#so like...falling in love with your private chef??? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

salem-s · 1 month ago

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FINAL ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, fluff, sssmmmmmuuuut (fingering, oral fem receiving, p-in-v unprotected (do not follow their footsteps) you get the idea), mentions of staples in head. 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god. also i didn’t feel like waiting until 6pm est to post this so here’s an early last chapter? happy friday? sorry if there’s mistakes alright godspeed.

WORD COUNT 10.4k. alright. no one say anything. it was originally around 5k but like the ptputss final chapter, i couldn't let that happen. hope you enjoy this scrap.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER motion picture soundtrack by radiohead

Sarah is usually a pretty good roommate.

Despite growing up with cleaning services and maids and private chefs, she's always done a good job at tidying up after herself. Dishes are rarely left in the sink (you two normally have a truce of doing the dishes the morning after a night out, rather than dealing with them in your drunken splendor), communal spaces such as the kitchen, living room, and bathroom are, for the most part, always crumb-free and organized, and you'll even take turns cooking for each other on occasion. The two of you have fallen into a nice routine in terms of sharing your own space.

However, Sarah has little to no concept of privacy.

Especially now, as she pounds on your door and yells your name as if there's a fire.

"Why the fuck are all the condoms all over the floor?!"

It takes you a full minute to realize what's going on, where you are, who you're with.

The sliver of sunrise pokes through your sheer curtains, audaciously shining into the room and into your eyes when you momentarily prop yourself up on your elbows and squint. You blink blearily as your senses slowly start to come back to you: the sunrise indicating an early morning, the lingering scent of your body wash littering your skin, the increments of knocking on your door, and the warmth of Rafe right beside you.

He stirs not only from Sarah's loud voice, but from your movement, and you watch him endearingly frown, eyes still screwed shut as he paws for you with the quietest groan, as if the notion of you being away from him in a time like this is offensive. Once his hands find your body, he's gripping whatever he feels first — in this instance, your lower hips — and curling his fingers into your flesh and pulling you tight against him, so tight that you're no longer propped up on your elbows and instead trapped in the confinements of his arms.

You blink from the jolting movement, heart skipping when he lazily slots a leg in between yours as if the gesture is second nature.

Sarah calls your name again.

"I don't care if you have someone in there!" She yells, slightly slurring as if she's just gotten in for the night (morning?). "If you don't answer in five seconds, I'm coming in."

You stiffen in Rafe's arms.

Fuck. Holy fuck.

You think for a brief second on the implications of her walking in right now, and seeing the two of you cozied beneath the sheets after months of telling her that he's the blueprint of a guy you'd never want to be with. A flicker of panic rises in your chest at the thought of seeing him, her fucking brother, laying in your bed like he was made to be here and, apparently, successfully scoring with the girl he's been talking to her about for ages.

The attempt to free yourself from his hold fails, and he only nuzzles further into you.

"Hey," you whisper hurriedly, "wake up."

"I can hear you!" Sarah accuses from the other side of the door. "Five, four-"

You pinch Rafe's abdomen, and your quest to see if he's ticklish falls short as he barely budges, instead humming low and baritone and un-fucking-fazed at the fact that his sister is about to walk in on you two right now. While you can practically hear your own heartbeat, you can feel his beating in a slow, syncopated rhythm, relaxed more than ever despite the premeditated headache you're both about to endure.

"Three!"

Rafe doesn't even open his eyes, using his other senses to simply feel you. He gently nudges his nose against your temple, inhaling deep as his lips find your hairline to press a morning kiss, and he does it delicately enough to avoid the area with the staples. Warm hands splay on your back and waist, mapping out the bareness of your skin and nimble fingers settling under your shirt as if he has every right (he does).

If your roommate (your friend, the sister of the guy you have in your bed right now) wasn't inducing a mild panic on your part, you'd surely swoon over the simple act.

"Two—"

"Sare," Rafe mutters and the baritone of his voice vibrates against your skin, loud enough to get the counting to suddenly stop. "'T's too early for this shit."

Utter silence from the other side of the door.

The implication almost makes you burst out laughing. Almost.

Because you think at how out of left field this must seem to her right now, especially if she hasn't been to bed yet and is coming down from her drunkenness and roll. The two of you have been M.I.A. all night, not even charging your phone and his being somewhere amongst the city in someone's back pocket, so you figure they've spent a long time trying to figure out where you went.

Also because it's Rafe. Her brother. Sleeping in your room after all this time of threatening him with death if he so much as looked at you wrong. Being in your sacred space that you only let few people enter. Staying together behind closed doors after she discovered enough condoms to last a lifetime littered across the floor.

Sarah doesn't even say anything, and instead you hear the bedroom door creak open.

You can't even look at her if you tried, because you're helplessly taut to Rafe with your face buried in the crook of his neck. You can't even turn and shoot her a sheepish look because he simply won't let you, he won't let go, simply holding onto the moment just a fraction longer. Not that you necessarily mind, because — for starters — you're comfortable and warm and he smells very nice, and you could really get used to waking up like this: pressed up to him and peppered with an influx of affection that you aren't sure you deserve.

All you can do is idly lay, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck as you can only imagine the look on her face as well as his. You can picture it: his lazy, shit eating grin and her furrowed brows and incessantly blinking eyes. The image only progresses in your mind when his hand rubs gently up and down your spine, but you figure it's less of an affectionate gesture and more as a possessive stake in his claim of you, almost to rub it in her face.

"Good mornin'," Rafe drawls out, as if he's taunting her. "Fun night?"

There are a few moments of silence between the siblings, and you can only roll your eyes at his proud demeanor. Prick.

She speaks probably after staring between you two for all this time. "What the fuck? I mean, like, what the fuck?"

He only hums, and when you try to turn over onto your back so you can look at your friend, he actually lets you. But not without his hand smushing between your back and the mattress, not that he necessarily seems to mind at all because he doesn't pull it away, nor does he remove his other hand that splays audaciously on your hip, nimble fingers skimming the waistband of your sleep shorts.

The look on Sarah's face is quite literally what you pictured: her brows furrowed yet eyes wide in disbelief, her hand still lingering on the doorknob as if she's been petrified at the sight before her. She's still in last night's outfit, hair a bit mussed and mascara shadowing the slight bags under her eyes, yet she looks more awake than ever as she blinks her gaze between you and her brother. Finally, her eyes settle on you.

Her words are immediate. "Did he pay you?"

Rafe snorts as you reach your arms up, stretching long like a cat and yawning as if you've worked a twelve hour shift. "Only offered to pay off her student loans, 's all."

Sarah narrows her eyes at her brother. "Shut up." Then, she looks back to you. "Did he?"

You find the gall to roll your eyes, even though your heart is racing and your expression is sheepish. "Is it that hard to believe?"

"Yes," she retorts instantly, apparently in the mood to deprecate her brother's dignity. "He's only been obsessed with you since move-in, and it's made him dumber than usual."

"I'm right here?"

Sarah ignores him completely. "I can't believe this is actually happening. I totally called it."

Your face flushes, and you're really, really grateful that you're not facing him right now.

Unfortunately, she’s right. Sarah has been (not) subtly rooting for you and her brother to get together ever since you first threw him a scowl, ever since Rafe’s brows flung high in surprise when you — instead of ogling and swooning over his introductory flirtation — simply looked him up and down, scoffed, and carried on with moving your stuff into the apartment, ever since Sarah doubled over laughing at her brother’s shocked expression. He obviously wasn’t used to that working, and she got the biggest kick out of your no-bullshit attitude.

Ever since that day, the very first time you and him met, Sarah’s been praying to all higher beings to get you two together.

When he’d leave a room, she’d raise her brows at you as if to say “So?” and your answer was always the same: an eye roll, a snort, and a “Yeah, right” that transcended time and space. When you dislocated your shoulder and were retelling the story later to all your friends, she asked three different times to clarify that it was Rafe — the guy you wouldn’t let touch you with so much as a breath — who carried and brought you to the ER (at the time you ignored the giant fucking grin she shot her brother, who glared at her to relax). Every single time the three of you ran errands or went out and about in the city, Sarah always accidentally asked you both to accompany her, telling you it slipped her mind that he was coming along.

Your answer was always the same, consisting either of an eye roll, a groan, a snide comment, or all of the above in one go. She knew that the possibility of you ever being with him was slim to none, yet always subconsciously rooted for the best case scenario for her brother, which would be ending up with a person like you.

So now, as she looks between you and him cuddled together in a way she never thought possible, it’s obvious to tell she is thoroughly confused, yet elated.

“Okay, well,” she starts, failing to suppress a giant grin, “next time you want to rob me and John B of all our condoms, just ask.”

God, if your face wasn’t burning before, it’s definitely on fire now.

“Yup, okay,” you say quickly, “thanks so much. See you later!”

Rafe laughs next to you as Sarah takes one last fleeting glance at the two of you, before slowly retreating from the room and closing the door behind her. From the hallway, she makes a noise of excitement, a squeal? Something along those lines, and you don’t have the vicinities to study the sound since she’s already gradually getting quieter, retreating to her room with a door slam.

Silence is met between you and him for a beat, two, three, before his thumb starts rubbing gentle circles on the bare skin of your hip, just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. It sends goosebumps shooting up your arm.

“Mornin’, Star,” Rafe muses low, almost cautiously.

You wait a few moments to look at him, letting your gaze linger on the door before slowly lulling your head to tilt towards him. The sight of his hair sticking up in a million different directions nearly makes you snort, but the noise dies in your throat when you really notice how pretty he is right now: bleary eyes, tousled hair, a smile so gentle it would’ve made your knees weak if you were standing. He’s so close, closer than ever, and with the rising sunlight backlighting his features, you wish you had the capacities to take a picture, to capture this moment and save it for the books.

Apparently, you stare for too long, because with each second passing, his smile augments.

It takes you a stupid amount of time to find your voice. “Hi.”

His gaze flickers up for a moment, to where the staples lay hidden in your hair. “How’s your head?”

You go to answer, you really do, but his arm that was trapped under your back is slithering itself out, and soon his hand comes up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers ghosting over your hairline with such delicacy that it short circuits your brain.

“Mhm?” He prompts again at your silence.

You blink stupidly. “T’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.”

Rafe doesn’t really like that answer. Well, you assume he doesn’t because he frowns, eyes lingering on the wound for a few moments longer before settling back into you, bright blues boring into yours with such unnerved intensity that you squirm. Instead of looking away, instead of rolling your eyes and settling on something else, you hold his gaze, and it never dawned on you how pretty his eyes really are, an alluring bright blue.

The words blurt before you can stop them.

“You still have me.” Your voice is impossibly quiet. “By the way.”

It's nothing fancy, no grandeur gesture or announcement. It's a soft spoken promise etched in the basking sunlight under lavender scented sheets, sheets that smell of him already. The words are simple, yet they hold a heavy insinuation about locked off parts of you, parts of you that you never let anyone see or feel or experience.

Yet it's how you say it, sweet and soft and laced with as much honey as a morning voice can have, but also firm and certain as if they hold their own, stand tall without a pillar as their foundation. Perhaps it's enough, at least for now, because even though it it isn't a monologue of any sorts, it's confirmation. It's hope.

Rafe swears he's never heard anything better.

His grin is lazy and relaxed, gaze soft and unnerved as he peers at you as if you've hung the stars yourself. His hands press a little firmer into your skin, simply relishing in the privilege to hold you, to feel you, to open yourself up to him as you never have with anyone before. An overwhelming sense of pride swells in his chest, of possession, because you're his. After what felt like a bedtime story, a far away fantasy, a dream, you're finally his.

His voice is saccharine. "Thank you, baby."

And the moment's ruined, at least the lovey-dovey part of it, because you can't help but scrunch your nose and feel your lip twitch at his words.

"Did you really just thank me?"

All he does is hum in affirmation, not even caring that you're practically laughing at him. He'll be fine if you jab at him until the end of time if it gets you to smile at him like this. The thought of forever with you makes his heart skip, and he attempts to mask it by leaning in, lowering his face into the crook of your neck and placing gentle kisses on your soft skin.

You feel a shiver up your spine as his fingers gently skim over the bare skin of your tummy at the same time he peppers kisses. "Sarah said since move in."

Another hum, and this time he's sucking a particularly sweet spot right under your jaw.

It makes you let out a low sigh, but you're not letting him distract you. "You've liked me since move in?"

I've loved you since move in, he almost says.

Instead, he settles on, yet, another hum.

Your hand flies to the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching the ends of his hair in a way that makes him emit a low groan. It's baritone against your vocal cord that sends warmth immediately to your core, the sensation of his body heat against yours, his lips, his nimble fingers, it's all too much, too teasing, too cruel if he still pushes you away with the fear of your injury.

"Rafe," you say in a hushed tone, embarrassed at how it's borderline a whine.

"Mhm?"

The vibration tickles your neck, and you attempt to hold onto your remaining piece of dignity as you manually shut your mouth to refrain from further humiliating yourself. Instead, you practically writhe beneath him, a hand coming up to grasp the back of his that shamelessly explores your stomach, squeezing once to emphasize your need without explicitly saying anything.

But, of course, Rafe isn't the type to let that slide.

You want to smack him when you feel him grin against your neck.

"You're insufferable," you manage to mumble.

He chuckles against your neck, low and audacious. "Sorry, baby." He doesn't sound the slightest bit apologetic. "What d'ya need?"

The words feel foreign on your tongue, words you've thought time and time again yet never had the gall to say, to speak into fruition, to submit to someone else in such a way.

"I want you."

The sigh that emits from him is guttural, deep from the back of his throat and almost needy at the sound of your words. It's dreamy, almost, as if you'd just set a nice, hot plate of his favorite meal right in front of him, ready to consume and exactly how he likes it. You figure he has been dreaming of this, dreaming of you beneath him and begging for him like a bitch in heat.

Rafe says your name almost painfully, his kisses and fondling coming to a halt.

But you groan, already knowing what he's about to say. "No. No, I literally feel fine."

He says your name again, almost in warning.

You ignore it. "It doesn't even hurt." It does a little. "Stop acting like I'm in a full body cast."

Rafe sighs gutturally, but not like before out of lust and instead out of annoyance, as if him withholding the act of sleeping with you is a giant inconvenience to him, especially when you try and push back. It's bad, really bad, timing, and sure you could wait a few days until he feels as though you're somewhat better, but, frankly, you don't want to. You assume he doesn't want to wait either, but is trying to be better, more gentlemanly with you.

You even go as far as throwing your dignity out the window.

"Please?"

The single word feels strange coming from you, as you've always hated the notion of begging for anything, especially for dick, and especially when the dick is attached to a guy like Rafe Cameron, a guy who's all flirt like it's a sport. And it's something he never hears from you, always double-taking when you add it to make sure he's heard you right.

But right now, he hears you loud and clear. And it kills him.

Rafe takes a beat, digesting the severity of your request and internally battling himself on the morality of the situation. Eventually, what feels like eons when in reality it's only been a minute, he pulls back from you, propping himself up on an elbow so he can stare down at you.

His eyes search yours for any uncertainty, any doubt or shroud of pain in your pretty features. But you give him nothing of the sorts, only peering up at him full blown with lust and need. You can tell he's thinking, the gears in his mind working overtime as he stares at you, eyes flickering from yours to the area with the staples.

"Here's the deal," he starts quietly, yet firm enough to get you nodding eagerly already. "I'm doing all the work."

You frown. "But—“

Immediately, his hand comes up to cover your mouth, palm pressing firmly to get you to shut up real quick. "No. You're gonna lay here and look pretty, and that's all you're going to do."

You're reluctant. You want to engage, to touch him freely, to be able to move to his mercy. You want to give back, to jerk him off and make him squirm just as he has to you, to love on him in the way he deserves for taking care of you all last night. The last thing you want to do here is lay still and offer nothing, not after what he's done for you, how he's made you feel in these past few hours, how he can make you feel from here on out.

It hardly seems fair to him. You're not concerned with yourself.

But all of that flies out the window when you feel him pressed against your thigh.

The breath nearly escapes from your lungs, your need suddenly tenfolds when you understand just how big he is, just how hard he is from a bit of kissing and folding from his end. You haven't even touched him yet, you've only simply said please, and he's ready for you yet patiently prolonging his need to check in on you.

"And at any point your head starts hurting," he continues nonchalantly as if his cock isn't pressing against you, "I'm stopping. Immediately. Understand?"

You blink at him, barely registering his words because you can't get over that this is happening.

"Star." A warning.

Stupidly, you find the ability to move again when you're nodding against his hand, anticipation bubbling in your stomach as your eyes meet. His brows are slightly furrowed in seriousness, blue eyes still bleary from just waking up. His hair, ridiculously, is still incredibly messy, yet as endearing as the sight is, you are seconds away from jumping his bones.

But you need to play this coy, need to behave so he'll indulge your (and his) wishes without any mishaps with your wound.

Rafe removes his hand. It sits idly on your ribcage.

"Words," he demands, fingers twitching with anticipation.

You nod anyway. "I understand." Your lips twitch. "Now, since I'm not allowed to move, can you kiss me or what?"

His mouth is on yours before you can even finish the sentence, and he swallows your words with a low mmrph, a hand teasing up your ribcage under your shirt to rest under the swell of your breast. Instantly, you're gripping his knuckles and moving his hand up so he can shamelessly fondle you where you want him to be, and at the feeling of his cool ring brushing over your nipple, you sigh into his mouth.

Rafe nearly reciprocates the sound, emitting a groan as he feels your hand leave his, instead bracing on the ridges of his abdomen and trailing down his shirt. It isn't until your fingers are skimming the waistband of his shorts where he's wincing, almost as if he's in pain.

"What'd I say, Star?"

You pout with faux innocence. "But I want to."

He nearly scoffs at you. "You'll have plenty of time for that later. For now, sit pretty and lemme eat you out, yeah?"

Your heart skips a beat as you try to rack your brain for the last time someone's eaten you out, more so the last time someone has offered to do so. The excitement outweighs the curiosity.

It's usually a pity reciprocation, as in you blow someone first, they eat you out after or the next time you see each other, or they don't even offer at all. You rarely even finish from it and have faked it more than once, but you know the stories surrounding Rafe Cameron. All of them say the same thing: he knows what he's doing. You're more than willing to find out.

"You want to?"

He scoffs again, nearly offended that you'd think he wouldn't want to. "Only been thinkin' about doin' so for ages."

His mouth is on yours again and you whine quietly, but it leaves as soon as it came before he's kissing your jaw, moving to your neck, descending down your body.

"Been wondering how you taste."

Biting a sweet spot on your neck.

"I think about you every fucking night."

Sucking one of your nipples through your sleep shirt.

"Fuck my hand to the thought of you 'til I'm seein' stars."

Kissing the flesh of your stomach as his fingers dangerously hook under your waistband. And from this angle with his face hovering at your hips, Rafe peers up at you, still searching for any uncertainty or flickers of pain.

"Can I, baby?" He asks, voice saccharine.

You're thrown for a loop, caught off guard by the obscenities of his comments (that you're not even sure he knew he made) that starkly contradict the softness of his tone asking for permission, peering up at you with a sliver of innocence that doesn't match the words he previously spoke, as if they were on his mind for ages, as if they were his second nature.

All you do is nod, blinking down at him.

He doesn’t like that. “Words.”

“Yes.” Your response is immediate. “Yours.”

Rafe lets out a shaky breath that tickles your stomach. “Gonna make me finish if you say stuff like that.”

“Isn’t that the plan?”

All he does is shake his head, shutting you up immediately when his fingers hook under the waistband of your sleep shorts and yank. Your breath hitches and, with a blink of an eye, you’re bare below the waist to him.

The shorts and underwear are thrown carelessly over his shoulder. “Plan is to fuck you right back to sleep,” he murmurs low, almost to himself as he stares at your cunt. “Sound good?”

His breath fanning over your core sends a chill down your spine, and you assume you’re glistening with need with the way his eyes almost darken at the sight of you, legs slowly spreading open and hooking over his shoulders as if you’ve done it a thousand times before. And he settled right in, one hand slithering up your chest to fondle your breast as the other ghosts over your cunt, his index and middle finger spreading you open achingly slow.

Your back arches. “Rafe.”

“Mhm?”

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, eyes glued to the way his fingers slowly disappear inside you.

You realize he’s not doing this to torture you, but to make himself actually believe this is happening, to soak in the moment that he’s been dreaming to experience. Here you are: cunt to the wind and begging for him, and he can’t get enough of it, of you. He’s seconds away from losing his mind, especially when you let out breathy moans when his fingers completely bury in you, curling in that sweet spot that has you whining so pretty he nearly finishes from the sound of it.

His eyes hungrily dart between his hand disappearing into you and your face, brows etched in pleasure and lips parted all hot and bothered. Slowly, so achingly slowly, Rafe pumps his fingers in and out, almost leaving your cunt entirely before slamming back in. His thumb, experimentally, rubs firm circles as to where he thinks your clit is.

He misses once, twice, but once he finds the spot that makes you let out a ragged moan, he doesn’t miss again.

A hand flies to his hair, tugging the messy strands harshly yet he pays no mind to it, completely and enamoringly bewitched to the sight of your glistening cunt taking his fingers so well, stretching open for him, inviting them with your warmth as if they were meant to stay buried in you. But he’s starting to get jealous of his hand, jealous of the way it gets to fuck you and his mouth doesn’t.

Without a word, Rafe lowers himself completely between your thighs.

His tongue feels like nothing you’ve experienced before as he eats you out like a man starving. Ravenous. Insatiable.

Selfishly, his fingers leave your cunt so his mouth can have you all to himself, groaning at the sweet taste of you as if it’s been paining him that he’s never gotten to taste you before. When his nose brushes your clit, you writhe pathetically beneath him, so much that his arm flies up to press down on your hip to stop you from moving, even though you continue to attempt fucking his face against his iron grip.

With a particularly firm brush of his nose against your clit, your hips practically buck up into him, and the coil gradually starts to build in your core.

“Fuck,” you breathily moan. "You're so— And I can't— You just— Fuck."

You sound like an idiot. A wriggling, babbling idiot as your mind tugs you in a million different directions, constantly distracted by his mouth, his moans, his fingers that re-enter your cunt and aid his tongue in a way that flips you sideways. You aren't sure what way is up right now, and your fruitless attempt to speak fails miserably, irrevocably rendering you speechless as the added combination of his mouth and fingers and thumb pressed firmly on your clit leave you moaning his name as if it's the only word you know.

His hips stutter into the mattress, both of you rutting like bitches in heat as he can tell you’re getting close. It’s all in the way you tug his hair a little tighter, arch your back a little higher, moan a little louder. His name falls from your lips like a mantra, a prayer, an incantation that renders you completely enamored with him, his touch, his mouth.

Especially when he groans into your cunt, the vibration only spurring you on further.

"Oh my god," Rafe murmurs into you, almost without meaning to. "You taste so sweet, Star."

All you can do in response is writhe, feeling the familiar coil start to build.

"Even better than I imagined," he rasps, inches from your cunt as he hovers for a moment, eyes darting between his hand fucking you and your face. Your head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of him, him, him. An unoccupied hand slithers up your ribcage under your shirt, reaching the swell of your breast and kneading the flesh. The ice sensation of his ring against your nipple only augments the pleasure.

And suddenly, it's bearing too much. His fingers plunging in and out, in and out, in and out, curling into the sweet spot inside your cunt over, and over, and over as his thumb presses firmly on your clit. It's the spot he hasn't missed since he found it, rubbing circles counterclockwise that make you practically see stars. His other hand pinching your nipple and shamelessly fondling the flesh as if he has every right (he does). His breathy moans fanning hot against your cunt as he stares abashedly.

"Never gonna get used to this," he curses, almost pained. "There isn't a fucking day that goes by where I don’t think about you."

The coil builds.

"You make me crazy and you don’t even know it. Wearin' my shirts thinking they were Sarah's, walking around in fucking nothing and lookin' like a fucking sin."

And builds.

He lets out a breath. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you like this, so fucking pretty underneath me."

And builds.

Rafe can tell, because you grip his hair a little harsher and grab the hand that's on your breast, almost as a way to ground yourself to the moment and make sure you don't fly away in pleasure. Your hips squirm and buck into his hand, chasing a high you can already tell is different from the rest. He's decided that you've never looked prettier: laying flush and moaning his name like a prayer.

It nearly snaps. "Rafe, you're— I'm gonna—"

"I know." His voice is saccharine. "Let me hear you, baby."

His mouth is back on your cunt, and the added sensation of his tongue aiding his fingers sends you over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing to your core and searing hot from the waist down. You come with a strangled moan, a sound that goes straight to his dick as his hips stutter into the mattress, lapping and suuuuuuuuucking the orgasm straight from you.

The low groan he emits vibrates your nerves as he eats you out as a starved man, the noises lewd and straight pornographic as you ride out your high against his face. Your hand that grips his hair is pushing him further into you, further burying his mouth into the spot you need him the most as he laps up every last drop. The act does little to faze him, instead spurring him on to moan into you, the sensation reverberating throughout your waist and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your legs shake around his head and your chest heaves when you slowly come down, blinking the white spots from your vision and, momentarily, coming back to earth. Rafe continues to lick and suck and clean you up, claiming every last drop as he's always thought about doing, mouth still buried between your thighs and even going as far as licking his fingers dry of you.

When he mouth eventually does leave you, he doesn't pull away without placing a chaste kiss over your swollen bud, moving to decorate your thighs in pretty purple hickies and kissing up your body, smoothing your shirt up past your ribcage to take a breast in his mouth. The sensitive bud has you subconsciously arching your back up into his touch, not even realizing you do it as you still fight to come back to earth from the stupidly earth-shattering orgasm.

Rafe eventually makes his way up to your neck, sucking a quick sweet spot before moving to your jaw, then finally your lips.

When you kiss him, the breath momentarily leaves your lungs as you taste yourself on his lips, dazedly smiling from the haze that he caused. Your hand paws at his chest, settling on the firmness of his abdomen before trailing lower, and lower until your fingers are dipping under the waistband of his shorts and boxers in the blink of an eye.

Before he can pull back like he did earlier, your fingers nimbly find the base of his cock and skim down his length as if you're admiring the topography of a map.

Rafe instantly folds.

"Shit," he mutters, a mix between a moan and a whine as he rests his cheek against yours. "You can't just—"

You squeeze his cock for emphasis, causing his hips to stutter forward.

Rafe curses. "Star, oh my fucking god, oh m- You can't keep touching me like that, holy shit."

Of course, you don't listen, and continue to slowly jerk him off. He lets you for a few moments, caught up in the sensation of how nice your fingers feel wrapped around him, thumb smearing the pre-cum from his tip down his length that nearly sends him over the edge. The indulgence lasts maybe fifteen seconds, perhaps twenty, before you're squeezing particularly hard again.

His hand grips your wrist instantly. "You— I can't— You've got to—"

"I gotta what?" You feign innocence, nearly grinning and how he groans in response. "I wanna make you feel good."

"Fuck, you are," he rasps as if it's been ripped from him. "You make me feel so good all the time, baby. You don't even know it."

Pride shamefully swells in your chest at the anecdote.

"Then let me right now," you practically purr. "Please?"

Rafe grips your wrist tighter, actually stopping your movements for real this time. "No."

"No?"

He scoffs, but it comes out shaky.

"I'm not finishing in my fucking pants the first time I'm with you."

He ends the sentence with your name, a word he rarely uses, yet a word that invokes a visceral reaction from you every time he does. It almost makes you whine, almost. Yet, you actually don't know if you do or not because you're so blinded by lust that he could be whispering the secrets of the universe and you'd have no idea. Revealing the ingredients to his famous chocolate chip cookies. Spilling confidential documents that contain the cure to immortality. You'd have no idea.

And you also have no idea where this newfound eagerness is coming from, knowing damn well you've never begged for dick in your entire life.

"Then be with me," you practically beseech. "I'm yours."

Rafe curses at your words, taking a beat, two, before pulling his head back to look at you, to really look at you, his pretty blues boring into yours that are so blown with lust they nearly look black. He searches your expression for any teasing regard, anything to make him think that you're just saying that to get laid.

But you're not. You're pulsing for him, heart beating in tandem with his as if you were made to sync up. The urge to arch into him, to forever be molded to the sculpture of his body, is so devastatingly strong that it nearly pains you. The realization is horrific enough, but you truthfully can't find the energy to care or dwell on the sanctions of your dignity as you peer up at him, certain and bleeding with need for him.

"Mine?" He asks, and the clarification is detrimental.

You oblige. "Yes."

His gaze flickers to the crown of your head, to the wound. "But—"

"We'll go slow," you assure instantly, cutting off what you know he's going to say. "I want you. I don't want to wait."

He's dreaming. He must be. Because how'd he get so lucky to have you underneath him telling him how much you want him? Touching him in a way he only fantasized about? Needing him in the same way he's needed you for a year? The second he's inside you, is he gonna wake up and realize it was all a figment of his imagination? Left to succumb to the hypocrisies of his mind and move back to square one?

How could you not be a dream? Especially when you look so pretty and sound so sweet and feel so heavenly?

Rafe would be stupid to say no since you asked so nice.

So when you tug at the end of his shirt, this time he doesn't second guess the implications of your intentions and aides your act, gripping his shirt by the collar and carelessly pulling it off. You take a long second to glance at his chest, chiseled and crafted by a higher being, before your fingers are back to his pants. When you slowly start to tug his shorts and boxers down, he lets you, eventually letting you get down to his pubic bone before he's leaning back to fully kick them off.

Shamelessly, you stare at his body fully bare to you, and you nearly scoff at the audacity of him actually having a big dick. It's one thing for a guy to act like he has one just for all that smack talk to fly out the window when it's revealed to be small, but it's a completely different thing when the dick matches the attitude. And for him, for Rafe Cameron, to be both a cocky prick who happens to be well endowed is perhaps one of the audacious things you can think of.

Although you barely have time to comment on his size before his hands are all over you again, pushing the material of your shirt up to your sternum until you eventually get the hint to slightly sit up so he can slide it up over your body. You hiss when your breasts are fully exposed to the cool air, and a flicker of excitement (nerves? Whatever it is) sparks when you realize you're both bare to each other, exposing one another to the simplest of vulnerabilities one can share.

"You're beautiful, Star," is all he says before his mouth is on yours.

You kiss him back and paw at his chest as if it's a lifeline, clawing to pull him closer as if he isn't already molded to your figure. He hovers over you and when his cock, hard and aching and beautiful, brushes against your hip, you both moan into each other's mouths, him from the sensation and you from the anticipation.

Rafe's breath hitches, and the air completely leaves his lungs when you wrap your hand around him again. But the way you grab his differs from before, as earlier you were firm and needy, whereas now you hold him delicately, a wordless promise that you’re ready for him, all of him, at any time.

His hand grabs the back of yours. “You okay?”

You nod immediately against his lips, heart racing as he guides your hand that’s holding him down, down, down until his length is slipping through your folds, and you swear that Rafe fucking shudders from the feel of it.

“Holy fuck.” His forehead gently rests against yours, staring down at your almost connected bodies. “I’m not even in you yet and you already feel so fucking nice.”

Your hips buck into him, eliciting a sharp breath from him. “Then be in me.” You hate how pathetic you sound. “Please.”

However, the words are music to his ears and he could bust right here and now from them. “You don’t need to beg, baby. I have you. Always will. I got you.”

His words are saccharine. Soft and delicate in a tone only reserved for you. It’s his version of a declaration of love, an indirect promise that he’ll be here, he’s it for you, he’s all you need. The words are full of life and hope, and you’re eternally grateful that he embraced your need instead of poking fun, and you realize it’s because he needs you just as bad as you need him in this given moment. He has no room to tease. Nor do you.

And when he does slip inside you, the feeling is indescribable.

Rafe’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever had. And he can definitely tell based on the sharp breath you take when he’s halfway in. Although he’s careful with you, gradually pushing in when you give him the green light and immediately stopping when you visibly react, and as much as you appreciate the time and care, it’s so achingly slow, so much slower than you need him to be and he’s teasing you without even realizing.

When he’s completely buried in you, pubic bone to pubic bone, you feel so irrevocably full in a way you never have had before. You can feel his cock twitch inside you when you moan into his mouth at the sensation of being completely succumbed to him, the feel of him, all of him everywhere at once.

“You okay?” His ask is immediate.

“Yes.” Your hands slither up his chest to grip his shoulders, to attempt to find something to ground yourself too. “Feel so full.”

He almost finishes just from that. Almost. And thank god he doesn’t.

“If you don’t start moving,” you shakily warn, “I’m gonna—”

You’re interrupted when Rafe rocks into you once, moving centimeters further into you before pulling out almost completely. You nearly curse at him again, yell at him for basically leaving your cunt until he’s thrusting back in faster than you anticipated. Your nails become talons in his shoulders, indenting crescent moons on his smooth skin and forever etching your mark, your claim.

“You’re gonna what?” His grin is wide and breath shaky, peering down at you with not only amusement, but pure admiration. “Kill me?”

“Shut up.”

Of course, he doesn’t. “You’re all talk, Star, you’ve been sayin’ that forever and you’ve never once tried.”

You moan when he buries in you deep, so deep, it brushes your cervix. “You’re—You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you let me fuck you nice.”

“Who said you do it nice—?”

The words are ripped from your throat when his thumb comes down to press on your clit, and the irony of that plus your previous words is comical. Especially when he grins so fucking wide that it sends you nearly into psychosis, arching your back to further press your chest to his.

He preens as his thumb rubs circles on your clit. “That qualify as nice?”

You want to kill him. You want to smack that stupid smile off his face. Yet you want to kiss him and yank him closer at the same time. The Jekyll and Hyde emotions make your brain feel all fuzzy, and for a moment, all you can respond with is a low moan, almost in annoyance yet dripping in pleasure. You can’t help it— he feels so fucking nice inside you, nicer than you’ve ever had before, rocking in and out of you as if it’s what he was put in this earth to do.

“You always this mouthy in bed?”

The attempt to keep your last shroud of dignity before he makes you a blabbering mess fails.

Rafe thrusts into you a little harder, a warning. “Always this mouthy with you.”

“How flattering.”

“Can’t help it, was made to worship you, baby.”

“Am I su-supposed to thank you?”

He grins at your stuttering, eyes shamelessly watching the way your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts. “A bit of appreciation would be nice.”

You hate that you’re getting close to finishing. In the time that you’ve known him, you’ve been building up walls and closing yourself off to the possibility of getting your heart broken by him. You told yourself that the day you let Rafe Cameron in is the day of rapture, of when all hell breaks loose, of when you finally lose your mind.

Yet his words, his touch, his pretty eyes: it’s all too much. The attention is too much, especially on your clit and how he manages to push himself deeper so delicately that it reaches regions unknown, hitting spots you didn’t think possible and rendering you speechless even further. You hate how he is fucking you nice.

“C’mon, Star,” Rafe muses low, yet there’s a slight strain to his voice that indicates he’s just as fucked out as you. “Tell me how good it feels.”

You don’t want to. You want him to eat that shit eating grin and, for once, be humbled. His ego is too big, too audacious, and you know that he’s only saying this because he knows it’s true, he knows how good it feels, he knows how badly you crave and respond to his touch. He only knows because he feels the same regarding you.

And for once in your life, you secede.

“Feels good.” You let your eyes flutter shut to try and mask your embarrassment. “Feels so good, Rafe.”

You hear him moan. His rhythm stuttering.

“But don’t let it get to your head,” you manage to add, nails scraping on his back as you feel a familiar jolt to your core.

“God, you’re a fucking dream,” he albeit whines, the teasing demeanor dropping immediately as he folds his cards to your hand. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

The coil builds in your lower stomach.

“You’re so— And I’ve been—” He’s a fucking mess, and you figure he’s close, too. “Fuck, you’re perfect, so tight, so warm, I’m— Shit, baby, I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You’re right there with him, one hand scratching up his neck to grip at the ends of his grown hair, tugging like a bitch in heat to get his lips to hover over yours. And when he does, when Rafe’s mouth brushes yours, you yank him closer to kiss him as your orgasm builds. The kiss is barely a kiss as you both pant into each other’s mouths, breathy and needy and whining as the lewd noises coming from your connected bodies spurs you on further.

“Yours,” you manage shakily, orgasm moments away.

His is too. “Mine.”

And you both finish like that: needy and flush and pathetically encapsulated by the feeling of one another. Your nails indent crescent moons in the smoothness of his muscles, scratching fresh red marks along the porcelain skin while he moans pornographically into your mouth, brows pinched in pleasure as you feel him come hot spurts inside of you.

The intensity is tenfold from your earlier orgasm. It’s searing hot from the waist down plus the added sensation of him irrevocably filling you up in a way you didn’t know you craved until this very moment. Your back arrrrrches into his chest, to fit the mold of his body rocking ferociously into yours as your chests conduct heat from the friction. Your legs hook impossibly tight around his lower back, pulling him tighter than you thought possible by crossing your ankles and using that leverage to bring him closer, to bury him further into you.

The sound is obscene. The lewd noises coming from your simultaneous orgasms plus the shameful moans that escape both your lips. It’s filthy. Downright pathetic. Yet so utterly and completely unapologetic that you can’t find the capacities to care. You can’t even tell which way is up right now, hips bucking desperately into his to chase the high and relish in the feeling of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe.

Your ears have been ringing, body on the verge of floating, senses so incredibly dulled by the ferocity of your orgasm that you don’t realize he’s been speaking the whole time, riding out his high with his words that could come across as prayer.

“—love you, oh my— Never letting you go, never gonna fucking— Oh my god— Oh my— Can’t believe you’re mine, all mine, Star.”

“Yours,” you manage to repeat, breathy and moaning and so fucking pathetic. “All yours. Always.”

That just makes him whine into your mouth. Literally. His hips slam into you over and over and over as his cum gushes out of you and spills onto freshly washed sheets but you can’t find the gall to care, not when he feels this fucking good, not when you feel this fucking great, euphoric on the sensation of him surrounding you. He’s inside you. On top of you. All around you. It’s intoxicating yet alluring. You’re captivated, and your high has never hit harder.

You see white spots momentarily, all the bundle of nerves rushing south so quickly that you’re left with your brain as mush. Feeling your eyes roll back, your hips have a mind of their own as they rut in tandem with his, both of you riding out your highs together in solidarity as everything starts to numb.

Chest heaving, you slowly start to come down from the intensity as your vision slowly regenerates and your hands soon stop shaking. Your thighs, however, are a lost cause hooked around his waist, trembling and shaking his body with the ferocity. He comes down, too, thrusts gradually slowing down as he pumps the rest of his load into you, cum dribbling out of your cunt and down your thighs onto the lavender scented sheets now stained with him.

“Holy fuck,” he rasps when he stops moving, stops thrusting, stops coming, still buried to the hilt inside you.

His cheek is warm against yours. “That was… I’ve never.. You really…”

You’re a blabbering mess, that much is obvious, especially when the spots stop blurring your vision and your body stops trembling as much as before. And as if the moment couldn’t get intimate enough, his hand is leaving your clit (eliciting a low whine from you) and trailing up your stomach to your shoulder, skimming down your bicep and wrist to engulf your hand.

His fingers lace with yours like muscle memory, squeezing once, twice, three times.

It dawns on you right now, in this very moment, that he said that he loved you.

The words had been so sudden, came and went so quickly that you barely registered them in the moment as you were caught up with the intensity of your simultaneous orgasm. But you heard them, felt them roll off his tongue as if he’s been itching to say them for so long, with such ease to them that you figure it’s been sitting docile in his brain and waiting to be revealed.

But he doesn’t register them. Not outright, anyway, and you are thoroughly shocked at how easy you’re taking it.

Love has never come easy to you. Not until you met Sarah and your friends. Family weren’t reliable and home friends were caught in the past, so you’ve been reaching for a version of love you thought you deserved. But then you realized it’s more than blood and childhood obligations to tether yourself to, and more about connection, care, respect. Sarah and your friends made you come to that realization. Yet Rafe makes you believe them.

You’re about to say something, about to address the words and respond with something stupid.

But Rafe slowly pulls out of you, your combined fluids making an audacious mess at the action, as he rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling with his hand still laced in yours as if he’ll float away he lets go.

“Oh my fucking god,” he eventually curses, chest heaving. “I didn’t even use a condom.”

You can’t help but laugh. No, cackle.

Because that was the catalyst for the night’s mishap. You needed condoms, he left to get some, you fell in his absence, he discovered you too late. It was your attempt to be good, to be safe and responsible because you always are. But, of course, you were too caught up in the pleasantries of having him, needing him, craving him.

You squeeze his hand without meaning to. He doesn’t mind, lulling his head to the side to stare at your profile.

“So much for being careful,” you muse lightly, voice hoarse. “And so much for changing my sheets.”

You feel his bright blues boring into you as you stare at the ceiling. He boyishly laughs, a sound that is music to your ears as he squeezes your hand back in a way that makes your heart lurch, especially now that you know his true feelings, feelings he doesn’t realize he exposed in the heat of the moment.

“My bad, Star,” Rafe says with such eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin. “I’ll make sure your sheets live to see another day.”

All you do is hum, feeling airy and spacey in the rising sunlight as his hand is warm in yours. When the mattress dips beside you, you don’t flinch or crack a joke or freeze, but rather lull your head to the side to invite him into your space.

And he accepts the invitation, propping himself up on his side to practically peer down at you, taking the hand that isn’t in yours to cradle your face so delicately, so carefully, that your heart skips a beat. Especially when his blues bore into your eyes and gaze on you with a softness that augments the lovey-dovey feeling that you so desperately hate.

“You okay?” He asks for the umpteenth time tonight.

You nod against his palm, figuring that being vulnerable couldn’t hurt. After all, he’s seen you naked and bleeding and crying and still hadn’t run away yet, so you assume that he’s in it to see all your faults, unfazed by the ugly parts of you that you rarely let people see.

“Yeah,” you murmur gently. “Are you?”

Rafe can’t help but snort at your concern. “Baby, I’m on fuckin’ cloud nine right now.”

You manage a grin.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he adds, leaning in before you can protest to place a soft chaste kiss on your lips. “Stay here and look pretty.”

He’s leaning back before you know it, hand leaving your face and body leaving your vicinity, the warmth leaving with him. You watch groggily as he slips his boxers back on (after standing idly for a moment to look and see where they went) and momentarily exiting your room. The first thought that comes to mind is that you should cover up, you should attempt to appear halfway decent before he comes back to try and gain back an ounce of your dignity.

But the urge never comes. You simply wait for him.

Rafe reappears seconds later, a warm damp towel between his fingers as he sits on the edge of the bed. Flinching when the towel meets your thighs, he cleans up what he can with the utmost delicacy that you’d think he’s handling fine china. And to him, he is.

When your eyelids hang heavy, you catch a glimpse of him smirking, almost to himself, as he finishes up wiping you clean.

You try to frown but you think it comes across as a smile. “What?”

All he does is hum gently. “Told you I’d fuck you back to sleep, that’s all,” he muses, clearly pleased with himself and your fucked our state.

“Rafe.”

“What? I’m a man of my word.”

When you try to stand on your own, he’s there to take place a guiding hand on your elbow, helping you find your footing like a baby fawn. Rafe grabs you your robe when you beckon for it, sliding over your body and maneuvering into the bathroom to use it and do a very, very quick version of your night routine (good morning, world). In the midst of you re-entering your bedroom, you find him just finishing up replacing the (now damp) fitted sheet with a clean (dry) one you had in the closet.

“Found a spare set,” is all he said about the matter, and instead helps you out of your robe to feel you bare again.

You crawl back into bed, nearly sighing at how inviting it is as you flip onto your back. Through sleepiness, you watch him make sure the towel and sheets are in your hamper before allowing himself to relax, wasting no time easing back into your bed and settling in next to you as if he was made to lay here, as if the mattress is already molded to his figure, as if you already haven’t designated that side of the bed to him anyway.

His hand slithers across your tummy, laying rest on your bare hip bone under the sheets and pulling you taut to him. You’re yanked away from your usual spot and held flush against his chest, inhaling his scent like a freak and letting the atmosphere lull you to sleep.

One of Rafe’s hands cradles the back of your head, the other tracing the vertebrae up and down your spine.

“Later,” he says after a long silence, “when we’re feeling okay, I’m taking you out.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You are?”

His response is immediate. “Yes. Dinner. Dessert. Fuckin’ go-kart for all I care. Whatever you want, Star. Wanna show you off ‘nd show everyone you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low and baritone and so casual as if it doesn’t rattle your brain.

Still, you can’t help but smile.

“Don’t remember you asking,” you tease, seconds away from sleep. “Is this your fool-proof flirting tactic in action?”

He snorts, and it makes his chest bump impossibly closer to yours. “My tactic wasn’t all that fool-proof. It took you a year to notice.”

You preen, even though he can’t see it. “Had to keep you humble, Cameron.”

Your voice is impossibly soft, so genuinely fucking happy that he can’t even poke fun. Not while you feel so nice in his arms, anyway.

“Mhm, Star,” he drawls out. “Speaking of humility, we’re adding a new law to the friend constitution.”

You already know where he’s going with this, and groan against the soft skin of his neck.

“Rafe—“

“No one is allowed to shower in extreme temperatures while a second party isn’t present,” he recites formally, not even bothering to apologize for cutting you off. “I’m proposing that at the next town meeting.”

You manage to roll your eyes. “That’s excessive.”

He probably senses it. “It’s necessary. Your injuries make up at least half the list.”

“Semantics.”

“Never leaving your side from now on,” he murmurs casually, “and if I do, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap.”

The thought pathetically excites you, biting your lip to suppress a wide grin that he wouldn’t even be able to see anyway. You smooth your fingers over his abdomen, simply taking a moment to appreciate the close proximity, how he opened his heart to you on a silver platter and irrevocably make him yours.

“That a promise?”

He hums, as if he has all the time in the world to indulge, as if it’s obvious that he’d be serious. You’re his now, how could you forget? Especially when his arms hold you close and his knee slots between your legs, latching to you, claiming you in a way no one ever has before. It’s absolutely intoxicating, thrilling, allured to his scent and his touch and him, him, him.

You think you love him. You’d be stupid not to.

And you think he has some sort of idea, especially when you subconsciously pull your head back to stare at him, heads sharing the same pillow and faces inches apart. You simply stare at him, admire the strength of his jaw and the slope of his nose, how his laugh lines are accentuated when he smiles in the slightest, the blue of his eyes boring into yours, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

This is how you come down: bones exhausted from the night before, mind turned to mush by the injury and how he’s made your head spin with every flirtatious comment, every confession, every genuine act of love, compassion, care. You fall asleep in his arms and he falls asleep in yours, lulled by the cadence of his heartbeat and his soft, sweet nothings.

You think you say you love him, you aren’t sure in your practically asleep state, but when he pulls you a fraction tighter in his sleep, you let yourself relax. You let yourself be loved by him.

salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes sorry for the LAME ending hope u enjoyed the series!!! thank you for all the support this has been super fun to write. also NOT CONDONING DRUG USE okay thanks!!!!

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hamilton-here · 2 months ago

Note

Hiii! I really love your work, you're the first full LH writer I found and followed. I read and re-read all your fics and loved them. I was wondering if you could please write one in where reader is Lewis private chef and he falls for her...? I really thank you in advance if you decide to write it and if not for also reading my request :) (English is not my first language so I hope that makes sense lol) Have a good day <3

𝒯𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒 𝒯𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I’ve still got three more requests to work through, but I’m trying my best! I’m so glad you love all my fics! Have a wonderful day, lovely. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton falls for his private chef as shared meals turn into something more.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’ve cooked for A-listers, Olympians, and people whose names are whispered more in boardrooms than on red carpets. Your work is quiet, behind-the-scenes, and exactly how you like it. You know the rhythm by now book the gig, learn their preferences, adapt, excel, move on.

So, when your agent sent through the request for a new high-profile client, the message felt routine. Until one name jumped out, as if someone had taken a marker and underlined it twelve times:

Lewis Hamilton.

You blinked. Read it again. Then leaned back in your kitchen chair, letting it sink in. Not just any world-class athlete. The seven-time Formula One World Champion. Vegan. Socially conscious. Globally adored. And, yes, drop-dead handsome in a way that didn’t make you flustered but did make you keenly aware.

You weren’t nervous not really. You’d cooked for the best, fed entire sports teams, crafted tailored menus for Oscar winners. But this felt different. Not because he was famous, you were used to that. But because something about his request felt intentional.

He wasn’t just after someone to cook vegan meals. He wanted someone who could travel with him, fuel his body through the most physically demanding season of the year and this was the line that stuck with you “someone who understands that food is connection.”

Aww

The tasting was scheduled at his Monaco apartment, which was a sleek, minimal space overlooking the shimmering water, all muted stone and soft lighting. You arrived early, allowing yourself a moment to take it in before the doorbell echoed.

When Lewis opened the door, he was in black sweats and a sleeveless hoodie, his curls damp and tousled from a recent shower. His smile was polite but distant in a professional, cool, like a champion used to people hovering around him, wanting something.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside. “I’m Lewis.”

“I figured,” you replied with a grin, which earned the smallest amused huff.

He led you into the kitchen a stunning open-plan space that looked more like a set for a photoshoot than a functional cooking zone. But it was well-stocked. Sharp knives gleamed under soft lighting. Spices lined the shelves. A gleaming Vitamix sat ready. You raised a brow.

“You cook often?” you asked, unpacking your carefully prepared ingredients: jackfruit, creamy avocados, cashews soaked from the night before, lentils cooked just right, flaky sea salt, rich maple syrup, shaved dark chocolate.

“Sometimes,” he said, leaning against the island, arms crossed casually. “Not like you. I mostly blend stuff and hope for the best. This is where I unwind, you know?”

You liked that answer. A lot.

He poured himself chamomile tea, no sugar and you noticed the deliberate calm in his routine. As he made it, his gaze flickered to your hands focused, precise, moving through familiar motions.

“You sure you don’t want me out of your way?” he asked, watching you pour a blended cashew creme into a small saucepan.

“Not at all,” you replied, glancing up with a small smile. “You’re part of the process. Remember? Connection.”

That earned a real smile, the kind that lit up his eyes.

While the jackfruit cooked low and slow with smoked paprika, you talked. About expectations. Logistics. Travel. The gruelling hours of race weekends.

Lewis was straightforward, precise. “I train in the mornings, usually want something light after like smoothies, easy digestion. Bigger meals in the evening, when I have time to relax. But race weekends? Different story. I’ll need food packed, labeled, heat friendly. No microwave stuff. I don’t touch that.”

You nodded. “Understood. Heat-friendly means things that reheat well, no soggy textures. I can prep stuff that keeps its flavour and integrity.”

He nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll have to trust you with my nutrition. My performance depends on it.”

“And it has to taste good,” you added firmly. “You shouldn’t feel like you’re missing out just because it’s healthy.”

He met your eyes, a little challenge in his own gaze. “No compromises.”

You smiled, “None.”

He glanced over the ingredients you’d laid out, then tilted his head. “Why jackfruit for the main? You think it’s the best for post-training recovery?”

You explained, “It’s a versatile meat substitute rich in fibre, low in fat, and it absorbs spices well. With the smoked paprika and chipotle, it adds a smoky depth without overpowering. I balance it with the chipotle cashew crème to add healthy fats and creaminess. Plus, pickled red onion gives a sharp contrast to refresh the palate.”

He crossed his arms again, nodding slowly. “I like that you thought it through. Not just throwing something together.”

As you moved to plate the dishes for jackfruit tacos, lentil-stuffed sweet potato drizzled with lemony tahini, and a tiny chocolate chia mousse topped with flaked sea salt and a shard of candied hazelnut - he watched you like it was a performance. Not judgmental but invested.

He picked up the taco first, took a deliberate bite, and paused.

Then looked up at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Not doubt. Not surprise. Just quiet disbelief.

“You did this for me?” His voice was low.

You nodded, “Of course.”

There was a pause.

Then a smile. The real kind. The one that curved slow and soft and warm across his face like maybe something inside him settled.

“Alright,” he said, licking his thumb where some crème had smudged. “You’ve already ruined every other chef for me.”

Before you could respond, a soft shuffle echoed across the tile floor. You turned just in time to see a floppy-eared bulldog trudge into the kitchen, blinking sleepily and plopping down next to Lewis’s bare feet.

Roscoe.

His collar jingled softly as he sat, then turned those soulful brown eyes up toward you. And then at the plate you assembled.

“Roscoe,” Lewis warned lightly, nudging him with a foot. “No begging, mate.”

But Roscoe didn’t move. Just stared at your food with comical intensity, then gave a soft, hopeful whine.

“May I?” You asked giving Lewis a quick glance and he gestures a nod of approval.

You crouched down, offering Roscoe a small, safe piece of sweet potato. He accepted it like royalty.

When you looked up again, Lewis was watching you - not your food, not your technique, but you. Something thoughtful in his gaze.

“You’ve thought about everything,” he said quietly. “Packaging, textures, timing. How do you manage this on the road?”

You smiled, “Routine. Prep meals that reheat well, pack them in reusable containers labeled by day and time. I use silicone bags and glass containers as it’s good for the environment and the food.”

He nodded, impressed. “Sounds like you’re ready to hit the track with me.”

You felt your pulse quicken. “I am.”

He studied you a moment longer, then his expression softened, something almost vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.

“So, do I get the job?” you asked, trying to steady your heartbeat.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said, “I think you do.”

And just like that, the next chapter began, one you’d never seen coming but already felt like it was meant to be. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains of your small but efficiently packed carry-on as you double-checked the last containers sliding into your insulated bag. Everything was labeled by meal and day, exactly like you’d promised. The precision felt satisfying, even if your nerves buzzed just beneath the surface.

You caught your reflection in the mirror of the hotel room: calm, composed, but wide awake and ready. This was the real test. You weren’t just cooking you were becoming part of Lewis’s rhythm, his routine, his relentless world.

A soft knock on the door announced your cue. Lewis stood in the doorway, dressed casually in a fitted black track jacket and joggers, his curls pulled back loosely. He looked up at you and smiled less reserved than before.

“Ready for day one?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied with a grin, zipping up your bag. “You?”

He shrugged, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “Depends. You sure you can keep up?”

“You’ll be the judge of that.”

The car ride to the airport was quiet but comfortable. Lewis’s phone buzzed with incoming messages from his team, but he silenced the notifications as soon as you climbed in.

“Alright,” he said, glancing over at you. “Tell me what you’ve got planned for the flight food.”

You pulled out your meal plan sheet, laying it on your lap. “Light and easy to digest for the flight I made chia pudding with fresh berries, cashew and vanilla overnight oats as well as a handful of raw nuts for crunch and energy. I’ve packed it all in a small cooler with ice packs, so it stays fresh.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows. “No junk food?”

“Junk food never made a world champion,” you teased, earning a chuckle from him.

“Fair enough.”

Once on the plane, the cabin dimmed for takeoff, and you unpacked the meals with quiet efficiency. Lewis watched with genuine interest as you prepared his tray not just assembling the food but explaining why you chose each element.

“Chia seeds are great for omega-3s and slow energy release,” you said, spooning the pudding into a small container. “The berries add antioxidants and the oats give you complex carbs to keep you steady.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. You’re like my nutritionist and chef rolled into one.”

You laughed softly. “I get that a lot.”

The flight passed quicker than you expected, punctuated by small conversation, a few questions from Lewis about ingredients, and a surprising amount of laughter when Roscoe curled up in your lap under the seat.

At your first hotel stop - a sleek, modern building overlooking the circuit you had just enough time to set up the kitchen space before Lewis’s training session.

He watched you unpack your supplies, then gave a slow nod. “I can tell you’re used to this. Everything’s got its place.”

“It has to,” you said. “When you’re on the move, you don’t have the luxury of chaos.”

Lewis smiled. “Good. I like order.”

Later, after training, Lewis swung open the kitchen door, sweat still clinging to his brow. You were plating up a post-workout meal quinoa salad with roasted veggies, a bright lemon-tahini dressing and a side of grilled tempeh.

He leaned against the counter, watching you work. “I’m going to be picky,” he warned, “but I want honest feedback too.”

You raised a brow. “Bring it on.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “The dressing is great fresh, not too heavy. But the tempeh? I usually prefer something a bit less chewy after training. Maybe baked tofu or seitan?”

“Got it,” you said, jotting down notes. “Texture matters.”

He smiled, clearly pleased you weren’t offended. “You’re already adapting. That’s good.”

By the end of the day, something had shifted. The professional distance had softened into something more real. You felt the edges of exhaustion from jet lag, the new routine but also a quiet thrill.

Lewis caught your eye as he packed his gear for the next morning. “You’re good at this. Better than I imagined.”

You shrugged, cheeks warm. “I’m just getting started.”

He grinned. “Good. Because this season’s going to demand everything.”

You met his gaze and, for the first time, felt less like the new person trying to fit in and more like a part of something bigger.

Your routine with Lewis built itself with the kind of quiet rhythm most people search their whole lives for effortless, unspoken and steady. It was the way his mornings began, how your days folded neatly into his and how the world seemed to fall away in the simple sanctity of shared moments. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Breakfasts were always early, the sun barely awake when you slipped into the kitchen to prepare his first fuel of the day. You crafted smoothies thick with spirulina, flaxseed, hemp protein, and frozen blueberries - a blend dense with nutrients yet light enough to stir awake without ever weighing him down. You knew the delicate balance between flavour and function and you found satisfaction in seeing the way his lips would twitch in approval with every sip.

Sometimes he’d shuffle in, still tangled in the remnants of sleep, hair tied loosely back as if still caught in a dream. His voice would come out gravelly, a half-mumbled compliment on your “magical” abilities to make healthy taste like indulgence.

Post-workout meals followed with an almost ritualistic precision: vibrant bowls filled with roasted vegetables like sweet potatoes, red capsicum and tender zucchini mingled with fluffy quinoa, creamy avocado, earthy black beans and bright citrus tahini drizzled just so. Each bowl topped with something crunchy such as toasted pumpkin seeds, crushed almonds, or crispy chickpeas adding texture and life to every bite. Next to each meal, you placed a turmeric-ginger recovery shot, chilled just enough to soothe his muscles without dulling the sharp zing of spice.

You didn’t need to be reminded that food was fuel. But with Lewis, the act of cooking was becoming something more a language of care, a quiet offering in a world that never stopped moving.

Traveling with him was a whirlwind, a blend of jet lag and adrenaline and the constant shuffle from one city to the next. Back-to-back Grand Prix weekends, testing days in Bahrain under the blistering sun, simulator sessions in Brackley where you’d both grin at the virtual tracks, and media runs in cities so unfamiliar you lost track of their names.

No matter where he went, so did your knives, your spices, and your laminated, colour-coded meal plans of those colourful little guides you’d painstakingly assembled to make sure the menus never repeated, and the macros never slipped. You’d unpack and set up kitchens in sleek hotels or cramped paddock spaces turned temporary culinary stations, sometimes improvising with whatever was available.

Lewis made it easier, in his own quiet way.

He never hovered, but he was always there through the way he’d casually help carry bags of groceries, rinse berries without a word of thanks, or hand you a clean towel just when your hands were slick with moisture from washing produce. Sometimes, he’d drift into the kitchen mid-prep, hair damp from a post-gym shower, the faint scent of eucalyptus and citrus clinging to him like an invisible cloak. He never asked for much just leaned on the counter with soft curiosity shining in his eyes, and would say something like:

“You don’t mind cooking at mine all the time?”

You’d smile without looking up. “Not when your kitchen’s nicer than most restaurants.”

And it was. Sleek marble counters that caught the light, industrial burners that roared to life without hesitation, a double oven, and a fridge so advanced you half-expected it to suggest new recipes. But none of that was why you liked it.

It was because it was his.

Because the moments in between those small pauses and shared silences were becoming the parts you treasured most.

Like the way he always brought you a fresh glass of sparkling water without needing to be asked, catching your tired eyes with a quiet smile.

Or how he hummed under his breath when he was relaxed, a soft sound that blended with the whirl of your blender and the chopping of knives.

Or those rare evenings when you found yourselves both lingering in the kitchen after a long day Lewis perched on a barstool, watching you finish prep, and he’d look up from whatever he was scrolling on his phone and ask how you were doing. Not just the polite “how are you?” but really asking, like he wanted to hear your answer.

And then there were the snack boxes.

You started them as a practical solution of bite-sized fuel that could live in his bag, waiting patiently to bridge the gap between qualifying and race briefings or long travel days.

Protein bites dusted with cinnamon and cacao, coconut-date balls rolled in shredded coconut, seaweed crisps for a salty crunch, almond butter-stuffed dates that melted with every bite.

At first, your notes were purely practical:

“Don’t forget to hydrate.”

“This one’s got extra turmeric, I know you hate ice baths.”

“Packed extra energy - you’ve got this.”

But slowly, the notes began to shift.

They grew softer, more personal, and somehow more you.

“Hope this one makes up for how early your wake-up call was.”

“A little sweet for my favourite speed demon.”

“For when you need a quick win just like you on the track.”

You didn’t mean anything by the “favourite speed demon” line. It was just a joke; a casual phrase scrawled in purple ink on a sticky note you found at the bottom of your bag one day.

But later, when you were reorganising his pantry, you found that very note folded once, tucked carefully inside a drawer beside his magnesium powder and zinc capsules.

You stood frozen, hand resting on a vitamin bottle, heart doing a quiet flip.

He hadn’t pinned it to the fridge or stuck it where anyone else could see. He had just kept it quietly, privately.

And then something changed.

Lewis became warmer, more present.

He lingered in the kitchen longer, even when he had somewhere else to be.

He started texting you mid-flight, checking if you’d remembered to eat.

He noticed when you wore your hair tied up instead of down and he offered you his jacket without a word when a breeze caught your shoulders one night after dinner in the paddock.

One evening, you found a note waiting for you in your own snack box.

It was small, written in his unmistakable hand on a folded slip of paper:

“Thanks for making even the busy days feel like home.”

From then on, little notes from Lewis started appearing tucked into your bags, slipped between cookbooks, or left on the kitchen counter.

They weren’t grand gestures.

Just quiet messages like:

“Don’t forget to breathe. You’re doing great.”

“Found this spice you love - thought you might want to try it.”

You smiled more than once, your chest warming with each one.

You noticed him too.

Not the famous Lewis Hamilton who’s the racing legend or the icon but the man who double-knotted his shoes before a run, who softened when Roscoe climbed into his lap, who looked at you with quiet curiosity not trying to solve you but wanting to understand.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it was something.

Something simmering, unfolding quietly in the spaces between the roar of engines and the flash of cameras.

Something that smelled like rosemary, sea salt, and something else - something you hadn’t found words for yet. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Your phone vibrated sharply on the kitchen counter just as you were about to start dinner for yourself. Lewis’s name flashed across the screen, yanking you out of the quiet comfort of your evening routine. The soft hum of the city outside mingled with the distant sounds of traffic and occasional footsteps in the hallway.

“Hey,” you answered, surprise threading through your voice. “Everything okay?”

There was a breathless edge to his voice, as if he’d been running or rushing. “Hey. Listen, last minute my dad and Linda want to come by tonight. They want to check in, see how I’m doing. Could you come over and whip up something? Nothing fancy, but nice. I don’t want to be caught off guard.”

You glanced at the clock on your stove just over an hour before they’d arrive. Your mind kicked into high gear, the familiar thrill of being thrown into the deep end mixing with a flutter of nerves that had nothing to do with the race.

“On my way,” you said, grabbing your bag and keys with steady hands, trying to mask the little surge of excitement that bubbled inside.

The city air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of rain and blooming jasmine as you stepped into Lewis’s apartment building. You pushed open the door to his place, and immediately, the quiet buzz of controlled chaos hit you. Lewis moved through the space with a jittery energy on the phone with his manager, half-folding a shirt draped over a chair, the sharp, clean scent of his cologne lingering in the air: crisp eucalyptus layered with a subtle hint of musk.

“I’m so sorry for the rush,” he said, running a hand through damp hair that clung slightly to his forehead, eyes darting anxiously. His usual calm, effortless confidence was replaced by a restless edge. “I just didn’t expect them to want to come so soon.”

You gave him a warm, reassuring smile, setting your bag down carefully on the counter. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

You slipped into the kitchen and flipped on the stove with practiced ease, the familiar click and whoosh grounding you. You pulled out fresh ingredients you’d brought along: bright, glossy cherry tomatoes, fragrant cloves of garlic, a handful of fresh basil leaves, creamy mozzarella and a colourful medley of vegetables. The rhythmic chopping soon filled the room, mingling with the soft hum of the extractor fan and the faint city noises drifting through an open window.

The sizzle of garlic hitting hot olive oil made your mouth water as you stirred gently, the warm, rich aroma wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. You slid a tray of vegetables into the oven, watching the soft golden edges promise a perfect roast.

As you worked, your fingers moved with smooth confidence, even as your mind kept track of the ticking minutes. A soft melody hummed in your throat, blending seamlessly with the sounds of the city outside and the distant revving of engines somewhere far away.

Meanwhile, Lewis flitted around the bedroom like a restless spirit, trying on shirts and adjusting his braids before checking his reflection in the mirror. His glances toward the kitchen were frequent, filled with a rare mixture of admiration and quiet gratitude reserved just for you.

“Do you need help?” he asked suddenly, leaning casually against the doorframe, an amused eyebrow raised.

You held out a spoon dripping with sauce. “Only if you want to taste-test.”

He laughed, taking the spoon cautiously and nodding with approval after one careful sip. “Definitely better than anything I could make.”

You smiled, the tension in the room softening between you.

Together, you set the table. You unfolded crisp napkins with gentle care, polished the silverware until it caught the soft light just right, and arranged fresh wildflowers in a small glass vase delicate bloom that brought a touch of life and colour to the sleek apartment. The room, with its clean lines and subtle shadows, transformed into a cozy sanctuary a warm refuge from the relentless speed and pressure of Lewis’s world.

“Okay,” you said, brushing flour from your hands. “Ready for company.”

Lewis grabbed his jacket and ran a hand through his hair once more, attempting to summon that effortless charm that came so naturally but felt just a bit elusive tonight. “Yeah. Just need to look like I have my life together.”

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with his as you shared a quiet, steady moment before the inevitable storm.

Lewis walked you to the door, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm, a silent thank-you. His eyes caught yours deep, steady, and sincere.

“Thanks for this,” he said, voice low and earnest. “Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart fluttered, a warm rush blooming in your chest. You smiled, steady and sure despite the sudden wave of emotion. “Anytime.”

You took a small step back, ready to leave his place and opened the front door however everything seemed to freeze.

Standing just beyond the threshold, bathed in the soft glow of the light outside the door, were Anthony and Linda. They had arrived earlier than expected.

Anthony’s smile was steady and warm, eyes full of the kind of cautious kindness that had softened over the years. Linda’s face was bright, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth and curiosity as she took in the scene of the neat kitchen, the flowers on the table, the subtle tension still lingering in the air.

For a long, breathless moment, no one spoke.

Lewis cleared his throat, stepping forward with a calm that belied the nervous energy humming beneath.

“Dad! Linda!” he said, his voice steady, welcoming, carrying an unspoken promise of a better evening to come.

You exchanged a glance with Lewis, the unspoken question hanging between you, how was this night going to unfold now?

Anthony steps inside first, his gaze settling on you with a mixture of curiosity and quiet respect. Linda follows, taking in the thoughtfully arranged table and the soft hum of city life filtering through the open window.

There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Anthony clears his throat, glancing at Lewis. “Lewis, we don’t often get to meet the people who mean a lot to you. And we don’t believe we’ve met this lovely lady before. Who is she?”

Lewis looks at you, and for a second, you see the hesitation in his eyes like he’s weighing how much to say, how to protect both you and himself.

You step forward, steadying your voice. “I’m Y/N, Lewis’s personal chef. I’ve been helping him tonight with dinner, and I guess I’m lucky enough to be here now.”

Linda smiles warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lewis speaks highly of you even if he’s been a bit secretive.”

Lewis chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark. I just wanted to make sure it was the right time.”

The tension begins to ease, replaced by a gentle understanding. Anthony nods, stepping closer to the table. “Well, we’re glad you’re here. Let’s eat, get to know each other If you aren’t in a rush to get home of course.”

You exchange a look with Lewis a mixture of relief and something quietly hopeful.

As you all sit down, the conversation starts to flow, sometimes hesitant, sometimes easy. The evening stretches out like a fragile promise that maybe, just maybe, this new chapter could be something steady, something real. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was after Silverstone when everything began to shift.

You’d flown in early that week, slipping quietly into Lewis’s flat like you always did before a big race arms full of market bags, fingers smudged with ink from handwritten meal plans and shopping lists. His fridge had been half-empty when you arrived, his pantry stocked with old protein bars and two near-empty jars of almond butter. You sighed, rolled up your sleeves, and got to work.

Silverstone was different. It wasn’t just another Grand Prix. This was his race. The energy around him was different - charged, frantic, and buzzing like electricity in the bones. And you felt it, even in the kitchen. Especially in the kitchen. You knew him well enough by now to sense when he was just a little too quiet, when the weight of expectations pressed into the back of his neck and down his spine.

You felt it too, but your job was to anchor him. Not with words, but with routine. With quiet comfort. With nourishment.

Race morning, you were up before dawn.

The city was still cloaked in blue-grey quiet, the light just beginning to break through the blinds. You padded barefoot across the cool tile, pulling your hair into a loose bun as you lined up ingredients like a surgeon prepping for an operation. Sliced banana. A scoop of almond butter. A dash of maple syrup, just enough to sweeten but not overwhelm. You poured oat milk into the blender and calculated macros in your head as it whirred to life. Spirulina, maca, oats, hemp, chia every spoonful measured, every decision deliberate.

When Lewis walked in hood up, curls damp from the shower, sleeves tugged over his hands he looked like he hadn’t fully landed in his body yet.

You handed him a glass. “Try this.”

He blinked at you sleepily. “What’s in it?”

“Banana, almond butter, maca, oats, a little maple, and love.”

He cracked a grin. “Heavy on the love, I hope.”

Before you could answer, Roscoe trotted in, tail wagging, toenails tapping against the tile.

“I didn’t forget you, bub,” you murmured, crouching to add warm lentils, steamed sweet potato, and nutritional yeast into his bowl. Roscoe responded with a happy little sneeze, tail thumping wildly as he buried his face in the food.

You stood, turning back to Lewis. He was still watching you with a softness in his eyes that he rarely wore in the morning. You handed him a small container.

“Eat this between FP3 and quali. Chia, coconut milk, goji berries, almonds. All your All your favourites.”

He glanced down at it, then back at you. “You sure you don’t want to drive today? I think you’re more prepared than I am.”

“You’re joking,” you said with a wink, “but I’d still lap a few people.”

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine as he leaned in, brushing a kiss to Roscoe’s head before heading out. “I’ll see you there.”

You kept a low profile in the paddock.

Press passes tucked deep into your jacket pocket. Roscoe’s leash looped securely around your wrist as he trotted beside you like he owned the place. You stayed on the periphery of team meetings, close enough to be needed, far enough not to intrude. You watched Lewis with quiet pride as he moved through the garage focused, poised and magnetic in that way only he could be. When he came in for lunch, you were ready. When he needed quiet, you gave it.

This was how you showed up for people through quiet acts of care. Through food, through forethought. You didn’t need thanks, not really. But every now and then, when his eyes found yours from across the motorhome, holding that long, unreadable look, your heart gave something away.

He finished on the podium that Sunday.

P3 at home. Union Jacks waving like waves on a sea of roaring faces. The noise was thunderous from press, fans, photographers. But when he found you behind the garage, away from the chaos, all of it seemed to fall away.

He looked exhausted. Euphoric. Alive.

“Did you eat?” you asked, holding out a water bottle before he could say anything.

He laughed, hoarse and bright. “I just finished a race and you’re asking me that?”

“Yes,” you said seriously. “Because that’s my job.”

He stepped closer, his smile softening into something quieter, something more personal. “You’re more than your job.”

And then he reached for your hand. Just for a second. A quick squeeze but it said everything.

That night, back at his flat, the windows were open, and the air was heavy with the scent of rain on asphalt. Roscoe was curled in his favourite corner, snoring softly. You stood at the stove, stirring the butternut squash risotto he always asked for after a good race your own little post-podium tradition.

Lewis hovered nearby. He always did. Sometimes he asked questions, sometimes he just watched. Tonight, he didn’t say much at all.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He nodded slowly, leaning on the counter, his eyes following the movement of your hands. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

You smiled, still stirring. “Because of the risotto?”

But he didn’t smile back. Not fully. “No. Because of you.”

Your hand stilled.

He stepped forward. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his skin, smell the salt on his collarbone, the faint trace of soap from his post-race shower.

His fingers reached up and gently brushed a smear of coconut cream from your cheek.

“You take care of everyone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But who takes care of you?”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Not because you didn’t know the answer because, for the first time, you were beginning to understand it.

He didn’t press you. Didn’t push. He just stood there, looking at you like he already knew.

And maybe just maybe you were ready to let someone take care of you for a change.

The confession came weeks later, in Tokyo.

The air in the city buzzed, thick with neon and noise, but inside his rented apartment, it was quiet low lights, a candle flickering on the coffee table, and the smell of miso broth warming on the stove.

You hadn’t meant to stay for dinner. You rarely did. You liked your boundaries, liked giving him space to wind down, to rest, to be just Lewis and not Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion. Still, that night, when he asked you to stay to sit, to eat you said yes. Maybe because of the way he asked. Maybe because of the way he looked. Or maybe because your heart had already stopped pretending.

You plated the food together, your hands brushing occasionally as you moved in sync without thinking. Bowls of soba noodles with sesame glaze, crisped tofu, steamed bok choy dressed in tamari and ginger. A side dish of Japanese sweet potatoes roasted until golden.

“I feel bad letting you cook for both of us,” he said, settling into the floor cushions around the low table, Roscoe snuggled into a blanket behind him.

“You paid for the groceries,” you teased. “And the entire apartment.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I just show up and drive. You’re the one making all the magic happen.”

You tried to laugh too, but your cheeks flushed as you looked down at your bowl. Something in the air felt different tonight weighted and delicate, like a moment balancing on the edge of something new.

Halfway through the meal, between casual chatter about free practice sessions and a ridiculous story involving Toto, Roscoe, and an unfortunate eggplant, he went quiet.

You glanced up, catching the shift. His shoulders were tense, chopsticks stilled midair, eyes fixed on his bowl but not seeing it.

“Everything okay?”

He set the chopsticks down gently. “Yeah. I just…”

Then he reached for your hand across the table.

It was tentative barely more than a touch, but it sent a ripple through you. You didn’t move. Just stared down at where your hands met. His thumb brushed the side of your finger, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I know you didn’t sign up for this,” he said, voice low and unsteady. “To be anything more than my chef.”

You looked up slowly, heart thudding, pulse skipping.

“But I think about you,” he said. “Even when I’m not hungry.”

The words settled into the silence like a secret being laid bare.

“I think about your smile,” he continued, eyes searching yours. “Your stupid little notes. The way you hum when you cook. And the way everything tastes better when it comes from you.”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat tightened, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something that felt too much like hope. Your fingers curled around his instinctively.

“Lewis…” you whispered, unsure what you were even going to say.

“If it’s too much,” he said quickly, stumbling over his own breath, “tell me. I’ll drop it. I swear I’ll drop it. But I had to tell you. Because if I didn’t, I’d regret it.”

You stared at him for a long, heartbeat-heavy moment. At the vulnerability stretched raw across his face. At the way he looked both terrified and hopeful all at once.

And then softly, like something inevitable you let go of his hand.

Only to rise from your place at the table, heart pounding so hard you felt it in your ribs, and step slowly around the corner of the table. You lowered yourself onto the cushion beside him, knees brushing.

He turned to you; lips parted like he might say something else.

But you didn’t let him.

You kissed him instead.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Delicate. Nervous.

The kind of kiss that trembled on the edge of something fragile and new. Your nose bumped his slightly, and you both let out a tiny, breathless laugh against each other’s mouths, barely breaking contact. His hand rose to your cheek, featherlight, fingers trembling as they tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You could feel the tiny tremor in his touch the same nerves that were making your own hands shake.

You deepened the kiss just barely, lips molding softly to his, like a secret passed between you. His other hand slid to your waist, anchoring you gently, and for a moment, you forgot everything else. The race. The world outside. Even Roscoe, snoozing in the corner. It was just this - warmth and want and the wild beating of two hearts afraid to say too much.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you a little breathless, a little dazed.

There was a second of silence, then:

“Okay,” you whispered, voice still catching. “Okay.”

He blinked, brows lifting with surprise. “Okay?”

You let out a tiny giggle nervous, giddy, and overwhelmed. “I just kissed you, didn’t I?”

He laughed too, that quiet, full-bodied sound that always made your chest ache. “You did. Definitely did.”

You peeked up at him, grinning now, cheeks flushed and lips tingling. “And I didn’t mess it up?”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

Your nose brushed his again, a breath shared in the small space between you.

Outside, Tokyo glowed. Inside, the whole world had shifted and neither of you would ever taste dinner the same way again. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It’s been three months since that night in Tokyo.

Three months of shared kitchens and tangled limbs in bed. Of early mornings where he pads in quietly behind you, barefoot and warm from sleep, wrapping his arms around your waist while you blend frozen bananas and almond butter into something silky. Of whispered goodnights and murmured dreams, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets, Roscoe snoozing at the foot of the bed like he’s claimed the space as much as you both have.

Three months of racing and resting and falling deeper into something neither of you had planned but both of you now held onto with quiet, grateful hands.

You still cook every meal. You still leave notes.

Only now, they’re part of a rhythm. A ritual. Kisses over coffee. His chin resting on your shoulder as you stir something on the stove, his voice still rough with sleep as he mumbles, “Smells amazing, babe,” and drops a kiss to the side of your neck. He picks at ingredients like a kid stealing cookie dough nibbling raw cashews, sneaking tofu cubes before they crisp. You swat him away, but he always gets his way with a smile that crinkles his eyes and a dimple that still weakens your knees.

The notes still live in his containers tucked beside overnight oats, quinoa bowls, roasted veggie wraps. But now they’re folded into tiny hearts. Sealed with silly stickers you found at a grocery store in Milan a grinning avocado, a winking sun, a turtle in sneakers. You don’t know if he ever shows them to anyone, but you do know he saves them. You found him once, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his dressing room in Barcelona, fingers brushing over one you’d written weeks ago:

Carrots for your eyes. Kale for your heart. And a kiss for everything else.

His smile, when he caught you watching, was quiet and reverent. Like he’d been caught holding a treasure.

This morning, in the soft grey light before dawn, you handed him a smoothie in a frosted glass bottle. He was half-dressed in his team gear, hair tied up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. You’d packed it all carefully into a cooler bag: the smoothie, a small container of baked tofu bites, a banana and a warm square of oat crumble from the batch you’d made last night.

The note was simple.

Win or lose, I’m already proud of you.

He read it just before leaving for the track.

You were rinsing out the blender, humming softly to yourself, when the front door clicked open again. You froze, sponge in hand, turning just as the quiet thud of his boots came back down the hall.

“Lew—?”

He didn’t say a word. Just crossed the kitchen in four purposeful strides, dropped the cooler bag to the floor and cupped your face with both hands.

The kiss was sudden, fierce but not rushed. It was grateful. Deep. Like he needed you to feel everything he didn’t have time to say. Like the note wasn’t enough. Like you were the thing grounding him more than any steering wheel ever could.

When he pulled back, his lips brushed your cheekbone. The tip of your nose. Then he whispered it against your skin.

“I don’t care if this is too soon, but god I love you.”

The words were quiet. Steady. Familiar now, like your name on his tongue. But still enough to make your stomach flutter like it was the first time all over again.

You smiled, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his team hoodie.

“I know,” you murmured. “You murmur it to me under your breath every time you finish your vegetables. I love you too.”

He laughed into your shoulder, the sound muffled and warm. “Well. I’ll finish them forever if it means I get to keep you.”

You turned your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth. “You already do.”

When he left again, it was with three kisses: one on your lips, one on your forehead, and one pressed right above your heart. The door shut gently behind him, and you stood in the kitchen a long while, smiling to yourself. Roscoe wandered in, stretching before curling at your feet with a huff, as if to say, He’ll be back soon. He always comes back.

Later that afternoon, between race debriefs and stretching Roscoe’s legs in the garden, you decided to bake.

“Come help,” you called, already tugging a mixing bowl from the cupboard.

Lewis padded in a few minutes later, barefoot and curious, a towel slung over his shoulder. “What are we making?”

“Oat cookies. With dark chocolate chunks and orange zest,” you replied, measuring oats into a bowl. “Help me stir?”

He reached for the wooden spoon. “You just want me to get messy.”

You grinned. “I like you messy.”

He smirked but didn't argue, and soon enough you were both shoulder to shoulder, ingredients flying, laughter bubbling between measurements. He leaned in close, whispering something cheeky in your ear, and you nudged him with your elbow, sending a small puff of flour into the air.

That’s when he did it.

A smudge of flour, right on your nose.

You froze. Narrowed your eyes.

“Oh, you did not.”

His grin widened. “I did.”

You lunged for the flour bag. He yelped, dodging as you smeared a cloud of it across his cheek, the both of you giggling like children. It turned into a full-on war with flour in your hair, streaks on his hoodie, laughter so loud it startled Roscoe in the next room.

By the time you finally calmed, both of you were coated in white dust, breathless and flushed, arms wrapped around each other in the middle of the flour-covered kitchen.

He looked at you, eyes soft. “You’re the best thing I never saw coming.”

You leaned in, brushing your flour-dusted nose to his. “And you’re the best mess I’ve ever made.”

He kissed you again slow, sweet, warm and you tasted oranges and chocolate and everything you’d built, one note, one kiss, one morning at a time.

Because love, like food, is better when it’s shared.

And you’re just getting started.

There will be more notes. More flour fights. More airports and early flights. More quiet nights and chaotic afternoons.

And always, there will be him.

Coming back to the same kitchen.

To you.

To home.

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irndad · 10 months ago

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She favorites recipes on Instagram.

It’s a little embarrassing how Carmen knows- that when she’s at his place watching him sketch dishes she can’t taste, he’s also paying attention to what’s on her phone. And it’s usually kistchy things- dresses and outfits with legwarmers, pop-culture breakdowns he doesn’t have time to understand, and yes, occassionally, recipes.

Carmen adores her company. It’s a private truth, one that they boht know and yet he can’t admit under her gaze. She’s a friend of Richie’s which is endlessly fucking confusing. Both because of how incredible she is, and because it is truly insane to imagine Richie with friends.

Carmen supposes they’re friends too, now. It doesn’t feel quite right, the way she scribbles notes for him in the mornings and has slept over quite often. She’s busy, has her own life and her own career and he’s lucky for the time he spends with her. He doesn’t really have time to date her the way he’d like to, with dinner dates and late night drives down Lake Shore, watching the sunrise over the lake on mornings where time feels like no object.

He’s clearly given this some thought.

Anyhow, it doesn’t matter now. Now, she’s slept over. He’s got a full-size, which felt like a good enough excuse to share the bed, even though every time they do he still ends wrapped around her like a vice, like roots of a tree, raveled in a way that seems inpenetrable.

She’s sipping on an energy drink- he’s offered her the coffee that he’s imported, and prepared with care, but she’d obviously thought it was too bitter. And now he keeps energy drinks in the house when she stays over. She’s popped in one of her wired earbuds, and the light washes over her like a halo. She’s got a bonafide glow while she sits on his counter, scrolling through recipes.

“That looks good,” he hears himself say, a little outside of himself, as she stops scrolling. It’s a pasta dish, and she’s favorited it. It looks more complex than it is, really, but he’s not sure he’s a good source.

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I had it once when I was in Paris. It was fucking insane, Carmen, it’s so good. I’m always looking for a place to get it. I don’t really think there’s a place in Chicago where you can get it, actually.”

“It was seasonal actually,” he says back, her eyes fixed to his now, “Ever used to make it every fall. Easier to source the pine nuts.”

She looks so, so fond of him that Carmen could entertain the idea of leaning over the counter and kissing her. It’s incredibly tempting, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, endeared by his knowledge. He feels guilty, how he plays with the pencil, knowing she’s stared appreciatively at his hands. He enjoys being pretty to her, leaning into the fantasy that he could be more than her weird fuck-up friend of a friend that’s too chicken-shit to ask her out. How odd is it, that he knows what it’s like to wake up to the smell of her shampoo, but has no idea how she likes to be kissed?

He’s so bad at this he’s failed before he’s even started.

He can cook, though.

Cooking is methodical, and so he does it. it’s an easy love language, for him. he dices the parsely and the other fresh herbs, sautes them wirh precision, uses some of the nice butter from work- it’s a marvel, at the end of it, fragrant and warm, waiting for her arrival.

When she does make her arrival, just on time for him, he plates the dish before she comes in.

“Oooh,” she preens, raking her eyes up and down him. He feels perciebed, but in a way that he’d like to be. Look at me, he thinks. What a pleasure to be seen by her. “Is this all for me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stammers out, “Thought I’d thank you for all your help. Late nights you’ve been staying up with me, talking through the menu and all- thought I could make you something.”

When she tastes it, it’s careful and adoring, and he’s good at this.

“Yes chef,” she says teasingly, “Oh my god, Carmen, this is so sweet. You didn’t have to do that. I like being here.”

He wants to kiss her again, doesn’t know why he’s not letting himself. She meets him halfway, though, kissing the corner of his mouth that only a fool would imply has plausible platonic deniability.

“Thanks, Carm.”

“Anytime.”

He’ll kiss her properly next time.

#carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x You #carmy berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto imagine #the bear #the bear x reader

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livelaughloveluffy · 5 months ago

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be mine - a valentine's day special with the monster trio, ace, and law!!!

a/n: happy valentines day everyone!!! i figured since the only valentine i have in my life are all my lovely fictional men, i would write only the fluffiest of headcanons for you guys!!

nothing but fluff here 💗

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monkey d. luffy

-valentine's day morning you get woken up to luffy jumping on top of you, smothering you in kisses. he's so excited to give you the small presents he got for you (a hand-picked bouquet, a locket with his initials that nami helped him pick out, and of course, lots and lots of chocolate).

-while the captain isn't the biggest romantic in the world, he definitely had an idea of how he wanted to spend the day with you. and with some help from the crew, he was able to make it a reality. luffy excitedly led you towards nami's tangerine trees, where you spotted the cutest picnic overlooking the ocean. the two of you spend the day basking in the sun, feeding each other chocolate and other sweet treats, utterly intertwined with one another.

-quality time and physical touch are luffy's main love languages so he's expectedly clingy to you all day, not that you mind. endless cuddles are just a given. every once and a while you'll get lulled to sleep as luffy gently plays with your hair, leaving gentle but sloppy kisses on your collarbones.

roronoa zoro

-as much as he puts on the front of being a moody, uncaring guy, you know zoro has the softest place in his heart for you. but for valentines day, he at first treats it like just another day. no mention of it, almost as if he forgot.

-by early evening, it's hard to not get your feelings just a little bit hurt over the fact that zoro forgot valentines day. as you stand at the taffrail overlooking the vast ocean, you feel zoro's hand against the smalls of your back, his chin resting on your shoulder as he mumbles "c'mere... you really didn't think i forgot, did you?" as he leads you into the kitchen on the thousand sunny. opening the door to a candlelit dinner made up for two, and as your eyes well up in tears with shock, zoro places a gentle kiss on your cheek "happy valentines day"

-you couldn't help but swoon when you found out the swordsman had actually been taking private cooking lessons with sanji for months preparing for this surprise. the chef initially deemed the man to be utterly hopeless and offered to cook for the two of you, but zoro insisted he learned and did it himself.

black leg sanji

-it's literally no surprise at all that this man is a certified lover boy. you'll wake up to a room full of flowers, a love letter on your nightstand, and sanji hand-delivering his freshly made breakfast in bed for you.

-he makes the entire day about you and his devotion to you. you are utterly pampered. all meals eaten on the prettiest bedside tray, with a special place setting and flower decor. you have to practically beg the man to feed yourself, because he insisted that even lifting a spoon or fork was too much for you to do. he'll set up a candle-lit bubble bath for you in the evening and stay in the bathroom with you to massage your back and scrub your hair.

-and of course, sanji makes only the most extravagant dessert for you. you can tell the countless hours he spent in the kitchen, perfecting his recipe. and while he tries to stifle his yawns, you have to pull the hopless cook into bed with you. thanking him for everything he did, as you find your way into his arms, gentle brushing his bangs out of his face before you both eventually fall asleep together.

portgas d. ace

-ace is definitely the most casual out of all the boys about valentines day, however that doesn't mean its because of a lack of thought or effort into the day.

-the feeling of ace's large warm hand against your cheek as he leans in to give you a kiss on the forehead, the soft whisper of "happy valentines day, baby." reaches your ears. the two of you collectively agree that you'd both rather just spend the day cuddled up together. no view or restaurant would ever be more comfortable than ace's bare chest. his hand softly running up and down your back, occasionally tracing shapes and patterns into your skin.

-even though you mutually agreed to keep things casual, ace surprised you with the cutest gift he had been holding on to for you. a large bouquet of your favorite flowers, as well as a matching pair to his signature necklace and bracelet.

trafalgar water d. law

-like zoro, as much as law tries to downplay his affection for you, his sweet affection for you consistently shines through all his many actions.

-the captain of the heart pirates led you to believe that he was swamped with work on valentines day, and didn't have time for you, though he promised to celebrate over the weekend with you. so when you returned to your room to the largest bouquet of roses placed on your bed alongside your favorite candy, your heart skipped a beat. instead he had been busy planning a spa day for you. a warm bubble bath with flower petals scattered in it, handmade face masks, and of course, law, ready to pamper you.

-as the two of you are getting ready for bed, law hands you a thin notebook. it's only after reading it that you discover it's a long love letter he's been writing to you since the two of you had started dating. he'll try and brush off the gesture, his gruff voice interrupting your thanks with a grumbled "it's nothing..." as happy tears fall down your cheeks.

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tags ♡: @dindjarins1ut @chibinasuu @twiishaa @vamphoria @3v37773 @thepotatocatto @irethepotato @peachycat17 @dreamcastgirl99 @acesdiary @sanji-soup @lilypadmomentum @ermbehindyou @erose-0707 @suga-tofu @kcch-ns @hamhamhamtaro @adamsfanficstash @raddelusionaldive @sparkyvibes @certain-tragedies @roronoazoroswife @chillerkiller @teewon @sharycatx3 @phoehav @gracefulcargo51 @moonpri @thissaintjessi @sunshineagony

want to join the taglist? click here!!

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astrolook · 4 months ago

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💚 Double Whammy Synastry: When the Universe Copy-Pastes Green Flags on Both Sides 💚

Note: These are purely my personal observations over the years. But one pattern I’ve noticed? Relationships with five or more double whammys in their synastry seem to last longer. It’s not a guarantee, but I’ve seen it happen a lot.

Recently, I took a look at my uncle and aunt’s synastry who are married for 25 years, with a 22-year-old son, and still going strong. Do they have some worse aspects? Absolutely. But guess what? Their synastry also has some solid double whammys. For example:

My aunt’s Venus trines my uncle’s Mars, and his Venus trines her Mars.

Their Venus and North node placements both fall into each other’s 10th house.

Their Moons fall into each other’s 3rd house (also a Capricorn-Cancer Moon opposition!).

Their Suns fall into each other’s 9th house, fueling a lifetime of shared growth, learning, and probably a few philosophical debates.

Even with some tough aspects, their connection has lasted for 2.5 decades and with other long-term marriages too. So maybe double whammys help build long-term endurance, even when other things in the chart aren’t exactly smooth sailing. Just a fun little pattern I’ve picked up on!

Another pattern I’ve noticed isn’t a textbook double whammy, but it still works like your 5th house Venus falling in their 9th and their 9th house Venus falling in your 5th. This creates a mix of romance (5th) and adventure (9th), making the relationship feel both fun and expansive, like lovers who also inspire each other’s dreams.

So today, let’s dive into double whammies and other synastry patterns that scream green flags.

Mars trine Venus - Flirting is effortless, just a lingering glance, and boom, butterflies. One brings the spice, the other brings the sweetness. Fight's don't last long because the make-up energy is chef’s kiss irresistible. Sits way too close even when there's plenty of space. In the long run, both of you would still stealing glances like a couple of teenagers with a crush.

Moon conjunct Venus - Peak "Aww" energy. Random acts of affection. One can "ugly cry" in front of the other and they would still think you're cute. Both know what to say or not to say when the other is feeling down. You both catch yourselves smiling at each other for no reason, like two lovesick fools.

Mercury trine Mars - Productive couple. Both physical and mental attraction to each other. Love to playfully challenge each other whether it's in board games, workout sessions or who's better at something. Filled with inside jokes. Your life never runs out of content.

Jupiter trine Venus - You two are each other's biggest cheerleaders. Go big or go home energy. You spoil each other with gifts or hype each other up. Brings out each other's confidence and suddenly that dream job or a wild goal seems totally possible. Both feels lucky to have each other.

Saturn trine Neptune - Spirituality and practicality go hand in hand where one of you manifests while the other figures out how to build it. A quiet, steady trust and an unspoken "I got you" in every situation. Solid emotional support.

Moon sextile Mercury - One of you starts a sentence, the other finishes it. Both of you remember the small details about your private moments and probably the day you both met first. You both instinctively know what to say to comfort each other. Late-night convos just hit different.

Let's go thru the planet falling on each other's houses, also note that this is general and it can change depending on the signs and houses the planet is placed in the natal chart. The good side is about when it's mutual and the bad side is about when one of you isn't into the other or one sided.

Planet falling on each other's 1st house -

Good: Instant recognition. Influence each other's self-image in a way that is confidence-boosting. Strong physical attraction. If platonic, still notice each other in a friendly way. Mutual admiration.

Bad: Uncomfortable and irritable if not reciprocated. One of you will trigger the insecurities in other. Could feel controlled or burned. Can turn into rivalry or constant friction. If one person isn’t interested, the other’s presence can feel intrusive or suffocating.

Planet falling on each other's 2nd house -

Good: Both value each other literally and emotionally. Mutual appreciation. Feel secure. Expresses love through gifts, touch, or acts of service. A grounded and practical attraction.

Bad: If not reciprocated, leads to resentment. Might become too dependent on the other. One of you could see the other as greedy and materialistic. Money problems. Can feel transactional at times. Issues with self-worth.

Planet falling on each other's 3rd house -

Good: Convos never get boring. Finishes each other’s sentences or even texting the same thing at the same time. Hypes each other up. Daily life feel effortless. Playful banter, inside jokes and your own little code that no one else understands. Road trips and sharing the same hobbies together can be seen here.

Bad: One wants peace other other won’t stop rambling about their latest hyperfixation. Sibling-like at times. You both can be too up in each other’s business. Arguments about who is right rather than solving the actual issue.

Let's see the planet falling on each other's 4th - 12th houses in the next post.

✨ DM me for a synastry or complete birth chart reading ✨ and check out my pinned post for pricing! 🌟💫

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fraugwinska · 1 year ago

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Since @chefskjssart's artwork that I commissioned was such a BANGER, I felt like I needed to do something to show my gratitude. So, I messaged her and gave her free choice over a little One-Shot I'd gift her. And that's how we ended up here :D Where are my little TV Sluts at? You can thank Chef - and I hope you all have fun ;>

NSFW - Explicit Sexual Content - Minors DNI - 5.7k words

"Gotta say, Val, the revenue of your movies really skyrocketed this quarter, fuck me."

Vox flipped through the quarterly reports, eyebrows raised and a grin on his face while Valentino, very pleased with himself, lounged on the chaise next to Vox's desk, smoking.

"I told you I've made a good investment." He grinned and blew out a puff of smoke. "All the horny bitches out there are eating my movies up."

"It's more than that, you're even making headway into other rings, holy shit! We've even got a foot in the Lust Ring market, which is almost impossible with that kind of competition..."

Valentino hummed approvingly.

"And the best part: I didn't have to do much." He added and let the tip of his cigarette rest against his lips, his grin widening. "My newest author is a kinky little genius."

Vox turned his attention to the papers again, his smile slowly turning into a frown as he scanned the declining sales in Voyeurscopes.

"What are you talking about? All of your authors write pretty much the same shit, what could be so special about-"

Valentino laughed and shook his head. "That one is - believe me, carino. Poor bitch has the mind of a succubus on crack but she can't get off."

Vox looked up, an eyebrow raised in skeptic questioning.

"Can't get off?"

"Can't feel anything. Can't cum for the life of her." He replied, leaning back and spreading his arms. "Numb like a fucking dead fish."

"Or maybe she just hasn't found a good dick." Vox mumbled, returning back to the reports, skimming over the numbers.

"Mh, you be the judge amorcito. Because I tried." Valentino growled, taking a drag from his cigarette.

Now that got Vox's full attention. The TV demon stared at his partner for a few seconds of silence, then laughed maniacally, almost falling off his chair while Val rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Fucking weird little thing, she is. She can write the craziest shit, the hornier the better. Writes like a damn porn beast, but has no clue what good sex actually feels like."

Vox heaved, wiping his screen as if in tears.

"Ohoho, Christ on a Cracker Val, maybe you've been out of the business too long… are you maybe losing that golden touch?"

Valentino sneered. "Ay, and you think you would've been able to get that bitch to cum? Be my guest, I'll gladly watch you fail."

Vox grinned at the moth, his eyes dangerously teasing. The reports were long forgotten - this was too entertaining, and Vox loved to be challenged, because he loved the feeling of superiority he felt when he succeeded. And that feeling would be so much more satisfying when he'd beat his long time partner and porn prince of pride at his own expertise.

"Wanna up the ante? Make a little wager out of it?"

Valentino scoffed, then chuckled deviously. He took another drag from his long cigarette, his cerise teeth glistening with red saliva as he began to drool in anticipation.

"You know I like to play, Voxxy. Especially if the odds are so much in my favor."

Another script done.

Your best one yet, if anyone asked you. But you knew no one asked ever, so why bother?

You stood up from your desk in your private office - being Val's favorite pen pet had it's perks afterall.

You skipped the stage of employment where you'd be cramped in one of these horrible cubicles together with the other overworked, caffeinated and tired writers, typing another outdated secretary-fuck-fest-plot while the other employees complained about their last bad lay and the shitty pay.

At least you didn't have to deal with any of that. Your room was quiet and peaceful, the door able to be locked shut and the walls soundproof. No distractions, no chit chat, no loud coworkers or malfunctioning printer noises. Just the humming sound of your computer, and the whirring of the A/C Val had granted you - a luxury that most of your colleagues bitched about behind your back.

You stretched, your tired bones popping into place and you sighed. You were done for the day. Finally.

With the deadline looming over you, you had been a bit late with the last part, and the thought of being late with your work made you sick. But Val pressed for another banger (pun intended) like your last one, 'Dante's Infern-Hoe' and you didn't want to risk the benefits you were offered so temptingly by being sloppy.

But the script for 'The Devil wears Nada' sat now, freshly printed, next to your laptop, the file saved locally and in the cloud, with about an hour to spare still. You smiled, content and relieved. An hour of paid slacking off was nice, and you checked with a glance that the electric door still was set on LOCKED before you flopped down at the two-seater by the window, grabbing the remote from the small side table and turned on the TV.

A familiar voice spoke through the speakers, and you relaxed into the pillows with a small sigh, eyes closed.

As shitty as the program in Hell was, one thing it had going for it was Vox. That smooth, hypnotizing voice of the overlord that held pride's media empire in his claws was a delight to your ears, and even the mindless, overplayed commercial jingles were pleasant enough if he was the one narrating them.

For the millionth time, it seemed, your hand wandered under the hem of your pants, fingers rubbing lazily at your cunt, as you listened to him talk, advertising the latest angelic protection device that didn't do what he promised it to do.

It was insanity at this point, doing something over and over again expecting a different outcome. Every night your fingers were cold and wet with your slick and your clit bloody and raw while you felt nothing of even your most violent and feverish touches, trying for minutes to hours to experience a sensation you wrote daily about without the satisfaction of any remarkable buildup or release.

It was no use, you knew it was a fruitless attempt, just like all the others. The most you got out of your endless tries was a slight tingle one time where you were so desperate you fucked yourself with an electric rod on its highest setting, resulting in a power outage in your apartment and a big fat fine from your landlord a few days later.

Still, you craved it. Craved to one day feel at least something. After the disappointing One-Night-cannot-Stand-the-thought-of-it with your boss, the literal porn mogul you were ready to just give up. If the face of pride’s sexdrive couldn’t get you over the edge, was there any chance at all?

Valentino had been the last in a long line of desperate attempts, paartners ranging from incubi, paid whores, porn actors to even sexbots made by Asmodeus, costing you a pretty penny just for the hassle of trying to get through the return hotline to get your money back, explaining No, you don’t know how it was possible that the cock of the ‘Fuckboy 3.0 XXL’ broke into pieces after one time usage.

You chuckled humorlessly at the memory - It was truly a pathetic time in your eternal existence, filled with you masturbating alone in bed like a sad porn star, yearning to experience sex like you wrote about in your scripts. Maybe this was hells way to punish you for your sins, your personal plan of torture - To never experience the very thing that possessed you on the daily.

The television droned on in the background, Vox advertising his latest technological developments; new features on your phone that you really could not care less about. Despite his unusual appearance, Vox was one of your absolute go-to Stand-in's for your plot protagonists. Charming, suave, depraved when called for and a dominating, thorough lover that took what he wanted, but with so much skill that his partner would cum threefold before he'd even begin to think about finishing. Cocky and yet sensual. Aftercare included. All the things your colleagues were too dumb to include, no wonder their scripts were a bust.

Yes, it was hell and therefore tastes were more... depraved than in the living world, but that didn't mean the populus secret wishes for some sort of common sexual decency was out the window, goddamn.

Your mind wandered away from your depressive ruminations, your hand never stopping its circular pattern around your swollen clit as your thoughts started to wander to its usual place, the only way that came close to what you longed for and what was the source for all of your best-selling porn scripts. Your boundless realm of fantasy.

'Come out, come out, wherever you are...'

Vox is standing in your doorway, his silhouette prominent against the bright white neon light coming from the corridor of the empty floor. His suit, neatly fitted to every curve of his slender body, is showing just how thin his waist really is, but that does not come even remotely close to describe his broad shoulders and firm, wide chest, contrasting it deliciously. His navy blue skin reflects the harsh lighting in the hallway, his screen sharp and clear, digital eyes never leaving you as he closes the door behind him, dipping the room you're in in darkness, the only source of light his brightly illuminated screen where his digital, mismatched eyes are solely fixated on you, hiding behind the long backrest of your couch.

'Found you, babydoll.' he says with that god forsaken sultry voice of his as he reaches for your throat, long fingers wrapping themselves around your neck as your breath hitches and he pulls you up from your crouched position, his long tongue running over your collarbones, the wet trails feeling as cold on your skin as his appendage feels hot. 'Now remember what I said? Ready or not...'

He presses you into a wall, his big, hard erection rubbing teasingly through the layers of fabric on your already wet core as you whimper with want. '... here I cum.'

You moan his name, the imagined feeling so painfully surreal, and you wished once more that your working fingers would elicit some sort of real, bodily response.

A cough makes you freeze in your movements. Your fantasy shatters like a mirror shot with a bullet and your eyes fly open, expecting to see maybe a dumb segment of a rerun of 'Vox2Nite'. Instead, you see the actual, real TV demon overlord, standing live and in color just a few strides away with an expression that was a mixture of confusion, curiosity and slight annoyance.

"I'd ask if I am interrupting, but it seems you already had me on your mind, huh, doll?"

Realizing that you weren't - in fact - hallucinating, you immediately whipped your hand out from under your panties, sitting up, flustered like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. How did he get in? Did you forget to lock the door? No. Did he unlock it?! You must have missed his opening and closing of the door over the voice in your fantasy. The same voice that is now echoing in reality. Oh what a shameful ending for a perfectly good fantasy orgasm.

"Um... shit, sorry, Mr. Vox, sir. I was just, you know..." you scrambled, getting nervous under the actual gaze of him as he folded his arms, waiting for you to end that sentence with a pitiful smirk. Jesus Christ, those arms are slender and muscular…

"Thinking! Just thinking, making script... scenarios..."

"Uh-Huh. And how is that coming along?" He asked, seemingly unfazed by the display before him as he took a few steps towards you.

"Oh, uh, haha, I didn't really... finish..."

He stopped directly in front of you, shutting you up with a low chuckle and his hand around your wrist, the one attached to the hand that had been in between your folds just literal seconds ago, lifting them up to look at the still shimmering wet residue on your fingers with a sneer.

"Mhm. Yeah, I've heard you have some problems with that."

Now that was embarrassing as it was alarming, and you ripped your hand out of his grip. Or better, you tried to do so anyway. It was a pointless exercise, his hand had an iron-tight grasp around your wrist as he pulled you up with one swift motion, so fast you stumbled into him, face to chest, breath caught in your throat as you were made suddenly aware how huge he really was compared to you.

"W-wow, my kinda pathetic reputation precedes me it seems. That's..." just great is what you wanted to say, but all words failed you when he lifted the hand in his grasp to his face, his thick, long tongue slithering out of his mouth just to wrap itself around your digits, lapping up the sticky residue of your arousal, watching you as your pupils widen and you squirm in his grip, mortified and turned on at the same time.

"Eh. Not as pathetic as my business partner's failure to provide something he's built his reputation on, sweetheart. Unusually smart of him to get you under contract before you shout it from the rooftops." He hummed as he tasted you, sucking in the pads of your finger hungrily and without hesitation, and all you could think of, frozen stiff like a deer in headlights, was: What the fuck is happening?

"But Val never had the kind of mindset I have... I don't do failure... or better said: I always finish what I start." His low rasp vibrated in the air around him, echoing in your head, and the heat his voice had brought to your skin left your mind racing. You asked yourself panicking if you had written too many dumb porn plots or if he was really implicating what you thought he was implicating.

"So, whaddaya say, doll..." His breath tickled your cheek as he leaned in closer, pulling you flush against him, a soft grunt of content as his hard dick pressed into your soft belly, his mouth right next to your ear, one of his hands running teasingly down your sides as he licked your ear shell. "...care to see if I can end your unlucky streak?"

'Fuck, yeah.' You thought, and almost moaned out loud as you let your head fall back to make room for his waiting mouth, when suddenly you stopped in your tracks. His hands were already groping over you greedily, squeezing your ass, your thighs, your breasts as he looked down on you, surprised to see your conflicted face.

"W...Wait. What's in it... for you?"

"Mh, you're clever. That's a new one." Vox laughed, his hand running up to the side of your face to cup your cheek, his thumb rubbing small circles on the corner of your lip. "Me and Val made a little bet, you see, and well... Let's just say: I want this to work out just as much as you do, since my success depends on yours."

"Oh.." So Val was talking about you, that bastard. He had you sign an NDA when he hired you, given that you had been unwilling to make a soul contract with him, but you guessed that that had been naively one-sided. Asshole.

Vox stroked your bottom lip, parting them before you opened them slightly on your own accord, his dark blue tongue languidly tracing the edges, waiting for your decision, coaxing you to decide in his favor. And even though you were kind of pissed at Valentino for running around telling people about your... situation - you couldn't deny it was tempting, turning fantasy into reality. And what was another overlord trying to do the impossible? Worst case - he'd try and fail, just as all the others did before, like the stupid moth pimp. At least you'd have some leverage for maybe another good deal for your silence on it. And in the highly unlikely best case…

With your decision made, you flicked your own tongue against his, humming at the unfamiliar taste and the sizzling static electricity on your tongue. Vox grinned, his sharp teeth pressing onto your lips, nipping at the sensitive flesh and growling with approval when your lips parted.

"Ohoho, baby, this is gonna be fun."

Vox ran his claws through your hair, loosening your already messy bun until your hair fell free with his playful pulls as he explored your mouth, deepening the kiss with every lick, until he could push his whole tongue into your mouth, moaning and grabbing the back of your head tightly as you let him fill you without the slightest hint of protest, fighting a desperate losing battle for air.

"Fuck, don't you need to... breathe?" you whispered after he finally pulled back, a wet trail connecting his tongue to yours, grinning down on you while your lungs burned for oxygen.

"Perks of being state of the art, sweetheart." he watched your swollen, drool covered lips - parted to catch your breath - for a few seconds longer before he inquisitively tilted his head. "Did you feel any of that?"

You contemplated lying, but figured honesty would probably be the best in this situation, shaking your head and giving him your most pitiful attempt at an apologetic smile, already bracing yourself for him to give up or get mad. "My lips tingle a little."

"Mh." He huffed as he pushed you back into the two-seater, your back hitting the cushions with a soft thump, and unceremoniously pulled on your very not-sexy-at-all sweatpants and slightly-more-sexy-but-not-quite panties until they slipped over your legs.

"How about this then?" He pressed his knee in between your legs to nudge them apart. "Can you feel any of this?" He spread your already wet slit open to run a cold claw over your hole, softly dipping first one, then two and lastly three of his fingers inside to stretch you further open and push it back in, repeating the movement slowly while keeping his eye contact trained on your face.

You hummed non-commitally, closing your eyes and pressing yourself into the cushions, trying to feel for any sensation that should come with every slow drag of his digits pumping inside of you, and not finding any of it was so fucking frustrating. You felt like you were not only disappointing yourself, but him, as stupid as that sounded. But with every added finger and still a lack of response, you saw the progression of frustrations in his face that you knew all too well - eyebrows furrowed, irritated twitches of the corners of his lips that turned into a snarl with the third added digit. You frowned, sighing and bit your lip - nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and fucking nothing again, just another wet hole, the clenching of your walls a habit and reflex only, no pleasure whatsoever.

"It's no fucking use..." you whined, pressing your hands to your face in frustration and fear of looking back into his eyes, "I can't feel anything at a-aaAAH...!"

Your back arched at this strange jolt running down your spine, forcing you to grind down on his hand as a strong electric current buzzed from his claw tips right through your cunt, curling in your stomach in a hot wave of wanton need and knocking the wind out of you. Your eyes flew open just in time to see the flash of victorious satisfaction on his screen before his face turned fuzzy as you began to tear up.

"There's some reaction. There we go, sweetheart." He cooed and curled his fingers in that deliciously sinful way again, making your breath catch in your throat. For the first time since you can remember, you FELT. You dropped your hands from your flushed, hot face onto the plush of the couch, fingers desperately digging into the fabric, and stared at Vox with wide eyes. He winked, nudging his head to his buried fingers, and with a shattering gasp you could see neon blue bolts of electric sparks traveling down his slender arm, crackling around the soft flesh inside of your pussy that had never felt so sensitive.

"How are y-aaaa.... aaa-AAah...." he silenced any questions you might have had or possible retort with another shock wave traveling through his hand as he dragged his fingers in and out in an agonizingly slow pace, it had your ears ringing with white noise and your eyes water with unknown, strange pleasure.

You were shaking, and though it should have frightened you a lot more than it did to be electrocuted while doing something that could be considered borderline treason to Valentino (And it still had your cunt dripping on a whim), but there was nothing left for you to think of other than the sharp shocks making every nerve inside of you buzz, your thighs already trembling in anticipation of the possibility of an unknown, but oh-so-wanted climax. Yet it was somehow still out of your reach, out of your range of senses.

"I feel like we are getting closer, babydoll." The TV demon chuckled darkly, his voice over amplified, the electrical buzz reverberating loudly in the soundless room. "How 'bout we kick it up a notch, huh?"

He pulled out his fingers in a quick, cruel movement, making your pussy clench around nothing as you already mourned the feeling. Before you had the time to voice your loss however, he had your thighs already in his hands, pushing them back to almost fold you in half and spread them apart as wide as he could get them without hurting you. With a smirk he stuck out his tongue, inhumanely long, thick on its base and pointed at the end - and let his electric energy visibly spark around it. Holy Shit.

The moment his head dipped down and his appendage swiped through your puffed, red folds, you could feel your insides buzz in sync to his delighted moan. He began eating you out feverously and obscenely, not holding anything back, just like you wrote your most popular protagonists to do - NO, this was so much better than anything you've ever written or fantasized about, his tongue twisting in patterns that felt like nothing you've ever even came close to imagine before. It was like he powered your whole nervous system, overriding every strand of nerve with his own electricity, amplifying any touch, any lick and any suction that would normally not even register a thousand-fold.

"O-Oh my g... F-fffuuuuhhh-ck.. meeee..." you moaned in confusion and amazement, your legs shaking helplessly on either side of Vox's rectangle head as he fucked his tongue into you, switching between the deep, long, thorough thrusts and fast, small, teasing flicks into the wet heat of your cunt, coating his screen in a shining mix of your natural juices and his blue neon saliva. He sucked at the protruding of your swollen bundle of nerves, your sensitive clit twitching under his attention - it was maddeningly unreal. You felt like a complete, utter sham - if this was sex, you've never written it anywhere correctly.

"I'm working on that, sweetheart."

Vox smirked against your pulsing core, humming with satisfaction at your wet, gaping slit begging for him to push back in and fill you up again, making you ache for his tongue deeper and deeper, forcing every shred of sense you had to leave your mind as you bucked into his grip in desperation, chasing another intense jolt he held just out of your reach as he laughed deviously at your hungry reaction to his teasing antics.

You didn't care how pathetic you looked, how undignified or desperate you sounded. This was nothing short of fucking fantastic, this all new, unknown sensation that you deemed impossible to ever experience and an real, tangible orgasm so close you could almost grab it. You felt a violent greed, you needed more of this, more more more, you needed to cum and you knew exactly that only Vox was able to do it - but you needed him inside of you, pushing you into oversensitivity, no matter what was required to get you over the edge. Fuck all dignity, that ship had sailed the moment your back hit the couch.

You shook your head vigorously, choking down sobs of grateful pleasure that racked your body with every curl of his tongue inside of you and a guttural moan, high pitched and broken.

"P-Please... ah, Pl..please..." you panted and Vox felt for your thighs to hold you steady. His claws sank in with such force into the soft meat of your legs he drew blood. "F... Fu..Fuck me.. please." you stammered and he smirked, a look of pure joy in his digital eyes as he stared you down.

"Oh, I will, baby." He smiled against your core, curling the tip of his tongue around your clit with just the right amount of pressure that your entire vision went blank with a broken cry and the strongest wave of static he'd managed to work you up to so far. "Don't worry about that, I'm not nearly done with you."

He fucked his long, slippery tongue back into your quivering pussy, his thumb taking the place on the sensitive bundle of nerves where his pointy tip had been and you cried out again as he found that one spot you've always read (and written) about. You had questioned it's actual existence, believing it to be one of those wishful myths girls dreamt and you by proxy wrote about - Until Vox and his fucking talented mouth and miraculous tongue brushed right up against it with expert accuracy. It made your eyes roll to the back of your skull, mouth open to cry out as your back arched like a bow string.

"Yeah, there? F-Fuuuck..." The overlord growled, watching your blissful face twist with a new kind of overwhelming pleasure. "You gonna cum for me baby? Come on, let go, good girl..."

You knew the reader-pleasing phrase by heart. You used it a hundred times and fantasized about it even more - It shouldn't have that effect on you, but yet it was that comment of his, spoken in a raspy low rumble directly into your cunt that finally pushed you over the edge, leaving you panting helplessly and cumming.

Hard. Harder than you've ever dreamed about. Every nerve ending on overdrive, every hair standing on edge - it felt like getting struck by lightning, the static electricity sizzling through your blood vessels like a thunderstorm as he was still thrusting that goddamn magic tongue into your spasming hole through the clamping of your muscles, taking you through it with small, measured licks to keep you on the edge a little longer, whines and hiccups mixed with breathless laughs leaving your raw throat as you slowly returned to reality.

This was it, what you've always longed for, you realized after your vision came back to you, staring down at the smug looking TV demon who was still settled between your legs, his glowing screen painted with the remains of your climax. You managed to give him an exhausted smile, blowing a stray strand of wild hair from your face with a quick puff before dropping your head back in the pillow, absolutely spent. Vox pressed a toothy kiss on your thigh and pushed himself back to his feet.

"You've got quite the gushy orgasm, doll, damn..." he wiped a thick blotch of your arousal from the corner of his screen, the neon blue stained fingertip disappearing in his mouth as he hummed appreciatively and licked it away. Then he looked over you, slumped lazily on the sofa, your face flushed, your hair all tangled and the exposed pieces of skin covered with a shiny layer of sweat.

"Shit, sweetheart, you look goddamn good when you're all messed up like that..." He eyed you intently and leaned down, his heavy frame caging you in underneath him, one hand trailing a line from your still heaving chest, between your breasts and up to your throat.

"T-That was.. wow. Just... wow." Clearly illiterate and 50 IQ-points dumber post-orgasm, you cleared your throat, trying to compose yourself. While you were a little disappointed that you still hadn't really fucked, he did what he promised to do. Got you off - and how. You were grateful.

Sad that it was over, maybe even sadder that the chances of a repetition were likely zero - Vox was a goddamn overlord, and who were you other than a nobody with a hard-to-please cunt?- but grateful nonetheless. And you felt the need to let him know that.

"I don't know how to than... w-what are you doing?"

You sat yourself up on the elbows with a dumbfounded expression as Vox began to undress himself, his jacket, bow tie and undershirt discarded within seconds onto the ground and he practically pounced you as he began to undo the belt of his slacks, trapping you in between his legs and under the very prominent hard-on he sported.

"What, you really thought that was it? Make you cum once, win my bet and ding-dong-ditch like a fucking amateur?" Vox laughed as he pulled his massive length out of his pants - Words were your bread and butter but they would ever fail you to describe the gloriousness that was his cock.

Almost as thick as your underarm, smooth and almost shiny, glowing with built-in LED lights along the underside of his shaft and practically weeping with precum. He knelt down on the sofa, taking your hand to run it over its full length, smearing the sticky residue along your fingers, his almost bioluminescent cum dripping thick and slowly from the angry swollen tip. "Fuck no, sweetheart. In case you forgot, let me remind you..."

He leaned down to your ear, a violent electric bold jolting from his cock through your hand right into your overwhelmed, disbelieving brain as he guided you to line him up with your still throbbing entrance.

"I always finish what I start."

Vox had never been in a better mood.

His phone - finally surviving for more than just a few days, since his win against Valentino prevented the moth pimp from smashing it, even in one of his many temper tantrums - buzzed again. A notification of another upload into the cloud. He smirked when he saw the name of the user.

The whole conversation after he fucked Val's writing savant into Limbo and back had been a fucking blast for Vox - he reveled in the morbid joy of cashing in his stake while teasing Val that he'd have to wait another eternity for the chance to make Vox star in a double length porn with him - a fantasy of the moth Vox has been always against. Not to mention that Vox had accomplished what Valentino with all his 'mighty dicks and porn mastery'-aura couldn't. Which (rightfully) sent him into his biggest hissy fit yet, so enraged that, in lieu of Vox's phone to throw against the wall, he threw his newest Robo-Assistant Kitty out the window.

Although Vox had been certain he wouldn't lose the little bet against his partner, he still felt a little relief that his ass wasn't on the next new load of crappy porn DVDs. Granted, that would've surely caused sales to skyrocket - but with his revived and improved little star author that was more than just unnecessary.

Val's fears that a good dicking with a Happy End would sort of break the little writers 'Sex-Spell' and her scripts turn into shite like the rest of Val's useless crew produced proved to be the exact opposite. Ever since Vox made her cum - on his fingers, mouth and cock for multiple times that fateful night - her scripts improved even more, resulting in stellar sales reports, a major spike in cashflow and a personal inquiry letter for a meeting from Asmodeus himself (which Vox contemplated to frame and hang over his fucking bed like a medal of honor).

And since Valentino, in his hurt pride and childish, stubborn pettiness refused to speak or fuck with him, Vox had no qualms of paying his little writer a few more visits. Every time he found impish joy in finding new ways to make her cum, and after one shag-date where he actually stayed long enough for an after-sex-cigarette and some smalltalk, he discovered that she wasn't just a kinky, but also an interesting bitch with great taste in whiskey and a crude sense of humor that was just up his alley.

"I'm curious doll." Vox said as he took another drag from the cigarette before he handed her the bud, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her onto his bare chest as he lounged on the new, bigger sofa he got for her office (more space and much more versatility) "What the fuck did you do to end up in hell? You don't seem like the ax-murder type."

She chuckled mischievously. "I was a pretty popular crime author back upstairs. I hit a pretty bad writer's block, and decided to get in some field work to inspire me for more creative ways of murder. No axes, but I did have a fable for knives." She grinned, inhaling the thick smoke as he laughed and the way her tits pressed into his skin had him almost hard again. "You know what's the most ironic part?" She asked, putting the bud out in the ashtray on her side table and glanced back over her naked shoulder to him, a devious glint in her eyes. "I got the electric chair for that." That woke his cock fully up again, and he couldn't help but take her for another round.

His assistant babbled something about his schedule, but Vox didn't listen. Instead, he planned on visiting her office again, maybe he'd even stay after and order sushi for two, who knew? The media Overlord smiled smugly as he opened the database and looked over the newest script you had uploaded to the cloud. It was when he read the title that he burst into ringing laughter.

'Electrocutie - One Big Cock Shock'

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #vox x reader #vox fanfiction #vox being vox #vox smut #hazbin hotel x reader #give us the vock #valentino being a drama queen #valentino hazbin hotel #quickfic

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chooppi · 7 months ago

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♡ A LONG NIGHT - VINSMOKE SANJI

WARNINGS: fluff, gn!reader

WORD COUNT: 697

it is way past midnight as you’re looking at your boyfriend who is sound asleep. usually, he will always stay up and make sure you fall asleep first, but today was a long day and he could no longer keep his eyes open. if he knew about it, he would probably curse himself in the morning, he wouldn’t want to know that you were laying wide awake with your own thought while he slept comfortably.

his blonde hair is a mess as it’s covering half his face and even through the dark room, you can see his eyelashes resting against his cheeks.

one of his arms is holding you close to him by being wrapped around your waist, making it difficult for you to turn and find a more comfortable position, not wanting to wake him up.

life does become hectic at times, especially when you’re out sailing for a living and meet new people, both good and bad on different islands. having to cook dinner for the entire crew, sanji hasn’t been able to spend as much time with you as he would like.

if it wasn’t this late into the night, you wouldn’t be giving it extra thought, but your mind is wandering away into dangerous territory, overthinking.

the two of you are on the same boat all the time, even if you aren’t always right next to each other, you’re basically always in the same room. you’re always wandering around the islands together and always spend the night together, it isn’t impossible for him to grow tired of you, right?

after years of being crew mates and a couple, it wouldn’t surprise you at this point. there could be others that might be more interesting for him.

you shuffle slightly closer to him and bury your face into his chest, trying to get rid of the nagging thoughts, and feeling you moving in his arms, sanji slowly opens his eyes to find you still being awake.

“darling, are you not sleeping?” he mumbles while stretching slightly. his gaze moves towards you who is now looking back at him, eyes wide by hearing his voice. “can you not sleep?”

you shake your head and hear the sigh escape his lips. “you should’ve woken me up earlier, i could’ve made you something to eat or drink,” sanji whispers while placing one hand onto your cheek, rubbing it gently. “are you worrying about something?”

he kisses your forehead lightly while awaiting your answer. “i just hope we can be together forever,” you admit quietly. “i don’t want to lose you…”

sanji’s eyes widen at the sound of those words leaving your mouth, but he quickly composes himself and pulls you closer. “i don’t want to lose you either, baby. and you won’t lose me, i promise,” he leans his forehead against yours. “i’ll be your private chef for the rest of our lives, you don’t need to worry.”

you can’t help but smile when he says that, and you move as close to him as you possibly can, wrapping your arms around him tightly. “so you like having a private chef? i knew you were just with me for my cooking skills,” he tries to lighten the mood, knowing exactly how to make you feel better.

“don’t get full of yourself,” you roll your eyes at him, but sanji won’t let you say anything else as he finally presses his lips to yours. it’s not harsh, instead it’s soft and gentle while his hand stays resting on your warm cheek. “how can i not be full of myself when i somehow get to be your boyfriend?”

he begins brushing a hand through your hair. “but seriously, don’t doubt my love for you, ever. i’ll keep loving you for the rest of my life, i promise,” sanji whispers as your faces are only mere centimeters away from one another. “let’s try to sleep again, okay? and if you can’t fall asleep i’ll make you a snack and something to drink, okay?”

“that makes me not want to fall asleep.” “if you fall asleep you’ll get breakfast in bed, so shut those pretty eyes and get your beauty sleep.”

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astraljedi · 19 days ago

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Sexo Virtual (Miss American - Joaquin Torres)

President's Daughter AU Series | Joaquin Torres x Female Reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI, 18+ only, mention of period symptoms (vomiting, nausea, cramps), fluff, yearning and long distance relationship. Word Count: 2.9K Song: Sexo Virtual by Rauw Alejandro A/N: Finally updated Miss Americana! This has been sitting in my drafts for a week now. Reblog, let me know what you think and ENJOY! Masterlist | Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | _

Chief of Shade Podcast DM from Anon says: Any updates on the first daughter? They just announced she's going to be a speaker in one of the biggest tech conventions early next year. Is this her starting her father's re-election campaign? Congrats to Miss Americana for nailing a gig like that! Though, I don't believe this is part of a re-election campaign. But I do have an update on what's going on with her dating life. My sources allegedly say she was seen having a private dinner date at "Emerald" a few months ago. Is the president's daughter dating or was this a casual friend dinner? -

FACETIME CALL May 3rd Duration: 3:42:16 Connected – 6:08 PM EST

“Why are you cubing your chicken so small?” Joaquin scrunches his nose, his face closer on my phone screen as he watches me cube my chicken through his.

“Because I need every piece to be equally small and slightly overcooked so I don’t gag at the thought of eating chicken,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on the cutting board and not on my shirtless more-than-a-friend guy as he rocks his ribbed body for me through the small screen. His sweatpants hang low, his curly hair a little damp from the shower he took before we jumped on the call.

It’s unfair to have him like this, miles away from me.

“What?” he asks, still confused. I watch him toss the whole chicken breast into his pan, and the sound of searing fills the room. He readjusts his phone, setting me behind his kitchen sink. I forget about my knife and rest it on the edge of the board, my eyes following the flex of his biceps as he rinses his dishes.

“If I’m cooking chicken, I need to have it in little pieces because the thought of it being even slightly undercooked I will not eat it,” I try to explain, tossing the tiny pieces into the hot pan. I can barely hear him laughing through my AirPods—the searing from his pan almost mutes him. “Hey, don’t laugh at me. And turn down the heat, you’re going to burn your butter.”

“Yes, chef,” he chuckles, actually turning off the stove. “If our cooking date over FaceTime has you this bossy, I don’t want to imagine our actual cooking date when we see each other.”

“As long as you cube my chicken into small pieces, we’ll be fine.”

“Oh, baby. I’ll cube your chicken however you want if it means I get to see you like this every time,” he says, a low growl. I blush, my hand flying up unconsciously to fix the skinny strap of my crop top.

Did I throw on the tiniest top and shorts on purpose? Yeah. Am I still blushing like a schoolgirl when he notices? Of course.

I let the chicken sizzle on medium heat and turn off the burner under the pot of pasta. “As long as you bring those low-rise sweatpants, we have a deal.” I wink at him, purposely not adjusting the phone’s angle. I walk out of view with the pan of cooked pasta toward the sink behind me.

I look over my shoulder as I drain the pasta water, catching Joaquin’s eyes practically falling out as he gets a full view of my ass. My tiny shorts barely cover my cheeks.

“Fuck,” I hear him mutter under his breath, and I laugh.

God, I love our FaceTime dinner dates—but I’d rather have him here.

FACETIME CALL May 27th Duration: 00:08:34 Connected – 1:45 PM EST

The familiar FaceTime tone rings through my AirPods, letting me know our call has connected.

“Babe, are you still working on that proposal?” Joaquin asks, resting me somewhere on his desk while sitting down in his office chair.

He was coming back from his lunch break—something I didn’t fully take on my part.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “We start pitching this new, amazing tech to our investors in a few days, and I just want it to be perfect.”

“Did you finish your lunch?” Joaquin eyes me, raising a brow. I glance at my half-eaten Caesar wrap salad in its to-go container, long forgotten on the other side of my desk. I don’t even have to answer—he already knows I completely skipped my lunch break.

“You have to eat something. You can't rely just on your coffee to get through the workload.”

“I also have my water,” I try to be cute, showing him the light pink water jug on camera. He tries to be serious for a second, but he breaks easily, his bright smile tugging at my heart.

“But I’m definitely planning on ordering a huge dinner once I get back home.”

“Good girl,” he smirks, typing away on his keyboard. “What are you ordering?”

“Remember the tacos you brought me last month? I’ve been craving them this whole week. Oh! And the ice cream with fresh churros and the Nutella dip.”

My stomach growls just at the thought of dinner.

Joaquin’s moan fills my ear, and I bring my knees together, forcing them shut as I try to act like that didn’t affect me.

“Those were so good. Now I’m hungry again.”

“Me too,” I laugh, trying to hide how turned on I am.

“I have to call you back—Sam’s calling me.” He leans over his desk, grabbing the phone from where he had it.

“Don’t worry, duty calls.” I smile, blowing him a kiss before the call disconnects.

FACETIME CALL June 9th Duration: 01:10:23 Connected – 10:32 PM EST

I grab the beautiful bouquet of white and pink lilies from my bedside table and place them on my lap carefully. I hold my phone high, trying to get the flowers and my body into frame.

Joaquin had sent me the bouquet congratulating me on a successful pitch, and I just wanted to send him something back—even if he’s overseas on a mission. The time difference has been hell. We haven’t had a real FaceTime call in days, just some short texts here and there.

I open my messages and the app opens on Joaquin’s text thread already. I attach the photo I just took and check it before hitting send, making sure it actually looks good.

You can barely see the white, tiny lace bralette and matching bottoms—the bouquet covering most of my body—but it’s enough to tease him before he starts the day.

iMessage 10:56AM Joaquin: Finally have service 10:58AM Joaquin: I can try and call you before you go to bed. I miss you 11:01AM Me: I miss you too 11:03AM Me: I’ll text you when I get out of the shower Be safe 10:31PM Me: *Attached Picture* Thank you for the flowers

I place the bouquet back on the nightstand and jump into bed, waiting to see if he replies. Not even a minute later, my phone starts ringing. I smile, my head sinking into my pillow as I answer.

His face pops up immediately—bare chest in frame, a light glow coming from his bedside table. His hair is messy and his dog tags stick to his skin. Ever since I saw them for the first time, the idea of pulling him down to kiss me by the metal chain haunts me day and night when we talk or when he sends photos.

“Hi baby,”

“You’re going to drive me insane,” He groans, setting his phone on the nightstand. I stare at his naked torso, the rest of his lower body hidden under his bedding. I don’t even try to hide that I’m staring, I let my eyes trail along his body.

“I just wanted to thank you for the flowers.” I say innocently, resting my back against the headboard. I position my phone at the perfect angle, chest in frame just a little to tease. “You didn’t like the photo?”

“Fuck, no. It’s my new favorite photo.” He reassures me, voice low. “Jesus, the things I would do to you if I was there.” He runs a hand down his face, groaning.

“Tell me,” I breathe, my body already reacting. “If you were here, how would you touch me?”

I test the waters, something we’ve been doing back and forth, but in person, we haven’t gone further than makeouts, touching and grinding. But, this is something new. This is untouched territory in our relationship.

“Shit, baby” Joaquin shifts, the hand on his chest disappearing out of frame. “Since you love being a tease, I’d start slow.”

I place my phone on the nightstand, resting it against the flower vase.

“I’d pin you down to that bed, kissing every inch of your neck while my hands cup your breast.” Joaquin’s eyes follow my movements. I copy his instructions, guiding my fingers from my neck to my breast. “And with my teeth, I’d slide that thin lace off your nipples and then swirl my tongue over them.”

I free my breast and cup it with my palm, imagining his mouth in place of my fingers. “Joaquin.” I breathe, pinching my nipple just enough to send my hips jolting up from the contact.

I watch him spit into his palm, his phone at a perfect angle to show me everything. He slides his sweats down, freeing his straining cock, leaving me gawking at his size.

I’ve felt it pressed against me before, but seeing it now? I press my thighs together instinctively.

“No, open those legs for me.” He demands, letting his cock slap against his stomach.

“Still with me?” He asks and I nod, forcing my legs apart.

“I’d slip my fingers down, pull the lace aside, and circle your clit” he continues.

The softest exhale escapes me as I follow his instructions, middle finger grazing and circling, my fingers soaked with my arousal.

“Hey—slow,” he warns. “You follow my orders, or I’ll stop.”

I whine, but nod. “Please,” I beg.

“The way I’d already be lost between your legs,” Joaquin went on. “Kissing your thighs, fingers coated in how wet you are. So wet, I could slide two fingers in and let you suck me deep.”

My eyes flutter shut as I slide two fingers in, the sound of his commanding voice nearly enough to send me over the edge.

“Fuck, I’m so wet, baby.”

Joaquin groans, his jaw tightening. “Don’t rush it. Let yourself feel it—curl those fingers, baby. Tell me what you feel.”

“Fuck,” I whimper. “It feels so good—I need more.”

“What do you need?” He says through gritted teeth.

“You. I need your hands holding me open, your cock filling me up. I’d let you take me any way you want.”

“I need your eyes on me,” he adds, breathless. “I need you to see what you do to me, even miles away.”

I force my eyes open and moan at the sight of him. His hand around his cock, biceps and shoulders flexing, dog tags stuck to his skin and glimmering under the light—nearly makes me cum on the spot.

“Fuck, I bet you’d ride my fingers so good.” Joaquin pants. “I can’t wait to taste you. Make you cum with my tongue, fingers and cock until I have your legs shaking.”

I bite my lip, and force myself to choke down my cry as I rock my fingers faster. My other hand reaches for my clit, circling the little nub.

“You sound so pretty like this,” he groans. “Desperate to cum. Aching for my cock to stretch you out.”

I spread wider, pressing deeper, harder—nearly knuckles deep— as my back arches into the pillows.

“Joaquin, I’m close.” My thighs tremble, heat spreads through my body. I squirm, desperate as my hips try to meet with my own thrust.

“I need you,” I gasp. “I need your hands, your mouth—fuck, I need your cock, Joaquin.”

“Fuck, say my name again,” he pants.

“Joaquin. Joaquin—” My voice breaks as I tremble, trying to keep my legs spread. Tears burning the corner of my eyes.

“I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And I do.

The white-hot wave crashes through me, and I cry out, letting it take over me. “Fuck, fuck.” I keep my eyes on him as his fist tightens around his cock. I whimper, feeling my walls flutter around my fingers.

“You did so good for me, baby,” he groans, breath catching. “So fucking good.”

I watch the twitch of his muscles, his mouth falling open as he spills over, gasping my name, eyes on me.

We stay quiet for a moment, just breathing but never looking away. Not even for a second.

“Are you okay?” he asks, still a little breathless.

I nod. What are words? Cause I don’t know any at the moment.

Shit, that was hot.

“I need to hear you baby, I can’t go on with my day without hearing you say it.”

“Fuck,” I rasp, smiling sleepily. “I’m more than okay.” I rest my hand on my chest, my breath calming down.

He laughs softly, leaning forward to grab his phone. “I miss you. I’m counting down the days until I’m done here.”

“I miss you too,” I sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How much longer are we going to be this far apart?”

“Not much, I promise.” Joaquin gets up from his small bed, dog tags clicking as he moves around the small room. I watch him slide a pair of boxers, then his cargo pants.

I walk to the bathroom, resting my phone on the vanity. “Did you get some sleep at least?”

“Not much. It’s hot and the bed is uncomfortable. My shoulders ache from training and from the bed.” Joaquin rubs his shoulder, trying to get rid of the tension bothering him.

“I’m so–”

“Torres.” A loud bang cuts me off from Joaquin’s side of the line. “We need you out here. Now.”

“I’m coming!” He yells back, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll call you later, get some rest, baby.” He rushes, slipping his boots.

“It’s okay, stay safe.” I managed to say, right before the call disconnected.

FACETIME CALL June 22 Duration: 05:33:45 Connected – 06:04 AM EST

The bathroom tiles feel cold against my hot sweaty skin as I sit in front of the toilet. I’ve been awake since four in the morning—puking, dizzy and struggling with awful period cramps.

I lean my back on the wall, closing my eyes while I try to steady my breathing and push down the nausea. My phone vibrates next to me, Joaquin’s contact picture lighting up the screen. My fingers hover over the phone. Do I really want him to see me like this?

But we haven’t talked in days, he’s been having a hard time with the wifi at the base he’s currently at.

Just as I slide my finger to answer, the awful wave of nausea creeps up from my stomach. I hurl into the toilet, gripping the bowl, leaving my phone unattended.

“Why am I looking at your ceilin—baby, are you sick? What’s going on?” I hear his worried voice through the speaker, but I can’t respond. Not when my gut is twisting inside me as I try to breathe through it.

I wipe my mouth with a towel, then grab the phone off the floor and settle back into my spot.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Do I need to call someone? What’s wrong?” Joaquin’s face is pinched with concern. He looks like he’s ready to jump through the screen. He looks too cute when his worried forehead lines show up.

“I already told Carmen I’m not going into work today,” I say, my voice rough. “Just a bad period episode, that’s all.” I push the sweaty strands of hair from my face, trying to summon the strength to crawl back to bed.

“Does this usually happen?”

“No,” I admit. “But I think it’s the IUD I got earlier this week.”

I’d had the appointment, something I’d been meaning to do since our last FaceTime—but I hadn’t mentioned that it was for an IUD.

“You didn’t tell me you were getting it. I mean, you don’t have to, it’s totally your choice—but are the side effects supposed to be this bad?”

I chuckle as I listen to him ramble over the phone.

“I didn’t tell you because I did it just in case,” I shared. “Especially after our last few FaceTime calls.”

Joaquin blushes, cheeks and even the tips of his ears turn a cute shade of red. He scratches the back of his neck, but he doesn’t look away.

“I’m going to bed,” I sigh. “I already called off work.”

I stand up slowly, my hand braced against the wall for support. The nausea has passed, but my head still feels heavy, and the dizziness lingers.

“I hate not being able to be there,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “I’d rub your back, grab the heating pad, feed you comfort food, run you a hot bath—whatever would help.”

“Hearing your voice helps.”

I lie down in bed, grabbing the heating pad and pulling the bed sheets over my body. I rest the phone on the nightstand, finally looking at him better.

Joaquin is in bed, shirtless, wearing only his cargo pants. He looks handsome, even with his messy hair, his tired eyes and the small constellation of moles on his face.

“You should go to sleep, handsome.” I yawn, rubbing my eyes.

“I don’t have to hang up. We can sleep together, baby—fall asleep together.” He yawns too, his free hand resting on his chest.

“I miss you so much.” I mumble, sleep already pulling me under.

“Descansa, mi amor. Te extraño mucho más.”

It’s the last thing I hear, his soft voice echoing through the phone, before darkness takes over.

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trippinsorrows · 7 months ago

Text

looking through your eyes + twenty nine

authors note: it's all coming together...

cw/tw: fluff, angst, suspense, discussion regarding sexual assault and incest

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

cast + masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 8k

There’s a calm that befalls Solana and Roman following her discharge from the hospital. A welcomed respite from the chaos that’s consumed the both of them in the past couple of weeks.

A space of peace and appreciation following the scariest of things.

Solana was truly convinced that she was going to lose her babies, a loss so catastrophic, she’s not certain what recovery from said catastrophe would look like.

What that would mean for herself and her marriage.

But, it was avoided. A horrific scare, at best. A scare that somehow helped husband and wife have much needed, long overdue conversations. Even the argument between them that preceded the scare. Though she regrets that it ever reached that point, there’s a part of her that is happy it occurred. It allowed for the demolition of a budding wall of mistrust between them.

Demolition that was a must for their marriage to continue to grow and strengthen.

And, it will.

Because she loves this man and what they’ve built too much to watch it all fall apart.

They owe each other that much.

Most importantly, for their girls.

The day Solana is released is spent almost entirely with her laying in bed with Roman, the two of them embracing both each other and the solitude and comfort found in once another. A necessary thing, given all that transpired.

But also, something that Roman largely attributes to the doctor’s orders that she take the next couple weeks “easy.”

That seems to be something, however, that her husband has taken perhaps a bit too literally.

He doesn’t want her doing anything outside of showering and using the bathroom. Dulce needs to go outside? He handles it. They need to eat something? He reaches out to his private chef and has meals delivered. She wants some air? He sits with her out on their balcony.

Thoughtful and kind is his dedication to making sure she follows the doctor’s orders both for herself and the pregnancy, but it’s also….a lot.

It’s why she tries to make her “great escape” while he’s napping. They both were, but she woke up to find him still asleep, providing her the out she needed.

Solana makes it downstairs and into the kitchen, is even able to settle on the dish she wants to make for them, a small smile of satisfaction on her face as she relishes in her victory.

“What are you doing up?"

Damn.

Solana turns around to find her scowling husband standing before her with his arms crossed.

“Baby,” she smiles nervously. “You’re up.”

His expression is unwavering. “Yeah, and you shouldn’t be.”

Sighing, she walks over to him. “Roman….” Solana moves her hands up down his broad chest, trying her best to help him understand this in the simplest of terms. “I’m on pelvic rest. Not bed rest. They’re—they’re different, baby.”

“Close enough,” he shrugs. Solana’s shoulders slump as does the small smile that was on her face. “In bed.”

“Ro,” she whines. “I was in the bed in the hospital. I’ve been in bed since we got home. I’m tired of being in the bed. I need to move around.”

“Didn’t you go to the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Then you moved around.”

She closes her eyes. “Roman.”

“It’s bad enough your ass was picking up and holding Dulce. She weighs more than your weight restrictions.”

Solana’s eyes widens. “She’s five pounds, Roman.”

“Exactly. Anything five and over is too much.”

With another heavy sigh, Solana goes for a different approach. “Roman?”

“Yes?”

A warm smile, soft voice, and pleading eyes. “I love you. I love you so much, but I think….I think you’re being a little too much.”

He looks absolutely baffled. "I’m following the doctor’s orders.”

Solana makes a sound, head nodding side to side to depict her not outright agreeing with his statement. “That’s….debatable.”

Roman rolls his eyes and pulls his phone out his back pocket. “Since we’re on the subject, I made a list of some of the things we need to change while you’re pregnant.”

Somehow, someway, Solana already knows this list is just going to be another continuation of his extreme overprotectiveness. “Oh?” Roman unlocks the phone and navigates to something, handing it to her to reveal a list in the notes app. Solana is more surprised by the length of said list than anything. Her finger keeps moving to scroll. “Ro, how—how long is this?”

He shrugs. “It was while you were sleeping at the hospital. I was bored and had the time.”

Solana stops when she catches wind of one of the suggestions being ‘no cooking for the twins.’

That most definitely has nothing to do with the pregnancy.

With a gentle smile, she places the phone on the counter and moves her hands up his chest, asking in a soft voice, “Roman, how are you?”

A fair, valid question, because the past few weeks have been a bit of a storm for both of them, but in the middle of said storm she cannot and will not forget the presence and impact of his grief.

He looks visibly taken back by her changing of topics but eventually moves his hand down to hers, guiding them into the living room where he sits down on the sofa and carefully pulls her down next to him.

She starts to ask him another question when he reaches for the coffee table where a stack of papers are spread.

Her stomach twists. She knows exactly what said papers are.

Roman is the one surprising her this time when he hands them to her, sharing, “I want you to read it.”

Naturally, she’s shaking her head, refusing to accept it. “Roman, no. Fetu left it for you.”

“And I want to share it with you,” he pushes back, offering, “it’s easier for you to read it than it is for me….for to me to explain.”

That, she most definitely understands. It’s a large reason why she wants to have him read her letter from her mom.

It truly is easier that way.

Still, Solana has to ask one more time. “Are—are you sure?”

There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his voice nor on his face. “Yes.”

Another deep breath as she finally accepts the letter, taking a second before allowing her eyes to take in the words from beyond this world.

Roman,

My sweet, big eared boy.

If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. Go figure.

I imagine you’re upset and sad, and that’s okay. It’s like I’ve always told you, you have feelings, and it’s okay to have them.

But, I’m also going to tell you something I haven’t told you in years, you have a big heart, Roman. A good heart, and it’s never made you weak. It’s always been your greatest strength.

But, I know they tried their best to strip you of that, and Roman, in many ways. they did. By keeping me from you for so many years. Rikishi’s big ass knew I would work my damn hardest to help you keep your humanity, because you are so much more than what they tried to turn you into.

You are not an unfeeling killer. You are a young man who lost so much as a young boy. Who was always expected to be perfect. That’s why I tried so hard to just encourage you to be a kid, to be human, to recognize it’s okay to have feelings.

Now, for the truth.

Roman, I’m tired.

I’ve been tired for the past few years. Especially since the diagnosis. The thought of dying and not remembering my family, remembering you, is something I can’t accept.

I want to leave on my terms, with the love and all the memories I have for you, for Ava, for this life I’ve been blessed to live.

But, I’ve held on this long because my prayer has always been the same. That my days would be extended long enough to make sure you’d be okay once I’ve passed. Because I’ve never wanted to leave you alone.

And now I don’t have to, because you have Solana.

She is the one I’ve been praying for. The one to make sure I don’t have to leave you alone in this cold world.

She’s your soulmate, Roman. In every sense of the word. You must stay with her, no matter what. Do not push her away. You need her just as much as she needs you. You’re especially going to need her when I’m gone.

But not just her.

Roman, I am going to ask something of you that I know you’re not going to like, but I really don’t care, because it’s what you need.

You need to establish a relationship with your brother. I know that’s always been a sensitive subject for you, no thanks to that mother of yours, but true family is everything. We were not meant to be alone in this world.

You need more than just Solana.

We lost so much, yes, but with Matteo, there is hope. I know there is a lot of pain and hurt and rejection there, but both of you were victims of the politics in this life we live.

You need Solana, but you need your brother, too.

It is my dying wish that you try to form some kind of relationship with him.

I am leaving you something in return though. There is a key included in this envelope. I'm sure your perceptive ass has seen it already. In the GREEN trunk in my closet, NOT the blue one, trust me—you don’t wanna know what’s in there—you’ll find a stack of letters I wrote to you all those years we were separated. And beyond. Life lessons. Silly shit. Reflecting on good times. All of the things. Something you’ll always have from me.

This is actually my last letter I will write to you, and it’s to say goodbye.

Roman, know that I am sad to go. Sad that I will not be around to meet your children, but I have no doubt you will be an amazing father. You and Solana will break the cycle of generational dysfunction from before you.

As I said, I am tired. It is time for me to rest, and I can finally do so knowing that you will continue to be just as loved, if not more, as I have always loved you.

You may have been Nakoa and Viviana’s son, but you’ve always been and always will be my boy.

Love,

Fetu

By the time Solana finishes reading, her eyes are teary and her mind is all over the place. She looks over at her quiet husband. “Roman….”

As with her letter from her mom, there is so much to process. Fetu wanting to die. Her leaving behind an abundance of letters for Roman, so he’ll always have a part of her. The part about Matteo, which is, arguably, the most shocking section for her.

She thought Roman and the man resembled each other in an almost uncanny way, but she could have never guessed that they were brothers.

So, not only does she have a brother she didn’t know about, but Roman has one he does and has known about but doesn’t claim?

He must be reading her face well, because he immediately moves into explaining that part in particular. “I’m sorry I lied to you about who Matteo is, but…..” He starts, looking off, clearly uncomfortable with this discussion but most likely knowing it needs to happen. “That’s hard for me. My mother…..our mother never tried to hide the fact that he was the son she wanted. That he…..he was the one she loved.”

Solana’s chest tightens as she moves closer to him, placing the letter down on the coffee table and holding onto his arm. “Roman, I’m—I’m sure your mom loved you in her own way.”

He still doesn’t look at her as he calmly counters, “she loved what she thought I could do for her one day.” Solana’s confusion is short-lived as he offers further explanation. “My mother loved Matteo’s father, but he was a commoner and Turkish, so it was forbidden. But, she didn’t care, and they maintained this secret relationship that ended in a pregnancy.” Matteo. “They got found out, so my mother’s father had him tortured and killed. And my mother’s punishment was to be sent off to America and married off to my father, who she never loved.”

Solana tightens her hold on Roman’s arm, asking, “and Matteo?”

He sits up, still not looking at her but reclining further back into the sofa. “He stayed in Italy and was raised by distant relatives.” She can see the way his jaw clenches and feel the tension building in his big body. “She wanted me to eventually be the one to kill my grandfather. To make him pay for what he did to her, who he took from her. It’s why she pushed me so hard to be….what I’ve become.” He finally turns to her, turmoil and conflict written all over his face. “She loved that I could one day be her key to revenge.”

The more Solana learns about Roman’s past and his upbringing, the more and more sense he makes. She realized this a while ago, but once again, she’s seeing just how stacked the cards were against him.

Leaning against him, she kisses his shoulder, murmuring, “baby, I’m so sorry.”

It’s a minute before he says anything. “Matteo hasn’t….he’s never actually done anything to warrant my dislike or distrust, but acknowledging him as my brother is….hard for me.”

She can see that, and she has a good guess at to why. Because Matteo had the one thing she’d suspect Roman wanted at one point in his life, especially as a child.

His mother’s love.

With a heavy sigh, she does her best to be respectful of his boundaries while also honoring Fetu’s final wishes. “Fetu….she knew you well, Ro.” He swallows, hand moving to her knee. “And I think…..I think she was right to encourage you to develop a relationship with Matteo.” He looks toward her, Solana going to clarify. “In your own timing, of course, but I do—I do think you should at least try.”

The eye contact is short-lived, as he looks away, Solana opting to give him a bit of a respite. She moves her hand atop his, sharing, “we should go get the trunk tomorrow.” His gaze falls on her once more. “Those letters she left you….they need to be here. In our home. With you.”

Specifically in the library he created just for her. A shared space. Their space.

Roman doesn’t say anything, just nods, clearly still feeling a myriad of emotions. She just moves even closer to him, continuing to hold onto him, mumbling an “I love you” followed up with and, “we’re going to get through this.”

Because, they will.

She’s going to make sure of it.

Because she loves him too much for them not to.

Because, as Fetu said, they’re soulmates.

————

It takes some convincing, but Solana is eventually able to talk her husband into an outing. An essential one, given it’s a grocery trip, but a trip, nonetheless.

She can tell it’d be beneficial for him to get out the house.

Upon arriving, Solana thought the parking lot was pretty empty outside of a few black SUV’s that she recognizes to be Bloodline. Security. However, it’s not until they’re actually inside the grocery that she realizes how much of a ghost town the place really is.

As Roman pulls out the cart for her, Solana asks, “where is everyone?”

To which he answers so simply, “I had it closed off for us.” She accepts the cart, placing her purse down in the kid’s seat. “Bloodline only.”

Ahh. That would definitely explain it. “Roman, was that—was that really necessary?”

“Sure was.” He doesn’t even need to think about her question.

Sighing, she tries from a different angle. “I–I go grocery shopping all the time without it being shut down.” With her security detail, of course, but that’s always been more than enough to help her get there and back without issue.

“That was before.” He doesn’t need to add on the noun, the pregnancy component. “This is now.” She sighs and begins to lead the way, as he adds, “besides, you know I don’t like being around people.” Rolling her eyes, a small smile falls on her face when he’s behind her, arms around her waist, face nuzzled in the side of her neck, “except for one….”

“I’ve noticed,” she giggles, stealing a kiss on his cheek before redirecting them. “Okay, come on.” Solana digs in her purse and pulls out her phone, unlocking it and opening the notes app where she completed her grocery list shortly before they left the house. Handing him the phone, she instructs, “read these off for me, so we don’t forget anything.”

Back at her side, a scowl falls on his face as he uses his finger to scroll through said list. “Solana, how much food are you getting?”

Solana turns to him, one hand on her hip. “Ro, do you have any idea how much you eat?” And, of course, he looks at her with his brow lifted, evoking a blush from her. “You know what I mean.” Clearing her throat, she explains, “between you, Jimmy, and Jey—”

“Don’t worry about them,” he interrupts, expression and voice hardening. “They don’t need to be over at the house anymore. At least, not for a while.”

Solana frowns, extending her hand to stop them from walking. Turning to him, she asks straight up, “Ro, what’s going on between ya’ll?” Before he can protest, she reminds, “we promised we were going to be honest with each other.”

He’s quiet, Solana seeing her reminder stir something in him. With a reluctant sigh, he responds, “when I confronted Rikishi for how he acted with you, they were there, and it….it was ugly.”

“How ugly?”

Forever perceptive with her husband and all his tell-tales, Solana doesn’t miss the anger—and hurt—that flashes in his eyes. “Jey and Solo took his dad’s side. Jimmy seemed more unbiased, but that’s still his brother. And Jey and I still haven’t been….fine….since your party.”

She winces. A hurtful reminder of that awful turn in events. “Roman, I really am sorry for that. If I had known things were bad between Jey and Sami—”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sol.” Roman sighs, mouth shifting as he continues to share, “my relationship with Jey…..it’s complicated. It always has been.”

Solana chews on her bottom lip. “I know….I know he challenged you a lot when you guys were younger, that—that he challenged you for the ula fala at some point.” Roman looks, understandably, surprised by her knowledge. He doesn’t inquire as to how she knows, however, just continues to listen. “I know the twins get on your nerves a lot, but I also know you do value them, so it’s a bit hard for me to see….to see you all like this.”

Because, it is. Because for all the times she’s seen her husband get annoyed with his cousins, she’s also overheard and witnessed normal, friendly interactions. The three of them discussing sports, talking about their shared love of football, and even reflecting on experiences from when they were kids.

It hasn’t all been bad, which is why she’s partially appalled to see where they are right now.

In a small voice, she adds with a slight shrug, “I guess I thought….thought your relationship was stronger than that.”

“So did I.” It pains Solana to hear the sadness brewing underneath the surface level neutrality in that response.

Holding onto his arm, she offers an encouraging smile, “you’ll all figure it out.”

There’s a spark of maybe hope that fades into that typical indifference. “It doesn’t matter.” She sighs, as he moves his hand to her stomach. “I don’t need them. I have you, and I’ll have them.”

“Of course, you will.” Always. “But, baby, your friends can’t just be your wife and kids.”

“Why not?” His look of distaste at the word ‘friends’ makes her chuckle. He can be so damn stubborn. “I don’t like anybody else.”

“I’m aware,” she frowns. “What about a cl—”

“No.”

The frown deepens. Of course. Solana reaches for the pack of tortillas, tossing two in the basket. “Ro, you didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

“Does it involve me being around people?”

An obvious answer but one she provides him, nonetheless.“Well, yes.”

“Then, I’m not interested.”

Rolling her eyes, she begins to push the cart again, prompting him to follow her. “I was going to say a photography club—”

“No.”

“Ro, you love photography.” Not to mention he’s exceptionally good. Having seen not only the shots he’s taken of her as well as sitting on his lap watching him edit, Solana can see the relaxation and enjoyment it brings him. Building upon it could be helpful.

If only he could see it that way. His dismissal is swift and to the point. “Yeah, and I hate people.”

She rubs her temples. As much as she loves this man, he can be so damn petulant. “Ro, the point—the point is to be more social. To....to make more friends.”

He's never looked so horrified and disgusted. “You say you worry about my blood pressure, but you out here trying to get me to interact with people that I hate?"

“Roman, you don’t even know them.”

“And?”

Deciding to take a risk, a big risk, a leap even, Solana is only able to get out. "What about Mat—"

"No."

Just like that. No consideration. No hesitation. Just immediately rejection.

She can't say she's surpsied.

Stopping the cart once more, she stands in front of him. “Roman….” She moves her hands to his chest, voice lowering and softening. “You know what Fetu said…..” Solana is very much aware as to the way his expression easily shifts from something hardened to something solemn. “It was…..it was her wish that you form a relationship with Matteo.” Roman looks away, prompting her to gently tug on his hoodie. “He’s your brother, Roman.”

As expected, he backs away from her, swiftly dismissing, “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Ro—”

“We can. Just….not right now, alright?” There’s believability in his voice and expression. Solana nods, understanding the importance of timing as well as him being in a place to be more receptive. Not to mention she understands entirely the difficulty he’s facing.

Cause she’s dealing with the same thing.

They continue to move through the aisles, but instead of Roman simply reading off and allowing her to grab said items, he, of course, handles both tasks, thus delegating his wife to simply pushing the basket.

The reason?

“Too much movement for you.”

Rubbing her temples, Solana finds herself unable to take it anymore when he reaches for the six pack of yogurt before she can. Looking up at him as they walk, she vents. “Roman, I love you, but this is getting ridiculous. They’re groceries, not—”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Solana looks away from her husband in favor of whatever he’s now looking at with disgust.

“Matteo.”

Because, sure enough, there stands her husband’s older, half brother next to a beautiful woman with a deep complexion, soft features and black box braids that cascade down her back. She’s also pushing the basket as the two of them now stand across from Solana and Roman.

Matteo’s facial expression is neutral as he acknowledges her, “Solana.” His gaze then shifts to Roman, to whom he gives a small nod. “Roman.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Roman!” Solana whispers harshly, tugging on Roman’s hoodie sleeve.

Matteo scoffs. “I could ask you the same.”

“Matteo!” The other woman scolds, shaking her head and focusing on Solana with a kind smile. “Solana? Roman’s wife, correct?” She walks over, extending her hand. “I’m Afia. Matteo’s wife.”

For some reason, Solana didn’t even think about the fact that Matteo could have a whole wife. Let alone a wife who’s in the states with him while he works.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Solana greets, accepting the handshake. She then gestures to her still scowling husband. “We were just getting some groceries.”

“Same,” Afia chuckles, also motioning to her husband who’s also scowling at Roman. Solana has a hard time not thinking about how much they resemble each other in this moment. “This one hates when we’re interrupted.”

“How you think we feel?”

Solana sighs. “Roman, please.” Her husband can be so damn petty sometimes.

“Trust me, when the guards said Bloodline only, I was thinking it would just be your wife, not you,” Matteo suddenly comments, partially glaring at Roman. For a second, Solana is taken back by his demeanor. The last time she encountered him, he was a lot more approachable and gregarious. However, she quickly reminds herself of what Afia just told her.

“This one hates when we’re interrupted.”

It seems Roman and his brother have more in common than just looks. They both hate having one-on-one time with their wives disturbed.

Afia then asks, “Do you shop here a lot?”

Solana nods. "I do."

“Oh, good.” Afia shakes her head, pulling out her phone and moving closer to share her screen. “I’m Nigerian, so I make a lot of Nigerian food, but I’m having a hard time finding some of the ingredients.”

Solana shakes her head, explaining, “some things are arranged kinda weird around here. What are you looking for? I’m sure I can help.”

Afia makes a face. Filled with appreciation. “That would be wonderful.” She scrolls a bit, Solana gasping when she sees the photo of the food.

“That looks delicious,” Solana smiles, hand naturally moving to her stomach.

Afia returns the smile. “It is. It’s called Afang soup.” She gestures to her husband with a light chuckle. “This one doesn’t really care for soup, but the kids love it.”

Matteo continues to scowl, partially defending himself. “Soup does nothing to abate my appetite.”

Solana giggles, also pointing to Roman. “He doesn’t really like soup that much either.”

And like his brother, Roman argues, “because I end up being hungry again an hour later.”

Solana opts not to comment on her husband and instead focuses on something that Afia said. “You….you guys have kids?”

Her smile could light up all of New York and then some. Hitting the side of the phone to lock it and then unlock it reveals Afia's lock screen photo which depicts three, smiling young faces. Two boys, obviously twins, no more than 5 and a little girl who can’t be more than two.

Solana gasps, briefly overcome with emotion. Roman has a niece and two nephews.

A family.

“They’re beautiful,” she comments, trying her best not to cause too much of a scene, not only because of where they stand but because of the two men who are only a few feet away.

But maybe, just maybe, she could find time outside of a random run-in to talk with Afia. To have a sit-down and figure out if they can maybe work together to build a relationship between their husbands.

Work together as sister-in-laws.

Clearing her throat, Solana pulls out her phone, starting to ask, “can I get your num—”

“Oh, hey!”

Four sets of eyes fall on the newest person to walk in on this impromptu meeting, Afia looking skeptical, Roman and Matteo irritated, and only Solana to reciprocate the kind introduction.

“Sami,” she smiles. “Good to see you.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Matteo gestures to Sami but directs his question toward Roman.

Roman, who is running his hand over his face, answers in a low voice, “a pain in my fucking ass.” Raising the volume, he asks with all the irritation, “Sami, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Solana rolls her eyes, as Sami stammers with a response, “just picking up some groceries, TC.” Roman scowls, mouthing ‘TC’ with all the confusion as Sami says with a chuckle, "surprising my wife tonight by cooking dinner for her.”

Afia gasps. “What a sweet thing to do.” She playfully cuts her eyes at her husband. “Did you hear that, my love? He’s cooking for his wife.”

“And?” Matteo is unimpressed. “I’m supposed to take advice from a homeless man?”

Solana jumps in, not wanting Sami to feel bad, though she’s partially stunned at just how much Roman and his brother are like.

“What are you making?” She asks. This is the first time she's seen the man since her welcome home party, and while a part of her feels a bit guilty about unintentionally putting him in that situation. There's just a kind aura about Sami that makes her want to bypass any awkwardness that conversation could bring and proceed with the pleasantries.

“Shawarma,” he answers with a proud smile.

Solana's jaw drops. “Really? I’ve always wanted to make that.”

“Me too,” Afia gasps. “Do you have a recipe you’d be willing to share?” She then offers her hand, “I’m Afia, by the way. Matteo's wife.”

Sami’s grin widens, accepting the handshake and offering his name as well. “Sami Zayn. Super nice to meet you.” He crosses his arms, offering, “You bet I do. A lot of them, actually, if you guys are interested.”

“Sami, I didn’t know you cooked like that.” Because, for some reason, Solana can’t picture the man before her knowing his way around a kitchen. Looks truly can be deceiving, though.

“I surely do,” he says it with so much pride. “I’m Syrian, so a lot of the food I make is Middle Eastern.”

Afia makes a sound of almost awe. “Oh, I love Middle Eastern food, but making some of those meals is always a bit of a challenge.”

Solana nods, agreeing, “especially with finding some of the ingredients.”

Sami makes a face, asking, “have either of you been to the international food market on 54th and Granite?”

Afia shakes her head, explaining, “my family and I are here….short-term, so we haven’t been a lot of places, to be honest.”

Solana tries to not think too much about the fact that her time to work with Afia to help Roman and Matteo may be limited. She just continues to focus on the conversation at hand. “And I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

Sami makes a sound, head temporarily thrown back. “You two absolutely have to go. I’ll be honest, I get most of poultry from there.” He leans forward, whispering almost. “A lot more lean. Less fat to cut.”

“Really?”

“Yup!”

He then offers, “you know I would be more than happy to escort you both. I mean, my uncle Louis works there, so you could get the family discount as well.”

Afia giggles softly. “That is so sweet of you.”

“I would love that so much,” Solana chimes, directing her comment to the both of them, “we should exchange recipes or something. I’m half Mexican, so I make a lot of Mexican food.”

Sami places his hand over his stomach. “You two are making me hungry already.”

As the three exchange laughter, Roma finds himself unable to stand patient and quiet as his suddenly social butterfly of a wife trades pleasantries with a woman she just met and fucking Sami.

“Sol—”

“Roman,” Solana practically whines briefly, informing in a more assertive voice, “I’m talking.”

And as she turns her attention from her husband and back to the conversation at hand, an equally annoyed Matteo attempts to get his wife’s attention as well.

“Fia—”

Afia, however, waves him off, muttering something in Italian as she too proceeds to be dismissive.

Matteo is the first to say it, the other three completely immersed in their culinary conversations. “I don’t fucking like him.”

Roman looks over at the other man, not exactly disagreeing but also not wanting to engage with him, either.

There’s a brief moment of silence that overcomes them, one that Matteo is the one to break.

“How are you doing?”

More forced social interaction. Even worse, a valid but irritating question. That doesn’t mean Roman has to answer it. Directly, at least.

Rolling his shoulders, he answers in a gruff voice, “fine until you and your damn wife interrupted us.”

Matteo makes a sound and rolls his eyes. “Trust me, it wasn’t intentional.”

And on some level, Roman knows this. Understands this. But, it's the combination of the letter, Solana being slightly on him about Matteo, fucking Matteo standing a few feet away from him that feels like too much.

Way too much.

Roman clears his throat and makes a comment about needing to make a call.

He doesn't really need to.

He just needs to get away, needs to not have to deal with this right now.

Or ever, preferably.

Though no longer an option.

If only.

————

After exchanging contact information, Solana is finally pulled away by her husband, who cites them being away from their dog too long as a reason to finish shopping so that they can leave.

An excuse that makes her smile, but an effective one, nonetheless.

The two arrive home, and Solan is able to fix dinner for herself and Roman, the two sharing a meal together, Dulce begging for scraps, Roman eventually relenting not to the human food but some fancy dog snacks that apparently Jimmy started feeding Dulce.

There's even brief conversation about the unexpected run-in. One that goes better than expected.

It’s a nice calm before a potential storm.

Because a few hours later, Solana is sitting in the middle of their bed, letter in hand when Roman walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered and clean. Right away, his eyes settle on the papers, expression softening.

“Solana, we don’t have to—”

“Yes, we do,” she interrupts, voice light but firm. “We said we’d start being honest with each other. You let me read Fetu’s letter. It’s only fair I let you read this. I—I want—I need you to.”

Her words seem to alleviate the sense of unease he feels at potentially “invading” her privacy. But, there is no privacy in this situation, because not only have the contents changed her life, in so many ways.

It’s about to change their lives in many ways.

Roman moves to sit on the side of the bed, Solana handing the letter to him, only asking, “can you not read it aloud?”

He nods, accepting them and the request. “Of course.”

She can only offer him a small smile before she watches him unfold the letter and begin to read, starting off the longest patch of time she’s ever experienced. It’s like the sound of big ticking playing and taunting her, seconds stretching into minutes that feel like hours.

So many of the initial thoughts and feelings return, and before she realizes it, her eyes are watering.

“Holy shit….” is Roman’s only comment as he finishes his read, Solana chuckling bitterly.

“That—that’s what I said,” she whispers, eyes closing. “He wasn’t my father.” The lump in the back of her throat thickens as she murmurs, “Paloma is…..she’s my grandmother.”

Roman looks off at the wall, eyes slightly wide as he shakes his head. “That’s why your mother always talked about that place. Because it was where her family was.”

“Where my family is,” she corrects, pushing back some of her hair, eyes misting all over. “I have a family.”

Roman looks at her, dots continuing to connect, “shit, that means Bayley is your cousin, right?” She nods with a small, sad smile as he looks away, muttering, “fucking Santos Escobar is your damn cousin, of course.” Catching himself, Roman apologizes, “I’m sorry.”

Her smile grows a tad bit. “It’s okay.” She appreciates the brief break from heavy emotions, albeit short, as his expression shifts into something serious.

Lifting the letter, he asks in the most sincere way, “what do you make of all of this?”

“Which part?” She asks more herself than him, rolling her still misting eyes. “I—I don’t know. It’s…it’s so much to take in, but….and this is the part I hate, I feel…..I feel angry with her.”

Roman asks in a quiet voice, “with your mom?”

Solana nods and looks away. Silence followed by an almost whispered, “I need to tell you something.” Solana is focused on the dresser instead of her husband whose eyes she can feel burning into her. “But, I never—I never want you to ask me about it again after today, because I’ve never—I’ve never told anyone, and I don’t want…..I don’t want to tell anyone or—or process it in therapy. I’ve—I’ve always to pretend it never happened. I wanted…..I wanted to die with this secret.”

Roman swallows, clearly sensing the building emotion. “Solana, you don’t—”

“He tried to rape me.”

Solana is forever grateful for not seeing the expression on her husband’s face when the words leave her mouth, because the horrified nature of his tone combined with what she’s about to share, is hard enough. “What?”

Head down, eyes closed, she starts recalling the deepest of her darkest secrets. “I was—I was sixteen, and—and Wes wasn’t home. I don’t know….I don’t know where he was, but it—it wouldn’t have made a difference either way.” Because, it truly wouldn’t have. “My d—” Solana catches herself, offering the more appropriate correction, especially given what she now knows. “Xavier came home drunk as hell. It had to have been close to 2 in the morning. I always….I always tried to stay out of his way, especially when he was drinking. And usually, if I was out of sight, I was out of mind. But….but that night, he—he came in my room.”

“Solana—”

“He started….he started rambling about things that didn’t make sense, and he—” She blows out a deep breath, pulling at the material of her shirt. “He started to call me a whore and a slut and accused me of sleeping around, which is why he said he needed to check me.” Solana wipes at her eyes, hugging herself as she whispers out, “and he did, but after, he tried—” Another pause, followed by a quiet, murmured, “he couldn’t get an erection, and I think he was too embarrassed by it, which is why he didn’t beat me. He just…..he just left.”

Roman's voice is saturated with sympathy. “Solana….”

“That next morning was the first time I tried to kill myself.” A vacant stare and hollow voice accompany the recalling of a night of attempted, horrific, unspeakable horrors. “Because….because I’d rather be dead than have another man hurt me like that.” Finally, Solana turns to look at her husband, a mixture of so many emotions, the strongest being a rage she knows she’s can’t fully comprehend.

Rage directed toward the man whose life he took methodically, slowly, and in every painful way known to man, but none of that would and will ever be enough to justify what he did.

Especially now that Roman knows this part of her story.

“I went through hell in that house because of her,” Solana finally allows herself to voice the truth she’s been sitting on since reading the letter. Finally frees the thoughts that she feels partially ashamed at having, though justified at feeling. “Because she wanted a daughter.”

Roman reaches out to cup her face, clearly wanting to help comfort her. “Baby—”

“She knew how he was, Roman. Knew what he was capable of, but she still kept me with her and let—my brother, who she didn’t tell me about, go with my real father, who she also didn’t tell me about.” She speaks from the heart, hurt and anger dipping from her words. She gestures to the letter, continuing to finally break down, “and then she puts in a fucking letter that I find at almost 30 years-old, and I’m supposed to just be okay with all this?”

“Solana—”

“I hate her!”

Silence.

A sniffle. A gasp. A sob.

Solana breaks down crying, face in her now wet palms. She’s instantly offered a slice of comfort when Roman’s strong arms wrap around her, holding her as he kisses her temple and tries to console her.

It helps. It’s comforting, but doesn’t negate the fact that the one person she never thought she could hate or have any ill will towards has now become part of the mountain of suffering she’s endured in her life.

A cruel twist of fate, indeed.

————

Solo’s foot taps against the floor one too many times, evoking a chuckle and comment from his perceptive father.

“Patience, son.”

Solo cuts his eyes at the older man, while stopping the foot tapping. Sitting forward, he states the obvious. “They’re late.”

This is a given, obvious by the lack of bodies present in vacant, waiting chairs.

“Good things come to those who wait, my boy.”

Solo scoffs, tone sharp as he asserts, “I’ve waited long enough.”

Rikishi smiles. “Agreed.”

And as if being summoned, the door opens and in enters the Elders, one by one, each taking a seat. As protocol, Solo stands and bows his head, properly acknowledging those who came before him.

Aleki wears a bored expression. “Well?” He motions with his hand. “Why have you requested an audience with us?”

Rikishi sits forward and shares a look with his son before going over the script he’s had memorized for years. “My brothers. I asked you to meet with me and my son, Solo, today regarding some significant concerns we have about the Bloodline.”

Solo specifies, “about Roman Reigns.”

Something flashes in Aleki’s eyes before he grants permission. “Go on.”

Rikishi gives a deep, heavy, fake sigh. “As much as it pains me to say this, as I love him as if he were my own, it deeply troubles me what may happen to the Bloodline and all we’ve built if he continues to sit at the Head of The Table.”

Sione, another Elder, speaks up, “that is a bold statement to make, Rikishi.”

Solo’s father doesn’t disagree. “It is.” A firm expression, followed by, “but a true one, nonetheless.” He sits forward in his chair, continuing, “make no mistake. None of us can take away what Nakoa’s boy has done for the Bloodline, how far he’s advanced us, but I fear Roman’s previous dedication has been….compromised.”

Another Elder asks, voice sharp and to the point. “Compromised how?”

Rikishi looks over at his son, giving him the nod to take over. Just as they rehearsed.

Ready and determined, Solo’s voice is strong as he asserts, “Roman Reigns has become so distracted and consumed by his love for his wife that it’s blinded his judgment. A wife who still hasn’t produced an heir yet seems to think she is above our ways and laws.”

“It’s true,” Rikishi adds. “Why, just the other day, I was trying to help her understand the importance of an heir, and she slapped me and told me to remember my place.”

Aleki sits forward. “What?” Anger flashes in his brown eyes and fills his aged face. “Does she not know it is forbidden to strike and speak in such way to an Elder?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rikishi calmly counters. “Because Roman justified her behavior and even attacked me, choking me, threatening to kill me just for speaking to her.”

Gasps and shocked expressions around the table as Solo fills the silence with additional information. “And that shooting a couple months ago? Solana wasn’t the target. Roman was. He was shot, but he was shot because he took the bullet for her.”

Sione gasps, narrowed gaze to Rikishi. “You told us—”

“He told ya’ll what Roman told him to tell ya’ll, and he threatened to kill him, to kill all of us, if we told the truth.” Solo answers, gaze hardening. “Roman uses and abuses his power and title to justify his and his wife’s actions that go against not only our rules and traditions, but the Bloodline as a whole.” Voice unwavering, Solo surveys the room and lifts his chin. “He is no longer fit to wear the ula fala.”

Silence

Aleki clears his throat, voice deceptively calm. “These are strong accusations you two make.”

“They can only be accusations if untrue, but I assure you, everything we’ve said is true,” Rikishi places his hand over his heart. “My son, Jey, is even willing to come and testify to what he’s seen, even more than what Solo and I have shared today.”

At that, it takes everything in Solo to not look over at his father with surprise. That wasn’t part of what they discussed. Last he heard, Jey was still on the fence when approached with the idea of talking to the Elders about Roman being removed as the Tribal Chief.

And Jimmy was straight up against it.

But despite this unexpected piece, Solo manages to remain focused on the task at hand.

“And I hate to bring this up, but brothers…..even if Roman’s wife was to provide an heir, Roman is Afakasi. His wife is Black and Mexican. What true Samoan blood will run through that child’s vein?” Rikishi challenges, shaking his head. “I fear Nakoa’s taking an outsider as a wife may have strengthened us at the time, but now, it will lead to our erasure.”

Another Elder points out, “we have decided to give Roman until the end of the year to—”

“That won’t work,” Solo reiterates. “You all don’t understand. Roman is not the man he used to be. His obsession with his wife is limitless. He’ll kill every single person in this room before he allows anyone to interfere with his marriage. He is dangerous. And not just to our enemies anymore.” Solo's voice darkens once more as they arrive at the climax of said script. “There’s only one way we can fix this problem.”

Another blanket of silence that extends longer than the last episode.

Aleki is quieter than before, tone chilly, “what exactly are you two proposing?”

Rikishi is the one to announce the ultimate goal, the key to making his longtime plan come to fruition. “Roman Reigns needs to be eliminated.” He surveys the face of his brothers, asserting, “We either kill him or he kills us. There is no other way.”

He then turns to Solo, hand on his shoulder, “and in his place, my son, Solo, who, at one point, served as Roman’s personal enforcer. Before Roman delegated him to being that bodyguard of his wife.” He then adds, for good measure, “Solo, who also already has four sons who are already in training to serve the Bloodline.”

More silence as someone brings up a prior, similar incident. “Rikishi, didn’t one of your sons already attempt to take the ula fala from Reings?”

“I’m not my brother,” Solo reminds, gaze around the room. “Jey failed. I won’t.”

Something appears in Aleki’s eyes, similar to excitement. He clears his throat, announcing, “you know we have protocols and traditions in situations like this, none of which are being proposed, thus we cannot approve such a coup.”

“We don’t need you to,” Rikishi informs. “We will only need you to approve and bless Solo wearing the ula fala and being our new Tribal Chief when the time comes.”

More silence. This lasting the longest before the older men share looks of unspoken conversation amongst themselves, eventually standing as Aleki shares, “we will take your…request into consideration.”

Solo bows while Rikishi simply nods. “Thank you, my brothers.”

Not another word is shared until the room is emptied of the majority of the Elders, leaving just father and son.

Solo is quick to sigh, running his hand over his face. “I don’t think it went well.”

Rikishi, however, simply smiles. “It went perfect.” Seeing the confusion on his son’s face, he explains, “Roman has shot himself in the foot with his disrespect over the years towards the Elders. They’re just as eager for that son of a bitch to be put down as we are.” He places a hand on Solo’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy. By the end of the year, it will be you who sits at the Head of the Table.”

At that, Solo looks up, proud and determined. “Thank you, tamā.”

And once again, fate is on their side, cards continuing to fall right in place. Rikishi pulls out his ringing phone, smirking when he sees who the requested video is from. He instructs Solo to cast it to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall, said screen filling with a now familiar face.

“Well?” Luca’s deep, accented voice is thick with irritation and impatience. “How did it go?”

“Just as we needed it too,” Rikishi is the one to answer. “I have very little doubt that they will in any way object to Solo’s ascension.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Luca Rossi is many things: cold, unfeeling, ruthless and so many more. All of which are reflected in the disgust in his voice. “The only thing I care about is Roman Reigns head on a fucking platter, so that I can have my rightful place as Capo di tutti capi.”

A smug Solo doesn’t hesitate to point out, “wasn’t he just in Italy? Why didn’t you make the killshot then?”

Luca growls something in Italian. “Because you people failed to inform me of his visit, as was our agreement. Not to mention that damn Dwayne worked hard to get him in and out.” The mutual disdain for the Tribal Chief and Capo’s second-in-command is certainly a shared thing among the three men. “And let us not forget I have been working for months here to create unrest to draw him out. You said he would come shortly after his wedding.”

“Things changed,” Rikishi shrugs, recognizing there is a hint of truth to what the man is saying. “It doesn’t matter though. The time is finally nearing.”

Luca's expression and voice are filled with skepticism. “Are Dwayne and Matteo still there?”

Solo, partially confused, is the one to answer. “Yeah. Why?”

Luca curses quietly. “Be careful with them. They both hold undying loyalty to my cousin. Neither should be underestimated, especially Matteo. He is just as brutal and sadistic as his brother. He just hides behind that charismatic personality. So is Dwayne. Not to mention the wild card the opo will play.”

Rikishi frowns. “Opo?”

“Matteo’s wife.” Luca scowls. “A former master assassin with a kill count that could probably rival any of your best men. Her codename was Opo, and that bitch has taken out the best of the best. Retired when she fell in love with an assignment.”

Solo puts two and two together, guessing aloud. “Matteo?”

Luca nods, eyes traveling elsewhere as he plays out different scenarios. “You seem sure of this plan, but know this, you’re in for one hell of a fight should Dwayne, Matteo, and even the opo decide to stand with Roman.”

The words go in one ear and out the other for both the father and son duo. They’ve worked too hard and too long to not be fully prepared to go to war, should it reach that point. They didn’t create the alliances and recruit the participants they did for no reason.

Luca’s eyes twinkle with mischief and disdain. “And as a friendly reminder, the minute my cousin takes his last breath, this background partnership as well as the alliance between the Bloodline and the Cosa Nostra is over with.” He sneers, vowing, “our people will never be on the same side again.”

Solo scoffs, gaze just as dark as Luca’s eyes. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And with that, the screen goes blank. Solo doesn’t hesitate to murmur, “fucking hate him.”

“So do I, but he’s served a purpose,” is Rikishi’s only comment as the two walk out of the room, eventually exiting the building and entering the limo waiting for them.

Across the seat, a hard set of brown eyes land on them. “Well?”

Rikishi smirks, buckling his seatbelt and answering with a proud smile, “it’s all going to plan.” He and Solo share knowing smirks, before he asks in a hardened voice, “is it ready?”

Nia’s smile is sinister and malicious as she lifts the phone. Tapping on the screen, “Solana’s” voice fills the car.

“Brandi? It’s me, Solana. I need you to meet me at the library this afternoon. Bring Emma, too. I can’t say why, but you just have to trust me. Please! I think you guys are in danger. I’ll be waiting for you.”

As the audio ends, Rikishi laughs, proudly. “Excellent.” Looking out the window, he says mostly to himself, “Finally, the last of Nakoa’s bloodline will be gone for good.” An evil, pleased smile falls upon his rotund face. “I can finally finish what I started almost 30 years ago.”

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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tonysbed · 5 months ago

Text

Secrets I keep | Part 14

Lando Norris x sister!reader

Max Fewtrell x norris!reader

Daniel Ricardo x Norris!reader

summary: You and Max have been dancing around your feelings for years but jealousy gets the best of us all..

not proofread

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liked by carlossainz, landonorris, danielriccardo and 839.547 others

yn an idiot, fav people, and visiting my private chef 🦋

*tagged maxfewtrell, landonorris, carlossainz*

maxfewtrell Can you stop posting these horrible pictures of me?😭

yn why would I do that?

maxfewtrell cause you like me?

yn HAHAHAHA

maxfewtrell 😐

carlossainz private chef, sure hermosa.

yn you love me

carlossainz sure, whatever you say

yn ☹️☹️

lando carlos.

carlossainz yes, yes I love you.

yn 😊😊

user isn’t yn’s boyfriend a bit weirded out that she’s always hanging around Fewtrell?

user why would he? He’s lando’s best friend and has his own gf

user do you know their lore? Everyone thought they were dating when they were younger. HE LITERALLY KISSED HER HEAD ALL THE TIME

user oh. yeah but still, maybe they see each other as siblings. Lando also does that w her

user hm..

alexandrasaintmleux 🤍

user I love the norris duo + carlos dynamic

“You wanna tell us what happened now, or are we gonna sit in silence?” Kelly said, raising an eyebrow. Alexandra nods “Yeah? Did he say anything? Do we have to ask one of the boys to run him over?” You laugh “No Alex, please don’t run him over”

“Alright, then spill” She claps in her hands. You just blush and look down “Oh my god, you did it” “She did what?” Kelly asked confused “It” Alex says, making a ‘catch up’ face.

“Oh, Oh!” Kelly’s eyes widened “That’s good, right?” You hide your face in your hands “How was it?” Alex teased “Alexxxx” You whine “Just a yes or no, then I’ll leave you alone” She chuckled “Yeah” You say quietly, still hiding your face “Then that’s great”

“Yes, I agree. As long as you’re happy, this is amazing” Kelly smiles and so does Alex. Alex looks behind you and her smile falls “Why is he here again?” You turn around and see Daniel, Lando and Max walking towards you. Max looks like he’d be happier if he was in a pool full of piranhas while Lando talks enthusiastically with Daniel.

Before Max can sit next to you, Daniel pulls out the chair and sits down. You try to scoot away unnoticeable. Lando sits next to Daniel, making Max sit away the farthest from you.

Alex and Kelly give you a look, which you return. Daniel finally turns to the three of you “Hello lady’s” “Daniel” Kelly is the only one who acknowledged him, while you and alex set up fake smiles.

You feel max’s eyes on you and you look at him, feeling yourself relax just a tiny bit. You give him a little smile that he returns.

“So? How’s it going?” Daniel asks in the round “Good.” Alexandra answers with a sharpness that he didn’t miss. Kelly nods along and Daniel’s eyes land on you “Great. Me and my boyfriend have been spending quite some time together, actually” You smile.

Lando shoots you a look that you ignore “How about you Daniel? Anything interesting happened since you’re unemployed?” The sharpness in your voice was obvious too.

“Yn.” Lando hisses “What? It’s just a question?” You shrug “He asked, I answered and asked the same question. It’s fine.” Before you could respond, two shadows appeared next to you “Hey guys.”

Oscar says, lily waving into the round “Could I steal the girls?” Lily asked, making the three of you get up. You wave to Lando and wink at Max, who’s cheeks turn light pink.

After the four of you left, Oscar looks at max “Could I borrow max? I wanted to talk to him about something and Mom wanted to see him” Lando nods unsure. Max gets up and walks away with oscar.

When they’re out of ear reach for Lando and Daniel, Oscar sighs “You okay?” Max nods “Yeah, why?” “Daniel is being a dick and sits next to your girlfriend.” Max head snaps to Oscar “What?”

“I’m not stupid, and neither is lily. We probably figured it out before you two did. Which wasn’t that hard tho.” Oscar shrugs “Come on. Let’s meet the others.”

As Oscar and Max round the corner to the Ferrari hospitality, Kelly, Alexandra and charles, lily and nicole, max and kelly and you sit there. You sit up once you see Max, but keep it down. Lily had obviously told you three the same thing.

Max sat down next to you “Rescue mission accomplished” Lily laughed and high fives oscar.

“Rescue mission? You two are crazy” You chuckle “You looked absolutely miserable over there, what else were we supposed to do?” Lily shrugged.

“I have no idea, Thank you tho” You smile at her, which she returns. You see max fidget with his fingers. You lean a bit closer, lowering your voice only for him to hear “Everything okay?” He smiles at you “I’m okay.”

You raise an eyebrow, not believing a word he’s saying. But before you can interrogate him any further, someone is calling your name. It’s Lando.

He’s coming towards you and the group, without Daniel. He stops and waves into the group “I need my sister for a moment” “Can’t that wait?” “No” “I’ll tell them either way afterwards, so spill.” “You don’t want me to do that.”

“Lando.” “No, really.” He gives you a look. You sigh and get up “I’ll be right back”

“So what is it?” You ask him once he pulled you into a quiet corner “What was that earlier? Did you ask them to get you two away?” “No. We talked and then sat down with oscar’s mom and with Max. It had nothing to do with you.” “I’m not talking about me”

“Neither Daniel.” “I don’t believe you. I mean, I talked to him. I don’t think he means any harm anymore” You raise your eyebrows “Lando, he hates max and doesn’t want us together. That was his goal all along.”

“No he didn’t mean it” “Lando, he’s in love with me.” “Yeah but he isn’t gonna harm your and max’s relationship” “You’re so gullible, Lando.” You clench your jaw and walk away from him, tears welling up in your eyes.

You walk with quick steps back to the group. Alex sits up as soon as she sees you “Hey? What’s wrong?” Her face scrunched into concern. Max’s head snaps to you and he also sits up.

You don’t say anything and grab your purse and jacket. Before you can stop it, one tear rolls down your cheek and Max is up in an instant “Hey, hey what’s wrong” One hand comes to rest on your back.

A sob escaped you and Max immediately wraps you into his embrace. His hand cradles your head. Max gets up “Let’s go into my drivers room, nobody needs to meddle” Max walks with you in his arms after max.

He opened the door to his drivers room but steps aside to let you two in. Max nods thankful and max closed the door after you two and leaves back to the group.

Once you calmed down, Max held you hands in his hands “What happened?” “He’s believing Daniel” You sniff “Oh baby” His thumb gently caressed your cheek “What did Daniel say?” “I’m not sure. But he believes that Daniel means no harm”

Max laughs “Sure, and i’m driving for redbull” He scoffs but his gaze softens once it lands back on you. “If there is one thing I learned in the last few weeks, then that we can’t care what others think. Look what it almost cost us. It’s just us against them.” He says with a warm smile.

You nod “His support is great, but we don’t need his approval or anything else to work. Okay?” “Okay” He wipes away the remaining dampness on your cheeks and presses a kiss to your temple, his arms once again pulling you into his chest.

yn added to their story

[cap1: 10/10 sleep quality,would recommend arm pillow | cap2: 💐❤️]

alexandrasaintmleux: Did you fall asleep during the race?😂

yn after that cry session, yes 😂

alexandrasaintmleux on a serious note, don’t let it get to you. It’s not worth stressing over 🤍

yn I know, we talked about it 🤍🤍

franciscagomez cutie 😂❤️

yn 😘❤️

user still soft launch 🫠

f1gossip

f1gossip Yn norris has been spotted around the redbull hospitality yesterday. Fans have spotted her watching the race from there with Max Verstappen’s Girlfriend, Kelly Piquet and Max Fewtrell, who is her brothers best friend. Is once again trouble between the norris duo?

user with Max? First they rip each other’s heads off and now they’re going against Lando? Sounds fake to me.

user she got nothing better to do than break up friendships of her brother??

user maybe she just watched with Kelly and max didn’t wanna be alone?

user oh please, he stayed alone in LN’s garage countless of times

user hear me out, what if they’re actually soft launching each other?

user let’s get you back to bed grandma

“Be honest, am I being dramatic?” You look at Kelly, who shakes her head “Why would you be dramatic for expressing how you feel. Not to mention that Daniel does not like Max. He stated that multiple times. And you’re brother is someone who easily switches sides.” She sighs.

“Just focus on you and Max, then no one can destroy what you have. Be there for each other. Trust me, once the internet gets wind of this? You’re gonna need each other” Sophie, Max’s mother chimed in as she held her grandchild.

P was laying asleep, sprawled out on your lap. You sigh “I know. It’s probably the most scary thing. But if we don’t tell soon, what If daniel does it ? What if he convinces Lando to do it? At this point, I wouldn’t put anything like that past him”

“If you two are sure about each other, no one else matters” Sophie says softly, giving you a warm smile. You nod “Have you called your mom about this? Or your dad?” Kelly asked “No, why would I?”

“So they’ll talk to him. It’s getting ridiculous” Another voice chimed into the conversation. You all turn your head to look at Max, who just entered the room.

He quickly kissed Kelly, smiled at P’s sleeping form and goes to hug his mom, gently placing a kiss on the small child’s head in her arms.

“I know. But they don’t have to be involved in our drama” “They’ll get wind of it either way. The media is fast.” Kelly shrugs “I know, I know” You sigh. They were right. Daniel was gonna try to ruin everything. He had taken the person who was against him, on his side. That was a disadvantage and a heartbreak.

It was time to really talk things through with Max..

You open the door to your apartment, hearing max move around in the kitchen.

“Max? I’m home!” You yell as you take off your shoes. Footsteps make your way to you and Max smiles “Hey you, how was it at Kelly’s?” “Eye opening” You sigh and sling your arms around his neck.

“Really? How?” He hums and pecks your lips “I think we should talk” “Sounds serious” “I think it is” He nods in understanding and leads you to the living room.

You both sit down on the couch, his hand resting behind you on the couch.

“What do you want to talk about?” “Us” You say fidgeting. What you didn’t know is, that Daniel may or may not have set a little lie into Max’s head, then even he wasn’t free of insecurities.

His insecurity? Franco colapinto. Something Lando had overshared once when he was drunk to Daniel. Something the Aussie had recently used, making a pit form in Max’s stomach now…

Like I said, we’re only getting started people.. 👀 I specifically left out some of the scenes you’ll be getting soon, that will paint the whole picture 🤭

The whole franco thing might not make sense now, but trust me its there (I haven’t mentioned it beforehand tho🤭)

#formula one imagine #lando norris x sister!reader #max fewtrell imagine #max fewtrell x you #norris!reader #daniel riccardo x reader #max verstappen x reader #daniel ricciardo imagine #max fewtrell smut #franco colapinto imagine

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