#i ❤️ my wife is canon

[entriprises]

dt. bradley as bumper stickers according to @lvebug

[rms-mathematic]

Ideal RadioStatic dynamic

[twstinginthewind]

Hey am I too late for the meme or

[aemondsbabe]

Come What May

summary: aemond gets his first true taste of battle, you comfort him in the aftermath.

pairing: aemond targaryen x baratheon!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, reader is described as having long black hair to suit baratheon standards but no other physical descriptors are used, spoilers, mentions of canon character injury but no gore, angst, breast/nipple play, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, slight breeding kink, slight possessive aemond, soft aemond, vulnerable aemond, we love men who cry

word count: 5.8k

a/n: i've had this idea in my head for the longest time and i think it turned out much more delicious than i was expecting! hope you all enjoy!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

divider creds to @targaryen-dynasty

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“My love, surely Ser Criston can hold his own,” you plead, wringing your hands nervously as your husband reads from the small scroll that was delivered to your chambers only moments ago, “It’s already been days, surely if they were going to retaliate, they would’ve done so by now.”

“We made the mistake of underestimating my sweet sister and her traitorous lot once before,” Aemond sighs, lilac eye scanning over the rolled parchment once more before before holding a corner of it to one of the many dripping wax candles housed on the small desk in your rooms, “It’s an error we can never afford to make again, not after what happened to little –” The muscles in his jaw clench as he cuts himself off with another harsh sigh, tossing the burning paper into a small metal bowl before turning to you. 

“It’s an official summons,” he continues, voice softer now as he swiftly crosses the room until he stands before you. “I can’t simply ignore the Hand, nor my brother,” he murmurs, pulling a sigh from your lips as his hands wrap around your waist. You let your eyes slip closed for a moment when he leans down and presses a sweet kiss to the top of your head before resting his forehead against yours, your own hands gripping tightly to the front of his black tunic. 

“I understand,” you say softly, swallowing thickly as you try to ignore the tightness at the back of your throat, a million unsettling what if’s playing in your mind's eye, “I just want you to come b-back to me.” 

Upon hearing the break in your voice, Aemond pulls away with a tight smile. “Shh, little wife,” he whispers, gently wiping at the corner of your eyes as tears begin to gather, “I will return to you, I swear it.”

A slight flush covers the apples of your cheeks as you peer up at him, still so cautious of being weepy and emotional so soon into your marriage despite the prince’s many assurances that he was more than happy to have you exactly how you are. After a moment, you manage to blink the tears from your eyes and steady your breath, giving your husband a reassuring nod just as the doors open and a flood of servants and squires rush in to assist Aemond with his armor. 

Leaving them be, you step out onto the balcony of your chambers, grateful for the cooling breeze rolling in from Blackwater Bay. Resting your hands atop the rough stone wall, you gaze out over the calm waters, watching as the sun rises and paints them in shades of orange and pink. Each time you spot a stray seagull, your heart clenches tightly in your chest – worried for a moment that it’s Meleys and her rider, come to finish what they started at Aegon’s coronation. 

You startle as rough hands wrap around your middle from behind, a small gasp leaving you as your eyes pop open, seeing the sun a bit higher in the sky now before you look over your shoulder. 

“Dare I ask where your pretty head was?”

“Praying,” you answer your husband with a smile, turning in his grasp, “Asking the Seven to protect you, to bring you back to me in one piece.” 

Chuckling, Aemond tenderly cups your jaw with one hand, the smooth leather of his glove soft against your skin. “I assure you they will,” he says, dipping his head and kissing you with a small sigh, the metal plate armor on his torso cool against your skin, even through the fabric of your nightgown. “I do not fear this battle, sweetling, not with Vhagar at my side – she has more years of experience fighting in wars than either of us could dare imagine, many more than that old cunt or her beast. I trust her to know what’s right.”

Nodding, you follow him inside, a small smile on your lips while you listen to him talk about his dragon, finding endless amusement in the way he always speaks of her with such reverence. The two of you stand together in the low, flickering light of the many candles in your chambers, the early morning light from the drawn curtains casts faint shadows across the room as you look over your husband, unused to seeing him in true armor. 

“I suppose you’re ready, then?” You ask, glancing over the fine black plates, each custom made to hug his lithe form perfectly. 

“Almost,” he says, the corners of his lips quirk into a small smile in the same instance that familiar, mirthful glimmer takes residence in his eye. 

“Oh?” You question, already familiar with where this is going; the smile on your lips only grows as he takes your hand and leads you over to your vanity table by the wardrobes. 

“Braid my hair,” he says, always one to keep his requests of you simple, “As you do before I go riding… please.”

It’s the small please that always gets you, a courtesy Aemond so rarely bestows upon others. With a small nod, you watch as he sits on the small silk-covered chair, his lilac eye watching you from the mirror as you lean forward to grab the ornate metal hairbrush Alicent had gifted you after your wedding to her son. 

Meeting his eye in the mirror once more, you give him a small smile before focusing on his hair. You run the brush through the pale, silky strands with a practiced ease; before you, the prince hadn’t dared to let anyone do his hair, and was quick to snap at any of the servants if they tried. But with you, he was quite different – much more vulnerable behind closed doors than many would expect. 

Glancing up in the mirror as you brush through his long hair, the smile returns to your lips when you see his eye closed, a small sigh leaving his lips as he allows himself to relax for a moment more. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm in the quiet of the early morning, your hands steady as you run the fine brush through section after section of hair, humming a song to yourself as you go. 

Finally, you set the brush back down and carefully section off a lock of hair at one of his temples, already knowing how he usually preferred it be styled. Just as you have it separated into three sections, however, one of his hands closes around yours and you lift your eyes up to his in the mirror.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no,” he replies softly, his one eye glancing away from you, almost nervously, “I simply have a favor to ask of you, my lady. Something I’ve been unable to get off my mind, not since the threat of war became real.”

“Ask it, then.”

With a small sigh, Aemond turns in the chair, moving to face you as he takes your hands once more, calloused thumbs rubbing gently over the backs of them. “I know it is a strange request but… I would like a lock of your hair, sweet one, to braid into my own.”

Your brows knit together at his words, having not expected a request such as that, and your head tilts to the side questioningly, “I see no problem with doing it, but may I ask why?”

“I am not a superstitious man, as you well know,” he starts, smiling when you nod along with his words, “However, I have come to think of you as a good luck charm, of sorts.”

“A good luck charm?” You echo, a little blush coloring your cheeks as a shy smile tugs at your lips, your heart racing at the thought of being something so precious.

Aemond squeezes your hands and nods, “These past few moons have been difficult, between my brother adjusting to the crown and everyone else shuffling about, and the horrors that my sweet sister endures, little Jaehaerys, the numerous threats from Dragonstone, everything, I…” He pauses, brows furrowing as he stares at the stone floor, jaw clenched. 

Your heart clenches in your chest as you raise a hand to his cheek, thumb stroking over the scarred skin just below his sapphire eye, the sight of it mystical to you even after so many months spent with him. Studying his face, you can’t help but notice the darkness under his eyes, a product of the many restless nights he’s faced, though a small sad smile claws at your lips as he leans into your touch – eye closing briefly as he savors it, practically purring like a housecat. 

“Your presence has been the only thing that brings me comfort,” he murmurs finally, lilac eye peering up at you as he makes no move to lean away from your touch, “I find my spirits lift when I’m around you – your touch, your sweet scent, they… they calm my mind, steady my heart.”

“Oh, Aemond,” you breathe, heart racing in your chest at his words. 

“I would like a piece of you with me always,” he continues, lilac eye brimming with sincerity, “To calm me when you’re away.”

You’re nodding before he can even finish his sentence, “Of course, my love, of course we can do that.” You sniffle, trying your hardest to keep your emotions at bay as the backs of your eyes sting with love-filled tears. 

Again, Aemond watches as you quickly walk over to the small side table where you keep your needlework supplies. Shuffling through the small woven basket they’re stored in, you locate the small scissors used to cut thread and make your way back over to the vanity. 

Bending at the waist a little, you look into the mirror, briefly meeting your husband’s eye again as you select a small lock of hair toward the back of your head, one that will be easily hidden among the rest as it grows back. With practiced motions, you quickly knot the fine strand into a thin braid before getting the scissors as close to your scalp as you dare. You carefully cut away at it until it comes away, the bundle of strands clutched tightly between two of your fingers. 

Returning the scissors to the basket, you grab a small bundle of thread, close to the same dark color of your hair, and return to the prince, quickly tying off both ends of the braid before holding it up with a small smile. 

“Good?”

“Good.”

Quickly taking your place by Aemond, you once again separate a lock of his hair into thirds, adding your own strand to the mix before easily winding them together in a long, silvery braid, the black of your own hair standing out strikingly against your husband’s. Finally, you gather the rest of his hair into its usual half up and half down style, thick braid skirting down one side of his head before joining the rest as you secure it with a thin leather cord. 

“There,” you breathe, stepping back just enough for Aemond to stand, “All done.” 

“Perfect as usual, sweetling,” the prince smiles, tight lipped, “Thank you.” He murmurs, again, a courtesy reserved for you.

“Of course,” you all but whisper, both you and Aemond pausing as you stare at one another, neither of you wanting to say goodbye first. 

You nearly jump out of your skin as a knock interrupts the moment, both of your heads swiveling to the doors of your chambers as they creak open. 

Ser Willis Fell, a member of Aegon’s Kingsguard steps into the room, bowing politely as he addresses you both. “Prince, Princess,” he says curtly, one hand balanced on the pommel of the sword that hangs from his waist, “I apologize for the intrusion, I’ve been instructed to inform the prince that he is to depart for Rook’s Rest immediately – King Aegon is already waiting at the Dragonpit.”

Aemond nods with a heavy sigh, turning back to you. Before he can get a word in, you practically throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck as the doors click closed once more. “Please come back to me,” you breathe against the crook of his neck, tightness once again taking residence at the back of your throat as his arms wind around you, one hand rubbing soothingly up and down your back. 

“I will, my sweet girl, I swear it,” he promises lowly, long arms squeezing him to you as tight as he dares, not wanting to bruise your skin against his armor, “I swear upon the Seven I’ll come back, I will not leave you, I refuse.” 

Nodding, your breath catches in your throat as you slip away from him, just enough to angle your face up to his. His eye glances over your face quickly before he presses his lips against yours, both of you desperate to pour as much emotion into the kiss as you can as your lips move together for a moment. 

Finally, he pulls away with a pained sigh, holding your face in his hands. “Avy jorrāelan,” he whispers, the very first Valyrian phrase he taught you. (I love you.)

“Avy jorrāelan tolī, ñuha valzȳrys,” you reply, the practiced phrase coming easily to you after all these months. (I love you too, my husband.)

With one final kiss, Aemond departs, the walk toward your chamber doors seeming like the longest of his life. 

The rest of the day passes by painfully slowly, though you do all you can to entertain yourself. Everything from taking a much longer time than usual to eat meals, forcing yourself to stomach what little you can with your belly in nervous knots, to spending hours walking through the Red Keep’s gardens. 

Which is how you find yourself now, in front of the fire in one of the many ornate sitting rooms, wiling away the time by half-heartedly working on a needlepoint. Alicent sits next to you on the small sofa, restlessly reading over a small stack of letters as Helaena paces, wringing her hands and mumbling to herself under her breath, a common sight following the death of her son. 

With a tired sigh, you put down your embroidery hoop, fingers too sore and overworked to continue. “I just want him to come back,” you mutter, staring vacantly into the fire, “Or to get some word, some update. Just to know.”

“He’ll come back, sweetling,” Alicent murmurs softly, setting the letters aside as she places a comforting hand on your knee, “They both will.” She finishes, glancing over at her daughter with a longing stare, wishing there was anything she could do to ease her pain. 

The both of you sit for a while longer, the navy sky outside growing steadily darker, before Alicent sighs and looks at you with a sad half-smile. “You may as well go to bed, dear,” she says softly, “Staying up worrying won’t do any good.”

Knowing she’s right, you quickly bid her goodnight before taking your leave.

You lay in bed, tossing and turning for a long while, thoughts filled with nothing but your husband, before sleep finally takes you. Even then, it’s not restful, dreams filled with visions of blood and fire, of the sounds of screaming and swords clanging together. 

It isn’t until the wee hours of the night, almost sunrise, that a sound wakes you – clanging again, only soft this time, like metal on stone. 

You blink your eyes open, a little groan leaving your lips as you rub at them with your fists before –

“Aemond!” You breathe, scrambling under the blankets to get to him, nearly toppling off the bed in your haste. 

He makes a small “oof” noise as you throw yourself against his chest, catching you in his arms and holding you tightly. “Careful, love,” he laughs softly, letting his eye slip closed as he kisses the top of your head, breathing in the familiar lavender scent of your hair. 

“You came back,” you breathe, winding your arms around his waist as you kneel at the edge of the bed, knees digging into the plush mattress. Upon hugging the prince, you come to realize that the small clanging noise that woke you had to have been him quickly untying his plate armor and stripping off his chainmail, leaving him in a soft tunic and pants – the aforementioned garments lying haphazardly on the floor, their sheen reflected somewhat in the dim glow of the fire. 

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, stroking a hand over your back, “I swore I would, didn’t I?”

The two of you fall easily into a comfortable silence, arms wrapped securely around one another as the only noise in the room is the sound of soft breathing and the crackling from the hearth. You can’t help but notice that Aemond smells smokey, much like he does after riding on Vhagar but stronger now, no doubt having been around dragon fire for hours. 

After a moment, you peer up at him, eyes finally adjusted to the low light. When you do, you can’t help the small, pitying little gasp that leaves your lips and one hand rises to gently cup his cheek. You’re no stranger to seeing him after a long day training in the yard with Ser Criston, but this is wholly different. 

In the pale light, you could make out small dark splotches on his face and neck and upon skirting your thumb over one on his cheek, you come to realize it’s remnants of ash, staining not only his skin but the bits and pieces of his tunic and pants that weren’t covered by armor as well. His hair was still fixed how you’d left it, though messier now – windswept and slightly dusty as well, many of the white strands stained a faint grey, the flash of black from your own braid still cutting through the paleness of his like a knife. 

But what really stopped you was his eye, his lilac one; you frown when you notice the uneasy look in it, full of a bitter sadness. “My sweet husband,” you say softly, brows furrowing when you notice a few scant tear stains on his cheek, their paths carved through the spots of ash, “What happened? What did they do to you?” You question, heart racing at the thought of the horrors he must’ve seen – his first real taste of battle.

The prince gazes at you for a long second, his lips parting as one of his hands comes to rest at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. All at once though, the sadness in his eye changes to a familiar fire, one that makes your heart race for an altogether different reason and desire curls in your belly, coming to rest like a cat in a sunbeam. 

“Aemond?” You question, blinking up at him. Suddenly, his lips are on yours, hot and insistent and you’re all too eager to comply, easily melting against him. A whimper leaves your lips, instantly swallowed by his mouth as it moves against yours. 

The kiss is more teeth and tongues than anything else, your husband’s slipping against yours with a practiced ease. His hand threads more harshly through your hair, making you moan against his lips as your hands cling tightly to the dark fabric of his tunic, a growl reverberating under them as it emanates from his chest. 

“Need you,” he breathes raggedly as his lips part from yours, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your jaw and to your neck. You shudder against him as his teeth nip gently at your skin before his lips suckle at it gently, painting bruises on your throat that match the many he surely has. 

“But –” you start, a myriad of questions swirling in your mind despite the pleasure threatening to blot them out. 

You’re stopped mid sentence as Aemond suddenly cups one of your breasts, palming eagerly at the tender flesh in a way he knows makes your head spin and don’t miss the ghost of a victorious smirk on his lips at the way you cut yourself off with a small, shuddered moan, squirming in his hold as his thumb skirts over your nipple through the thin fabric of your nightgown. 

“Please, sweet one, I need this,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. His hand at the nape of your neck slips down to wrap around the small of your back, arching you against him, “I need you, I need to feel… t-to feel something good again.”

Once more, you’re nodding before he can even finish his request, chest heaving as you fight to keep your eyes open, wanting to keep him in your sights as if he may disappear again if you don’t. “Then take me,” you sigh, a broken moan leaving your lips as he kisses down your neck and across your chest. The hair at the back of your neck raises on end as he mouths over the fat of your breast, dampening the front of your nightgown.

Both of your hands claw desperately at the back of his head, tangling into his long hair messily just as his lips close around your nipple. “Gods!” You cry as he suckles at it needily, still pawing at the other one, savoring the feel of it in his hand. 

Just as your thighs begin squeezing together, your center aching, Aemond pulls away, smirking when you whine. Impatient as ever, he quickly pulls at your nightgown, tugging it up and over your head, and tosses it onto the floor with his armor – delicate silk pooling over hard metal – before quickly undoing his tunic, eye glimmering proudly at how you always stare at him with such reverence. 

“Fuck,” he growls, hands descending passionately against you once more, one again kneading at your breast as the other slides against your hip, long fingers digging into the fat of your ass, “You get more beautiful every time I see you.” He whispers against your lips, strands of silver hair falling loose from his braid and fanning around his face. 

His lips press against yours once more, teeth teasingly nipping at your lower lip as your nails dig into his shoulders and chest, anxious for more even as you blush at his words. Always one to please, the prince wastes no time in trailing kisses back over your neck, pausing to nip and suck once again at his marks from earlier, needing to see remnants of himself on your delicate skin.

Again, he traces a bath down across your chest before licking over your nipple, needing to give attention to the breast he’d missed earlier. His tongue laves over it greedily and you moan at the feel of his length, hard and hot against your lower belly even through the cotton of his trousers. 

Just as his teeth nip softly at your taut bud, the hand on your hip shifts toward your center, making your breath catch in your throat. Suckling at your nipple once more, Aemond gently runs his fingers through your already dripping folds, pulling a loud, whiny whimper from you as his lips curl into a smirk, a pleased hum radiating against your breast. 

“Husband, please,” you whine, finding your voice once more as he rests his forehead against yours, chuckling at your cries. 

“Seems I’m not the only one that needs this, hm?” He teases, eye glancing over your face as his fingers lightly rub against your aching bud, your breaths mingling together. 

“A-Always need you,” you say breathily, your hips moving of their own accord as he plays with you, your own hands clutching at him like an anchor, “I’ll always, fuck! I’ll always need you, Aemond.” 

He feels his heart skip in his chest at that and once again grows restless, the need to have you, to feel nothing but you burns through him like fire. Distantly, in the back of his mind, he thinks how the sincerity in your tone reminds him of your wedding vows, whispered to him in the Sept as if the two of you were the only people in the universe – how he wishes that were true. 

With a grunt, he presses his lips harshly against yours once more before leaning forward, pressing himself over you until you have no choice but to buckle and fall to your back against the bed. Unable to think of anything else, he wastes no time in kneeling at the side of the bed, knees against one of the many fur rugs dotted over the floors of your chamber. 

A squeal leaves your lips as the prince clutches at your ankles and pulls you toward him, until your ass is nearly hanging off the edge of the bed. A breathy whimper leaves you as you peer down at him, resting back on your elbows as your teeth bite into your lower lip. 

Your hips buck as Aemond kisses up your thighs, long hair tickling your soft skin, and you whine as he licks at the curve where your thigh and center meet. A breath leaves him as he uses his thumbs to part your folds, licking his lips at how your arousal already coats them, wetness catching in the dim light of the fire. 

“The Stranger himself wouldn’t be able to tear me from this,” your husband murmurs lowly, nearly growling as he glances between your face and your dripping heat like a starving man looking over a feast. 

With a groan, he finally dives in, moaning nearly as loud as you do as he greedily mouths at your cunt, tongue licking harshly over you from bottom to top. Every muscle in your body seems to seize as lightning bolts of pleasure crackle up and down your spine. 

Your head flops back against the bed as Aemond licks and suckles at your folds, burying his face against your center as he licks into you, nose pressed tightly against your pearl. Your fingers tangle into his hair once more, back arching as he groans into your heat, all but fucking you on his tongue as obscene wet sounds echo about the room. 

“Oh Gods, f-fuck,” you whine, hips rutting against his face as the heat in your belly threatens to boil over already. Your eyes roll back as he chuckles against you and licks up to your bud, suckling at it eagerly, making you clench around nothing.

“Gods, you taste good, so sweet,” the prince mumbles against you, lapping at your pearl as he runs two thick fingers through your folds, coating them in your arousal. “I would kill Death himself for this, my love,” he rasps, leaning up to watch the expressions on your face as he presses his fingers into you, impatiently crooking them up in just the way you like, fucking and rubbing them against the sensitive spot within you with practicied ferocity. 

“Please, please, please,” you pant, belly knotting tighter and tighter at his words, the gruffness of his voice, head so clouded you aren’t even entirely sure what you’re begging for. 

Aemond smirks and licks and sucks at your bud for a moment more, savoring every whine and whimper he pulls from you. “Let go, my love,” he murmurs, grinning at the way your heat clenches tightly around his fingers, “Peak, let me feel it.”

You wail as the cord within you breaks, shuddering and babbling the prince’s name again and again as pleasure washes over you, your muscles tensing and relaxing in a dizzying rhythm as he works you through it. You nearly peak again as he groans against you, lips wrapped around your pearl as he suckles, gradually slowing his fingers within you.

Finally, you come down, though the fire within you still burns brightly, still aches for him. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he rises from the floor, lilac eye looking over your disheveled form proudly as white strands of hair cling to his face, still sticky with your arousal. 

His chest heaves as he quickly undoes the ties of his trousers and tugs them off his long, lean legs. He wipes at his lips with the back of his hand as he leans back over you and you whine when you feel the heat of his length pressing against you, trapped between your two bodies, the tip already red and leaking against your belly. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs softly, leaning forward to kiss you as he savors the little gasp that leaves your lips as he reaches down with one hand, positioning his cock at your sensitive entrance, “My perfect, sweet girl.” 

You nod your head, hands cupping his face as he pushes into you. Your mouth falls open in a loud gasp and you tremble in his hold as he presses forward, sheathing himself inside of you completely with a pleased groan. 

“Oh, my love,” you finally pant, savoring the way his length feels within you, pressing against every part of you as he fills you completely, “You feel so good, husband, always so good.” 

He growls at that, the breathiness of your tone making his eye flutter shut as he begins rutting against you, grinding his hips against your own. “You were made for me,” he muses, groaning when you begin kissing over the pale column of his throat, “Made to be mine.”

“For you,” you agree between kisses and licks, heart fluttering at the way his thrusts stutter each time your teeth graze over his skin, “Only for you, my sweet prince.”

Aemond groans above you and settles into a practiced rhythm, thick cock spearing into you again and again as your legs wrap around his hips, holding you to him as if he would ever dream of pulling away. One of his hands rests at the nape of your neck again, holding you against his throat as the other grabs at your waist, marveling at the way your breasts move against his chest, bouncing lightly with each thrust. 

The thought of them full of milk, your belly swollen with his seed, flashes across his mind and he growls low in his chest, cock twitching within you. 

As you squirm beneath him, your husband can tell you’re close, as if the steady pulse of your core around his length wasn’t warning enough. “I would go to war for this cunt,” he groans, locking eyes with you as your foreheads press together once more, “I would burn whole villages to the ground just to have you like this, sweetling.” 

His words cascade over you like lava, making your brows furrow together as you gaze up at him, mouth agape. You all but forget to breathe for a moment before a loud, whining moan tears itself from your lips, chest heaving as you fight for air. 

“A-Aemond, Aemond, Gods,” you babble, legs tightening around his waist as your nails scratch down his back, making him grunt above you. After only a few more thrusts, you break once more, writhing beneath him. 

Distantly, you hear the prince groan and grunt above you as your cunt squeezes around him, determined to hold off his own pleasure long enough to watch you peak once more. 

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, Aemond surrenders to the fire within him and moans, voice breaking, as he lets it consume him. Your eyes flutter open as you feel his cock kick inside you and you watch him, mesmerized, as warmth fills you, his seed adding to the sticky mess between your thighs. 

He collapses against you, hips still rutting against your own in broken, twitching movements as his own high fades. The two of you lay like that for a moment, panting as you catch your breath, until you realize your husband’s shoulders are shaking beneath your hold, his breath coming in unsteady bursts against your neck from where his head rests against your shoulder. 

“My love?” You question, cupping his cheek and bringing his face up just enough to see him. Your heart nearly breaks at the sight of tears pooled in his eye, a few already running down his cheek, “What is it? What’s wrong?” You question, quickly glancing over him, searching for some injury, some source of pain. 

Aemond merely shakes his head and sniffles, blinking to dispel his tears as his cheeks flush – he hates the thought of you seeing him so weak. “I’m… I-I’m sorry,” he chokes out finally, holding you against his body tightly despite his embarrassment. 

Immediately, you shake your head, pressing a hand against his shoulder until he rolls over, pulling you with him. A soft gasp leaves your lips at the feel of his softening length slipping from your drenched folds as he comes to rest on his back, you at his side, one hand across his chest.

“Shhh, husband,” you murmur, cupping his cheek once more as you lean up on an elbow, “You needn’t apologize to me.” He nods, somewhat half-heartedly, at your words and sighs deeply, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows thickly, trying to chase away the tightness at the back of his throat. 

You stay silent for a moment, giving him time to calm down, and let your eyes sweep over his form. Aside from the blotches of ash on his pale skin, and some bruises here and there, he looks nearly untouched. A small smile tugs at your lips despite the situation when you see your lock of hair still wound into his, pale braid practically falling apart by now, most of it pulled free of the leather tie holding it together. 

“What’s happened?” You finally ask once his breathing evens out some, your thumb rubbing soothingly over his cheekbone. 

“Aegon,” he chokes out, jaw clenching once more as tears run down his cheek yet again. 

Your heart clenches as a shot of adrenaline all but knocks the wind from your lungs, “He’s not… h-he didn’t –” You start to question, stopping yourself once Aemond shakes his head.

“No, no,” he confirms, voice ragged and soft as his chest heaves with a sniffle, “Almost, but no.”

“Almost?”

“He… He’s hurt,” Aemond starts, barely a whisper as his eye finally meets yours, “Badly. I don’t… I don’t know what comes next, o-or what to do, what’ll be expected of me, of you –” He mutters, breath picking up as panic rises within him, regretting each time he’d looked at his brother with envy – saw the black crown atop his head, glimmering with red rubies, and thought bitterly that it would suit him better. 

“Shhh,” you breathe once more, draping yourself over him like a blanket and pulling a tired sigh from his lips as your touch immediately slows his racing heart. You run your fingers through his hair, black intertwined with white, and press a soothing kiss to his cheek, “I don’t care what comes next, my love.” 

Your soft words draw his attention and he looks at you, brows furrowed in surprise, “You don’t?”

“Not at all,” you murmur, steeling yourself to be strong for him regardless of the future, “Whatever happens, I shall face it with you. That’s enough for me.”

gen tags: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @imawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @fan-goddess @cl-0-vr @kittendoll05 @beautbuck @eponaartemisa @trshngyn @brettlovessuckingcocks @alerisc @moonriseoverkyoto @wolfdressedinlace @do-double-g @kennafild @cruelworldlana @mheraxes @eternallyvenus @chaotic-fangirl-blog @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino

aemond tags: @demirunner @iloveslasher @neithriddle @moneypriestess @anak1nsx @angelinap09

hotd tags: @cuddlejeongin

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[goldsainz]

❝ A PASTRY FOR PIASTRI ❞

SERIES MASTERLIST!

MASTERLIST!

pairing . . .

◦∘｡ﾟ. summary . . . baking is your love language.

◦∘｡ﾟ. note . . . doesn’t chris britney kinda of look like oscar… or am i crazy??? if you squint a little i swear he looks kinda of alike… i know that this is very very short but if i don’t make this short i’ll never end up finishing the series ☹️

liked by landonorris, mclaren and 381,925 others

oscarpiastri The lovely baker and her lovely pastries

view all 5,728 comments

yourusername a pastry for oscar pastry!

⤷ oscarpiastri I’ll let this pass because the pastries were amazing

⤷ landonorris The nickname is canon now 🤯

oscarfan1 oh to have y/n bake me stuff

ynfan1 THESE ARE MY BABIESSSS

ynfan2 love them sm

oscarfan2 can’t believe oscar is okay with the pastry joke

ynfan3 y/n looks soooo good😩

ynfan4 ok but can we all agree that y/n is the coolest wag

⤷ oscarfan3 she’s on another level

oscarfan4 i want a pastry now :(

liked by sabrinacarpenter, isahernaez and 409,368 others

yourusername happy valentine’s day to my favourite pastry ft some other pastries

view all 6,140 comments

oscarpiastri 👩🏻‍🍳❤️

⤷ yourusername 🥐❤️

oscarfan21 those strawberries are a need

oscarfan22 oscar is looking delicious on the last pic

ynfan21 best couple fr

oscarfan23 nobody is doing it like them

⤷ oscarfan24 most unproblematic couple on the grid

ynfan22 Y/N PLS BAKE ME SMTH

ynfan23 the first pic is adorable🥹

yourusername updated their instagram stories!

-ˋˏ *.· taglist . . . @lorarri @lpab @noncannonships @lunnnix @elliegrey2803 @saintiastri @saintslewis @leoramage @toomuchdelusion @anthonykatebridgerton @enhacolor @gulabjamoon @toomuchdelusion @louvrepool @ravisinghs-wife @brorarri @hobiismyhopeu @starlightpierre @lecsainz @kkeelss @namgification @minkyungseokie @gothgirlez @f1version @onecojg @minkyungseokie @blue1amory @marshmummy

[egophiliac]

Hi! i love your art! And I'm curious about something: what do you think of the staff? And which is your favorite?

thank you! ❤️❤️❤️ I LOVE the staff, I wish we got to see more of them -- every once in a while we'll get a little side bit of them interacting with each other and it's always SO good. (for that and more proof that EHN is the best event, see: the teachers trying to hold their own Halloween party without Crowley noticing because they don't want to invite him. why was this one scene and not a long-spanning subplot like it deserved to be. we were robbed.)

I have probably made it pretty obvious which of the staff is my favorite, because I love characters who are huge morons who couldn't read a room if they had industrial-strength prescription glasses:

but I'm pretty fond of all of them! it takes a certain kind of person to work at NRC for more than five minutes. though I do think Trein is probably my second favorite? he LOVES his cat! he LOVES his wife! he LOVES history even though he is fed up with these teens and their wacky misadventures! also, I really want to hear the rest of his saucy makeout story. talk about dangling plot threads. 😔

genuinely we need more staff interactions in canon, there is so much untapped hilarity there I CAN FEEL IT

[starreyblueberry]

A03 is down so it’s time for another fairy odd parents analysis

Wanda and Cosmo have such an interesting relationship and it’s shown though out the OG show and the new one. It’s debatable what of their relationship is the respective canon and what can just be handed too as faulty writing. I’ve noticed we always try to create canon explanation’s as to why their marriage went so downhill, when most of it IS just horrid writing on everyone’s side. The new show truley did a testament of their relationship, as it’s the first time we’ve ever really seen them in love continuously. The OG show represented them as much more… Clutzy during the first and second season, it was endearing. We had a lot less of a family dynamic between Timmy and his fairys too (well second season perked it up but first season it felt more like friends/actual godparents rather than parents). Cosmo and Wanda were working together so smoothly and it truley felt like we were watching actual little creatures, and as the show progressed we eventually were more into the characters rather then the core plot, and then slowley we got the “I hate my wife” cosmo and the “my husband is annoying” Wanda.

I have my own little canon explanations that involve Cosmos mom and how she was a helicopter parent to Cosmo, and how as time went on and Wanda consisntly tried to restrict (for good reason) some of the ideas/wishes Timmy or Cosmo had, he felt trapped again. There’s a reason he moved out of his moms place and decided to become a godparent (aka the one job where you don’t live in fairy world) and Wandas parents being a part of the Mafia must have felt so uncontrollable. Everyone she loved was in constant danger that as the wishes got more reckless she needed some input, some control, and they just clashed. Especially since they were stuck like that for 50+ years

Then the 10,000 year vacation. They didn’t have to worry about Da rules/wishes/their job. They had time to talk and to actually connect and to talk about how they never took time to listen to each other, and how Cosmo “hating” his wife was just bad jokes. They actually took the time to understand each other and break generational trauma ❤️

So yes it was cause of bad writing and blaming Timmy is ignoring the blatant flaws, and also how they had problems with each other as people. I’m so happy the new show shows them being the couple they needed to be :]

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[piastree]

Take a Chance with Me | OP81

oscar piastri x reader (fc: huh yunjin)

— Part 3

Previous Part Next Part

Summary : They are a couple caught in the chaos of a love filled with randomness and quirks. Their relationship is marked by funny and unpredictable moments, where each day feels like a new adventure. Despite frequently engaging in amusing and spirited bickering, beneath the banter lies a deep and meaningful romance. Disclamer: This is a story created for fun without any hate towards anyone. This work exists in a realm separate from the original canon. Characters may be divergent from their established personas. So, just enjoy the rollercoaster ride.

f1updates

liked by user1, user2, and 95,390 others

f1updates spotted chart-topping sensation Sierra Turner hanging out in the McLaren garage at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. Having a blast and sharing some race-day tales with the McLaren driver, Oscar Piastri!

view comments

user hold up, sierra turner in the mclaren garage?! this race just got a whole lot more interesting

user sierra always bringing the good vibes wherever she goes! McLaren garage just got a major upgrade<3

user y/n, better keep an eye on your man

user lmao y/n's the one catching all his attention

user OMG, sierra talked with oscar??? my two worlds collided

user this is what dreams are made of! sierra, lando, and oscar, the dynamic trio we didn't know we needed

sierraturner

tagged oscarpiastri, landonorris, mclaren

liked by landonorris, mclaren, oscarpiastri and 505,397 others

sierraturner this was all one day. Thankyou for having me❤️ @/mclaren

view comments

user SOO GORGEOUSSS

user sierra turning the race into a concert❤️

mclaren thankyou for coming, Sierra!🧡

sierraturner the pleasure is mine! I'm truly looking forward to another invitation

user sierra interaction with landoooo?? I LIVE FOR THIS

user whoa mclaren garage is filled with beautiful women!! imagine 2 gorgeous women y/n and sierra at the same place

landonorris great to see you here! Thanks for coming to the race

sierraturner looking forward to the next year races!

user is someone notice she seems to be getting cozy in Oscar's garage???👀

user i think u should stop overanalyze ://

message

oscarpiastri

liked by yourusername, mclaren, sierraturner and 174,041 others

oscarpiastri Last day of term completed. Podiums, a sprint win and your 🧡 made 2023 awesome. Big thanks to all the papaya crew

view comments

quadlock incredible year! So proud to be on this journey with you 💙

ausgp What a first season! You’ve done Australia incredibly proud, mate! 🇦🇺🧡

user our rookie is no longer a rookie

user Good job lad, you proved all the haters wrong 🧡

sierraturner congratulations on an amazing first season 🧡

user wow have you officially become his fan?

sierraturner yes, no doubt

user it's time for you to move @/yourusername

yourusername added a story

Congratulations on completing your rookie season! Proud is an understatement❤️

oscarpiastri you know i love u right yourusername i know❤️

twitter

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, landonorris, sierraturner and 75,407 others

yourusername me n my girlies

view comments

user please let me be part of the group

user can i be one of your girlies…. or perhaps your only girl….. by that i mean your girlfriend and wife i will treat you right buy you flowers and make you breakfast every day my queen

yourusername oh, you're sweet. Lucky for me, i've already got a wonderful guy who showers me with love, flowers, and foods. But i'll remember your offer in case i need a backup🤗

oscarpiastri no need for backups here and definitely no substitutes allowed, mate🙄

yourusername possesive😩

user LMAOOO Y/N never crossed my mind seeing the two of them bickering on comment section

yourbff let's schedule another round!

oscarpiastri she's already booked

yourbff possesive much?😌

oscarpiastri i'm just scared you won't bring y/n back in one piece

yourusername silly hahaha

user Hold up, sierra liked y/n's post? Is this a friendly vibe or a hidden agenda?

user plot twist in the making

lovingwags

liked by f1updateswags, user, and 25,477 others

lovingwags the street is buzzing with rumors of Sierra trying to get Oscar's attention, stirring up tension with y/n. Whose team are you on??

view comments

user why are we even comparing and picking sides when oscar is clearly with y/n? let's respect their relationship u weirdo

user sierra and oscar would make such a lovely couple<3

user can't we just focus on supporting each other??

user dear y/n please just leave oscar for sierra

user you are so sick🤮

user lmaoo stop making unnecessary drama😭

user sierra definitely >>>>> y/n LIKE SIERRA HAS IT ALL — THE TALENTS, FAME, AND LITERALLY EVERYTHINGGG

twitter

f1wagsupdate

liked by lovingwags, user and 45,454 others

f1wagsupdates y/n is currently enjoying a christmas holiday in Oscar's hometown. A heartwarming videos captured her sheer joy while playing with Oscar's nieces. Credit to @/blahblah

view comments

user y/n looks so happy spending time with Oscar's family in Australia! What a heartwarming sight🥺❤️

user while the rumor mill is working overtime between them, y/n stays unbothered too busy being happy to get caught up in the drama

user no wonder they've been MIA since the winter break kicked in. Enjoy the holiday, you two!

user can we talk about how absolutely stunning and genuine y/n looks in this video?

user her beauty shines so effortlessly in this video. Oscar is so lucky😭😭

oscarpiastri

tagged yourusername

liked by yourusername, lilymhe, sierraturner, and 75,407 others

oscarpiastri exploring the town with my favorite dork

user did you just take a break from the track for a romantic getaway in Japan??? wow

user the cutest couple in the paddock<3

user the 5th photo is so cute because she seemed confused loll

user probably because she thought oscar was behind her, and then it hit her like, 'Oh, Oscar's still up there'😂

mclaren enjoy the off season, Oscar & y/n!

user admin is absolutely rooting for both of them🧡

user seated for oscar & y/n's honeymoon phase

user the unbothered queen & king❤️

Notes: Btw, I'm planning to create more parts for this AU, so if you enjoy reading it, you can look forward to some new chapters ahead. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Thankyouuuu

[agendabymooner]

maiden, hungary, and all that romance fiasco ! oscar p. x ofc (filo!gen z!ofc) - the piastri fiasco smau

summary: maiden wins and maiden names - two of the most important things that oscar aimed for in one night.

OR paloma 'lomi' san pedro was subjected to changing her twitter handle all because of her boyfriend oscar's intuitions and stupid bet, which left some fans confused until the hungarian grand prix winner gave more context to it.

content warning: use of explicit language, sexual innuendos, flirting on main, 2024 hungarian gp spoilers, marriage proposal, oblivious to proposal hints, carlos sainz's in-law!ofc, fluff, text/smau fic, ofc and oscar's mom canonically facetiming each other during oscar's national anthem

note: i can't write smut today guys the melatonin hits hard ☹️ enjoy xx

the piastri fiasco masterlist

a - n masterlist // o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

tagged oscarpiastri

liked by landonorris, patriciooward, carlossainz55

carlossainz55 see you later, princesita! liked by lomisanpedro

user1 i love my queen paloma balagtas san pedro slay queen

lomisanpedro how tf you know my middle name?

oscarpiastri ...miranda isn't your middle name?

user2 WOWOWOWOW okay oscar i see the man that you are 😩

user3 not knowing your girlfriend's middle name is crazy work

oscarpiastri silly me, of course i'm joking. i know it's your second first name. philippines is silly like that 😂

user4 oh darling wait til you hear about the government

oscarpiastri look at my missus being everyone's most pinned pinterest post 😇

user5 your 😀 what 😀

lomisanpedro oscarpiastri stop mass commenting on my insta 😳 you're making me blush hard

user6 ARE WE GONNA GLOSS PAST THE MISSUS JOKE?

AFTER HUNGARIAN GP

BREAKING: Australia's Oscar Piastri, driving for McLaren F1 Team, becomes the 115th race winner in F1 history after his maiden win in Hungaroring.

tagged lomisanpedro

liked by lomisanpedro, logansargeant, carlossainz55

user1 the multi 21 that ended well in the end 🥰

user2 insane behaviour from our resident wombat

nicolepiastri finally! another piastri girl! 😘 liked by oscarpiastri

user3 a dub in our book (i'm not a piastri)

logansargeant nice to know you didn't bawl your eyes out while proposing. you've been texting me left and right about it

user4 i love how logan's always so in-tune with most ppl in the grid then he becomes deux moi in anything oscar 😩

lewishamilton congratulations on the engagement and win! a job well done!

user5 when is it ur turn, lewis?

user6 user5 i volunteer

user5 user6 girl 💀 you and the entire world

landonorris mrs. piastri ❤️

carlossainz55 glad to know you asked me for blessing first, hermano. welcome to the family! liked by oscarpiastri

user7 ??? how are you even related to lomi?

user8 carlos' wife is lomi's cousin

lomisanpedro not to be funny but my initials are going to be pp ❤️ pretty hyped about it tbh liked by oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri my fiancee is a clown i'm afraid 😳

lomisanpedro my fiancé is a race winner lfgggggg 😭🙌 liked by oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri eheh. love you darling 😇

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen @happy-nico @architect-2015 @hiireadstuff @biancathecool @scorpiomindfuck @stinkyjax @youdontknowmeshh @hyneyedfiz @decafmickey @lightdragonrayne @marknolee @xylinasdiary @anotherblackreader

[kombuuuu]

Hello✋🏾! If I could request a Peter b parker x wife!reader where they have twins (including mayday) during the events of the movie?

No.1 Dad!

“Baby, Please. It’s a canon thing!”

“They’re toddlers!”

PeterBParker x Wife!Reader + little ones :]

light angst and a chase scene. ending is mostly comforting daddy parker

(it’s not sad i jus ❤️ this gif)

(Benjy is a canon named Kid of Peter B Parker’s in the Comics!)

“Peter Benjamin Parker.”

“Oh shit.”

The father of two grimaced at the room full of spidey people. The voice of his wife sounding through the phone and into the echoing room.

“Tell me, why the fuck-“ Peter dragged a worried hand down his face. Miles snickering next to Hobie in the background. “—I woke up, to not only my *husband missing from my bed.” He sucked in a breath, glancing over at Miguel. Stood unimpressed with two spider-children climbing all over him and his platform. “But my two toddlers *lost from their damn cribs.” “Baby, I can explain.” He focused back on the phone, crowding over it like it would help conceal the conversation at all.

“You are in so much shit when you get home, young man.”

“I’m older than you by four years!”

“Watch your tone with me, Mister.”

He groaned, huffing and pouting into the phone while you continued to scold him before Miguel interrupted.

“Good morning, [name]. Hope you slept well.” His monotoned voice drawled out while picking the children off his clothes like bugs, and putting them back on Peter.

“Leave my wife alone.”

“Oh my god, please go somewhere private for this conversation.” Miguel rubbed between his eyes, his favourite thing to do apparently.

Your voice spoke back over him. “I don’t need privacy, I need my damn— Oh! Found it.”

“Baby, what are you—“ The connection cut off midway through his sentence, causing him to huff before realising; “Hey! That got me out of it!”

He straightened his posture, collecting his kids, Mayday and Benjy. And stuffing them into their baby carriers, carefully threading their limbs through each limb-window, as he called it.

A sparkle of warm tones caught his eye, circling from nothing into a fully developed portal.

“Oh, I should’ve known.”

“I seem to be making you say ‘Oh’ a lot.”

“You should’a heard you last night.”

“Peter!” He laughed as he watched you make your way over to him, giving Miguel a courteous nod and Miles a questioning glance. You looked so beautiful. An angel to him, the love of his life. He was so lucky to have you. And the little family you had created for yourselves. All the baby-stealing and stupid pictures aside, you were beyond enamoured with him as well.

“You’re lucky I still have this old thing, Parker. Or you wouldn’t have wanted to come home.

Despite the obvious threat, the only thing he could focus on was “come home”. A sentiment that was single to just your home, or just his home. But it was home. For a family, his family.

The admiration was broken when you pinched his nose. “Ow!”

“Shouldn’t have taken my kids.”

“Our kids!”

“Yeah whatever.”

You turned to Miguel, scanning the room and being very unsurprised at the amount of spider people here. If it was something important, Miguel loved a show. “What’s going on?”

“I’m… explaining something.”

“Uhuh.” you blinked at him slowly, unbelieving.

“Stop talking to my wife.” peter cut in.

“The fate of the multiverse is at stake, [name].-“ He threw his hands up, then gestures aggressively towards the kid next to Hobie.

“It’s his father, or an entire universe!”

“She’s not into you weirdo, back off.”

“Uhuh. And how old is the kid?”

He had the gall to look ashamed. Mayday babbled behind you. Giggling excitedly once she and Benjy had lost interest in whatever they were messing with on Peters suit. “Oh, come here baby.”

“How come I didn’t get that?”

Peter pouted over at you, rocking Benji gently, who was still half asleep.

You turned back around with your kid around your hip, addressing the kid near the centre of the room. “Hey uh—.”

“Miles!” He perked up, shyly waving at you.

“Oh, Miles! Peter talks so much about you.”

“No, I don’t.”

“He even named our dog after you!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you.” You smiled at Miles whilst he smiled back, happy to know Peter thought of him as much as he did Peter.

“You too, Mrs.Parker!”

“Don’t listen to this lady, she’s crazy and a psychopath!”

Peter stepped into place beside you, shaking his one un-baby-occupied hand in the air wildly.

“She’s off her meds!”

“Peter.”

He grumbled and stuck his tongue out. Blowing a raspberry, which Mayday happily replicated. You put the tip of your finger on Maydays tongue, pushing it back into her mouth. “Don’t do that, germs.”

turning away from peter, you kissed her cheek in apology, whispering “It’s not you, it’s him.” In her tiny ear.

You propped your free hand on your hip, looking up at Miguel on his platform.

He looked away. Hand settling below his chin as he closed his eyes and sighed.

“There’s that contemplative expression again.”

“Why is he always contemplating, nothing’s that serious.”

“I dunno.” Peter shrugged. He crept up close to you, putting his arm around you waist and leaning down to smell your perfume.

“I like that one.”

You smiled, tilting your head back to look at him, “I know,”.

Miguel continued on with his explanation, showing miles the different Canon events. Showing him Peters, Gwen’s, yours. When Miles seems to suddenly realise something.

“The Spot does it.” His hands shake alongside his voice, Peter glances over to you in worry, but ultimately focuses back on Miles. “He kills ‘im.” The boys shoulders drop in defeat.

“When does it happen.”

Miguel looks away, shaking his head and wincing.

Miles turns to the small group surrounding him, helpless.

“When does it happen?!”

“In two days,” Miles whips back towards him. “When he’s sworn in.”

“That’s- what the model says.”

“I’ sorry Miles-“

“Send me home.”

“I can’t do that, not now.”

Gwen winces and squeezes her eyes shut. Body stuff and unmoving.

“What am I supposed to do then? Let him die?!”

Miguel pauses. And doesn’t relent.

Miles’s face contorts for a second before he turns, gesturing vaguely at Gwen.

“What about your dad? He’s a captain, right?”

She just sighs, “Yeah.”

“Wh- And that’s it! You guys aren’t even gonna do anything about it?!”

Gwen looks down, ashamed.

Mayday grabs hold of your finger. Noting the serious tones of the situation, she stays quiet. He scoffs and turns to Peter.

“Okay what about Uncle Ben? That’d been okay? If you knew and you just—,” he stuttered, “Let it play out?!”

Peter stepped forward, putting a reassuring hand on his students shoulder. “If not for uncle ben, most of us wouldn’t be here Miles.”

He pauses to look at the webbed window of his Ben.

“The good we did it-,” he breathes, “It wouldn’t have been done.”

You harden your gaze over your husband. He doesn’t look at you.

Miles nods, “So we’re just’ supposed to let people die because some algorithm—!” he hits Peters hand of his shoulder and starts towards Miguel again. “Woah, woah.” Lyla interjected. “—Says that that’s supposed to happen?!”

He swings his arms in annoyance, in *fear.

This is a *kid.

“You realise how messed up that sounds, right?”

With a better moral code than most in this room.

“You have a choice between saving one person—“ The slow approach of other spider people filled out the fog coating the room. “—And saving an entire world, every world!” Miguel points at him, hand on hip.

“I can do both!” He tries,

“Spiderman always-,”

“Not always.”

Miles looks to Peter, seeking back up. Peters face twists something sorry, and Miles’s flashes of hurt.

Benji starts to wake up, cooing softly at his dad.

Miguel’s hand gently turns the boy back around, this isn’t looking good.

You glance at Hobie, seeing the apprehension in his posture as he meets your gaze.

He glanced down at Mayday in question, you reassure him with a nod. If it comes to it, you’ll put her in peters baby carrier for safety. He nods back.

“Miles, we all want to lead the life we wish we had.” When Miles shrugs him off he raises his hands.

“Believe me, I’ve tried.”His hands slowly lowered. Miles’ breathing got heavier.

“And the harder I tried, the more damage I did.”

“You can’t have it all, kid.”

Miles looked around in panic, noticing the faces creeping up on him. He makes eye contact with you, and you try and signal your support.

If you run, I’ll run too.

“Being Spiderman is a sacrifice. That’s the job, that’s what you signed up for.”

A robotic voice caught your attention as a large suit approached the outer circle.

“Miles.” The faceplate opened.

“Penny?”

He put up his defences once more.

“What is this?” He yelled, the force of his words drawing an immediate attention. “Is this an intervention or something?”

“We know it’s hard, but it’s the truth, Miles.”

You glare at the faces around you, Adjusting Mayday on your hip and keeping an eye out for your two boys.

Miles and Benji.

Peter will be dealt with later.

Miles stumbles back, righting his foot and turning to Peter.

“Is that why you’re here? To—“

he clenched his fist, “To let me down easy?”

You watch your lover closely, the look on his face telling you all you need to know, and apparently same goes for Miles.

“It worked last time, why not run it back huh?” his voice was raising, Benji getting uncomfortable at the tone.

“Woah- hey, hold on. Hold on!” He raised his hand in a placating matter, trying to tune Miles down.

“You were right, Gwen.”

You glanced up at her, his venomed whisper doing its intended purpose, hurt.

“You should have never come to see me.”

Peter slowly approached Miles, bending down to his height like a person to a stray dog.

“Kid, look at me-“ “Stop callin’ me that.”

“There you go.” You sent Hobie a huff of appraise.

“Hobie, you’re not helping.”

“Good.”

Miles gratefully nodded at him.

“Miles, please understand-“ Peter tried.

“Peter.” Your stern voice interrupted him, and he shut down his attempt.

“You can’t ask me not to save my father.”

“I’m not asking.”

You glared at Miguel, only noticing the barrier a little too late. It opened under Miles, trapping him within when the inner circle started to protest.

“Miguel just give him a second! Please!”

“Dont! Stop it.”

“You let him leave, he’ll only do more damage.”

Gwen intervened, “Enough!”

You rushed towards the barrier with Mayday, her reaching for the barrier in confusion. You can’t help him out of this, you don’t know how.

“Miguel, let him out! He’s a kid.” You raised your voice. Weaponising your authority.

“Miguel this is too far.”

“[Name], it’ll only hold him few days.” He turned around to walk away.

Miles was panicking, banging on the barriers walls and spinning to try and find a weak point. His eyes caught onto Hobie. Doing nothing but holding his palms out, and giving him an earnest look. “Sorry it had to end like this, kid.”

“I said—“ Miles placed his hands flat on the barrier, right above his head. Palms out, You backed up shielding Mayday and dragging Peter to turn around and using him as a body block for Benji.

“—Not-“ The barriers begun to crack, shatter like glass.

“—To call me that!” A wave of energy pushed everyone down as the barrier broke, exploding in a mess of bright colours.

You heard Hobie chuckle, and looked up at Miles in amazement. A second where he caught your eye, he darted. Running straight for the exit.

“Miles!” Miguel screeched.

You stuffed Mayday in her carrier in record time and blew them a kiss as you pounced from your position to catch up with Miles.

Unbeknownst to you, Your husband, along with every other spider person, would follow. Except Hobie.

“Just for the record, I quit.”

—

You had found Miles being interrogated by your lover, him holding up your two children like bribing toys.

“C’mon- just hold ‘em!”

“I don’t want to do that.”

Miles manoeuvred slyly through all the cranks and pipes, your Spidey following swiftly behind him. “Just one hold! It’s rejuvenating!”

“I’m plenty juvenated!” Miles retorted.

You were going to interrupt when you lagged behind a bit, getting stuck on a moving pipe.

When you finally freed yourself, you stumbled into a cute moment between the two.

“I wanted them to be like you!”

He stared at your husband, vulnerable and scared, the beginnings of a smile creeping onto his face.

Mayday and Benji bickered with each other in his hold.

Peters watch suddenly lit up.

“Okay, Peter I’ve got your location.”

Their faces dropped, betrayal raw on the young boys.

“No, no. You do not have my location!”

Him peeling open the crate to the industrial fans, and slipping in. You using your webs to sling in after him and pull the crate shut behind you. Catching Peters fleeting glance before what seemed twenty different spider people broke through the crate, smashing through fans.

You followed miles swiftly, through the busses and over cartops. Using your webs to keep up with him. He wasn’t bad, for someone so young.

“I’m a great mentor!”

You huffed at Peters distant offended tone. “Sure, baby.” You muttered.

You hooked around a building, watching as Miles cut himself off from Gwen. Her hand reaching out for him as he fell. Your spidey senses caught your attentions, tingling in the forefront of your mind. You zeroed in on Miles and watched as he aimed for the train. It hadn’t looked like anyone else had caught on yet. Still scrambling to get to him, instead of trying to cut him off.

—

Miguel had the kid by the throat. Slamming him against the train doors and dragging his body up with him. You watched in fear as he spoke to the boy.

“You’re a mistake!”

You screamed at him from your position below, begging for him to just let the kid go. Miles caught you gaze. You fought against the wind, trying hard to get to him, and keeping an eye on Peter and your babies.

“If you hadn’t been bit-!” Miguel slammed his back again. You winced. “Your Peter Parker would have lived!”

Miles struggled against him, trying to push off the claws attacking him. “Instead he died- Saving you.”

“He would have stopped the collider before it went off. Spot wouldn’t exist-“ “Peter!” “-And none of this, would have happened.”

The three of you climbed to get to them. You grabbed Benji off peter, Cradling him in your arms as the winds were getting too rough.

Miguel slammed him back again, crowding over the small boy and growling his words.

“And all this time— I have been the only one holding all this together.”

“Miguel go easy on him!” Peter called down from his spot behind you, he sounded devastated, your heart broke for him. You knew how much he loved Miles, thinking of him almost like his first son. Your husband would bring him up so often, wondering what he was doing when he could see through the Spidey-Windows Miguel would (angrily) provide.

He always stressed when Miles had to figure out things himself, saying things like “Just give me a day with him, we’ll figure it out!” “He’s a kid Miguel. Wouldn’t you have wanted a mentor back then?” “I’m a great mentor.” “You just don’t see my brilliance.”

Benji babbled in your arms and you cooed back at him, spider beanie pulled snug over his face. Huh, he was pretty rejuvenating.

Miguel leaned closer, growling words of disgust to the kid.

“Let me go!” Miles struggled against him. A choked sound came from Peter, and when you looked back at him you swore you could see his eyes shine with unshed tears.

“Miguel that’s enough!” Gwen shouted.

“This isn’t what we talked about!”

Miles stopped struggling.

“You talked about this?” He looked down at Peter, heart breaking.

“You knew?”

Peter looked down, ashamed. Clinging onto the train but no longer climbing. Mayday held tightly to his chest with the other hand, he caught your eye.

“Peter what did you do..” Your breath escaped you and the words came out a whisper, flown away by the winds around you.

“You all knew?”

Your head shot up, starting to disagree before Gwen spoke.

“I.. I didn’t know..” She looked away, unable to face him.

“How to tell you.”

“That’s why you never came to see me.”

“Miles it’s for your own good!”

He pushed forwards.

“Who decides that?”

Miguel pushed back.

“I’m not a kid Gwen.”

Miguel grunted, slamming him again, the dent in the train deepening every time. “That’s exactly what you are! You’re just a kid!”

“Who has no idea what he’s doing!” Miles grabbed onto his shoulders, trying to squirm further from the beast on him.

His fingers sparked.

Miguel shoved his forearm against Miles’ neck, pushing his face against broken metal.

“Yeah well, I did get hundreds of Spider people away from your own club house.”

The roaring of spider people climbing the train travelled straight to Miguel’s ears.

“I guess he did plan this out!”

You smiled up at him. Seeing him smug back.

“And, I’m about to do this.”

He latched his sparking fingers onto Miguel’s shoulders. Clenching down and watching the starts of his electricity flow through the man’s arms.

The elder was the on struggling now, confused grunts paired with an effort to escape the boys hold.

“Everyone keeps tellin’ me how my story is s’posed to go.

Nah, Imma do my own thing.”

He pushed his whole hands against blue spiders chest.

“Sorry, but i’m going home.”

He pushed Miguel off of him right as he ignited the current buzzing underneath their veins. And watched as the Brunettes body ragdolled off of him and shot off the train and into the open sky.

The fanged man dragged his hand through waves of spider people, struggling to catch himself against smooth metal.

You looked back up at Miles, as he stood, connected by a single web to the speeding train.

“Goodbye, Gwen.”

He cut the thread and fell.

Gwen yelled for him, a call of his name. But peter? Peter just watched with his heart in his throat. His own betrayal heavy on his heart.

—

You were finally at home again. The stress of the day weighing high on the both of you. Even Mayday and Benji seemed to have noticed the tension.

Getting tired over all the moving and all the fighting, it was barely 7:30 before they were dead asleep.

“You think we’re bad parents?”

You were stood leaning over he crib, arms rested on its gates. Peter crowded over you, covering you in his smell and feeling. The weight on his body pressing against your back was akin to a weighted blanket, grounding you as you watched your sweet children breathe.

“Nah, Everyone has their first chase.”

“Well,..”

“Ehhh, want to see the cute photo I got of Benj and May?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

—

Your husband had been off the whole rest of the night. When you two had sat down together to watch the first mind numbing thing you could find, he couldn’t stop moving. Jittering with nerves.

You were waiting patiently for him to work the courage to say what he needed. Not ever preparing for something like this.

“Think Miles hates me?” It was said slyly. Like he was playing it off to be nothing, but the tension in his shoulder told you otherwise. “I think he’ll be hurt. And upset, but I don’t think he hates you.” He picked at his nails as you spoke, you curled your hands over the expanse of his chest and fit your ledge over his waist, he looked up at you through wet lashes.

“Are you sure cause-“ He cut himself off with a clear of his throat, not wanting to sob over something so *stupid in his head.

“Oh, baby. You’re so sweet, but he could never hate you.”

Peters hands stopped fiddling with themselves, smoothening down the curve of your ass and the small of your back.

“Okay,”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded relieved, if not a little suspicious.

He dug his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder and inhaled deeply.

“Creep.”

He nipped at your skin lightly in retaliation.

“Miguel talks to you too much.”

“Every sentence we shared was negative.”

“He’s like that.”

You scoffed at him playfully and he smiled into your neck, turning his cheek to your skin and watching you. “I’ll make sure next time we talk, it’ll be in sign.”

“No, I don’t speak ASL, what if he says something about me?”

“He says something about you out loud, baby.”

“Yeah but I can’t hear it if he’s signing.”

—

Even later in the night, when you heard the shower running and soft sobs coming from the bathroom. You did nothing but undress and climb in with him. Rubbing your hands soothingly down his back, spreading soap along his chest and back and massaging it in deep for him.

You let him hold himself up against you, and pretended not to notice the difference between the shower water and his tears. You dragged him down to your height, a hand tucked into his soft hair before your lips met his. He would settle his hands on your hips, push you ever closer to him. And take the comfort you gave him in stride.

Eventually you would pay mine to your water bill, and would dry each other off carefully, get dressed together and settle in your shared bed. It was 1 AM now, but you couldn’t care less, being in the arms of your lover had outweighed any negatives lack of sleep could bestow. He would make it up to Miles. Solve the problems of the universe (multiverse), and have you two meet for real. Introducing Miles to his wife, and his son to his twins.

—

I WENT OFF THE RAILSSSS

probs making a part two later, for more peter daddy snippets and cute kids plus wifey reader

[diremoone]

sweet dedication | g. satoru

a year after his fight with sukuna, satoru finally gets to enjoy his birthday in peace, with no one but his beloved wife.

w — fluff, post-canon, lots of food :3, i incorporated a doggo sue me, vv short but hopefully sweet 🥰

Happy Birthday, My Beloved Satoru ❤️❤️

[ line divider credit to @/saradika ]

The last thing Satoru expected to smell coming through the front door of his home was a mixture of cinnamon and cherries. He shrugged off the jacket from his shoulders and curiously stepped further into his home. Upon seeing the kitchen table and every counter, his eyes went wide and mouth fell open.

On the kitchen table was at least four boxes of pizza, chicken wings, fried chicken, and brisket. Towards the end of the table farther fell the front door were sides, like green bean casserole and corn. His mouth began to water, his inner food junkie rearing it’s hungry head.

Across the counters and clearly in the oven were desserts, desserts, and more desserts — apple and cherry pie, cheesecake, fruit kebabs, crepes, mochi, brownies, kikufuku from Sendai. Gosh, what was the occasion?

And then the man sees above the hallway entrance that leads to the other rooms: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Satoru gapes.

Was it really December 7th?

He checks his phone and his brows raise in surprise. How in the world did he forget?

But you didn’t. You would’ve been the only one available to have made such a feast for him (even if it was mostly sweets), since everyone else was out on missions, still trying to tidy up Japan after the Culling Games’ toll.

He feels his heart swell with love and happiness, happy that you’ve remembered a date that he’s thrown to the side for so many years. He’s happy that you’ve done so much here for him, a genuine showcase of how much you really loved him and knew him by cooking all of his favorites. This must’ve taken you hours and hours to do; this being a clear proclamation of how much you’ve dedicated yourself to him and to knowing him.

“Babe?” he calls out to open air. No response. He’s smart by checking the kitchen first; you’d never leave cooking food unattended.

Satoru’s mouth quirks up into a sweet smile at the sight of passed out, sitting on the kitchen floor with your inseparable corgi Maple snoozing away right next to you. Although he squints at the sight of your neck lolled to the side in the corner of the cabinets. That didn’t look comfortable at all.

He’s not sure if he should take you to bed or wake you up right now. After a moment, he decides the former. But as soon as you’re scooped up and secured against his broad chest, your eyes flutter open. Maple wakes up too, barking and wiggling her butt, happy to see her dad.

“Oh, my god. Satoru!”

He winks. “The one and only baby.”

Your brain has always been fast about remembering all of the events prior to any sort of sleep or nap you’ve had. This time was no different, and he chuckles when you begin to groan and complain about your surprise being ruined.

“God, I can’t believe I fell asleep! How does one even sleep on the kitchen floor. My ass hurts, Jesus,” you complain. You burrow your head into the crook of his neck in embarrassment as he carries you to the couch and sits down with you on his lap. Maple bounds up behind him and miraculously uses her little legs to hop up on the couch. Satoru chuckles and takes a moment to briefly give her belly rubs.

“Thank you for trying to make this day special for me,” your ‘Toru says. It’s sweet, the tone of his voice, filled with love and adoration. “Don’t feel bad. That looks like a lot of cooking you did, so it’s only natural you’d fall asleep at some point. So don’t beat yourself up over it, okay?”

You grumble but nod anyway. It was true. You’d been awake ever since he’d left earlier this morning, putting the pedal to the floor on your attempt to swamp the love of your life with all of his favorite foods made by hand.

“I love you, Satoru,” you mumble, still tired and sleepy from overextending yourself.

“I love you, too, baby.” His lips press a long kiss to the side of your temple. He pulls away to gaze down into your eyes, chuckles escaping him again at seeing the sleepy haze in them. “Thank you for trying to make my special day special.”

“But I still didn’t get to surprise you,” you complain.

“I wasn’t expecting it when I came home, especially now with everything going on. I think that’s a big enough surprise for me,” he argues. “So come on, cheer up! We have some delicious delicious food to eat made by my sweet, adorable, wonderful wifey-poo! Except the pizza of course!”

You deadpan. “Call me that again and I’ll smash the strawberry shortcake I made as your birthday cake in that expensive jacket you bought last week.”

Satoru gasps dramatically in horror.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

“Not if I eat it first!”

taglist:

@vagabond-umlaut @heresan @4sat0ruu and @/all my satoru lovers also i shouldn’t have taken that nap otherwise this taglist would be longer lmaoo

let’s raise a glass to this man who deserves the entire fucking world

[anxiousnerdwritings]

in an add on to the older!Potter!sister prompt Percy was canonically working as the Assistant to the Minister when Dumbledore and Harry started trying to warn people about Voldemort’s return but the Minister refused to believe it — it was something Percy was willing to overlook despite his family’s disapproval for the sake of keeping his well paying, impressive job because “no, I’m not quitting my job when we have a mortgage, mum, stop” but the moment Fudge got desperate and started on the Dumbledore + Potter slander campaign Percy just up and quit

que a surprised pikachu face from Fudge and Percy just squints at him and is like “you were literally at my wedding, stop talking shit about my wife” and just dips

for a little bit he stresses about not having a job and his darling becoming an obvious target in the war and “oh my god, what about the mortgage?” but this time it’s her turn to squint and she’s like “we only took a mortgage because your to proud and traditional to let your wife pay for shit, Percy, I have like fifty thousand galleons, shut up❤️”

I love the idea of Percy being a spy for the Order but strictly because of the Reader in this situation. He just keeps his head low and sticks to doing his job, the job he’s clawed his way to get to mind you. The only thing that gets him through day by day is the thought of being able to give his darling and future children the life he always wished he had. But with that being said, he’s not stupid either. No, he actually sees Fudge for who he is and that’s a coward. He knows that Fudge is only using him to see what information he can give the Ministry about Dumbledore and the Potters. And the fucking audacity for Fudge to actually think Percy would ever give him anything regarding his precious beloved darling. Like sure, the man was at their wedding but that was more to sell the guise of Percy being on the Ministry’s side when in reality he couldn’t give three shits, let alone one, about Fudge. But Percy continues to mind himself and play his part perfectly.

But the second anyone mutters a fucking word about his precious darling, they’re fucked. Percy does a pretty good job with getting revenge on those who hop on the Potter-hating bandwagon without getting caught, and he comes up with some pretty clever and humorous ways going about that would even have the twins shocked. It isn’t until Fudge himself says something completely off the cuff that Percy finally has enough and walks out. After that, everything pretty much goes to shit with the Ministry

I do love the idea of Percy being under the belief that they have a mortgage when they don’t in fact have one, whether Potter!Reader already paid it off herself or they live in the house on Spinner’s End that didn’t come with a mortgage to begin with.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Return to Sender [6 of 9]

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dark! Andy Barber x Reader, Ari Levinson x Reader

Summary: Andy Barber promised he would never let you go, and come hell or high water, he's going to keep that promise.

Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon, Kidnapping, Murder, Canon Typical Violence, Gaslighting, Basement Wife Trope, Manipulation, Stalking, Obsessive behavior, Possessive behavior, Fluff, Friends to lovers, Smut, MORE TAGS TO BE ADDED

A/N: ooh you all are going to be saur mad at me, lol. i’m sorry. i promise, we’re coming to an end, one i hope is as satisfying as the journey has been. remember, the outcome of this story was one you all voted on (dark vs. fluff), something i’ve kept in mind as i’ve crafted the story moving forward. thanks for sticking with me! comments are great, reblogs are golden. thank you for reading, and mind the warnings. ❤️ divider by @firefly-graphics

Andy’s voice sounds like oil even through the phone. 

“Well?” The expectant word rolls off his tongue. “I’m waiting.” 

It’s hard to speak, like the words are stuck in your chest. You lick your dry lips, casting a nervous glance around the phone store. 

“I want to talk.” 

“Yes, Honey. You said that already.”

“I—I want you to stop hurting people. You have to stop, Andy!” The phone trembles in your clammy hands as you readjust your grip on it. Ari is still asleep—or at least, he had been when you’d crept out from underneath his arm after he’d fallen asleep. Otherwise, he’d surely have stopped you. From across the counter, the employee gives you a frustrated glare. It’s almost closing time, and you don’t exactly have spare minutes to skip around the point. You’d also promised her a sale—which you absolutely were not going to follow through on either. 

“You know why I’m hurting people.” He sounds like he’s going to say something else, but the grainy sound of an infant’s cry derails him. Your chest clenches, and tears gather in the corners of your narrowed eyes. “See? Look who you’re hurting, Honey. All this foolishness, and all you’ve managed to do is hurt everyone around you. You hurt our daughter.” Andy sighs. “And yourself. You’re quite good at that.”

You take a deep, trembling breath. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t true, that none of it is true. It doesn’t matter that he’ll think it’s his idea. It’s better. Better if he does. 

“You’re right.” The words feel like glass on your tongue. “You’re right.” The sound of him clucking his tongue through the receiver is enough to raise your hackles. You want to hang up the phone, to press the end call button and leave. You want to say it’s your devotion to Dove that keeps you on the line, and mostly it is. But there’s the part of you that Andy owns—the part you expect he’ll own forever that believes him. “I… I’m sorry.”  You hate that part of you that really is.

“I’m sorry for everything.” There’s no response, but you know he’s still there—you can hear Dove gurgling against his shoulder. “It’s my fault. I got scared, Andy. I—I hate it, without you.” You hear his thoughtful hmm thought the receiver. 

“Then tell me where you are, Honey. So I can come and get you, and this whole ugly mess will be all finished.”  You don’t want to. 

“I—I will, but you have to promise me you won’t hurt anyone else. Promise me, Andy.” 

“Tell me something, Sweetheart, who is Ari Levinson?”

You’d called Andy with the resolve to give him nothing. To placate and pacify him until he allowed you to see Dove again. What you weren’t prepared for was him knowing about Ari. Your chest tightens as his words ring again in your ears—Promise me you won’t go back. Promise me.

I’m sorry, Ari.

Your non-answer is enough to make Andy sigh. 

“So you do know him.” The displeasure in his voice is easy enough to hear, and it fills you with cold dread. He’s trained you that way, made you hyper responsive to every one of his moods. You can’t help it now, your body tightening like a piano wire at the sound of his disappointment. 

“I really thought you would keep better company, Honey. Dishonorable discharge, manslaughter, criminal intimidation…” Andy trails off, clucking his tongue. Your heart is pounding, your trembling, clammy hands gripping the phone so tightly your fingers hurt. Manslaughter? Intimidation? Ari hadn’t told you any of that—but you suppose you hadn’t really asked. You know Andy’s only doing this to make you unsure, to shake up your footing and keep you guessing while he gathers all the cards—and he’s good at it. He chuckles at your silence. 

“Oh Honey. He didn’t tell you, did he?” Andy doesn’t even bother hiding his amusement. “I’m always telling you you can’t just trust anyone off the street, Honey. These people you’re with, they’re not good people.” 

You’re not good people, you think savagely, though your resolve crumbles as you hear Dove’s sleepy wail through the phone. She needs you, and your whole body aches at the thought of being unable to fulfill that need. Andy clears his throat. 

“I’m going to ask again, Honey, and I really want you to be honest with me when you answer. Who. Is. Ari. Levinson.”

“H-he just helped me, that’s all,” you mumble. “Ir—my contact, she… she knows him. I don’t really… I haven’t spent much time with him.” Andy’s always been good at knowing when you lie—and you wait anxiously to see if he’ll taste the mistruth in your words. The silent seconds tick by as you hear him quiet your daughter and sigh deeply. 

“If I send Robert to get you, Honey, you’re coming home this time. Understand?”

“I-I want to come h-home.” The word feels like acid in your throat, but you want to swallow it back down anyway, so he can’t hear it. “I need to come home. I-I miss Jacob.” You do—that part, at least, is true. 

“Honey I want that more than anything. It’s going to be good, better, Sweetheart. So much better than before.” His words do everything but reassure you. “You don’t know how good it feels to hear you say that.”  You imagine him in his office, standing in front of the fireplace. It’s so clear you can almost see it, instead of the dingy used phone store. “He’ll be there tomorrow morning, early. Train station.” 

“I-I’ll be there.”

“I know you will.”

“You promise if I do this—you won’t, you won’t hurt anyone else, right?” You hear the line clicking in his silence. 

“I promise.” 

— 

The walk back to the shop takes you twice as long, probably because you keep stopping, staring ahead of you silently as your thoughts boil over and out of control. You’d promised Ari—and you’d known, even then, that you would break it. The sight of Irene’s face, his wound, it had all made your decision as easy as it could possibly be:

You were going to get Dove yourself. 

You’d underestimated Andy’s connections, and two nights ago was proof enough of that. Pronge was proof of that. If you don’t go back now, you know they won’t survive another encounter. And Andy… you know he can spin it. Just like he had your disappearance. He wouldn’t let you go, he never would. He’d make it cost too much. It already cost too much, you think to yourself, clenching your fists angrily. 

It feels like no matter what you do, no matter what you choose or how hard you fight, you just. Keep. Losing. You come to the dead end street where Zemo’s abandoned-but-not garage sits—but you walk right past it. You can’t go back yet, you don’t have your story straight. Hell, you don’t even have your own fucking head straight. You can’t face either of them right now. 

How do I tell Ari?

You don’t want to think about how devastated he’ll be, how angry. You doubt he’ll understand—you can’t leave Dove with Andy, alone to twist her mind and shape her into God knew what. No, you can’t do that. You can’t even consider it. You didn’t want to leave Jacob either, but you knew you couldn’t manage two babies, not when Andy had barely let you escape with one. Ari will blame himself, you know that much already. 

But knowing he’ll hate you is far better than knowing he was dead because of you.

It’s a gray day, and the off-again-on-again rain has managed to soak through your borrowed sweatshirt. Once you round the large, empty park at the far end of the neighborhood, you decide to head back. You don’t really feel much better, but you know you can’t stay out by yourself much longer.  Once you round the corner and turn onto the block, you spot Ari standing outside, in front of the closed garage door bay. 

“What are you doing? Where did you go?” He asks, frowning down at you worriedly. “You can’t just—” Ari stops himself, and blows out a harsh, frustrated breath. “Mouse, you know he isn’t going to stop.” 

You look down at your feet. “I know.” He steers you back inside with his good hand. 

“Let’s go over the plan again.” You can’t help but roll your eyes. He can’t see you, but somehow, Ari knows. “Hey. Come on, humor me.” 

“Fine.” You lean against the dusty front counter as you watch him close the door and lock it behind him, lowering the security grate before bolting that, too. “Step one: Canada. Step two: new identity. Step three: Come back, get Dove.” You know this is what they want, what they say is best, safest. 

And you know they’re right, it is what’s safest—for you.

Andy has a long memory—and his patience exceeds that of a fucking saint. He’d waited eight years for you. You don’t want to know how long he’s willing to wait to put another bullet in Ari. And somehow, you know that if he comes to do it himself, he won’t miss. 

“Good. I know it’s hard right now. But I promise you, I will be with you every single step of the way, okay? We are not giving up on Dove.” Ari cups your chin with a tenderness that brings burning tears to your eyes. You blink them back, burying your face against his chest. 

“I know.” The rough fabric of his sling against your cheek strengthens your resolve, though. “Thanks, Ari.” 

“You’re welcome.” He kisses the top of your head. “Not the biggest fan of Quebec but Montreal is nice. Maybe we’ll go there, first.” Andy’s voice echoes unpleasantly in your head. Dishonorable discharge. Manslaughter. Ari’s laughter falters. “What’s wrong, Mouse?” 

“N-nothing.” You shake your head, attempting to clear it of the ghosts Andy had put in it. “Did you go to Montreal while you were in the army?” You ask, and his expression darkens, just a little. 

“No. After, actually. After I left.” The why hangs unspoken in the air between you, and you hesitate to breathe it into existence yourself, no matter how desperate the desire. “I told you about my sister. Her husband.” He sighs. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t alright. When they died. I’m probably still not, but it… I was angry. I wanted to kill him, Mouse. I wanted to hurt him like he hurt them and I wanted him to know why.”

“Did you?”Ari doesn’t look proud. He looks… sad. Like he doesn’t want you to know, like he’d rather lie instead of letting a single shred of the truth pass his lips in this moment. But Ari isn’t a liar, you’ve learned that well enough. 

“Yes.” He’s looking at you but his eyes are so far away that you know he isn’t, really. You don’t know what he’s seeing, but you know it isn’t you. “I did. I know I should regret it—what I did. But I couldn’t. I can’t.” You aren’t afraid of him, even though perhaps, you know you probably should be. And yet, even amidst his confessions, all you feel is safe. 

So safe. 

“I went to Montreal after that.”

You don’t know what else to say, but you wrap your arms around him, the tips of your fingers barely touching around his broad back. It’s the only thing you can think to give him in this moment. Words may fall short, and you know that he will dwell on them tomorrow when you’re gone, dissect them with the same stubborn diligence he shows you at every opportunity. But this, this he won’t be able to deny, to spin. 

Ari hums, squeezing you affectionately. 

“Mind if I change the subject now, Mouse?” He asks, sighing the words into your hair. “Besides, if we stay out much longer, Irene’s liable to come looking for us.” 

“Too late.” Her irritated voice makes you jump. “Where did you get off to?”You swallow thickly, hoping Ari doesn’t hear it. 

“I just took a walk.” In the beat of silence before Irene’s response, you can practically hear her roll her eyes. You turn to see her doing just that, and you wonder briefly if your powers of prophecy might lend themselves to something more useful. She jerks her head toward the office. 

“Well, walk yourself in here a minute, would you? We’ve got to get these tickets sorted.” Ari snorts with laughter. “That was good, right?” She grins, carding a hand through her silver-blonde hair. Irene hasn’t been nearly as forthcoming as Ari with information—like she almost doesn’t want to know you, or like she’s afraid to get close. The disapproving look she fixes Ari with only further substantiates your theory. 

Reluctantly, you follow Irene inside. 

—

 Andy takes a long, slow sip of his scotch, holding the liquor on his tongue before swallowing. The ice clinks gently against the glass, and after a moment, he sets it down to ponder the object in his other hand. 

Your ring is beautiful—a classic marquis cut diamond, flanked by alternating long and short baguette cuts. It fit you perfectly—he’d had it made for you, so of course it had. Large enough that other women made a fuss over it whenever they saw it, but still classy, not ostentatious. 

You’d left it on the dresser, next to the ankle monitor you managed to slip off without tripping the alarm. Andy’s lip curls, and he downs another mouthful. 

Let’s see her take off a goddamn chip.

The sound of tiny footsteps outside his office door makes Andy turn, just in time to see Jacob poke his head around the doorframe. He’s nearly four now, and he can reach the handle without standing on the tips of his toes, now. 

“Hey, bud. What is it? You know you’re supposed to be in bed.” Jacob’s lip trembles. 

“Daddy, I had bad dream,” he replies shakily, rubbing his watery eyes with the back of his chubby hand. “Went for mommy but she not there.” 

It takes everything Andy has not to blame you, but he swallows the urge. You can’t help it—you don’t have his vision, his foresight. You don’t see how much he needs you, how great you could be together if you would just let him lead you. He’d tried to replace you with Laurie, and look how that had turned out. No, Andy had already tried back-up plans B, C, and D when what he really needed was just to try A one more time. 

“Daddy’s sorry to hear that, Jake. Would you like to come sit with me?”  He nods, sniffling. Andy hoists his toddler up onto his lap, rubbing his back with a gentle hand. “What was the dream about?” 

“The bad-glasses-man.” Jacob says seriously, turning his glassy, terrified eyes to his father. Andy’s face remains passive, but inwardly he rages. Pronge’s comings and goings are easy enough to hide from the rogue paparazzi and the plain-clothes cops he knows are lurking just beyond the property gate, but significantly less so from his son, apparently. 

“Who’s the glasses man?” He knows the answer, but he needs the confirmation. The question alone is enough to upset him, and Jacob begins to fret, his eyes watering as he shakes his head.

“I don’t like him. His face is red.” 

The night he’d brought Dove back, he’d been practically covered in blood—the only clean thing was the goddamn baby. Andy didn’t ask where the hired muscle was, and Robert did not volunteer the information. 

“You know that was a dream, don’t you, tough guy?” Andy says, wiping the tears from his son’s chubby cheeks with the pad of his thumb. “When you go to sleep, you have dreams. And what we see in our dreams isn’t real, remember?”

“I ‘member, daddy.” Jacob still looks rather upset, though, and Andy wonders what else he hasn’t managed to hide, what other loose ends he hasn’t managed to tuck. “Him’s scary.”

He’d been planning of disposing of Pronge anyway—passing along “new” evidence to his friends in the DA’s office in Florida  would be more than enough to have a needle in his arm before he could so much as kick dirt at Andrew Barber’s pristine legacy. 

“It’s okay to be scared, Bud. Thanks for coming to see me—that’s what dads are for.” 

“And moms.” Jacob adds seriously, and Andy smiles and nods in agreement  though his free  hand clenches against the seat where his son can’t quite see it. 

“And moms.” 

—

Dinner is takeout, with Ari meeting the delivery driver three blocks away, just to be safe. You can feel Irene’s eyes on you the whole time he’s gone. You wonder if maybe she knows somehow, if she’s figured out your plan just from plain experience and observation. Her face is still a mess of bruising, but the swelling around her eye has gone down enough for her to squint out of it,  which is what she’s currently doing as she looks at you. Her nose is still red and angry, the bruised, veiny skin peeking out around the bandage and splint—Pronge had broken it. 

“I’m sorry.” You feel compelled to apologize again—after all, you’re responsible. Sure, Robert had been the one to break it, but you feel like you might as well have driven your own fist into her face for all the difference it made. “I didn’t know Andy would… that he would call someone like that.” You’d thought you knew Andy, that you understood him, who he was. And that had been why you’d let him back in. 

But you hadn’t, you see that now. Not even a little bit. 

Irene snorts. “Robert’s a parasite. I’m not surprised he’s got himself mixed up with a big fish like Andrew Barber.” She crosses her arms. “He’s always had a talent for finding garbage.” 

“You know him?” You ask, grimacing. Irene’s scowl deepens with regret, and she looks away. She’s by no means a small woman, broad shouldered and tall—but she looks somehow diminished.

 “S-sorry, I, I shouldn’t pry. I—I know we’re supposed to keep the interpersonal stuff to a minimum—” You ramble apologetically to fill the awkward space your question has left, but Irene cuts you off. 

“He was my first partner. Before lover-boy,” she adds, snorting. Your cheeks heat. You can’t stop your face from contorting in confusion. “He was my transporter, till he turned one of my girls back over to her husband.” She looks down at her hands. “My last girl, before, well, you.” Irene’s laugh is dry, but not bitter. 

“I didn’t know I was your one last job,” you reply. “Where’d you meet Pronge?” 

“What can I say? Your email was very convincing.” Your chest hurts at this, bad. You want to tell her, tell her everything, your phone call with Andy, your deal—but you don’t. She’ll only try to stop you. She’s already suspicious of you, you know—you can’t be the first to think about going back, to weigh the pros and cons and find the latter holds more water. Instead, you watch her tug the chain out from beneath her collar with her thumb. 

“Military. Same place I met Ari,” she adds. 

“You were all there together?” You ask incredulously, and she actually laughs, shaking her head. “In the army?” 

“No, no. Six degrees of separation, type thing.” The chain link rattles as Ari pulls it up, and you turn to watch him duck underneath before lowering it back down and snapping the padlock into place to keep it shut. “Didn’t even know this prick till I needed an east coast cover.” She jerks her thumb at him as he sighs, shaking his head. 

“Talking about me again, ladies?” He says, putting the bag down heavily on the counter. “Don’t stop on my account.” 

“Wasn’t going to,” Irene retorts. “And we weren’t Army.” She scrunches up her nose with distaste. “That, there, darlin’,” she points at Ari. “Is a Marine.” She turns her accusatory finger back on herself. “Marine.” 

You offer her a wry smile. “I’m not sure what the difference is, but—” you hold your hands up placatingly as her face screws up with offense. “I do believe you that  there is a difference.” 

“Damn right.” 

Ari’s hand finds the small of your back as he passes by behind you, and you don’t jump at his presence. 

“There’s not really that much of a difference.” He murmurs cheekily, and you stifle a giggle, biting your lip. “Just so you know.” Ari’s lips graze the shell of your ear, and your whole face goes hot. 

“I heard that, asshole,” she snaps, jabbing her finger in Ari’s direction again. “There is.”  Irene eats alone, waving her hand and shaking her head as she shovels food out onto her plate. “No, no. I need time away from you two. No offense.” 

“None taken.” Ari replies, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “You’re in a shit mood anyway.” You don’t have to see Irene flipping him off to know it’s happening, but you peek over your shoulder anyway, and snicker with laughter as she proudly presents her middle finger. Ari ignores her. 

You eat in companionable silence, before Ari, elbows you gently. 

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, and your chest fills with that too-familiar-ache. “Really?”

“I’m fine.” You don’t know if he believes you, but he doesn’t ask again. Instead, he does something else entirely—Ari dotes on you. He reminds you to finish your food when you push it away half-eaten. If not for me, then for Dove, Mouse. Can’t make milk for her if you’re starving. And when you’re done, he takes your plate, tossing it in the trash for you. You’re still wired, however, electricity running under your skin as the hours wind down. It’s all you can do not to pace. 

Andy had taught you that you couldn’t have your cake and eat it too—but goddamn do you want to. You want your daughter, and you want Ari. It feels unfair that you can’t, mostly because it is. Andy gets to have it all. Do it all, and what do you get? To crawl back to him on your belly because he’s still. Fucking. Winning. 

Ari places a hand on your thigh, stilling it. You hadn’t even realized you’d been bouncing it nervously, staring off into space. His concern cuts through the noise of your anxiety. 

“You’re going to drive yourself crazy.” He grasps your hands.  You sigh. 

“I know.” You hang your head. “I—I can’t stop thinking about Dove,” you admit, hanging your head. “How she needs me…” Ari squeezes your hands together, his larger ones enveloping them. 

“You need you.” He strokes the backs of your hands softly with his thumb. “You realize that, don’t you, Mouse?” You try to resist when he tucks a finger underneath your chin to make sure you’re looking at him, and when you do, you find his eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Please tell me you understand.” 

“I understand.” 

You want to—but you don’t even know who you are anymore. Without Dove, you feel adrift; she’d been your anchor, your purpose and drive. You needed to protect her, to get her away from Andy and keep her safe and whole and good. You reasoned you could fix yourself after, duct tape was good enough for you. But now that he has her again and your plan lies in ruins around you, you don’t even know what you’re doing this for. The various splintered pieces of you held in place by thin tape are falling apart again, and you don’t have another way to make them stay together. 

When Ari pulls you to his chest you go willingly, tucking yourself against his chest. He smells like pine musk and rain and just a hint of sweat, and you bury your nose in the folds of his shirt. You want to remember him, remember every moment you’d spent with him because they were precious. Of course only you realize it as you stand upon the precipice of never seeing him again, but you can’t change that now. You’re okay with it, trading the feeling of Ari’s solid body against yours, the surety of his presence, for knowing he’ll get to keep breathing. 

He’s worth that to you. 

Ari presses a kiss into your hair. 

“I fucking swear I will do everything in my power to make sure that he never hurts either of you again.” It breaks your heart to know that no matter how hard he tries, Ari will never be able to keep that promise. 

I think I love you. “Thank you.” I’m sorry. 

“Let’s get some rest.” 

You swallow against the tide of words that threaten to come crashing out of your mouth, and nod instead. He leads you back to the makeshift bedroom, and climbs into the cot beside you. He holds you, tucking your head beneath his chin as, for the last time, you fall asleep beside Ari Levinson. 

—

“You look like shit.” Pronge’s voice is mocking. You glower at him from across the empty parking lot, but you don’t get any closer. You hadn’t been waiting there long when the sleek black car had pulled into the lot, with Pronge oozing out of the driver’s side door. “What? You get cold feet all of a sudden?” He doesn’t have to yell to be heard—there’s no traffic, no people. The train station is practically a ghost-town at this hour, so there’s no one to overhear, either. 

“No.” You narrow your eyes at him, before reluctantly stepping forward. You see no reason not to be honest. “I just hate you.” He grins at your admission. 

“Happy to see you too, Sweetcheeks.” Pronge throws open the door to the black sedan next to him, and jerks his thumb at the back seat. “Now get in. Your hubby’s eagerly waiting for you a three hour drive back to fucking Boston.” He sneers. “What, you deaf too? I said move it.” 

You’re halfway across the lot when the sound of your name makes your eyes widen. You turn, and behind you is Irene, leaning against the gate as she pants. Your own eyes widen with panic—she’s not supposed to be here. You swear she’d been sleeping not forty-five minutes ago, though the steady rise and fall of her chest in the dark had been your only indication. Ari doesn’t seem to be with her though, and you wonder if she’d rushed here straight  out of bed—she isn’t wearing any of her gear, and the knife you know she keeps in her belt is nowhere to be seen. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Irene looks from you to Pronge and then back again. Your chest aches as the realization crosses her face, betrayal settling in soon after. “You can’t do this.” 

“Oh but this is delicious,” Pronge drawls, stepping around the open door. His greasy hair hangs limply into his face. “She’s going home to daddy.”  

“The fuck you are,” Irene retorts. “You know you can’t.” She isn’t even talking to Pronge anymore, just you. “You can drink poison knowing it’s poison, but you’ll still die. Andy is never going to let you go, you know that. You told me what it was like in the basement. It’s going to be ten times as bad if he gets his hands on you again.” Irene fixes you with a pleading, earnest look. “Please—”

You’ve heard gunshots before—plenty of times, now—but this doesn’t sound like one. It’s why you don’t understand it when Irene’s chest erupts in a spray of dark, warm red. You can smell it, like burned, raw meat. It dribbles out of her mouth as she stumbles forward and then falls down onto the dark pavement, twitching. You clutch at your face with your hands as the scream that had built up in your chest emerges as a wheeze. 

You look at Robert, watching with horror as he stows a pistol with a long silencer attached back into his filthy jacket. The blacktop is slick with morning dew as you race across it, slipping and skidding until you reach her. 

“Help me!” Irene is gasping and twitching, her eyes rolling wildly as you push her onto her back, pushing your trembling hands against the hole in her chest. “What-what do I-I don’t know what to do, I—” Jerkily, she lifts a hand to your face, smearing your cheek with her blood. 

“R-ru-un.” She coughs up more red, darker, thicker. You sob as you attempt again to staunch the bleeding. It doesn’t help, though, bubbling up out of the wound and over your hands to pool on the ground beneath you. 

“No, no, please, he promised, he promised he—he promised,” you babble uselessly as she spasms again and then goes completely still, her eyes locked on the brightening sky above you. “He promised. Andy, he promised.” You look at Robert as Irene’s head falls back against the pavement. 

“I guess there’s one cherry that Barber didn't pop.” He is on you in an instant, closing the gap between you with a few careful steps. You can’t move, though, can’t think as his wiry fingers dig into the meat of your shoulder, dragging you to your feet. Irene needs help, she needs—

“No, no, I, I have to help her, I—” You’re babbling uselessly as he shoves you into the back seat, and when you go for the handles on the doors, nothing happens. “Let me—let me out! No, no, he promised, and—” Pronge ignores your wailing, sliding in behind the wheel and starting the car. If anything, he’s enjoying it, grinning as you sob and beat against the windows with bloodstained hands. You cry and scream until your throat is raw, watching her body disappear, eaten by the cityscape as you move away through it. 

After a while, you curl in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees and laying down on the cool, clean leather. 

He promised. 

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[goldsainz]

❝ SHARING THE LOVE ❞

SERIES MASTERLIST!

MASTERLIST!

pairing . . . charles leclerc x reader

◦∘｡ﾟ. summary . . . there is more than enough love to go around now that you have a new addition to your family.

◦∘｡ﾟ. note . . . we all know why this is here… those charles pics with the baby have not left my mind since i saw them, which is why wrote this😭 we all need more dad!charles fics in our lives!!!!! sorry that this is so short but i don’t want to miss a day of the series and this is all i could come up with

yourusername and charles_leclerc updated their instagram stories!

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yourusername valentine’s day with my favourite people ❤️

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charles_leclerc Our little bunny 🐰

⤷ yourusername who needs cupid? we have a bunny

ynfan1 céline is sooooooo cute

charlesfan1 this makes me want to have kids

charlesfan2 still can’t believe charles being a dilf is canon

arthur_leclerc I don’t see my picture

⤷ charles_leclerc Why would there be one?

⤷ yourusername charles, don’t be rude. arthur you know we love you 🫶

⤷ charles_leclerc …sure

ynfan2 this family is everything to me

ynfan3 the cuteness overload that this pics gave me

charlesfan3 THAT CHARLES AND CÉLINE PHOTO

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charles_leclerc In the day of love, I want to celebrate the love of my life and mother of my daughter.

You are everything to me and have given me the biggest gift I could ever ask for. Life would not be what it is without you, and for that I am forever grateful.

Je t’aime, Y/N.

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yourusername i love you infinitely 🤍

yourusername i’m crying over here

⤷ charles_leclerc I can hear the sniffling

charlesfan21 i hope my future bf loves me as much as charles loves y/n

ynfan21 y/n being a mother is my roman empire

ynfan22 those bunny ears are adorable

charlesfan22 IMAGINE HAVING THE CHARLES LECLERC AND THE Y/N Y/L/N AS YOUR PARENTS

ynfan23 céline is the cutest baby everrrr

ynfan24 oh to have their relationship

⤷ ynfan25 they are such goals

charlesfan23 nobody is doing it like them 🤷‍♀️

ynfan26 “you are everything to me” CAN YOU HEAR ME SOBBING?!?!

charles_leclerc and yourusername updated their instagram stories!

liked by nathypeluso, bellahadid and 497,263 others

yourusername managed to sneak a parents-only date

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ynfan31 charles can’t handle allat

ynfan32 i neeeeed that dress

joris_trouche I am taking the babysitting duty very seriously 🫡

⤷ charles_leclerc As you should.

⤷ yourusername our life saviour!!!!!!!

⤷ joris_trouche Never babysitting again (when can I do it again?)

ynfan33 they are the actual royalty of monaco 😌

charlesfan31 best wag ever

ynfan34 bye they’re so iconic

charlesfan32 céline at home like 😒

⤷ charlesfan33 right like the queen deserves an invite

⤷ charlesfan32 she probably heard of the plan and decided not to go

ynfan35 MOTHER!!!!!!!!

translations:

— je t’aime : i love you

-ˋˏ *.· taglist . . . @lorarri @lpab @noncannonships @lunnnix @elliegrey2803 @saintiastri @saintslewis @leoramage @toomuchdelusion @anthonykatebridgerton @enhacolor @gulabjamoon @toomuchdelusion @louvrepool @ravisinghs-wife @nouvellevqgue @hobiismyhopeu @starlightpierre @lecsainz @kkeelss @namgification @minkyungseokie @gothgirlez @f1version @onecojg @minkyungseokie @blue1amory

[heavenlymorals]

Hi! I really enjoy your posts and I was hoping to see if you can answer this question for me. I want to write an Arthur x reader fic, but I want to try writing a more canon Arthur instead of a fanon Arthur. So if you're able to, what do you think Arthur would be like as husband or partner? Thank you! 🩵🩵

Arthur as a Husband (Arthur x Fem! Reader)

Thank you so much ❤️ I'm glad you like my posts, that makes me happy ❤️❤️

And boy, that's kinda a loaded question considering how vast the Arthur x Reader side of the fandom is, so this might be a bit controversial but here we go:

Also, these are all of my thoughts based on my past posts on Arthur. None of them are actually canon as far as I know nor am I presenting them to be canon. These are all just my thoughts based on what I've noticed in the game.

I genuinely think that Arthur would be a great husband BUT he'd be a great husband in the context of the 1800s.

He would never lay his hands on you. He would never disrespect you. Any man try to do anything to you, Arthur would go ballistic. He'd always defend his wife from disrespect. He would always carry your luggage. He would always be a gentleman and assist you in getting on a horse or a wagon. He'd make sure you're comfortable in any way he can. He would never want you to over exert yourself. He would love you to the point of devotion and given how his devotion works for the gang, it'd be priceless. He'd make sure to treat you to the fullest on every date. He'd want to impress you. He would love you most ardently and most fully. If he had sons, he'd make sure to always set a good example on how men should treat their wives/partners.

Very sweet, I know, but again- this is in the context of the 1800s.

I think Arthur, give his attitudes regarding gender roles, would be suited with a woman who believes in the same thing, which given the time period wasn't rare.

Arthur would protect, provide, and do all the traditional things that men were expected to do and he'd do them well enough to where you would never have to worry about things like money, protection, or him taking care of you and honoring you. He'd love you to devotion.

But where he'd do a man's duty, he'd expect you to do the woman's duty, and just how he'd love you to devotion, he'd expect the same. He would never let you do "men's work" if he can help it, unless y'all are living in a super tough environment where you would need to help him here and there, but he'd still do the vast majority of the hard work, and he'd expect a clean place to live, food, and all that domestic stuff from you. If the both of you are able to connect with that dynamic, than Arthur would honestly be a phenomenal husband. He'd be the model husband in the traditional relationship.

I also think respect would be a big thing too. You'd probably both tease each other and love it, but there has to be respect and understanding otherwise he would go off. Note how quick he was able to go off and raise his voice at Mary when she started disrespecting his life style yet chooses to want to use the skills he attained from that lifestyle to help her with her father. He also does it in public where everyone could hear and he only stops when he sees that it was deeply distressing to Mary after she asks him to be kind to her. I realized pretty quick that Arthur is not as patient or pacified as John when Abigail chews into him.

However, I also think he'd be very understanding and open minded to you if you seriously want to talk to him. Communication would be key between both of you and he'd try to understand your thoughts as best as he can and try to make you happy if he could, but again, he'd also expect the same of you.

It's a two way street in different ways. That's the best way I can put it. He'd love you to devotion, given that both of you are comfortable and happy with that traditional dynamic. Arthur would protect you, provide for you, make sure you are always comfortable and never destitute, and in return, he'd expect you to be there for him.

Hope you enjoyed that ❤️ And again, these are just my thoughts based on what I've noticed in canon. Happy writing! ❤️❤️❤️