤︎ She toys with you. Of course she does. Calls you her sunbeam, her radiant pest, her unshakable optimist. Kisses your forehead to fluster you, brushes her fingers beneath your wings just to watch you shiver. “Careful,” she whispers once, lips barely brushing your ear, “you keep chasing me, and I might just let you catch me.”

❤︎ You write her poems. Terrible ones. You read them aloud with your entire heart, mispronouncing half the words but glowing all the same. She lounges like a cat on her throne of velvet clouds, one brow raised, letting you finish. “That was… astonishing,” she murmurs. “I’m not sure what you just said. But I think I liked it.” She keeps the poems. All of them.

❤︎ You defend her. Loudly. When other angels whisper, “That one’s fallen,” you puff up, wings flaring like a furious parakeet. “She’s hurt, not evil!” you cry, and later, when you tell her, Eternal Sugar Cookie tilts your chin with one perfectly manicured finger. “Do you really believe that?” she asks, voice unusually quiet. And you nod. Of course you do. She doesn’t answer, but something in her expression softens.

❤︎ You once got lost in her Garden. Night fell, and the syrup-flowers closed, and your wings were tired. She found you curled under a sugar-blossom, sleeping like a child. She sat beside you for hours. When you woke up to find her there, humming beside you, her eyes half-lidded and fond, you blurted, “You waited for me?” And she just smiled. “Someone had to keep the fireflies company.”

❤︎ You fall in love the way only angels can—completely, without shame, without restraint. You tell her. Of course you do. “I know what you are. I know you’re dangerous. I just— I still love you.” There’s a long, unbearable pause. Then her hands rise, cupping your face. “You foolish, radiant little thing…” she whispers, and leans in close enough to kiss you. “You might just be the end of me.”

[lylian333]

Emperor x reader (x general)

The art does not belong to me I found it on pintrest again,the art belongs to this artist, go check him out

warning: bro may be yandere/toxic, reader ignore red flags (like how I avoid addmath) , angst , glory , kinda expected twist... , more maybe trmatazing shits, this is more on ancient Chinese theme, 3rd person pov, trust the process, suicidal, heavily chinese theme as hell I repeat again(my english been getting worst)

Both of you were born on the same day inside the palace. The difference is that you were born in your mother's small chamber. She was just one of the servants to a concubine, a lowly status. The consort was kind enough to send a doctor to help her give birth to you, while the consort went to witness the empress's birth.

She gave birth to a healthy prince. on the other hand, your mother died from labour, and you were born unhealthily; you could barely even breathe within a few hours.

But luckily, your mother's mistress, the consort Xin Qi she served, decided to adopt you. For a reason, out of pure pity, that her favorite maid who had served her since she entered that palace, her truly trusted friend, somehow caught the attention of that emperor at one of the meetings, and one thing led to another...

The first time you both met was when you were 6 years old at the palace garden, you were feeding the fish in the pond when he accidently ran into you, causing you to fall into the pond.

You struggle to breathe while the water feels like it's trying to drag you down, and this sense causes the boy to panic and scream for help.

Luckily, one of the servants is brave enough to jump into the pond to save you. You were immediately sent back to your chamber to rest while the doctors were on their way.

But some odd reasons the boy decided to stay by your side, watching as your maid carried you, rushing back to your chamber.He couldn't describe the gut feeling for the first time he felt worry??I mean, he shouldn't really be since it's just a random girl in the garden who knows who she belongs to, even if she were one of the concubines' daughters, he wouldn't have any consequences. I mean, after all, he was quite literally spoiled rotten; he didn't even have to dress himself or feed himself as all his servants would be there any moment he needed.

Before his birth, the emperor even said to himself if his dear empress gave birth to a prince, an heir, it would be the next king. That's what you heard from your maid; she even warned you if you met him, you must greet him and agree on anything he proposes, you mustn't protest to him, and blah blah blah, what a brat you think to yourself.

Back to reality, you felt the thick blanket on top of your body while he held your hand from the side. You side-eye him, giving him a confused and weird look.

"You push me-you blind-"

Before you could finish, you were shut by a hand across your mouth.

"Watch your mouth (y/n), his majesty is the crown prince. Forgive him, my majesty, she's just not used to a stranger being here hehe...."she then laughed awkwardly.

But he suddenly grabs your hand and apologizes

"I'm sorry i didn't mean to gege sorry gege muchen can take care of you-"

Yeah, the first interaction wasn't the best. You expected him to be more of a brat and rude but nope for some reason, he was...kind to you I mean he would sneak good treats and foods for you, would play with you, tell you what he learns and even teach you some, unlike the consort who only taught you how to become a proper and likeable lady.

But it's still weird for you that he would only treat you nicely, and it was obvious like he loved petting your head which you of course slap his hand away or hugged. People who walked by, especially those who witnessed that would stare and gossip afterward.

But he can't help it the first time he met he thinks it was the look of love he thinks that you were definitely the one which he confess to you once but you told him that your both to young to even understand the meaning but he just keep believing himself that yep she's the one to my heart and just blind by love.

But back then you didn't take him seriously, I mean come on, you guys were parents to a bunch of rabbits in the palace garden. You do enjoy spending time with him, you couldn't help but feel warm around him as if he's the sun to your moon.

Both of you decide to plant an apricot tree in the palace garden near the pond where you both first met and all , as a cute reminder not only that you can't wait for it to fully gown so that when it blossom you both could enjoy the view under the tree.

But of course, the gossips within the court spread the rumors soon to the whole palace, and the empress found out about it. She then restricted Muchen from seeing you, claiming that you will give no benefit for the palace not only that you're just one of the lowly maid kids that the emperor decide to play with your just a bad influence and distractions for him by telling his servents to keep an eye on him if he was caught hanging out with you. you'll be the one who receives a physical punishment, and he just has to write a whole book of poem.

Does it seem unfair, yes, but the empress doesn't care. She'll never dare to hurt her son; she baby him too much. she also bans you from going out of your chamber for a month. When you heard the new,s you were aboutly horrified.

Now both of you were in a bad situation . he doesn't wish for you to get hurt, especially because of him no never, he would never he rather let the actions be taken upon on him than you. You're just a like a glass lotus so gorgeous and fragile can be broken with one touch or a rude comment.

He did try to send you letters by tying it up on his pet parrot but soon it was found out and you were punished to be beaten by a wooden stick for 20 times.

You swear your limbs were almost broken at the end of it and you had to take a few months just so it could heal back to normal. When muchen heard about this, is was horrified and begged his servants to send you more doctors and others, etcetera that could help you heal faster and in a painless way.

With that in hand, he never dares to interfere with you anymore he fear that he could bring danger and harm to you, which is true.So those how the years went by...

~~

Both of you have grown into adults now and he was now the newly ascending emperor to his father's throne after his death. Many concubines were buried with him to serve him in the next life which will always be your worst nightmare and horrible fact you know about them.But at least you won't of them, right??

Let's see. Since he's now the emperor, he gets to have access around the palace , and without a doubt, he came to find you on the same day of the coronation.

When he went near your chamber, he heard giggles. That's odd she rarely giggles unless it's from me hmmm, maybe she just grew up now and changed he pushed open the door.

The first thing his eyes landed on was a man.

A MAN in your chamber? Who is he? What is he doing with you in your CHAMBER???

But he couldn't help but glare at you as well, you gown so much now even gorgeous than before so lively, but why? Did that guy make you feel that way??

With his presence in your chamber, both you and your secret lover bow and greet him."Greeting, my lord, what brings you here...?" you ask

"Who's that with you, (y/n)?"

"I'm Jun Jian, one of the soldiers, my lord."

Muchen just hums back, replying before pulling you into his arms, and tells Jun Jian to go. while he spends the afternoon, claiming he just wanted to catch up you believe in him I mean come on, before he was emperor, he already had 4 wives, what's stopping him from having you. You just thought he actually wanted to catch and that he cares about you

of course, there he went and left shutting the door behind him. Not going to lie, you didn't dare to meet his Muchen eyes, was it from shame, fear? You can't figure it out right.Or was it because he caught you in the act with your lover?

Both of you weren't official but you hoped it was if only he wasn't so busy with his duty, but that's what makes you feel attractive by him. He's so hardworking and dedicated, you can't help but fall for that. he would occasionally give you presents, it may not be gold, fine silk ,and other luxury, but you knew he tried he try spending time with you if he wasn't in the battlefield.

But Muchen took advantage of Jun Jian's being a soldier and set him at the front of the battle. From then on, when you heard that from Jun Jia, you were concerned. The fact that the rate of his dying was not risky enough to make you pray every day that he would survive, but now that he is at the front, the rate has skyrocketed. But now you can't do much but pray for the best.

~~

After a few months , there were news that happened within the day

one that could shock you , like meeting a death penalty

and one that could make you feel grateful for god and everything you belive and put faith in.

The good news is that Jun Jian was promoted to become a general of the military .

The bad news is Muchen force you to marry him. it wasn't even an arranged marriage is just one of his nucai who came to your chamber randomly at night and told you the news, this Sunday, you'll have your wedding with the emperor. You were dumbfounded and speechless, you stood there silently for a full minute staring at the nucai .

You wanted to hit him and let your frustration out . but you can't he's just delivery the message not only that you were nobody in the palace your status leave could possible be worst then him , is just the fact you had a personal maid that the pervious consort Xin Qi , your adopted mother have gift for you a week before the emperor die and she was buried along side with him

You hated that rule ever since you heard about it , It's ridiculous how the emperor could decide whether his wives should be buried with him and decide that death would be the same day as his. Even if you love one of the wives, would you choose them to suffer to not continue their lives without yo,u and if they refuse to obey the order,r and drink the poison, they will be tied up and be buried alive. With consort xin qi death adding on to it , this makes your hatred burn even more.

Yes, it's your turn. You enjoy your life in the palace filled with luxury if you are favored by the emperor, but what about the other? He doesn't care; they still have the same sentence. unless he did wrote their name in the emperor's well, then they'll become a nun for the emperor for their whole life after on.

In that week you barely got enough sleep, stressing out about everything you even had a nightmare about it.even seem some of your hair had turn white while staring into the mirror, eyes so dark like inside a well during midnight so dark and quiet could even hear the sound of a needle dropping.

On the day of the wedding, you were dressed in heavy golds and many layers of robes . The pins that were on your hair make you think you even tilt a little to the side, your whole body may follow the direction with it. Last, you were then covered by a red veil that cover your face, while at least this could hide your frowning expression from him for the day.

Then the worst part has arrived, the night. people left both of you at your now new better/spaces chamber. Let's just say that he has been waiting for it , and held you close tightly, leaving bruises like an animal in heat at its mating session. He threw your clothes across the room and one by one took of your pins, letting your hair fall off slowly.

He then ripped of your dudou and tied your hands above your head so that you wouldn't fight him. That night, you weren't screaming for pleasure but from pain and for help, help that could help you escape from this burning he'll experiment . If only Jun Jian were here to protect you...

~~

After a few months, you had been promoted to empress, but you were still unhappy, and you found out you were pregnant. how? Why even question when Muchen came into your chamber every night since the marriage started. In the morning, you start puking hard lying there feeling dizzy while your maid tries helping you out, patting your forehead with a cloth and patting your back, about to pass out. When the doctors came to examine your hand, they told you you were pregnant.

Around that time, Jun Jian came back from the military and found out you were now married to the new emperor MuChen, bro went mad and crashed out trash your previous chamber, which is still filled with your stuff. The news that you're pregnant was spread around the palaces, which makes him even more despise you, it's like adding fuel to the fire. He thought you both were serious. Why would you do that to him, knowing that it could hurt him? Maybe it's he's fault for taking it too long and not taking action to make you his, was it his fault?

When you hear jun jian had came back from war you wanted to visit him, not caring it will have other rumors nor other shits. When you came to his counter and found him lying in his bed in the afternoon, you called out to him

"Jun Jian, your back oh how I miss you-"

"(y/n)?I thought you abandoned me, I thought you hated me."

"What!I would never, dear, you knew it."

"Then why? Why did you go and marry him, not me? Was it my fault??"

You tried explaining it to him, but before you could start off, he broke out crying, your heart sank and you went over to try to comfort him. You feel bad that you couldn't defend your love for him, you hated that you had to rely on him, and you feel useless. But now he needed you, but you couldn't do much but comfort him.

Out of the blue, he slammed his lips against your lips. You allow him, you even kiss him back. Both of you knew it was wrong, but it feels right.

Until he ruined it again, Mu Chen came in. You think it's one of your maids who told him where you're heading to, accompanied by the arrival of Jun Jian back here.

But Jun Jian placed you behind him and took out his sword, wanting to kill him for ruining his love for both of you as for justice.MuChen just looked at you both and laughed before calling his other guards to drag him down.

He struggles during the process and slashes some guards during it. The science horrifies you , you don't know if you should help him or stop him what if later one of the gruads accidently kills him, who knows you just sit there on the cold wooden floor witnessing the science in front of you.

After a while, Jun Jian had probably killed 4 guards but was unfortely held down onto the floor and, Muchen told them to put him in jail and strip him from his title as a general. he then came over you even walking above the dead body, just to walk right in front of you.

"Why do you hate me, (y/n) . I tried everything to capture your heart, but you just won't give me a chance? Tell me what he has that I don't, hm?i know I missed out on many years, but that doesn't mean we still can't be together. Still remember the tree that we both planted, we both promised each other right, lotus?"

You don't know what to say, did you do both of them dirty ??? Was it your fault, but but he-then? You were frightened and confused, and he could read it through your expression like reading a book. he then shook his head and chuckled, "Has a cat got your tongue, dear? Don't worry, I told servants to take great care of it. Let us walk there, dear."

You both took a silent walk to the palace garden, it has changed lots since you last came. After the previous ban, you were both from seeing each other, you rarely came to the palace garden, afraid you'll meet him there. Other servants would also enjoy their time there so they're probably snitching without a doubt, just so the empress could notice them,or just to see you both suffer.

The style and pattern of the design have changed, but it's still full of flowers and life, it brings you a little warmth into your heart .he's heart warms up seeing you finally relax a little and not as tense as before.

You both then arrive under the tree, the apricot had blossoms .The flower petals fall down along with the wind while you gently caress the tree trunk, in denial that the time has passed that much. He hugs you from behind, wrapping his hand around your waist.

"Your the only thing i wanted ever since I met you (y/n) , I just hope that you could give me a chance and take my love I gave you seriously ."

"I- but I'm already in love with someone muchen"you finally confess

"But we're married (y/n), there isn't an opinion for you other than give in to my love or don't I just wanted you to understand. But since you finally confess, good girl."

"I no I'm already taken by him, my heart can only be with him."

"Fine then, since you wanted to act like a brat, alright. But you'll still be going to be mine and have my child I may not have your heart but I have you, your soul, and-"

You slap him hard on the face, breathing rapidly. There was a long 5 seconds of silence before he chuckled like always.

"Oh (y/n), you're just so naive, aren't you "he chuckled again and touching your belly before saying, "I can't wait for your belly to swell dear, that's why everyone will know who you belong to.I don't even care if it's a princess or prince, it's made from us. from the seeds I planted inside of you."

When he said the last sentence, it gave you chills and goosebumps. It was like he was always giving you the creeps.You were still curious what would happen to Jun Jian, but didn't ask since you knew he would be in a bad mood again.

~~

After a few days during dinner you got the courage to ask him "what did you do to General Jun Jian?"

"Curious? Let's go and see then."

You hesitated for a moment before getting up and following him. Then reaches the underground jail cells, and when he stops at one of the cells. When you turn your head and see the sense in front of you, you should rather cry, puke, or pass out.

Jun Jian was tied agaisn't a wooden bed in the middle of the cell with one of his legs cut off. There was a pool of dried blood on the wooden bed as well as on the floor. The muscle and bone were cut, and you can even see every detail of it. lord heavens, how is he still alive or was it not you can't really tell if he had closed his eyes and probably fainted from excessive blood loss.

You were bombarded by many emotions that you went crazy and cried and banged the metal bars screaming for him to wake up, you can't he can't just die like that- no please, please be awake you scream out while crying out despite your throat is hurting.

He finally slowly lifted his eyes you scream harder"Jun Jian love, please, i love you- i'm sorry-"

Mu Chen then opened the door to the cell, you flew inside immediately before he could and hugged the upper body of Jun Jian, crying and repeating the word "I'm sorry"

"I love you so much, you don't deserve any of this because of me I'm so sorry, love."

Little did you know, Mu Chen was grabbing a hammer.

Before Jun Jian could even speak out, he was then bash by the hammer, the sense will forever be stuck with you and you know daam well of it. Mu Chen continues to bash his skull open harder each time

You scream at him to stop trying to push and pull him away from Jun Jian's body, but he pushes you away but accidently making you fall, hitting your head on the wall. Before you know it, your stomach was in bad pain and then you fainted.

When you woke up, you didn't have the energy to move or speak; you just stared at the ceiling and blinked at it, but your maid somehow noticed you were awake and told you that you had fainted for two days already.

You just turned your head and told her to go, she was humbled but nodded before she stood up, she told you also had lost your baby mistress, I'm sorry . You scream at him to go out again, when she left you cried out again, blaming yourself for everything if it weren't for you, Jun Jian would still be happily alive with his life , if it weren't for you Mu Chen wouldn't have gone that insane.

Why? Just because you're alive or was it because you met Mu Chen, why did he like me, why did I do to make him so- why just why you did nothing wrong, you try living your life like a normal girl and as a servant did you do something wrong??

You cry all day and night, refusing to go out of your chamber even if the emperor himself muchen your husband, came in trying to force you out of the chamber or feed you food and water, but you stop him from continuing to forcing you by threatening to kill yourself.

With that ability on hand, you realized how stupid you are, you could have just ended it all, why continue living like this, gaining and losing everything? After all, dying is better than continuing to live this burning hell.

You took the advantage of the winter session, during night with heavy snow stroam you sneak out of the chamber and palace and just ran using every last of your energy fore crashing into the heavenly thich snow that's over half your body your're not even sure where you'll at but it looks like heaven with everything white surrounding you.

When Muchen found out you went missing, he sent out half of the palace guards and soldiers to find you, and he will honor anyone that can find you alive; that person will then be promoted to a noble person and will have a wife and a bunch of coins.

But one of the guards found you near the forest frozen to death, when Emperor Muchen heard the news, he shut himself and drown himself in work, rarely visited other concubines/his other wife's chamber only yours, sleeping in your bed and sniffing your old cloth like a creep but he's can't help it.

He even threw you the most luxurious funeral there could been and force the people in the palace to cry about you and about your death as well as forcing everyone to wear black for a month. He also forbade the other concubines to wear your dresses or pins or any jewelry or gold that you own.

In his mind, he's trying to love you, but you refuse because of that stupid jun jian so he gets rid of him so that you can focus on him only but he never thought you would kill yourself rather than being with him, was he that bad to be with...? He questioned himself for many years, if the concubines dare to protest when they make out and he calls your name instead of theirs. They would be sentenced to death, he really can't get you off his mind, even at his deathbed, he still remembers you as clear as day.

Your face, eyes, mouth, everything about you were so real in his imagery. It is also said that ever since your death, the emperor has rarely married another woman unless they look a lot like you, but all the concubines had the same thing; their nicknames would be the same(y/n).

In his will, he wrote that he wished for your coffin to be dug out and be put beside him, and no other concubines would be buried with him. Because he knew that you hated that rule the most since you made in clear to him bad then, and he only wanted you, no one else, only you to serve him or him to serve you . he doesn't care, he just needed you, only you can make him feel alive again.

i know it has been quite a while but I been trying to focus on my studies more I always end up here...anyways I hope u guys love it, like always I try on my grammar and not to repeat the same shit thanks for reading. have a great day diva~.At first I wanted(y/n) to have a female lover like that, but I'm afraid some of y'all ain't into that so yeah, I chose a general instead. Speaking of generals, I'm also writing on one and I hope that I can also publish it...hopefully.... pray for you guys, it's not my fault I very last minute before exam, had the best idea for it, please let me surviveeeee