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fluentmoviequoter · 17 days ago

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My Cape

Pairing: Superman x fem!reader (r doesn't learn he's Clark... yet)

Summary: When your corner of Metropolis is attacked by an alien, you put yourself in danger to help your neighbors. Superman finds you holding his cape and develops an interest in you.

Warnings/Word Count: NO SPOILERS for Superman (2025), fluff, r is injured (depiction of bleeding and pain), meet cute?, canon-typical danger. 2.3k+ words

A/N: This isn't necessarily any specific Superman adaptation, but I did watch the new movie today so some of the mannerisms/characteristics may lean a bit more toward that (and his soft look fit this). Pictures from Pinterest. I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist | DC Masterlist | Request Info

“That’s… terrifying,” your roommate - lovingly nicknamed Inny because she loves to get in everyone’s business and rarely bothers to deny it - murmurs, reaching for the remote.

“Wait,” you say, blocking her hand with your arm as you squint, trying to make sense of what you see on the television screen. “Is that Metropolis?”

“A big, creepy, ugly space alien looking for people to serve him isn’t going to move toward Baker Line.”

Rolling your eyes at Inny’s scoff, you lower your arm and turn toward the window when she changes the channel to a Saturday rerun of a sitcom episode you’ve seen countless times since she moved in and declared she wanted television privileges in exchange for paying two-thirds of the rent. It was an easy deal, a no-brainer, but now you’re wishing you knew where the creature attacking Metropolis was heading.

Unfortunately, you get your answer quickly. The building shakes, the television falling from the entertainment center as a studio laugh track plays through the speakers.

“I should’ve moved to Coast City,” Inny whimpers as she clings to the couch cushion beneath her.

“Get up,” you demand, moving carefully toward the door.

“What? Are you crazy!? There’s a- a space giant thing out there!” she sputters, waving as she searches for the right word.

“And the building is going to cave in,” you reply quickly. “Does that sound like a better fate?”

She debates the pros and cons for a second too long, so you leave her behind. By the time you reach the stairwell, Inny is at your side, clutching your arm to her chest tight enough that you’re sure there will be bruises tomorrow.

“You’d think we’d have evacuation plans for this specific scenario by now,” you mutter as you pass a fire exit. “Superman should be in the PSA videos.”

“You just want to look at him in 4K UHD,” Inny accuses.

Her voice isn’t as shaky as before, which you think is a good thing. When you reach the landing on the second floor, a loud crack makes you stop. Your back hits the wall mere seconds before a large chunk of concrete falls down the center of the square-shaped stairwell, crashing to the floor of the lobby with an ear-shattering thud.

“Go!” you exclaim, pushing Inny farther down the stairs and ignoring the ringing in your ears.

“Help me!” one of your neighbors calls, attempting to free a double-stroller from the rubble.

“Superman!” the alien above you bellows, causing the ground to shake when he takes a step. “Come out and face me like a man, since that’s what you claim to be.”

You place your hand on a larger chunk of concrete and jump over it, bending to hook your hands under the front wheels of the stroller.

“It’s okay,” you soothe the children crying under the black cover. “Hold on, this might be a little bumpy, okay?”

Inny takes the mother’s place, shoving the handlebars down as you lift the base of the stroller. The debris that was holding it in place falls to the cracked floor, and you gesture your head up. Inny nods as she adjusts her grip. Together, you raise the stroller to chest height and take awkward side steps to reach level ground.

“Thank you!” the mother sighs, her chest heaving as she takes your hand.

Pain shoots through your wrist, but your adrenaline nullifies its impact in your mind. Dust falls from the ceiling, so you urge Inny and the neighbor you’d never seen before today toward the exit. You follow them outside, sliding to a stop on the sidewalk when you realize that it’s dark in the middle of the day. Looking up, your eyes widen at the sheer size of the creature blocking out the sun. Directly before you, its ankle bears a mark in a language unlike any you've ever seen. It takes swings at Superman that look lazy but are likely taxing it. Or at least that's what you hope is happening.

“My car is parked around the corner,” Inny remembers. “If the roads are clear, we can get away from here for a while.”

“That would be smart," someone agrees.

You turn on your heel, feel your heartbeat everywhere when you see Superman wiping the shoulders of his suit.

“Thank you, Superman,” your neighbor says.

He nods, his eyes wandering to you as he sends a comforting smile toward your small group.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Oh, well…” He glances up at the alien searching the sky and shrugs. “Average Saturday, I guess.”

You smile at that, and he waves before he bends his knees slightly to launch off the sidewalk. Following his flight path, you don’t realize that Inny and your neighbor are waiting for you.

Inny clears her throat to get your attention and reminds you, “Car? Leaving? Let’s go.”

“Right,” you say, blinking to clear your mind of Superman’s smile.

Running around a corner, you slow down when you see a bus lying on its side in the middle of the road.

“Come on!” Inny yells over her shoulder.

“Go without me!” you call. “Get those kids somewhere safe!”

“What about you?” she asks, stopping.

“I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

Inny hesitates, then looks at the stroller and the scared children inside. “Keep that promise or… or I’ll do something really messed up.”

Smiling, you nod, then rush toward the bus. You place your hands on a metal bar and pull yourself up to the wheel well to look in the windows.

“Hi! Hey, we’re in here!” someone shouts inside.

“Is anyone hurt?” you ask, raising your voice as you peer in.

“Not too bad.”

You take a deep breath, then climb onto what is now the top of the bus, though it’s actually the side. “Does the door open?” you inquire. Someone answers that it doesn’t, just as you expected. After instructing the passengers to move back as far as they can, you shift to sit, then bring your heels down against the front window. It caves in slightly, but doesn’t break. Repeating the action, you succeed in causing a few cracks, but you still can’t get in.

“Oh, this is going to hurt,” you mumble to yourself as you turn and sit on your knees. With one hand spread on the side of the bus, you lift your opposite arm, keeping it bent. When your force is concentrated to the point of your elbow, the window shatters, and you can see and hear the people inside much more easily. Your elbow throbs as you lean forward, but it’s the least of your concerns. The alien is moving sideways, its shadow growing longer in your direction.

“Alright, can you guys climb on the seats and help each other up?” you suggest.

The people inside are eager enough to get to safety that they’re strong enough to do anything you ask. As you help pull the first woman up, you see Superman spin as he’s thrown into the side of a nearby building. He can take a hit, you know, but something pangs in your chest. Worry or guilt, or some odd combination of the two.

“How many more?” you ask, attempting to keep your voice light.

“Three,” a man beneath you answers.

The alien is closing in, and the people who are getting off the bus are running, so you’re still alone as you struggle to pull them up through the window.

“You should go,” the last woman says. “I don’t think I can lift myself through.”

“I’m here to help,” you promise her, “I’m not going anywhere unless you go with me.”

Above you, Superman is attempting to keep the alien, Pictaro or something; he made the whole introduction speech, but Kal didn’t care enough to listen, away from you and your heroic efforts. Although if he’s honest with himself, he wants to yell at you for staying in danger for so long.

“There we go,” you grunt, leaning back as you use your entire body to help lift the woman.

“Thank you, thank you,” she cries, tears running down her cheeks as she slides toward the edge of the bus. “Get somewhere safe.”

You nod numbly before you swing your legs over the side and look at the road beneath you. Superman sends up a plume of debris when he crashes into the ground. The alien laughs at the sight of Superman tugging his cape off his face, causing another seismic event with his chuckle. If you’d been watching, you’d have seen that the cape is the only reason Superman is now on the ground.

The bus shakes, and only then do you smell the gas. Quickly, you jump to the sidewalk and get some distance. Despite failing the landing, you keep your eyes on Superman. He rips his cape off his suit before flying up toward the alien’s head with newfound fervor and energy. His fists collide with the underside of its jaw, knocking it off balance before he immediately attacks its chest.

Something moves in the crater caused by Superman’s fall, leading you to move toward it carefully. Peeking inside, you only see a broken waterline and his cape. Your elbow begins stinging again as sirens echo in the distance. After you tap it with your fingers, you hiss in pain and notice your red-stained skin.

“Sorry, Superman,” you whisper as you pull his cape into your hand and press it against your bleeding wound.

Your brows furrow as you kneel. There’s a small device in the crater, a blinking pad of some sort bearing the same mark as the alien’s ankle. It looks almost like… a remote.

“Superman!” you scream, waving your uninjured arm to get his attention.

He doesn’t notice you immediately, focused on another round with the alien. When you yell again, he becomes a blue blur before seeming to materialize before you.

“Wh- ma’am,” he greets, backpedaling on what he was going to say.

You don’t speak but point at the black box beside you. Superman steps into the divot in the sidewalk and lifts the device, turning it over in his hand.

“Thank you,” he says, his blue eyes dropping to your arm before he flies to the roof of your damaged apartment building. “Hey, Pictionary!” he taunts.

With a single press of a button, the alien collapses. Its head falls towards its chest as it goes silent. Clark circles it slowly, moving down its height before he lands beside it. First responders arrive, wait for his signal, then move closer to the surrounding buildings. You watch a news van slide to a stop before a cameraman steps out backward, focused on a newscaster who is already speaking.

“Is that my cape?”

Moving your chin up quickly, you don’t expect Superman to be right beside you. Yet, you don’t move back.

“Sorry,” you say, unable to come up with anything else.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks.

“It- it’s just a scratch,” you insist, still cradling your arm.

Superman tilts his head toward his shoulder, his complete attention on you even as police officers and reporters call out to him.

“Don’t move,” he instructs.

He disappears, using his superspeed to move before you can reply. You don’t even have time to think about how he didn’t ask, just told you what to do, before he returns. He drapes another cape over your shoulders, effectively blocking your face from the cameras behind you.

“Th- thank you,” you stutter softly. “For saving Metropolis and the cape.” You look at him for a moment, then can’t take the silence and add, “It’s a really nice cape. I see why you have two.”

“I have a lot more than two,” he says, his smile dropping as he pretends to be serious in his agreement. “I like them, too.”

“Which is good, considering…”

“Do you have somewhere safe to stay tonight?” he interrupts.

“I do,” you answer. Then you remember you left your phone upstairs in your bedroom. Squinting in the sunlight, you look up at your floor and know you won’t be able to get to it. “I just don’t actually know where I’m supposed to meet my roommate. We don’t have an alien fistfight plan.”

“You should make one of those,” Superman muses.

“That’s what I said!”

Superman chuckles, then steps closer to you, the S on his chest inches from your own chest. Of course, when you finally get to meet Superman, you’re covered in dust and sweat and blood. Inny won’t let you live this down.

“Where can I take you?” he asks.

“Oh, no, you’ve done more than enough,” you argue. “I’ll probably just go to our favorite coffee shop and wait.”

“Let me guess, straight black, none of the fuss.”

“Maybe I like the fruity teas they make with a certain superhero's colors,” you counter.

“Do you?” he challenges.

“Those colors aren’t natural.”

Superman laughs, bending backward as his hand presses to his stomach. His joy is contagious, you learn as you smile.

“Which coffee shop?” he asks.

Assuming he’s asking about the drink, you answer. You certainly don’t expect him to close the space between you and wrap his arm around your waist.

“Feel okay?” he whispers, looking down at you.

“Hmm?” you hum, swallowing thickly as you lift your eyes.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think you could.”

Something in his eyes shifts before you’re lifted off the ground. You cling to him instinctually, but it doesn’t faze him. When he lowers to the roof of the coffee shop, you’re hesitant to let go of him.

“No,” he murmurs when you reach for his cape over your shoulders. “You hold on to that.”

“I can’t take two of your capes,” you insist. “I will be taking the one I covered with biohazard material, though, at least long enough to dry clean it.”

“That wouldn’t get you any weird looks,” he scoffs.

You purse your lips and rub the fabric between your fingers. “How do you clean it?”

Superman shrugs, then takes your hand. “If you need anything,” he begins. “Call out to me again. Okay?”

Breathless, you agree, “Okay.”

Superman leaves before you can thank him again. After you check that your arm isn’t injured too severely, you notice that the cape on your shoulders has a tag on it. A tag that doesn’t contain washing instructions, but a handwritten note complete with a phone number.

#hanna writes✯#dc comics x reader #superman x reader #clark kent x reader #superman fic #superman fluff #clark kent fic #clark kent fluff #superman #clark kent #dc comics fic #fem!reader

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verstappenverse · 2 months ago

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Home Was Always Here

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You were too young then, but years later co-parenting your daughter together in the public eye might finally bring you home to each other. (Requested)

4.5k words / Masterlist

You never meant to raise a child in the spotlight. Definitely not at seventeen, and certainly not with Max Verstappen, Formula 1’s youngest rising star at the time. Barely eighteen himself when you sat on the bathroom floor with shaking hands and two pink lines staring back at you.

You hadn’t even been together that long. You hadn’t planned a life. You hadn’t had a chance to figure out who you were yet. But suddenly you were expected to grow up fast, faster than either of you knew how.

What followed was a blur. A whirlwind of press conferences and pacifiers, grid walks and midnight feedings. Red Bull contracts signed on no sleep. Max learning to shave the same year he learned how to swaddle a newborn. The world met your daughter through grainy airport photos, Max pushing a stroller in one hand and wheeling a carry-on in the other, with you by his side, makeup-free and hollow-eyed, a quiet kind of desperation clinging to both of you. Still kids yourselves, trying to raise one.

The headlines didn’t help. Neither did the noise. Every parenting choice you made got picked apart by strangers on the internet. You were either too young or too careless, too in love or too naive. None of them knew what it was like, how hard you held onto each other at first, how tight Max gripped your hand in the hospital, how he blinked back tears when he first held her.

You tried. God, you tried.

But it’s hard to stay together when you're growing up in different countries, with entire continents and careers pulling you in opposite directions. He had a world championship to chase. You had a newborn to raise. Max chose F1, not out of malice, but necessity, and you chose to protect your daughter from the chaos the best way you knew how.

Quietly. From the sidelines.

Somehow heartbreak became part of the routine. A thousand small choices that led you here. Separate, but never fully apart. Not with her between you.

Never with her.

Now almost a decade later, chaos is a permanent houseguest.

Max never stopped being Max. He’s a world champion now. A household name. The kind of icon whose face is printed on t-shirts, cereal boxes, and wall-sized banners at every European airport. And your daughter, Sofia, is eight years old and growing up fast.

She’s got his eyes, the same sharp blue that narrow when she’s focused and sparkle when she’s proud of herself. She’s got your fire, your timing, your habit of crossing her arms when she’s annoyed. She walks through the paddock like she owns it, chatting with engineers, stealing snacks from catering, slipping into garages like she was born there. She waves at the cameras without hesitation, poses with Lando's sunglasses on and Charles’s cap turned backwards, and calls them “Uncle” with the casualness of someone who doesn’t understand how famous her family really is.

Everyone on the grid loves her

Which is both sweet and fucking terrifying.

Because there's no hiding anymore. Not from the cameras. Not from the journalists who track her growth the way they track Max’s stats. Not from the fans who’ve practically watched her life unfold in real-time. And not from the people in the paddock who’ve started to notice the way you and Max still look at each other when you think no one’s watching.

There’s no space left to pretend. No more safe distance.

Especially not now.

Not when she’s old enough to ask questions. Not when Max lingers a little longer after pickups. Not when the line between co-parents and something more starts blurring again, and every smile feels a little heavier than it should.

Not when your daughter keeps looking at the two of you like she’s waiting for something to finally happen.

You and Max haven’t been together in six nearly seven years, yet somehow it’s never really felt like a clean break. Not with Sofia between you. Not with the way you’ve navigated life side by side, always tethered by something deeper than romance, responsibility, love, history. Her.

You’ve co-parented better than most. No court battles. No ugly headlines. Quiet, careful coordination and a shared, unspoken promise, she comes first. Always.

Sofia has never known a day where one of you didn’t show up. Never felt the sting of absence, never had to pick between you. Birthday parties, school recitals, first bike rides, dentist appointments, you did everything you possibly could manage together. Even when you weren’t together.

You moved to Monaco to make things easier. For her, yes, but maybe for Max too. You told yourself it was about logistics, about support systems and shared routines. But deep down, part of you just didn’t want her growing up with only half the picture.

You stood below the podium when Max won his first championship as a father. Camera lenses flashed, confetti fell, and as he lifted the trophy and pointed to the area where Sofia stood clapping beside you in oversized earmuffs, the world saw a proud dad.

Only you noticed the way his eyes lingered on you for a second. Like some part of him still remembered what it meant to win with you in the crowd.

Since then, there have been countless little moments.

Fingers brushing when passing her water bottle. Hands grazing as you both reach for the same backpack strap. Silences that stretch too long when you’re alone at school pick-up, both watching her from opposite ends of the sidewalk. Conversations that start about your daughter but end with too much softness, too many what-ifs sitting in the space between your words.

And now every time he hands you her lunchbox or smooths her hair behind her ear, you feel it, that familiar knock in your chest.

It starts at Zandvoort.

The weekend is muddy, chaotic, and wet. The sky can’t decide if it wants to drizzle or pour, and everything smells like damp asphalt and tension. Sofia is bundled up beside you in her oversized Verstappen-orange raincoat, rubber boots splashing through every puddle like it’s a personal mission. She’s grinning, carefree, holding your hand and dragging you toward the paddock entrance with the kind of joy only a child can carry through the rain.

Max is late.

You check your phone again. No message. No call. You try not to spiral, try not to wonder if it’s traffic, or if it’s her. The girl. The one from the blurry photos online in those low-rent gossip pages, the soft-launch story post on her Instagram that could be his arm, and sly comments under tagged pictures. You haven’t asked. You haven’t had the nerve.

Because asking would mean admitting you care. And you’re not sure you’re allowed to.

You tuck your phone away just as Harry, one of the Red Bull engineers you’ve chatted with a handful of times this season walks up. He’s charming in that easy, carefree way. Nice enough. Funny enough. The kind of guy who brings you coffee when he sees you in the hospitality tent and knows how to make Sofia laugh by pulling silly faces behind the pit wall.

He grins when he sees her. That same crooked half-smile he always wears.

“You need backup out here?” he jokes, already crouching beside Sofia.

You open your mouth to protest, but she giggles and splashes him before you can stop her. Water hits his jeans. He laughs. You do too, despite yourself.

It’s harmless. He’s harmless.

And then Max arrives.

Hood up, team jacket soaked, shoulders tense, jaw tight, he clocks the two of you instantly. He stops a few steps away and just stares. He doesn’t say hello.

He looks at you.

Then Harry.

Then back at you again.

No words, but the tension curls between your ribs like smoke. Your hands fall to your sides. Harry pretends not to notice.

In that three-second silence everything shifts.

The air thickens. Your smile falters. Your hand slips from Sofia’s as she notices her dad and races toward him with a loud, “Daddy!”

Max finally moves. Bends down and scoops her up with practiced ease, burying his face in her rain-wet hair for a moment.

When he stands back up, his eyes are back on you. There’s a question in them, or maybe a warning, you can’t tell which.

Harry clears his throat. “Well. She’s got a hell of a kick,” he says with a grin, nodding at his soaked pant leg.

You force a polite laugh. “Yeah, she’s a menace.”

Max doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak to Harry at all.

“She was asking for you,” you say, just to say something, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

Max nods once. “Yeah. Sorry. Got held up.”

You nod too, and that’s it.

You don’t ask if the girl is here. If she’s in the motorhome waiting. If Sofia’s going to meet her today.

Because you don’t know if you have the right.

Because for all the years you’ve spent raising a daughter together, showing up side-by-side, holding her through every scraped knee and test result and birthday candle… you still don’t know where you stand.

And that uncertainty? It burns more than you’ll ever admit.

That night, Max texts you.

I don’t like him around her.

You stare at your phone in bed, lips parting, blinking twice before replying.

Harry? Why?

Just don’t.

You exhale through your nose, dragging the duvet up to your chin like it might shield you from the heat rising in your chest. You type three different responses and delete each one.

Too defensive. Too cold. Too revealing.

You settle on something neutral. Careful.

She’s around the crew all the time. You like Harry don’t you? What’s this about?

You watch the screen for a while, waiting for the three little dots to appear. They don’t.

Eventually, you put your phone down. Try to sleep. Fail miserably.

He doesn’t respond. Not until the next morning, when he sends a photo of Sofia eating waffles and smiling up at him from across a hotel breakfast table.

Your heart clenches.

She’s in his hoodie. One of the old ones. The ones you used to sleep in when she was still an infant curled up in your arms.

She asked if we could all live together again.

You stare at the message so long your eyes burn.

It hits harder on weekends like this. The quiet ones with no race and no travel. A rare, shared weekend in Monaco, Sofia bouncing between your apartment and Max’s like it’s all one big home she doesn’t realise is technically split in two.

You’ve just dropped her off at his place. She’s old enough now to want to pack her own bag, though she still asks you to double-check that she remembered her toothbrush. You did, and she did, and now you’re standing in Max’s hallway holding a half-eaten granola bar she insisted she didn’t want anymore.

He takes it from you without a word, tosses it in the bin.

You’re still in the doorway, jacket slung over your arm, not really sure why you haven’t left yet.

“Drink?” he asks casually.

You hesitate. Then nod.

You follow him into the kitchen, watching as he moves around like this is normal. Like you still belong here in the quiet moments, not just the race-day chaos.

He hands you a glass and your fingers brush. You both ignore it.

Sofia’s music plays softly from her bedroom here, some upbeat pop song you don’t recognise but can picture her dancing to. You smile. Max catches it.

“She’s been asking again,” he says after a beat. “About why we don’t live together.”

Your heart sinks, warmth fading.

You nod slowly. “She asked me last week if people can get married twice to the same person. I think she thought we were secretly divorced.”

Max huffs a laugh, but it’s more breath than sound.

“She’s getting older,” you say. “It’s not like when she was little. She notices things now.”

He nods, jaw tense. “Yeah.”

You sip your drink to give your hands something to do. “It used to be easier,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “When we were too tired to feel anything else. When she was up every three hours and all we cared about was keeping her fed and breathing and not breaking her.”

Max smiles at that, tired and nostalgic. “We were zombies.”

“Mm.” You nod. “Now we have time to feel things again… and I don’t always know where to put them.”

It hangs in the air between you, heavy, and awkward, and true.

“She asked me if I’d be happier if you were around more,” he says after a while. “She said I get smiley when you’re here.”

Your heart skips a beat.

You laugh, but it’s a small, nervous sound. “She’s very observant.”

“She’s you.”

You look up at that. And he’s already looking at you.

He clears his throat. “I was thinking of taking her to the karting track this weekend. You know, just to see if she—”

“Wants to try?” You smile. “She’s going to love it. She’s been talking about it nonstop.”

Max grins. “Yeah?”

“She’s nervous though. She wants you to be proud of her.”

He softens. “She doesn’t have to do anything for that.”

You nod, trying not to get swallowed by the look on his face. The one that reminds you what he was like when he was yours. What he’s still like now, when he forgets he’s supposed to keep a distance.

You force a breath. Look down at your drink.

“She asked if I still loved you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Max stills. Slowly puts his own drink down.

“What did you say?”

You hesitate.

“I said I love you both. That we’re a team.”

It’s the truth. Just not the whole truth.

Max swallows hard. “She’s too smart for that answer.”

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

Sofia’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“Can I wear your old helmet dad?”

Max blinks. Looks toward the hallway.

You both let out a breath at the same time.

“Yeah, baby,” he calls. “Be right there.”

You move toward the door, because the moment’s already fading, and staying would only make it worse.

“Thanks for the drink,” you say.

He nods, stepping aside to let you pass.

You leave, but his voice follows you softly.

“Hey—”

You pause in the doorway. Look back.

There’s a question in his eyes, something half-formed on his lips. He opens his mouth—

But then he just smiles. Small. Sad.

“Tell her she can bring the pink hoodie next time,” he says. “I know she ‘forgot’ it on purpose.”

Your lips twitch.

“Yeah,” you say, the smile tugging at your mouth before you can stop it. “She’s been leaving things behind lately.”

Max nods, eyes flicking to yours.

Then the door closes and you leave, again, with your heart too full of things you still don’t know how to say.

You tell yourself it was just nostalgia. Zandvoort always does that, rains down memories with every drop, stirs up old feelings in the static between thunderstorms and pit stops. You convince yourself it’ll pass. That it was just the weather. Just the setting. Just Max being Max.

But then Monza happens.

You’re in the paddock, headset on, eyes locked on the screen as Max flies through Sector 2 with clinical precision.

Sofia stands next to you, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands gripping the barrier. She’s wearing her little Verstappen cap, slightly crooked, and her cheeks are painted with two messy Dutch flags. Every time the crowd erupts, she flinches forward and you instinctively reach out to steady her, your hand wrapping protectively around her arm.

“Is Daddy winning?” she shouts over the noise, practically vibrating with excitement.

You glance at the delta on the screen and smile. “He’s flying.”

Max crosses the line with a dominant lead. You clap. You cheer. Sofia shrieks with joy, bouncing so high her hat nearly flies off.

You barely hear the anthem over the roar, but you know it by heart. You’ve heard it more times than you can count. You watch as Max steps onto the top step of the podium, champagne bottle in one hand, trophy in the other.

And then he looks out at the crowd.

Eyes scanning thousands of faces and somehow he finds you.

You.

The moment holds. Just long enough for your heart to trip.

Because it’s not the look of a man acknowledging the mother of his child. Not the polite gratitude of a co-parent in the crowd. It’s not professional. It’s not routine.

It’s something else.

It’s softness. It’s gravity. It’s a quiet ache buried beneath pride.

It’s want.

When he lifts the trophy high, chin tilted slightly your way, it feels personal. Like something unspoken. Like a line he’s too afraid to cross but too drawn to ignore.

Your fingers tighten on the railing. The haze of the crowd and the flares curls around you and for a moment, despite the chaos, you forget how to breathe.

Later you’re all at the afterparty.

Nothing extravagant, a casual gathering on the rooftop lounge of the team hotel, a mix of mechanics, engineers, a few drivers, and the people who’ve quietly kept the weekend running behind the scenes. It’s low-lit, the music mellow, with fairy lights strung overhead and the scent of champagne lingering in the air.

You’re tucked into the corner of a cushioned bench with a glass of wine watching Max move through the space like he always does, confident, collected, comfortable. Every so often someone stops him to offer congratulations. He smiles, claps backs, exchanges a few laughs. It should be mundane.

But she’s here.

The girl.

You’d only recently confirmed she wasn’t his girlfriend, at least not officially. Someone on the comms team had mentioned it in passing. “Nothing serious,” they’d said. “Just a friend… apparently.”

But the way she’s looking at him?

It’s not friendly.

She’s tall. Stunning, in that effortless way. The kind of woman who turns heads when she walks into a room without meaning to. She’s laughing at something Max says, leaning in just a little too closely, fingers grazing his forearm like she’s staking a claim.

And Max?

He laughs politely. Responds. But he’s not looking at her.

His eyes flick to you. Again. And again.

Every few minutes, like he’s checking you’re still there.

And every time, it’s like your skin prickles beneath your dress. Like the air gets thinner and your wine gets warmer and your resolve slips further through your fingers.

You try to ignore it. Try to sip your wine and nod along to a mechanic’s story beside you, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. To her.

To the way his jaw tensed when she touched him. To the way his gaze lingered on your bare knees when you crossed your legs. To the heat that simmers just beneath the surface of everything, unsaid and impossible.

Someone sits beside you. You glance over and it’s GP. His expression is soft, patient, as always. A little amused, too.

“You okay?” he asks gently, tilting his drink toward you in quiet solidarity.

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

GP follows your line of sight straight to Max. Then back to you.

He sips his beer once before saying, carefully, “Still in love with him?”

You freeze, the words hitting you like cold water.

“What?”

He shrugs, not unkindly. “Sorry if that was too direct. I’ve known you both since you were kids. It’s kind of obvious.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

You can’t say yes… but you can’t say no either.

So you say nothing.

GP chuckles under his breath. “He’s an idiot if he doesn’t see it.”

You look up sharply at that.

“He’s not an idiot,” you say, almost defensively. “I think he’s… he’s scared.”

The words leave your mouth before you realise how much truth they carry, because he is. You know that. You know the way he loves, recklessly, protectively, all or nothing. And you know what’s at stake.

But the thing that takes your breath away is realising so are you.

Scared of losing what you’ve worked so hard to preserve. Of breaking the fragile peace you've built for Sofia. Of stepping over a line you can’t come back from.

But more than anything, you’re scared of never knowing, of never saying it out loud. Of watching someone else stand next to him someday and wondering what might have been if you'd only been brave enough to try.

Baku is different.

You’re staying in the same hotel.

You should be asleep, but your mind won’t rest. You’re pacing emotional circles around yourself, heart tight, questions louder than the silence of your hotel room.

Your phone buzzes just after midnight.

You up?

You reply before you can second-guess.

Yeah. You?

A minute later, there’s a soft knock at your door.

You open it slowly.

He’s standing there in sweatpants and a hoodie, socks on the hallway carpet, his hair messy, like he’s been lying awake too long. There’s something raw in his expression. Something he’s not hiding anymore.

Your heart stumbles against your ribs.

“She asleep?” he asks softly, glancing past you, even though he already knows the answer.

You nod. “Out cold.”

He steps inside. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. But he doesn’t move to sit. He just stands there in the middle of your space, hands stuffed in his pockets, like if he lets them out, the truth might spill all over the floor.

He looks at you like he’s been holding something in for years.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low but steady.

Your stomach twists. “Do what?”

He gestures vaguely, frustrated, tired, exposed.

“This. Us. Pretending I’m okay seeing you with someone else. Standing next to you and acting like I don’t feel it every time you laugh at someone else’s joke. Watching Sofia grow up and knowing I never gave us the chance to be more than this.”

He pauses. Breathes hard through his nose.

“I keep trying to be okay with it. With being just the co-parent. Just the friend. But I’m not. I haven’t been for a long time.”

He looks down, like he can’t bear to meet your eyes.

“That I still—” He stops himself.

You take a step closer. “Say it,” you whisper, barely more than a breath.

He swallows hard, lifts his gaze, and finally lets it out.

“That I still love you.”

The words fall between you like a confession and a surrender all at once.

“That I never stopped.”

You don’t even realise you’re crying until he moves toward you, thumb brushing beneath your eye with the gentleness only he’s ever managed. Your chin trembles under his touch.

“We were kids,” he says. “We didn’t know how to hold onto each other and raise a child and survive the world watching us.”

You nod, tears falling freely now.

“I didn’t mean to let you go,” he continues, voice cracking. “I just… didn’t know how to stay without hurting you more.”

You let the words in. Let them wash through the years of silence, of near-misses, of what-ifs.

“I love you too,” you admit, voice trembling. “I thought you didn’t want it. I thought maybe you’d moved on.”

“I never did,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it, and I didn’t want to mess up what we have.”

You give a small, tearful laugh. “We’re already messy.”

He smiles at that. A real one, crooked and full of memory.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But we’re a pretty great mess.”

There’s a silence then, heavy and fragile and filled with everything you were never brave enough to speak.

And then you kiss him. It’s the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything. That doesn’t ask for forgiveness or explanation. It just is. Steady. Familiar. Home.

His hands find your waist, like muscle memory. Your fingers curl into his hoodie, anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever truly felt safe. In that moment it all falls away, the years of longing, the fear, the distance.

You’ve always belonged to each other.

You wake to sunlight filtering through the hotel curtains, casting soft stripes of gold across the carpet and the coffee table littered with empty glasses and a crumpled blanket. Your neck is slightly sore from how you’ve slept curled into Max on the couch, his arm still around your waist, your legs tangled like they never forgot how to fit together.

You stir first, quietly, unsure of whether to move.

Max doesn’t open his eyes, but his grip tightens for a moment. Just enough to say don’t go yet.

And then, from the hallway, bare feet on the carpet. A small gasp. Then stillness.

You both look up at the same time.

Sofia stands there in her pajamas, clutching her stuffed bunny to her chest, one brow slightly raised in that very adult way she inherited from you. Her hair’s messy, cheeks still warm with sleep, but her eyes are sharp. Too sharp for her age.

She looks between the two of you your curled bodies, the hoodie you’re wearing that she knows is her dad’s, the blanket pooled around your knees.

She blinks once.

Then again.

And tilts her head. “Are you guys… boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Your heart skips.

Max shifts beside you, slow and careful. You glance at him, and he glances at you, both of you holding the moment in your hands like it might break if you breathe wrong.

Nervous. Soft. Honest.

Max sits up a little straighter, patting the couch beside him. “Come here for a sec?”

Sofia walks over, climbs into the space between you like she’s done a hundred time. Her eyes flick to the way Max’s hand rests on your knee. She notices. She always notices. She’s a very perceptive eight year old.

He pulls her into his arms and looks down at her, so careful.

“Only if you’re okay with it,” he says.

Sofia stares at him. Then at you.

Then breaks into a grin so wide it knocks the breath from your chest.

“Finally,” she says, matter-of-fact. “I thought you guys were gonna be weird forever.”

You laugh, caught somewhere between a sob and a sigh, burying your face in your hands as Max chuckles under his breath.

“I mean,” she continues, shrugging, “you already do everything together. You just don’t kiss.”

Max raises his eyebrows, and you can’t help but laugh harder, warmth spreading through your chest like sunrise.

“And you’re really okay with it?” you ask, wiping your cheeks.

Sofia nods. “Yeah. I like it when we’re all together. That’s my favourite.”

She says it so simply. So easily.

Like love was never that complicated to begin with.

You were always endgame.

Even when it didn’t feel like it.

Even when the world watched your lives play out through blurry headlines, rumours, and YouTube compilations. Even when the paddock whispered and your hands stopped reaching for each other out loud.

Even when it hurt.

Now you’re not pretending. Not holding your breath. Not keeping your heart behind your teeth.

You’re together. For real.

For her. For each other.

For good.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper

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ari-ana-bel-la · 3 months ago

Note

Hello! If you’re still accepting requests, would you write about Lando and his daughter and he always dresses them in matching outfits since she was a baby? Thanks!

Matching Outfits

The sun had just started rising over the circuit, casting a golden hue over the paddock. The usual buzz was already beginning to build: mechanics setting up, team members running around with coffees in hand, and media beginning to trickle in. But that morning, one figure stood out more than anyone else.

Lando walked into the paddock with a soft smile on his face, one hand pushing a sleek black stroller, the other adjusting the hood of his pastel pink hoodie. A matching pink baby bow peeked from under the stroller's blanket. Only a few people noticed at first, but the moment word got around, the drivers started appearing from every corner.

"Mate," Carlos said, jogging up beside him, wiping his hands on a napkin. "Is this the debut I think it is?"

Lando grinned. "Yep. She's finally here."

He carefully peeled back the stroller's blanket, revealing a tiny sleeping Yn, dressed in a pink onesie with a mini Quadrant logo embroidered on the chest and an oversized bow that nearly swallowed her forehead.

Carlos face melted. "No way. No actual way. She looks like a little cupcake. Look at her!"

Lando chuckled. "She drooled on the last outfit, so we had to switch to the emergency one. This is version 2.0."

Oscar appeared next, eyebrows raised. "You actually did it. The matching outfits thing."

Lando looked mock-offended. "You doubted me?"

"No, no! I expected it. I just didn’t expect it to be this cute."

Yn stirred slightly in the stroller, a tiny fist poking out from under the blanket. The drivers leaned in instinctively.

"She’s so small," murmured Charles, crouching beside the stroller.

"She’s three months. That’s still pocket-size," Lando whispered proudly. "Her main activities include eating, napping, and making me late because I get too distracted dressing her."

"How many outfits do you have for her?" George asked, peering down with a soft smile.

"Too many. But not enough," Lando answered with zero guilt. "I ordered custom onesies in every color hoodie I own. And I have more on the way."

Carlos snorted. "So what you're saying is you’ve created a fashion dynasty."

Lando smirked. "I’m building an empire."

The next race weekend, it was green.

Lando strutted into the paddock in a sage green hoodie with matching joggers. Yn sat contentedly in a baby carrier strapped to his chest, wearing a tiny green romper with little frog socks and a matching headband.

"You planned this," Alex said, pointing.

"Of course I did."

"You realize she has no idea what she's wearing, right?"

"Doesn’t matter," Lando grinned. "She’ll thank me when she’s older and sees the pictures."

"Or she’ll roll her eyes."

"Even better."

Yn, completely oblivious to the conversation, giggled and tried to gum Lando’s hoodie string.

"Hey, hey, no eating daddy’s hoodie," he cooed, lifting her tiny hand to kiss it. She squealed in return.

Pierre walked over, holding a coffee. "Alright, what’s the color this weekend?"

"Green," George answered, pointing at the duo. "Obviously."

Pierre leaned in, eyes widening as he looked at Yn. "Every week she gets cuter. It’s unfair."

Lando smiled. "It’s the power of good accessories."

By the third race, it was orange. Not just any orange, McLaren papaya orange.

Yn wore a handmade onesie in the team’s signature color, soft and breathable, with a tiny patch on the sleeve that read: Daddy’s #1 Fan. She even had socks with little steering wheels on them.

As Lando entered the motorhome, carrying her on his hip, the whole team melted.

"She’s our good luck charm," one of the mechanics said.

"She needs a team badge," added another.

"Already on it," Lando said, producing a tiny laminated card from his pocket. "She’s officially honorary team baby."

Yn responded by sneezing loudly and then blowing a raspberry.

"She speaks!" Carlos shouted, pretending to fall back in mock awe.

"Her first words will probably be ‘downforce,’" Charles joked.

"Or ‘Daddy stop matching me,’" Oscar added.

Lando rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile. "You’re all jealous."

That night in the hotel, Lando sat cross-legged on the bed, baby monitor on one side, tiny piles of pastel onesies spread out before him.

"Okay," he muttered, holding up two outfits. "Tomorrow’s color theme. Sunshine yellow or lilac?"

Yn, lying in her bassinet and gnawing on a teething ring, offered no comment.

"Right. Lilac it is. You are such a smart baby, darling."

Each morning became a little ritual. Lando would wake up, feed her, change her, and then pull out their matching outfits for the day. The more he did it, the more he fell in love with the little moment of connection they shared, even if she couldn’t understand it yet.

Every cuddle, every gummy smile, every sleepy coo made the long nights and early mornings worth it.

And every weekend, more of the paddock caught on.

Seb came by once just to bring a knitted cardigan for Yn in Ferrari red.

"Not subtle," Lando said.

"She needs options," Seb replied with a wink.

Even Kimi gave her a tiny pair of racing gloves. "Too big now. She’ll grow."

"Thanks, Ice Man," Lando said, genuinely touched.

"Bwoah, don’t call me that."

During a rainy weekend, Lando dressed them both in little waterproof jackets in pastel purple. Yn had tiny boots (more decorative than functional), and Lando kept her tucked against his chest as they walked through the paddock.

Media snapped photos, but Lando was always careful, always keeping her face tucked safely away.

He didn’t want the world to have her. Not yet. Not fully.

Yn was his world. His quiet, peaceful world in the middle of racing chaos.

Every night, before bed, he whispered the same thing into her tiny ear:

"You’re my whole universe, little star."

She’d gurgle back, a tiny hand wrapping around his finger.

And that was all he needed.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-💚🐍

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evilgwrl · 11 months ago

Text

ExHusband!Simon x Reader

You Want a Divorce? (Two)

Note: I feel like this is so bad im sorry!!!!

CW: Angst, titty sucking, passionate asf sex, simon missed ur pussy and you very much and vise versa, breeding kink, PIV (no protection, pls use it irl), squirting, simon eats the FUCK out of ur pussy, multiple orgasms, praise, hint of degradation, possessive!simon, OVERSTIMULATION, slight daddy kink… sorry

Part One

It was a quiet ride, the subtle sweeps of cars fleeting by as Simon gripped the wheel, eyes trailing off to the side to look at you briefly. Your head was leaned against the window, your knees knocking together anxiously as your daughter babbled in the back, cooing about how Mummy and Daddy were now back together.

You tried to hide the shed of tears that filtered across your iris, every small childish mumble like a stab to the gut as you listened to the genuine happiness in her tone. You would turn around occasionally with a small smile as you reached out to tickle her foot, giggles filling the car.

Simon pulled in, the car bouncing slightly as it hit the gravel carpark, his hand swerving into a spot before he turned to the back. “You excited, baby?”

Ella’s face lit up as she fumbled to take off her seatbelt, “Get me, Daddy! Get me! I wanna see the lions!” It was refreshing knowing she still viewed Simon as her hero, no matter how distant he was in their lives. You knew that even though your ex-husband was rarely around, his time with them did everything it could to mend the time apart. Toby woke up at the commotion, the toddler having slept the whole way there despite his older sister’s constant bickering about what animals she had to see first.

Everything seemed to flash past you as you walked inside, the whir of kids and noise sending your brain into overdrive as your eyes flickered to Simon with Ella swinging around on his shoulders and Toby kicking his legs in the stroller. You looked away; breath shaky as you attempted to compose yourself. This was supposed to be a happy day, for all of you, yet seeing him with your children, something that was supposed to be normal, felt so distant and unknown. Gathering yourself, you plastered a fake smile, hands reaching out to pinch your son’s cheeks as you grabbed the stroller.

Your heart hammered in your chest for the remainder of the day, fingers tingling with anxiety that bled into your veins, consuming your lungs with what seemed like everything but oxygen. It was a series of squeals and commotions from your young ones, their elation evident through the bright glow of their face, soft red resting on the apples of their cheeks. As the day quieted down, Toby slumped in the stroller as you tucked him into the car seat, his new plush crocodile cradled into his arms, mouth wide open as subtle breaths snored out.

Ella was cradled into Simon’s shoulder, her shoes half hanging off as she clutched onto him, dead asleep. You settled into the ride home yet your anxiety only seemed to heighten. You were alone with Simon, with no kiddish voices to break the tension, brown orbs glaring into the side of your face.

“Should we talk about this morning?”

You scoffed. “You have some nerve asking to talk about this morning,” you screamed into a hush, “What you did was completely disrespectful. Not only did you break into my house and kick my date out, but you left our kids in the car! What the fuck were you thinking?”

He cleared his throat, almost like he wanted to hold back how he felt. You noticed the white in his knuckles as he gripped the wheel, right eye twitching as he stared at the squiggles of tar ahead. “I don’t want our kids growing up thinking it’s normal for parents to separate. They need their mum and dad together, y/n.”

The world silenced for a second, the screams of the wind rushing past you seemed to slow as your voice cracked, seeps of emotion pouring out as you choked on your breath, “Then you should have fought for your family, Simon. There is no us anymore, it’s just them. They’re all that connects us now.”

You felt like all the ivory had been sucked out of your eyes, endless pits of your pupil consuming you whole, blurring your vision with fog as you blinked, hot streams of liquid salt spilling onto your cheeks, brimming at the cracks of your lips as you sniffled. You could feel his hesitation as he looked at you.

His words regurgitated in his throat as he stammered, tangled limbs reaching out to grip yours as you pulled away.

“Just drop us home.”

Your eyes had dried now, soft stains of bare skin caving through your foundation as you smudged your fingers against it. Simon stuttered as he pulled up to the driveway, tyres screeching to a halt as you sat in silence.

The soft strum of fingers caught your attention as you turned around, the innocent face of Toby looking back at his parents, tongue blabbing out of his mouth. “Dadda! You have dinner?”

“No, sport. Daddy’s gotta go-“

“Yeah, baby. Daddy will have dinner with us.”

You blinked at your own words, Simon’s surprised expression meeting yours. The wrench in your heart would never subside, the entirety of the beating organ still belonging to your ex-husband, but being a mother was a sacrifice. And you would sacrifice yourself in every existence you become one if it meant your children didn’t have to battle the same internal wounds.

“They’re tucked in,” Simon said, voice soft as he noticed your withered body in the couch. Your hair was messy now, strands spitting out as you anxiously tucked them back in, smoothing them down with the dampness of your palms as you ran around all night, ushering to the demands of your children.

“Thank you.”

You felt ill, your tongue cascading down your throat as you palmed at your knees, desperate for him to leave yet desperate for him to stay. Simon stilled, keys jangling in his hand before he sat down next to you, his weight disrupting the couch as he shuffled around.

“I need you to know that I did want to fight for you, y/n. I have counted every single day since you handed me those papers, waiting by my phone every single night on deployment hoping for you to text me, call me, fuck - blow my phone up. I never wanted the temporary absence that we had apart become permanent. Everything I said,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as he looked away, “Everything I said on October 6th, 7 years ago, I meant. You weren’t supposed to get away from me - I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have let you get away from me.”

It was strange. Simon was never one for feelings, the brutality of his job allowed for any harsh emotions to crack through his fingers as he pulled a trigger, any dampness of tears would sweat through his skin as he pummelled a blade into an enemies head.

But it was you. And you weren’t violent, or any enemy, you were his wife, the person he vowed his entirety too.

Your anxious cascade cracked as you whimpered out a sob, chest heaving as you buried your face, tight with tears, into the pillows of your hands. You felt warmth spread through you, the texture of Simon’s fingers burning through you like wildfire, every ember he felt scorching through your flesh as he pulled you in.

Arms tangled together, intwining like wool as he wrapped you into his chest nimbly. A zephyr ran through you, your wrists clutched in his hands as you straddled him, the weight of you feeling like the grandest treasure upon him.

It was nothing strange, nor sexual but Simon recognised that cry, the differing pitch as you shuffled your frame into his. Simon knew you like the back of his hand, every crevice, every crease, every scar. He knew your backstory, and the one you made up to impress people. He knew the hex of the colour of your eyes and the print of your thumb. No papers would take that away from him.

Soaked eyelashes clumped into one as you looked up at him, orbs resembling once of a doe, innocence seeping through every inch of a salt-stained tear. His eyes met yours, apertures of cocoa reflecting your weary frame as you gripped onto him.

“Let me come home, please.”

Simon’s voice was desperate, it was raw, any shed of arrogance erased through the lines, eyebrows knotted together as he rubbed at the small of your back.

Your nod was subtle, but he could practically hear it, calloused hands gripping at the plush of your cheek and seeping through the tip of your spine, thumb rubbing at your earlobe as he clutched onto you.

Hot, seething pricks ran through your limbs as your lips connected, saline lining your mouth as he lapped at the heat of your tongue, rough groans leaving his lips as he savoured the taste.

Any diffidence left your body as familiarity sunk back into you. Hands pawed at the globe of your ass, gripping the flesh as anguished limbs wrapped around Simon’s waist.

With an easy tug, he lifted you, your hands wrapping around his neck as he pulled you in closer, teeth kissing. You never questioned Simon’s strength, and you wouldn’t start now as you felt your back hit your mattress.

He tugged at his shirt, the black fabric pooling on the floor as you sucked in a breath. Your eyes traced every scar, lighter flesh engraved into the skin of his torso, a short trail of hair disappearing into his pants as you stared at his burly physique.

Simon gripped at your shirt, the material practically ripping before his hands were at your chest, grabbing at your flesh desperately as you tangled your fingers into your bra, sliding it off. His mouth was hot on your chest, the sound of moans and pants filling the air as he positioned himself between your legs, teeth grazing the hard nubs, sucking with fervour as you whined, your hand at the base of his head, cradling it.

“Missed these so fucking much,” he practically whined, groping your tits as he pinched your nipples, lips sucking deep marks of possession into the soft skin. Your pants were desperate, begging him for more as you pulled his hair, fingernails clawing at his scalp.

Your hands fumbled with your pants, hips raising as he slid them off, clumsy fingers chucking them across the room as you laughed, lips connecting once more in a giggly state as his thumb pushed against the wetness of your panties.

“Missed how fucking wet you got for me. Such a good fucking girl,” he groaned, fingers rubbing at your heat through the thin cloth eliciting a pained moan from you.

“Simon - I need more, been so long.”

He choked out a laugh as his fingers hooked into the fabric, lace dribbling down your leg before he mewled at the sight of you. His hands held your thighs apart, your soaking cunt on display as it throbbed, slick folds glistening in the poor lighting.

“Prettiest fucking pussy,” he choked out to himself, placing your legs over his shoulder as he knelt down. Your back arched as you felt his tongue lick a long stripe of your pussy, his body seething for a taste of you as his lips found your neglected clit.

He lapped at you mercilessly, your cries and moans moulding into one with the filthy squelches of his mouth against your heat. Long digits circled your entrance, teasing you, before they curled in.

Your eyes rolled, pools of ivory exposed as you let out a guttural moan, your thighs tightening around his ears as he smirked against your pussy. Cocky fingers rubbed at the right spot, favouring the clench of your tight hole as he pulled every noise he could get from you.

You were barely cohesive as he lapped at your slick, the throbbing of your clit edging him on as he soothed your g-spot with the pad of his fingers. The coil you had only ever felt with Simon began to build, the familiar sensation pooling in your stomach as you stuttered out a whimper.

“Si- too much - I’m gonna-“

“That’s it baby,” he cooed, pulling away from your pussy for a second to take in your expression as you came, your face contorted with pleasure as your legs jerked, pussy wrapping tighter around his abusing digits as he fucked you through it with them. You looked down at him, saliva and your slick coating his mouth and chin as he grinned.

You stammered out a groan as his mouth attached back on your pussy, slurping up your liquid gold as you attempted to push his head away in overstimulation.

“Oh my- fuck - Simon - too much,” you whimpered your words commanding him to continue as he guzzled around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as your legs shook uncontrollably.

It wasn’t long before the continuation from your previous orgasm rose again, heat swarming your lower belly as you screamed out, your hand slapping over your mouth as you felt Simon’s spare hand wrap around your thigh, squeezing tightly.

You pulled at his hair, tugging at the ashy roots before you were gushing around his fingers and tongue again, sloshing liquids soaking your sheets as he groaned at the taste, mouth lapping it up with vigour. You whined in humiliation, the overwhelming pleasure becoming too much as you heaved.

“Si - no more -“

“I’m sorry baby, too fucking good. Will never get enough of your pussy.”

His words were filthy yet only held the truth, his continuous slurps against your heat causing your body to jerk as you relentlessly bucked your hips. Simon’s abuse continued on your pussy, your pussy gushing and coming another 6 times before he was satisfied, the sheet under you drenched in both your slick and squirt as Simon milked your overwhelmed cunt, claiming he was “making up for the months lost”.

You were dry heaving, throat dry as he captured your lips in a kiss, the taste of you infiltrating into your glands as you groaned, his hands reaching to tug at your breasts as he took in your fucked out state, legs jiggling and twitching as your pussy convulsed at the number of orgasms he dragged out of you.

You felt like you had been lying here for hours, yet you weren’t satisfied. You would only be content when he was inside you, stretching you to the brim as he pumped a load inside your worn-out hole.

“Simon - please - I can’t… I need you now,” you were practically crying, tears shedding at the brim of your eyes, bottom lip jutting out as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, slicking back the sweat on your forehead.

“I know baby, done so well for Daddy, hm? Even after all that you still need to be plugged full of me don’t you?”

You nodded as a harsh slap landed against your clit, your body jolting as you squeaked. “Yes, please,” you cried, “Please Daddy.”

His hands were like clockwork, tearing at his jeans as they released his cock, a satisfied groan leaving his body as he gripped at the tent in his pants, a sticky wet patch soaking the material before his length throbbed out, angry tip slapping his stomach as a trail of precum glistened against the base of his cock.

His dick was flushed red, begging for release as he ran it through the squelch of your sopping folds, rubbing against your manipulated clit as you moaned.

Your hands gripped his head as he leant down to kiss you, his arm holding him up while the other positioned himself at your entrance. He stilled for a moment, cock almost pressing in before he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

The words were soft yet meaningful, your eyes interlocked as he began to push inside, your mouth gasping open as you clutched onto his shoulders. It was hard when you were together all those years to get accustomed to his frightening length, and now it had been a year and the stretch was searing through you.

“I know, sweet girl, you can take it. Such a tight cunt for me, so fucking good.”

Fingernails clawed at his back as he pushed in, your whines muffled by the palm of his hand as he held himself up his elbows. “Holy fuck,” he spluttered as he bottomed out, his lips connecting to your neck as he sucked, resting inside you for a second as you whimpered.

The burn slowly faded as you rutted against him impatiently, the tip of his cock resting against your sweet spot as you gasped.

“So fucking impatient, always been such a slut for me. Haven’t you?”

You nodded, whining as he began to move, moving his hips slowly as he rubbed inside you perfectly, your mouth wide open as your head lolled back. A series of expletives tipped from your tongue as you choked on the air, Simon’s pace picking up at your dramatic noises.

“Fuck - taking me so well-“ he grunted, hands groping at your tits as he watched your pussy absorb his length. It was an obscene sight and he loved it. Every fibre of your being belonged to him and it was something he constantly craved.

“All fucking mine - shit - my fucking pussy,” he grunted, thumb rubbing at your clit as you mewled, twitching below him as he spat, “my fucking wife - got the tightest fucking cunt just for me.”

You clenched around him at his words, knowing it was true as his balls slapped against your ass, skin spanking against each other as the sound filled the room, ecstasy roaring through both of your veins as you made love.

The squelch of your pussy was taboo as he lapped in the missed sound. His eyes took in the way your body reacted to every movement, no matter how small. He took in the way your breasts bounced with each thrust, lower stomach bulging as he pounded into you.

“Fuck - Simon - oh my God,” your words were a mere blabber, barely making sense as you clutched onto him, pulling him down to meet your lips.

“I can’t pull out, baby - fuck - gotta cum in this pretty pussy. Give you another kid, hm? - shit -“

His hips didn’t falter as his pace fastened, chasing his own high as he rubbed at your clit, your breaths growing shallow as your orgasm began to build. “Gonna fill you with my cum until it takes. Need your belly round again and your tits full - such a good fucking mum, makes me so fucking proud.”

His words were the final straw as the build up in your stomach popped, your whole body convulsing as your pussy clenched around him, a loud groan leaving his throat before you felt the hot splashes of his cum pumping inside you.

“That’s it baby, milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl for Daddy, gonna break you apart everyday on my cock until you never forget who you belong too.”

He didn’t pull out immediately, his cum plugged inside you as some seeped out, rolling down the crevice of your ass below you. Your eyes shut, gentle pants leaving your lips as you felt Simon’s absence before a soft cloth was wiped gently across your sex and masculine arms were gripping onto you, carrying you into the guest room before engulfing you into a thrill of heat, Simon’s chest against your back as you fell asleep.

TAGLIST: @kiiwiipie @nijiru

Disclaimer: im sorry if this is disappointing im super tired :(((

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