#and then immediately: STOP LOOKING AT MY WIFE

[sunaily]

Doing the “don’t smile and I’ll give you head” trend on haikyuu men 😼

This is for you queen / king 👉🏼 @kurroomii sorry it took so long, I just finished my finals

WARNING! Suggestive and Sexual content! all are adults in this (and you guys are married or in a relationship) and mention of dead ancestors/relatives and pets (?)

Immediately locks in once he receives the note. stone-faced, don’t even try to make him smile you will not win over his dead body! he took it so seriously you were concerned.

(pretend this is you giving him the note) 💁🏻‍♀️📝

“ what’s this hun?” *slowly reads the note* “🗿”

“if you don’t smile, I’ll give you head 😘 “

“🗿”

“okay babe you win, you can stop now…”

“🗿”

“babe?”

“🗿”

“babe I swear you will be getting that head you can smile now…”

“🗿”

“……..”

-Mattsukawa, Osamu, SUNA (even if he smiles he will still be getting that head), KUROO (he gets down, he don’t play!) IWAIZUMI, Hoshiumi, Daichi, Kai

This man can’t keep a straight face on to save a life BUT he is determined to get that gawk gawk 3000 from you 😼 so what does he do? he starts thinking about his pet that passed away years ago when he was 5 and his great great grandfather that died 3 months before he was born…

“y’know, I had a pet goldfish named Goldie the goldfish back then, he died when I was 5….I miss him very much”

“a-are you seriously thinking about your dead goldfish from 20 years ago just so you can get head? 😟 ” (pretend yall are 25)

“and my great great grandfather passed away 3 months before I was born 😢 …”

“ baby why are you acting head deprived??? I give you head everynight!”

“😮‍💨 I miss them so much!”

“you cannot be serious right now…”

- BOKUTO (I was thinking of him while writing this), Hinata (I HAVE NEVER EVER SEEN THIS MAN NOT SMILE) LEV, NISHINOYA, Hirugami, Fukunaga, TENDOU, Goshiki (and if I tell u he cried then what?)

IMMEDIATELY FAILS, He was caught off guard okay?! give him a chance 😔demands another try because he wasn’t ready 🙄 (no you only get 1 try so no head for you…better luck next time!)

“ 😌oh shit- BABE I WAS NOT READY😩!”

“NOPE YOU SMILED GAME OVER! HAHAHAHAH NO HEAD FOR YOU 😛”

“No! that’s unfair give me another chanceeee 😩😥 this time I’ll be ready I swear!”

“the point of this “game” is to be caught off guard babe…just accept defeat and better luck next time 😘”

- ATSUMU (my number 1 inspiration) NISHINOYA (who wouldn’t smile at the thought of your wife giving you head?) Tanaka, OIKAWA (he can never win in this house) HOSHIUMI, SUGAWARA, Yamamoto, futakuchi, TERUSHIMA.

Smiled at first but once he received the note best believe he turned that smile upside down (no like seriously he went from this 🙂 to this ☹️!)

“baby you can’t smile”

“do I look like i’m smiling? ☹️”

“BABY YOU LITERALLY SMILED”

“NO I DIDN’T! I ONLY SMILED BECAUSE I SAW YOU! I stopped smiling after I read the note okay?!!! ☹️☹️☹️”

“yknow what fine….”

“does this mean I can get the sloppy toppy now? ☹️”

“……”

- AKAASHI (idc what yall say my man is silly okay?! he is not a nonchalant baddie 😩) YAMAGUCHI, Asahi, Semi, Ennoshita, Hanamaki, MATSUKAWA, ARAN

Wins the trend effortlessly, my stone-faced expressionless baddies with only 1 permanent facial expression…😐 he is so used to your shenanigans at this point. He is confused but he still wants to make you happy….after all, you are his other half

“ ‘Do not smile if you want me to give you the 3 s tonight 🤭’ my love what is this??? what does 3 s stands for??”

“slurp, suck and swallow 😝”

“………I do not know what to do with you sometimes….”

- Ushijimao, Tsukishima, Kenma, SHIRABU (idk if Kita should be added but for the sake of favoritism and free will I will add him) Kita, AONE, Kageyama, Kunimi

Ps Ik some of these are not accurate please forgive me lol

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[1:47 pm]

(cw: f!reader)

tagged! @bluedbliss

Fratboy!Jaemin did a lot of things in university just for the fun of it. Massage class? Sure, why not. Gymnastics? Again, why not. Join a frat? Only because Jeno did. Working at the on campus daycare? Well, that one was because of his mom. He needed a job and she happened to know the head teacher.

So now he spent three of his days here at the daycare, taking care of the young kids with the help of one main teacher and another aide, you. The kids had named you "Pretty Teacher" and he couldn't agree more. You were a full time aide and he found that he could handle some clingy kids and no sense of personal space for a few hours a day when you were helping out beside him.

Right now, you were both leading the kids through circle time outside while the head teacher took a quick break. After some stretches and some calming exercises for the kids, they focused on building with some blocks.

One of the girls, looked up at you, judgement written clearly on her face as she looked between you and Jaemin. Her little voice rang out, "Pretty teacher, is Teacher Na your boyfriend?"

The other kids looked up then, "oohing" at the word "boyfriend." You shook your head with a soft laugh, prying apart two blocks before handing them to the boy sitting beside you, "no, Teacher Na is not my boyfriend."

The kids pouted and even Jaemin found himself fighting back a pout along with the four and five year-olds. He wanted you to be his girlfriend. He thought he'd made that pretty clear when he insisted that he play the role of 'dad neighbor' when you were given the role of 'mom neighbor' or when he brought you snacks or coffee at the before the kids showed up.

Another girl, this time sitting beside Jaemin, squealed with excitement, "he's your husband then! You're married!"

Jaemin coughed awkwardly, "we're not married."

"But you like her?" The girl asks as she cocks her head to the side.

"Yes," Jaemin answers, immediately drawing sounds of excitement from the kids. He even finds that your eyes flicker to meet his gaze before he adds quickly, "because she's my friend."

"My mommy said her and my daddy were friends before they got married!" A boy adds, "my daddy was my mommy's sister's boyfriend! That's why they don't talk no more!"

You bite back a look of shock as you try to guide the conversation away from marriage and parents, or any other topics these kids might have overheard at home. They're stubborn though, insisting that the two of you get married because that's what adult boys and girls do, "duh, teachers!"

You're given a bundle of flower weeds and pushed until you and Jaemin are sitting side by side on the bench. The oldest of the bunch, a five year-old, grins widely and begins the 'vows' going on about love and happiness. She claps her hands, "now you're married! Kiss!"

The kids sound out in a mix of cheers and boos. You laugh softly, choosing instead to hug your coworker swiftly to give into the requests of the students. It's basically nothing, you can barely call it a hug since it's more like two bodies just pressed against each other for a second. Jaemin thinks he just saw heaven. It's the best hug he's ever had and it lasted a full, singular second. It was great.

Somehow that's the only thing on his mind as he finishes off his work day. He grabs his stuff after everything has been wiped down and disinfected, lingering around the gate as you walk toward him.

"Hey, Pretty," he greets you, watching as you laugh softly.

"Hi, Nana, you waiting for me?" You ask as you close the gate behind yourself.

"A good husband waits for his wife doesn't he?" He asks with a gentle smile.

You giggle softly, knocking his elbow with your own, "oh, did we go straight from coworkers to husband and wife?"

He shrugs with an easy smile, "gotta start somewhere, right?"

You shrug, staying silent as you both walk across campus. He comes to a stop, drawing your attention, "actually, I did really want to ask you... do you want to go out some time?"

"Ooh, first date as husband and wife?" You laugh with a wiggle of your brows.

"We have to start somewhere don't we?" Jaemin asks as his smile turns nervous.

You turn to him and notice how he seems less confident, nervous as he waits for her to answer. You reach for his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, "a date sounds really nice."

"Perfect, I'll text you, Pretty."

[demie90s]

That’s My Point Guard

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ PAIGE BUECKERS X READER ꒱ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST

MORE

⭑ pairing: Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

⭑ summary: You’re out on injury reserve, but that doesn’t stop you from showing up post-game in full team wife mode—flowers, smug energy, and a crowd full of cameras catching it all.

⭑ genre: Fluff, chaos, public affection, team teasing

⭑ warnings: Slight language, unserious behavior, light PDA

⭑ word count: ~ 0.7k

The post-game press conference room was buzzing. Reporters scrambled, flashbulbs clicked, and Paige was already seated front and center, still glowing—sweaty curls pinned back, legs crossed like she didn’t just drop 20 and 10. UConn had just taken a hard-fought win, and she was calm, collected, politely answering questions like a pro.

Until the door opened again.

A beat passed before everyone turned their heads.

You walked in slow—still in your tracksuit, knee brace visible but not slowing your stride. In your arms? A ridiculous bouquet of flowers—tulips, roses, something that looked expensive and loud. You wore your shades indoors like you had somewhere better to be, even though you knew damn well you cleared your whole schedule just for this.

The cameras clicked faster. Paige glanced up—and for the first time in twenty minutes, she cracked.

A half-smile pulled at her lips, subtle, but real.

One of the reporters whispered, “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” another muttered, lowering their mic. “That’s her.”

You didn’t bother asking for a mic. You just walked over and slid in next to Paige like the seat had been reserved. You dropped the flowers into her lap and leaned toward the mic like you were the one getting interviewed.

“Just wanted to say congrats to my girl,” you said, voice smooth, unmoved. “Twenty points, ten assists, four ankles snatched, one heart fully owned.”

The room howled.

Paige tilted her head and bit back a smile, looking down at the flowers like they were offensive. “You are so unserious.”

“And yet, I still showed up with gifts,” you grinned. “Unlike some of these people in here asking weak-ass questions.”

Coach Geno from the side, half in frame: “Seriously.”

The UConn media staff looked like they wanted to speak up, but didn’t. The reporters were losing it—some were laughing, others just recording silently like they’d struck gold.

One brave soul asked, “Y/N, how’s recovery going?”

You leaned into the mic again like it owed you rent. “God’s strongest soldier, baby. Still cute. Still loyal. Still watching from the bench like a jealous wife. Couldn’t let her slay on court and not show up.”

The crowd laughed again. Paige just sighed and shook her head. “Can someone please get her out of here?”

“No,” you answered, straight-faced. “I’m the morale coach now. I motivate. I hydrate. I show up pretty with flowers. That’s all that matters.”

Another reporter asked Paige, “How do you feel about having such strong sideline support?”

You didn’t let her answer.

“Let me handle this, baby.” You turned, still facing forward.

“She loves it. I keep her humble. Make her smoothies. Post her highlights with corny captions like ‘mine fr’ and ’anyone else breathing can stop now.’ I’m what they call crucial support.”

The UConn team Instagram immediately posted a story:

📸: Y/N crashes Paige’s post-game like a true sideline baddie.

💬: “Crucial support.”

Someone from the back mumbled, “This is why she shouldn’t be mic’d ever again.”

Meanwhile, your girl tried to hide her laugh behind her hand. You could see her biting the inside of her cheek to stay composed.

Another reporter—clearly one of the brave ones—asked, “So… is this official now?”

You tilted your head. “Was it not?”

Paige leaned into the mic, voice dry. “It’s always been official. She’s just loud about it.”

You smirked like you’d just won something. “And don’t you forget it.”

Across the gym, the rest of the team was already texting the group chat:

📱 Ice: “Mom and Dad are fighting again but like… cute fighting.”

📱 KK: “Can someone mute Y/N. She’s hijacking the whole media session.”

📱 Ayanna: “Paige better propose with a ring AND a press pass.”

📱 Jana: “I need what they have. Minus the sass. Maybe.”

Later that night, the clip of you sliding into that press seat would hit TikTok and rack up over 200k likes in less than two hours.

The top comments:

👤 @uconndynasty: “nah this is couple GOALS”

👤 @ballislove: “I want someone to crash my life with flowers like this.”

👤 @benchwarmbaddie: “Still watching from the bench like a jealous wife is the quote of the

[ijustwannabecool]

hello! i am absolutely enthralled with moments you wished you caught on camera - i've truthfully read it multiple times now 🥹 i just adore that fic!! i was wondering if you'd ever write smth similar for charles??

also!! i've just recently discovered your account & your fics are just amazing! i've already read the entirety of your max & charles masterlists (my favs🤭). thank you for blessing us all with your wonderful writing 🫶🏻 have a lovely day!

First of all I love you 🫶🏻!!! Thank you for your sweet message🥹 You asked and you shall receive. I hope you love it :)

Moments You Wish You Caught on Camera - Charles Version

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary…Six Strangers. Six ordinary places. One unforgettable couple. This is a collection of short, cinematic glimpses into Charles Leclerc’s life with the woman he’s loved beyond the track. Seen through the eyes of strangers who just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡

RESERVATION RUN-IN

— Nina, 24, new Ferrari junior marketing coordinator, still figuring out the cafeteria coffee machine, and definitely not ready for what she saw at dinner.

It was supposed to be a celebratory night.

Nina had survived her first week at Ferrari. Five whirlwind days of press releases, brand decks, and learning how to properly pronounce Scuderia. Her small onboarding cohort decided to treat themselves to dinner at a little tucked-away restaurant in Modena. A place so charming it made pasta feel sacred.

They had just started on their second round of drinks when Marco, the guy from media partnerships, nearly choked on his Aperol.

“Holy shit. Don’t look now. Or actually, look. Just not all at once.”

Too late.

Every head turned toward the restaurant entrance, where a man in soft navy trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt was stepping in with casual ease. Tousled brown curls, sun-kissed skin, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Charles Leclerc.

But it wasn’t the sighting itself that stunned them. It was the fact that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was tucked into his side, hand interlaced with his. Her long, sundress swayed slightly as they walked. She looked relaxed. Happy. Gorgeous.

Charles pulled out her chair for her, kissed her cheek before sitting down. Then, like it was habit, reached halfway across the table with an open palm. She placed hers on top without hesitation. Their wedding bands sparkled subtly in the candlelight.

“Is that his wife?” someone whispered.

“He’s married?!”

“I thought she was a model.”

“She looks…normal. Like us.”

But she didn’t look ordinary. Not to Charles. Not by the way he watched her talk, leaning in like every word was the only one worth hearing. Not by the way he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it was muscle memory.

Nina tried to focus on her gnocchi. Failed.

At one point, Y/N laughed, head tilted back, nose scrunched, full-body kind of joy. Charles mirrored it instantly, a low laugh that sounded nothing like the polite one he used in press conferences. This one was real. Unfiltered. Like he hadn’t laughed that way in weeks.

Their food arrived. They shared everything. He offered her a bite, raised an eyebrow when she took too much, then immediately forked over another taste. She stole his drink. He didn’t mind.

When she got up to use the restroom, a waiter tried to clear her plate.

Charles stopped him with a soft, “Non ancora. She’s coming back.”

A few minutes later, Nina herself bumped into Y/N by the sink.

“Oh! Sorry,” Y/N said immediately. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. You okay?”

Nina nodded, starstruck. “Yeah. You just…you look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled warmly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. I’m still getting used to wearing heels again.”

She complimented Nina’s dress before ducking into a stall. Completely normal. Completely kind.

Back at the table, the mood between Charles and Y/N had shifted. Softer. Closer.

Her fingers trailed along the stem of her wine glass. His hand rested low on the back of her chair. She leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his eyes darken instantly.

A beat later, he flagged down the server, dropped a stack of bills with zero ceremony, and stood to help her into her coat.

Their exit was quiet, but Nina caught it all—the way Charles held her hand like it was something sacred. The way he looked at her like no one else in the room mattered. The way her laugh floated back toward them as they disappeared through the door.

The table sat in stunned silence for a moment.

Then Marco muttered, “Forget TikTok edits. That was the real thing.”

And Nina, with stars in her eyes and a stupid grin on her face, finally took a sip of her now-warm wine and whispered, “I think I just witnessed a rom-com in real life.”

THE RAINY TRAIN RIDE TO MONACO

— Henri, 72, retired art teacher, hobbyist painter, and lifelong romantic with a sketchbook full of strangers.

The train rocked gently as rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm. Henri sat by the window, sketchpad in hand, capturing the silhouettes of the passengers around him.

He wasn’t looking for anything special. Just shapes. Light and shadow. Faces in thought.

But then he saw them.

A young couple seated across the aisle. The man in a navy sweater and loafers, his arm draped casually over the shoulders of the woman tucked into his side. She had her knees drawn up, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her head rested against his chest, eyes closed, their fingers lazily intertwined.

Henri watched them for a long while.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t scroll on phones. They just... were.

So he sketched. Quietly. Carefully. The tilt of her head, the curve of his hand on her hip, the ease in their closeness. Love looked different in every face he drew, but this one, it felt familiar.

When the conductor called out Monaco as the next stop, the man gently nudged the woman awake with a kiss to her temple. She stirred, blinking herself back into the world, then smiled up at him with a look that could warm marble.

Henri stood and approached them slowly, sketchbook in hand.

“Excuse me,” he said in accented English.

They looked up, surprised.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he continued, turning the book around to reveal the drawing. “You two... you reminded me of me and my wife. Many, many years ago. On this same train.”

Y/N blinked at the portrait. “Oh. Oh wow… this is beautiful.”

Charles smiled, touched. “Merci. That’s incredibly kind.”

Henri smiled back. “Hold on to each other. Make time to listen more than you speak. Kiss even when you’re tired. And never, ever stop choosing each other, even on the hard days.”

He handed them the sketch, carefully torn from the spiral binding. “You look like you’re just beginning something worth everything.”

They thanked him quietly as he returned to his seat.

When the train stopped, Charles tucked the drawing carefully into his bag. As they stepped onto the platform, the rain still gentle, Y/N looped her arm through his.

“That was lovely,” she said.

Charles nodded, a little quiet. “It was. I think I want to grow old like that.”

She looked up at him. “With me?”

He gave her a look so full of affection it made her chest ache. “Only with you.”

They walked on, the smell of rain in the air, hearts warm beneath their coats, a paper memory folded between them.

MEDIA DAY MADNESS

— Gianna, 31, freelance makeup artist, first Ferrari gig, not mentally prepared to witness Charles Leclerc in husband mode.

The media room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras, lights, clipboards, producers pacing like the fate of the universe rested on the exact timing of a five-second promo shot. Gianna was on her third espresso and her second emergency beauty blender, and it was only 9:12 a.m.

She wasn’t new to chaos. She’d done shoots for footballers, actors, even a royal once. But this, Formula 1 pre-season media day, was its own monster.

Her assignment: keep Charles Leclerc looking like he hadn’t just stepped off a red-eye from Monaco.

He was scheduled for his final touch-up after a round of interviews, but when the call sheet hit a ten-minute delay, Gianna found herself camped near the back hallway, grateful for the silence.

That’s when she heard laughter.

Not the stiff PR kind. The kind that made you want to smile even if you didn’t know the joke.

She glanced up just in time to see him.

Charles. Not in front of a camera. Not in fireproofs. Just… Charles. Hoodie pulled over his curls. One hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup, the other linked tightly with a woman walking beside him.

She was half-laughing, half-whispering something into his shoulder, and he was clearly trying (and failing) not to laugh back. It was the kind of laugh that made him bite his lip. Crinkle his eyes. Lean in like her words were gravity.

Y/N.

Gianna had heard her name floating around all morning. She wasn’t crew, but everyone knew she was coming.

The wife.

She didn’t expect her to be so… casual. In jeans and white sneakers, with her hair loosely tied and the kind of face that made natural look like magic.

They disappeared around the corner for a moment. When they reemerged, they were each holding a croissant, whispering like kids playing hooky.

Charles was smiling at her like there weren’t fifty cameras waiting. Like he didn’t have the weight of an entire nation on his back. Like nothing else existed.

When they passed by, Gianna tried not to stare.

Charles nodded politely. Y/N caught her gaze and smiled warmly.

“Sorry,” Y/N said, motioning toward the pastries. “We were on a very serious mission.”

“Vital carbs,” Charles added solemnly.

Gianna laughed. “Well, you look a lot more relaxed than everyone else here.”

Charles shrugged. “That’s her fault.”

He looked at Y/N like he meant it. Like that ten-minute delay had been a gift.

Back in the makeup chair minutes later, Gianna set to work while Charles scrolled through his phone.

“Can you hold still for just a sec?” she asked.

He nodded, put the phone down.

Gianna caught a glimpse of the screen as he locked it.

It was a photo.

Of Y/N. Wearing his hoodie. Holding the coffee she clearly didn’t want to share. Smiling at the camera like he was the only person who’d ever made her laugh that hard.

She didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

“You really love her.”

Charles blinked, surprised, then nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Gianna stepped back, brush in hand, heart weirdly full.

She’d done hundreds of faces. Watched hundreds of men step into their public personas. But in that quiet ten-minute window, she’d seen something else entirely.

Not Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari driver.

Just Charles. Someone’s husband. Someone who looked at his wife like she was the only peace he’d ever known.

Gianna made a mental note to text her sister:

You wouldn’t believe who I saw today. But more than that… you wouldn’t believe how he looked at her.

RAIN DELAY AT SILVERSTONE

— Freya, 22, student photographer, soaked to the bone, and emotionally unprepared for the Leclercs in the rain.

The sky had opened up over Silverstone in biblical proportions.

Freya was soaked, her camera strap sticking to her neck, her waterproof jacket failing miserably, and her feet dangerously close to pruning in her boots. The race had been delayed indefinitely, the grandstands were buzzing with energy and impatience, and umbrellas popped up like mushrooms across the paddock.

She was huddled under the eave of the Ferrari hospitality tent, trying to dry her lens, when she spotted them.

Charles Leclerc and his wife, walking hand in hand through the paddock like the rain had been invited.

No umbrella. No sprinting for cover. Just strolling.

Y/N was wearing an oversized Ferrari rain jacket—clearly his, if the way it swallowed her was anything to go by—and she kept tugging the hood back so she could look up at the sky.

Charles said something, and she laughed. Head thrown back, cheeks flushed, soaking wet and absolutely glowing.

Freya raised her camera instinctively. Not to shoot, not professionally. Just to remember.

Charles glanced up, spotted her, and offered a small smile. Not the PR smile. Not the podium smile.

Just… soft.

Y/N nudged him and whispered something.

He grinned. Turned toward her. Tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her.

Slow. Steady. Rain clinging to their lashes. The kind of kiss that looked like a thank you. Like a promise.

Freya’s heart thudded.

Later, she spotted them again near the garages. Y/N stood on the edge of the pit lane, arms wrapped around herself, watching the water pool across the tarmac.

Charles came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest.

“I always liked the rain,” he said quietly.

She leaned back. “Why?”

“Because it slows everything down. Even racing.”

She turned in his arms, pressed her forehead to his. “You hate slowing down.”

“Except for you,” he said.

Freya snapped the photo before she could second guess it.

Back home, she kept the shot for herself—framed it even. Because no one else needed to see it.

Not the fans. Not the sponsors. Not the media.

It wasn’t for them.

It was for the kind of love that didn’t need a checkered flag. Just a rain delay and the right person to walk slow with.

THE PLAYGROUND SURPRISE

— Clara, 27, nanny with a mild caffeine addiction and a wild 3-year-old charge, not expecting to make a new mom friend.

“Hi! Is this seat taken?”

Clara looked up from her iced coffee, blinking in the midday Monaco sun. A woman about her age was standing beside the park bench, a toddler on her hip and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Nope, you’re good!” Clara scooted over, wiping condensation from the bench.

“Thank you. I’m Y/N, and this little troublemaker is Colette.”

The toddler flashed a big grin, curls bouncing as she waved. “Hi!”

“I’m Clara. That chaos gremlin over there on the slide is Matteo. I nanny for his family.”

Y/N smiled wide, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. “God bless you. Seriously.”

“Right back at you,” Clara replied, amused.

As their kids played, they fell into easy conversation. Clara found herself surprised by how down-to-earth Y/N was. She swore like a sailor, offered Clara half her granola bar without asking, and immediately launched into a rant about the judgmental moms at the other park by the marina.

“Swear to God, if one more woman side-eyes Colette’s snacks or asks me if I’ve considered yoga for ‘postpartum toning,’ I’m going to fake my own death,” Y/N muttered.

Clara barked out a laugh. “Okay, where were you two months ago when I was trying to survive toddler teething alone?”

“Probably crying over a lost pacifier under the fridge,” Y/N replied without hesitation.

It was easy. Uncomplicated. Until Clara noticed the tote bag.

“Wait—is that the limited edition Gucci monogram tote?” she asked, eyes wide.

Y/N looked down, rolled her eyes fondly. “Unfortunately. My husband got it for me on ‘International Stay-at-Home Parent Day,’ which is fake, by the way. He just knows I yell if he buys me expensive stuff for no reason.”

Clara laughed but clocked the massive ring on Y/N’s finger next. It was gorgeous. Eye-watering.

Before she could say anything, Y/N’s phone buzzed. She picked it up without looking. “Hi, baby. Yeah. The park near the bakery. She’s on the slide in the pink overalls.”

Y/N hung up and looked at Clara. “My husband’s coming by. He has meetings later and wanted to see Colette before bedtime.”

“That’s really sweet,” Clara said, thinking of her own boss—who couldn’t be bothered to FaceTime.

Y/N just smiled, a bit dreamy. “Yeah. He’s really good to us.”

A few minutes later, Clara heard the soft rumble of a high-end engine pulling into the lot. She turned just in time to see a sleek Ferrari park like it belonged there.

Out stepped Charles Leclerc.

Clara froze.

Hair tousled, sunglasses on, casual hoodie and joggers like it wasn’t Monaco’s golden boy striding toward them. The man her employers followed like religion. The one with posters in every other shop window.

He didn’t glance at the bench. His eyes were on Colette.

“Hi, mon ange,” he called out. Colette squealed and sprinted toward him, launching into his arms. Charles lifted her with ease, doting and soft.

Y/N stood to greet him with a kiss. He tucked her into his side immediately, one hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to rub her back like it was second nature.

“Oh—Charles, this is Clara. We’ve been bonding over snack packs and judgmental moms.”

Clara tried not to choke. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Charles gave her a kind smile and nodded. “You’ve got the good bench spot. Shade always disappears by 4.”

They chatted a few minutes more. Colette returned to the jungle gym, this time with Charles trailing behind like her personal security.

Clara turned to Y/N, eyebrows high. “So… you’re married to Charles Leclerc?”

Y/N snorted. “I know. Doesn’t fit the vibe, right?”

“Honestly, you’re way cooler than I expected a Formula 1 wife to be.”

Y/N winked. “Don’t tell the other ones. They still think I know what a diffuser does.”

Clara would end up texting her sister that night: Met the love of Charles Leclerc’s life today. Spoiler alert: it’s not F1. It’s her.

THE STADIUM GLANCE

— Lina, 25, team hospitality staffer at Ferrari, trying to keep her head down… until she catches sight of the man who once changed her life.

Lina didn’t mind her job. She liked the behind-the-scenes chaos, the espresso machines, the rush of getting everything just right. What she didn’t like was how invisible it sometimes made her feel.

Except once.

One night after a long debrief, she’d been hiding in a tucked-away hallway outside the paddock garage, trying to stop herself from crying after her student loan payment failed to go through again.

“What’s wrong?” came a voice—calm, accented, quiet.

She looked up to find Charles Leclerc.

She was horrified. Embarrassed. Tried to brush it off.

But he stayed.

Asked again.

She broke. Told him everything in a flood of panicked breath: about school, money, her brother she helped support.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out his phone, typed for a moment, and told her to check her email.

There was a Ferrari scholarship grant in her name. Paid. Approved.

When she looked up, he was already walking away.

He never mentioned it again.

Lina never told a soul. She didn’t want to cheapen it by turning it into gossip.

----

Months later, Lina was at a Monaco football match with her cousin, box seats, courtesy of a friend of a friend. She wasn’t expecting much.

Until she saw the Ferrari suite next door.

Just two people inside.

Charles.

And a woman.

Y/N.

She’d never seen him like that.

Not on a podium. Not in the garage. Not in full sponsor-mode.

Just… soft.

Y/N was visibly pregnant, cradling her bump in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Charles had his arm slung over the back of her chair, pressed so close it looked like he’d never moved.

They laughed at something together. Y/N nudged him with her shoulder and leaned back against his chest. Charles responded by wrapping both arms around her middle and dropping his head onto her shoulder.

For a full five minutes, he didn’t move.

Just rubbed small circles over the fabric stretched across her belly. Pressed a kiss to her temple. Let her feed him bites of cotton candy like it was a Michelin-star meal.

Lina watched, heart caught in her throat.

At one point, Charles pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Y/N mid-laugh. He looked at it, smiled to himself, and locked the screen like it was something private. Sacred.

Lina had to blink back tears.

Toward the end of the match, Y/N looked sleepy. Charles helped her put on his jacket, held her hand while she stood, and tucked a hand under her belly with almost reverence as they exited the suite.

They never saw her watching.

But Lina never forgot.

She still has that grant email in her inbox. Still opens it on hard days. Not for the money.

But for what it meant:

There are still people who quietly show up when it matters most. And sometimes, they sit beside you in the stands, more in love than ever.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Dog Pawrents

pairing: post apocalyptic joel x wife reader

The snow had started falling just past noon, light flakes dusting the pine trees as you and Joel rode the patrol route north of Jackson. You were both bundled up in thick jackets, scarves tucked high, rifles strapped to your backs. The wind had teeth, but your horse, Daisy, kept a steady pace through the woods.

You looked over your shoulder and grinned. “You cold, old man?”

Joel snorted, tugging his scarf up. “I’m fine. You’re the one with ice in your damn eyelashes.”

“Adds to the look.”

He rolled his eyes but you caught the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

You’d been riding in comfortable silence for a while when a faint whimper broke through the sound of the wind.

Joel’s hand immediately went to the rifle strapped across his back, and you followed his lead, dismounting quietly and crouching beside him.

The whimper came again higher pitched this time, closer.

“Could be a trap,” he murmured.

You nodded, raising your rifle and stepping carefully toward the trees.

There, tangled in a patch of fallen branches, was a dog.

A scrappy, medium-sized mutt, matted fur dusted in snow. She was stuck her back leg caught between branches, paw twisted, tail curled between her legs.

You exhaled softly. “She’s hurt.”

Joel eyed the woods. “Could draw infected.”

“We’re far out. Quiet zone.” You stepped forward.

He sighed. “Y/N—”

“I’m not leaving her.”

He muttered something under his breath, but you could already hear him giving in. He always did, when it came to you.

You knelt beside the dog, murmuring softly, and she stilled, eyes wide and scared. You gently pried the branches off her leg, careful not to tug too hard, and Joel came up beside you with a strip of cloth from his saddlebag.

Once she was free, she limped straight into your arms, trembling.

You looked up at Joel with pleading eyes.

“We can’t just leave her.”

Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “We don’t even know if she’s got anything could be sick, could have fleas—”

“Then we clean her up. I’ll do it. Just… she needs a warm place, Joel.”

He met your eyes. Long pause. Deep sigh.

“Fine.”

Two weeks later, the mutt now named maggie was curled up in front of the fire at your cabin, wearing a knit sweater Ellie insisted on making for her.

Maggie had become a permanent fixture.

Joel pretended to hate it.

“She sheds everywhere,” he’d grumble, brushing dog hair off his flannel.

“She ate half my jerky.”

“She won’t stop followin’ me around.”

But every time you turned around, Joel was sneaking her extra bites of meat at dinner or rubbing behind her ears when he thought you weren’t looking.

One morning, you caught them both napping in his armchair maggie curled in his lap, Joel’s hand resting on her side.

You didn’t say a word. Just smiled to yourself and went back to boiling water for tea.

One night, after you fed maggie and tossed another log on the fire, you settled beside Joel on the couch, your legs draped over his lap.

“She loves you, y’know,” you said, sipping from your mug.

Joel snorted. “She loves whoever feeds her.”

“She follows you even when I’m the one holding the treats.”

He shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “She’s a good dog. Doesn’t bark much. Stays close. Smart.”

You tilted your head. “You’re soft for her.”

Joel grunted. “I’m soft for you. That’s the damn problem.”

Your heart swelled.

He reached over and rested his hand on your thigh, calloused fingers tracing idle shapes. Maggie snored softly by the hearth, and the snow tapped gently against the windowpane.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For letting me keep her.”

Joel looked at you, eyes warm.

“You could’ve brought home a baby goat, and I’d have found a way to make it work.”

You snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”

He leaned over and kissed your temple. “You keep savin’ things. Dogs. Me. Guess I gotta just keep lettin’ you.”

You smiled and curled into his side, heart full.

Outside, the world was still broken, dangerous.

But in your little cabin with Joel and your scruffy new companion, things finally felt like home.

The moment you scooped the injured dog into your arms on patrol, Joel knew you were going to try and keep it.

Snow dusted your lashes, your breath puffing in the cold air, and the scrappy little mutt whimpered once, then buried her head under your chin like she belonged there.

Joel sighed loudly behind you. “Y/N, c’mon.”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept holding her close, tucking her against your jacket. “She’s freezing. Her paw’s bleeding. I’m not leaving her out here, Joel.”

He muttered something under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me”but he was already pulling off his glove to help wrap the dog’s paw.

“You’re gonna carry her the whole way back to Jackson?” he asked as you gently passed the mutt into his arms while you mounted your horse.

“Yup.”

“And when she pisses all over the couch?”

“She’s a good girl. She won’t.”

“She’s got fleas, I can see her scratchin’ already—”

“We’ll give her a bath.”

“She better not touch my flannel.”

“She’s literally bleeding and you’re worried about a damn shirt?”

He grunted. “That’s my good shirt.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have two shirts, Joel.”

“Exactly. That’s half my wardrobe.”

Back in Jackson, it didn’t take long for Maggie to settle in.

Joel looked at you like you were deranged. “Beans? That’s what you’re callin’ her?”

“It fits. Look at her.”

“I’m lookin’, and I’m seein’ a walking pile of fur that’s gonna destroy my peace.”

But you saw the way he crouched next to her quietly the next morning, offering a few pieces of jerky while muttering, “You better not pee on my boots.”

Maggie loved him immediately.

She followed you, sure but she shadowed Joel. Sat by his side at dinner. Slept curled up outside the bathroom door when he showered. Waited by the window when he went on solo patrol.

You couldn’t help but smile whenever you saw them together.

One week later, you came home from your greenhouse shift to find Joel on the front porch, sitting on the steps with Maggie curled up beside him. His hand was resting on her head, thumb stroking just behind her ear in slow, easy circles.

You crossed your arms with a smirk. “You sure you don’t like her?”

Joel looked up, deadpan. “She ain’t my dog.”

“She literally follows you to the outhouse.”

“She’s your responsibility,” he grumbled, standing. “You better brush her, clean up after her, keep her outta my socks”

“Uh huh,” you interrupted, grinning. “But who gave her a bite of his sandwich today?”

“She was starin’ at me like I kicked her damn puppy.”

“She is the puppy.”

He huffed.

“Say it,” you teased.

“Say what?”

“You like her.”

“I tolerate her.”

“You love her.”

He narrowed his eyes, stepping close. “I love you, sweetheart. That dog? Jury’s still out.”

But then Maggie trotted up beside him, bumping her head against his leg, and he reached down without thinking to scratch behind her ears.

You caught it the barely-audible murmur as he looked down at her:

“There’s my girl.”

You gasped. “Joel Miller!”

“What?” he barked, already flustered.

“You do love her!”

“I was talkin’ to you,” he said gruffly, stepping around you to head inside.

You followed him in, laughing.

“You weren’t!”

“I was. You’re my girl.”

Maggie trotted after him, tail wagging.

“Then what does that make her?” you teased.

He turned, arching an eyebrow with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. She’s my girl too. You happy now?”

You stood in the kitchen doorway, smiling like sunshine. “The happiest.”

Joel looked at the two of you one sunshine-faced, the other scruffy and wagging and shook his head with the softest smile.

“God help me,” he muttered, pulling you into his arms. “I’m outnumbered.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Guess I wouldn’t.”

Later that night, Maggie snored softly at the foot of your bed. Joel was brushing your hair out of your face with calloused fingers, eyes already heavy with sleep.

“Love you,” you murmured.

His hand paused for a second before resuming.

“Love you more, darlin’. You and your damn dog.”

You grinned.

His damn dog, now.

[lazysoulwriter]

you’re my favorite drunk. - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: married!reader x Pedro, both tipsy, giggly affection, light teasing, forehead kisses, clingy love, slightly handsy Pedro, chaotic romance.

---

You were not supposed to get that drunk.

It started as a dinner with friends — nice, elegant, chill. One cocktail. Then two. Then Pedro ordered a bottle of wine with that stupid flirty grin he always used when he was up to no good.

Now here you were: walking home with him under the LA moonlight, both of you laughing too loud and clinging to each other like the sidewalk might disappear at any moment.

“You’re my wife,” Pedro slurred happily, eyes wide and sparkling. “My actual wife. That’s crazy.”

You laughed, clinging to his arm. “You’ve been calling me that for like four years.”

“I know, but it’s true,” he said, like it had just hit him. “You’re my wife. You married me. That’s so sexy of you.”

“Oh my god.”

“No, I’m serious,” he continued, grabbing your face with both hands. “You’re so hot and also my favorite person. Like, what a combo.”

You melted into laughter, leaning your forehead against his. “I think we’re both a little drunk.”

“I love when we’re drunk together,” he grinned. “We’re just like—two idiots in love. Just, like, holding hands and vibing.”

“Do you realize how loud you’re being?”

“Do you realize how pretty your mouth is when you talk back to me?”

You choked on air.

Pedro laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world, then kissed your cheek so loudly it echoed in the night.

Back at home, you both collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to change out of your fancy clothes. Pedro rolled toward you immediately, curling his body around yours like a clingy, flirty octopus.

“You smell so good,” he mumbled into your neck.

“Stop being horny,” you giggled, kicking your heels off.

“I’m being romantic,” he corrected. “Let me live.”

“You’re being obnoxious.”

“And you’re being irresistible,” he countered, pulling you closer until your legs tangled. “God, I love you. I love you so much I could cry.”

You looked at him — flushed, a little glassy-eyed, hair a mess — and smiled so hard it hurt.

“Do you wanna cry?”

“I might cry,” he sniffled dramatically, then pressed a hundred tiny kisses to your shoulder. “You’re just… my favorite thing.”

You wrapped your arms around him and kissed his forehead. “You’re mine too, Pedrito.”

The next morning, your heads would hurt and your throats would be dry — but the memory of drunk Pedro whispering “You’re my favorite drunk, mi amor” into your neck would be absolutely worth it.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[orphicsun]

Hear me out succubus!reader x sub!ellie

warnings: succubus!reader + sub!ellie, slight mentions of inhuman body traits (tongue, claws for nails), tribbing, oral sex (e! receiving)

Ellie knows it's wrong. It's wrong physically, mentally, morally, spiritually. It's wrong in all the ways that count. The predicament she has found herself in is downright terrifying, and it should make her feel similar to how someone must feel surrounded by great, thick patches of forest in the middle of the night with nothing but a dead flashlight and prayers. She should feel each bit of hair raise in the same direction the follicle it protrudes from, and part of her cannot deny the sinister feeling of summoning something so beyond fucked.

But you've got such a grip on her, it's a helpless cause to hope that she can ever feel normal again.

It's easily the third time this week, but she needs it. The craving feels so easy, naturally attained as water soothing the body's thirst. It makes her feel extreme and she finds herself sliding one, two, three fingers into her graciously wet hole, only to whimper helplessly on the brink of an orgasm she will never reach without your help.

It's tragic, really. Walking down the aisle to the love of her life someday, and yet on their honeymoon some place far away, a hotel and soft silk sheets with a poor girl who isn't aware of the ritual a once bored 19 year old Ellie did, Ellie will be stuck in a loop. She'll never be able to cum, no matter how hard she tries. Not to her own touch, not to her wife's, and you'll be long gone by then.

It's a fate she chose for herself, really. She signed the terms and conditions agreement.

But for now, you appear when she feels the need to be stuffed and stretched rise up below her waist.

"You said you'd try to hold out longer," you greet her directly into her ear, deceivingly honey-soft laughter bellowing from your chest. It never gets old, because Ellie jolts, looking around until she finds you in her room. She isn't used to this—a demon available to her whenever she even feels the least bit horny. Not that she is complaining.

"Yeah, well, I guess I've changed my mind." You don't stop to take her in, the boy shorts that hug her hips in a cotton embrace a sight gone to waste as you immediately peel them off of her wanton body. The t-shirt is soon to follow, and Ellie doesn't need to be told to lay down nice and comfortable only to be wrecked beyond comprehension by you.

You're already naked, always are. You're impatient and all of the above, and she doesn't complain. She is ridiculously horny, and unlike you, she doesn't have all the time in the world.

You encourage her legs to part and receive no backlash; then, you find your hips fit snug between them, the fat in the back of her thighs cushioning you like a perfect fit.

Ellie knows this isn't what sex should be, never as perfect as the kind you supply and yet so painful. It reminds her of ballet, in a twisted sense. It's painful and leaves her body and soul weary, but she doesn't take the time to recover, kin to the exhaustion of the dancer whose years of cracked soles amount to an art so refined in the process, it's nearly worth it all. For a ballerina, she thinks it is worth it all. She isn't so sure with you.

She is addicted to the art of being your prey, regardless.

But she needs it like a dosage of her favorite drug, and she lets her hands greedily roam the smooth expanse of your back, drawing patterns over your shoulder blades. She takes all she can get when she is beneath you.

"I can smell how horny you are from miles away, you know." Your tongue is filthy against her neck, each stroke you draw against her jugular sending dopamine through her veins and straight down to her beating clit.

"Please," she murmurs needily, shuddering when one of your leg hitch over hers, feeling your clit easily slide against hers. "Fuck, like that, please. Just like that."

"Good girl, aren't you? Just take it." Your hips rock against hers in a familiar rhythm, just how Ellie likes it. Beneath you, the girl is a babbling mess, whining about how good you fuck her. She is delirious, so much so that she grabs your hips to keep you firmly on her lap as she grinds up against you. It's not enough and somehow too much all the same.

"Fuck, can you please just eat me out?" Ellie blurts out between her panting.

"Aw, getting selfish now?" You coo condescendingly, leaning down to shove your tongue into her mouth. She moans around it and sucks on it, feeling your spit-tanged lips slot against hers in a mockery of a loving kiss. She'll accept it, though. She'll love it.

You break the kiss to lick down her body, pausing on your favorite places. You have sex with her for selfish purposes yourself, none of them really being out of lust, but you still have appreciation for her tits and won't miss the chance to take one into your mouth, attaching your lips to her nipple so you can swirl your tongue around the sensitive bud.

"Stop teasing," Ellie grits through her teeth, voice strained and yet the desperate lilt rises even higher when you giggle against her navel, your path clear.

As if she wasn't soaked enough, you spit on her clit, watching as the saliva rushes down her folds and past her perineum. She moans at the feeling. Your saliva is always oddly cooler than it should be, and as soon as you poke your tongue into her hole just barely, the hot muscle a sensory contrast, her pillow is greeted by the back of her head, her neck raised like an arch in overwhelming pleasure.

You always like to make it painful too, so much so that she craves it when you dig your clawed nails into her thighs as you spread them impossibly apart, and in more extreme cases, she begs you to wrap your fingers around her throat and take her breath from her lungs as she cums all over your free hand or pussy.

Before, it was teasing and had her desperate for more. However, the direct stimulation now has her nearly doubling back in overstimulation before her orgasm. You hold her to her words, though. Your tongue clits against her clit, and your tongue feels unlike any human one, roughly textured. You work against her pussy as if you have found a door into her mind and know just how she imagines her pleasure, drawing it out on her body before she can even begin to describe it to you.

When her orgasm crashes over her, your grip on her thighs shifts up to her hips, pinning her quivering body to the bed. Cries of pleasure tear from her throat so loud the neighbor could hear if he were home. Thank Goddess for the community pool he frequents daily in his speedo, because he won't be hearing his neighbor get her pussy eaten by the succubus she made the mistake of summoning.

It's not art, but you look down at her as if she is—her heaving chest, nipples and both lips coated in your spit, pussy leaking down onto the sheets, clit engorged and red, and scratches marks littering her thighs. It's sends power through you just to see the state you've left her from.

But like always, you're gone before she can even think of uttering a reaction. You stay for the feeding, and you've given her her end of the deal.

Ellie is beginning to think of this as a mistake she cannot undo, however.

taglist: @femme-tobe, @sulliefimmie, @klallx, @elliescoochieeater, @mytaping, @pryncess123, @therealhexstrap, @piercedome, @violetszn, @saturnhas82moons, @myfabulousnesshasarrived, @sawaagyapong, @prettyinpink69, @usuck, @s7nburn, @hellokittyfeenie, @ssijht, @starberr1, @ruevu, @ruelezz, @littlefallenangel111, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie, @human-cacti, @tphmnv, @hotpinkskitties, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @elliesngirl, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs,@vixxxen, @aceywaycy, @abbysbutch, @evoscancelled, @x0x0xkimara, @aviixol, @mysexy-anxiety want to be tagged? click here!

a/n: yeah idk how to feel about this but i'm trying to fully get over my burnout and this is a step!!

[charlesslut16]

-i am your husband, not your boyfriend!-

summary : you prank your husband, lewis, and call him your boyfriend in a tiktok

PAIRINGS : husband!ewis hamilton x wife!fem!reader

WARNINGS : none

note : I saw this on tiktok and i needed to write a story to it. I have another fic with a tiktok prank but i don't know if you will like it...

masterlist

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

You were already dressed and glowing when Lewis walked into the room, still buttoning his shirt like he had all the time in the world. You looked at him in the mirror , his sleeves rolled just right, the jeans that fit like they were tailored, that casual confidence he always carried without trying.

“Okay, you look good,” you said, biting your lip.

He smirked. “I know.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone, opening tiktok. Plannin on pranking lewis. You had seen a couple doing an outfit check while she did a prank on him. You found it hilarious, and you wanted to see what Lewis would say to this.

So the idea of pranking Lewis came into your head. You could just say you would film an outfit check without him noticing your prank idea immediately.

“Let’s do an outfit check before we leave.”

He shrugged and stepped up next to you in the mirror, glancing at his reflection like it owed him rent. You hit record, keeping your tone breezy and nonchalant.

“Outfit check,” you say into the camera. “I’m wearing this satin black dress, a little slit on the side, some heels, and gold hoops.”

You pan the camera over to him. “And my boyfriend is wearing a black button-up, fitted jeans, and his usual go-to sneakers.”

For a second, it’s quiet.

Then Lewis stops. His whole body pauses to think about what he just heard. He was confused and focused at the same time. Maybe he had just heard wrong. You did not just say he was your husband, right?

“… Boyfriend?” he says, squinting slightly, eyes darting to the camera, then to you.

You don’t break. You stay looking at the phone, nodding calmly. “Yeah. My boyfriend.”

He takes a full step back, blinks, and dramatically looks down at his hand — where his wedding ring is very much visible. The ring that was on his finger for a long time.

“Wow,” he says flatly. “Wow.”

You can feel the laugh rising, but you fight it. He’s already deep in his reaction. You loved Lewis's reactions, as they were either too dramatic or funny. 

“So this is what we’re doing now?” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Calling your husband your boyfriend like the last seven years didn’t happen?”

Still poker-faced, you shrug. “I mean, technically we’re dating.”

Lewis looks straight into the camera. “Technically, I gave you a whole last name.” He could not believe what was happening before his eyes. 

That cracks you up— you burst into a giggle. But Lewis is on a roll now. This was too hilarious to not laugh.

“I memorized your mom’s Starbucks order,” he adds. “I set up Wi-Fi in your grandma’s house. I’ve sat through baking shows I didn’t even understand.”

He starts pacing, wanting to say so many things at the same time. You are his wife. You are husband and wife; that wouldn't change. So why were you saying boyfriend?!

“Remember that Ikea trip? I built a dresser, and we’re still together. That’s husband-level loyalty.”

You’re laughing so hard now your mascara might not survive. How could this man be so serious and funny at the same time.“Okay, okay! I was just joking—TikTok trend! I swear!”

Lewis stops, stares you down with a half smile. So that was what was going on. You pranking him.“Nah. I see how it is.”

He grabs his phone, holds it up mock-seriously like he’s filming a follow-up. “Outfit check with my girlfriend, who apparently forgot we’re married. She’s wearing a dress she didn’t ask me to zip up and the earrings I bought her, but whatever.”

You tackle him in a hug to shut him up, still laughing. This man was the love of you life. You did not know whatyou were going to do without him.

He grins, finally letting it go. “You’re lucky you’re cute. But next time? Call me ‘husband.’ Or at least fiancé. Give me something to work with.”

He pulls you tightly into him and gives you a hungry kiss. A reminder of who you are to one another and what you will stay to another. But what he won't say is that the prank was a bit funny, to be honest.

He walked away but not without saying. ''Her boyfriend, my ass. I will never go back to that name.'' You heard and just giggled; you knew that he wasn't mad, not even a little bit.

''I love you, baby,'' you called after him, a big smile on your face.

''Yeah, yeah, love you too,'' Lewis said while rolling his eyes. How has this woman wrapped him so around her fingers? But he wouldn't change that. He loved you to pieces. You were his love and his wife. Forever.

[legalmente-loca]

congrats bb! so i wanted number 6 (Black Cat - Golden Retriever) w/ beau. beau is the golden retriever and reader is the black cat!! AND AGAIN YOU DESERVE ALL THE LIKES AND PRAISE!

Pairing: Golden Retriever!Beau Arlen x Black Cat!Reader

Legal's note: Thank you, my baby! Love you, love you, love you.

You were shopping at the store when you got separated. Beau swears it was five minutes, you swear it was fifty seconds.

“Where is she?” Beau murmured as he searched for you, lifting his head among the products to see if he could spot you. If someone looked up, you could clearly see Beau's head peeking out. “Excuse me, ma'am,” He approached a woman with a shopping cart. “Have you seen a woman this tall?” He raised his hand to your height and, seeing her shrug, he let out a sigh of despair. “Beautiful eyes, dark clothes, and kissable lips.” Seeing the poor woman's confused look, he shook his head. “No matter. Have a nice day.”

He continued walking briskly, calling your name, not loud enough for anyone to turn around, but not so low that it was a whisper.

“Come on, come on, come on...”

And then, like a flash of light, he saw your back. You were standing in front of the frozen food section, picking up a piece of food and looking at it. He breathed a sigh of relief and approached you, hugging you from behind. You jumped, almost hitting the person you thought was touching you like that, but you recognized Beau's arms and his warmth.

“Finally found you.” He turned you around and pointed at you. “Don't ever leave my side again, okay? I almost put out a warrant for your arrest.”

You raised an eyebrow at him.

“You left?”

Beau hesitated.

“Honey, that was like the longest, most excruciating five minutes of my life.”

You shrugged.

“Oh, I didn’t realize.”

You placed the item you had in the shopping cart and continued on your way, Beau following closely behind. He then grabbed a box of cereal and put it in the cart, but you immediately took it out and put it back in its place. This caused him to glare at you and grab the item again, putting it back in the cart.

“I said no.” You picked it up again and put it back on the shelf.

“Technically, you didn’t say anything. And besides, come on, I like this cereal.”

“It’s got too much sugar, and you’ll die of a heart attack while chasing a criminal.”

“I think my blood sugar is fine, darlin'.”

He took the box back, but you placed your hand over his. Then, he looked at you with puppy eyes, holding the box under his face.

“Don’t you dare use your puppy dog eyes on me, Beau.” But that only made him get worst. “Beau.” You said warningly.

But he didn’t stop. You sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

“Every time…” You nodded. “Fine, take it.”

Beau laughed triumphantly and proudly placed the box of cereal into the cart.

“Works every time. You can't resist me.”

“Stop gloating or I'll return it.”

“Okay, okay.” He cleared his throat and took the cart for you, wheeling it to the checkout. He set down the groceries and kissed the top of your head. “You know, you look more beautiful every day.”

“So that means the day we met I looked awful?”

His eyes widened.

“W-what? No, no, of course not.” He laughed nervously as the cashier swiped through the groceries. “I-I mean, you looked beautiful that day, you look even more beautiful today.”

“I don't think it's possible, there must be a limit.” You replied seriously.

“Baby, you look beautiful every day.” He said desperately.

You turned to look at him, a triumphant smile on your face.

“I know what you meant, just a little suffering might lower your blood sugar.” You winked at him and once the items were bagged and returned to the cart, you left, leaving him confused, but relieved.

He glanced at the cashier and pointed at you.

“Yep... That's my wife.”

The cashier nodded, not paying much attention to Beau, before watching him quickly walk past you so he wouldn't miss you again and take the cart back in his hands.

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[tainkirrahe]

okay humidity in my area is at 86% and I cannot sleep so: Belinda Chandra essay - spoilers for the entire season including Reality War as I rewatched all of S2 today for the finale so this is all still fresh in my head:

Belinda is introduced in Robot Revolution as a competent, hardworking nurse who loves her job and who, seventeen years previously, had the stones to tell a would-be controlling boyfriend to step off at an age where more vulnerable people may have become trapped in an unhealthy relationship. When the robots come for her she fights - verbally - all the way to Missbelindachandra and has a distinct "you cannot treat me like this" attitude with both the robots and the Doctor which forces the Doctor to change the way he acts towards her. In the dénouement of the episode she decides that she will sacrifice herself on the altar of marriage specifically to save an entire race of people - but then the moment she is given an out, the moment she sees Alan holding the certificate, she works out how to save herself and does so. She shows no pity for the guy who tried to force her into eternal marital servitude and the episode is clear that Alan is no great loss. She then tells the Doctor to knock his bullshit off and take her home - she is not interested in being anyone's property and just wants to go back to her normal life so she can carry on doing what she's passionate about. She's Queen Shit™.

In Lux she still has the clear goal of getting home but is willing to put aside her needs to help with the mystery of the missing people because she is as compassionate as she is strong. She sees someone suffering - the lady in the diner - and her instinct is to do whatever she needs to in order to resolve that person's pain. It's probably why she became a nurse. And in that episode she takes an active part in saving the Doctor, even if the action is taken from her by Mr. Pye to atone for what he'd done in allowing the people to stay trapped so he could be with his wife. Still Queen Shit! Still gets back on track the moment the situation is resolved! Get me home Doctor I got a job to go back to!

We then get The Well, in which she uses her skills as a nurse with Aliss to both fix up her arm but also put Aliss at ease. She shows that she's good at talking to patients, keeping them calm, and working methodically with medical tools even if she's unfamiliar with them. And when she spots the entity on two separate occasions she plays a balancing act of trying to keep her fear under control - aware that she's surrounded by soldiers with weapons - whilst also teasing information out of Aliss with her bedside manner. When the entity jumps to her she agrees with the decision to be shot to knock it off, rationally showing that she knows this is the only chance she has. Slightly less agency, but still strong character beats that shows she's in charge of herself.

Lucky Day doesn't give us much, and The Story & The Engine also doesn't have a role for her although the Doctor choosing to tell a story about her work as a nurse is a lovely moment - Fifteen acknowledging the importance of her job because he has seen how good at it she is. I still think Belinda feels like Belinda in these stories, and in Engine she is shown figuring out how to ask the TARDIS what is wrong and goes looking for the Doctor rather than staying put in the only spaceship that can take her home. She still has the initiative to nudge the narrative along. She's still Queen Shit! Just less of her.

And then we get Interstellar Song Contest which is a badly written episode in its own right, and the first episode where to me she stops feeling like Belinda and her writing becomes...jarring. She's horrified by the Doctor's violent side, it's her horror that gets him to stop...then she immediately hugs him and is like :) yay I am glad we are friends again :) you're so wonderful!! and we see that strong independent Belinda from just two episodes ago is...gone. This wasn't written by RTD but he did have final approval over scripts and could have given notes to fix her, but on the whole, okay, the episode is inconsequential to the broader story of the season barring Graham Norton saying the Earth exploded and The Rani bi-generating, both of which had nothing to do with the events of the episode proper.

Wish World starts off suitably jarring, showing a housewife with Belinda's face who acts nothing like Belinda for 90% of the episode. The only two scenes that feel like her are when she questions giving birth to Poppy, and the scene immediately after this where she runs into the woods because she is so horrified by this new reality that she screams in agony at the life she's been forced into all whilst being unaware as to why exactly she feels this way. The episode makes it very, very clear that Belinda is hurting. She's hurting at being left at home to play house; she's hurting that there's something up with her husband she can't place; she's hurting when the two most important women in her life (her mother and grandmother) tell her to her face that she will never be anything more than a wife and that this is the only thing she can wish for her daughter as well. This should have been the part where Belinda woke up, or started to. When she saw Fifteen doing the table trick with the mugs she definitely should have started to doubt, because that's what Belinda from episodes 1-6 would have done - the Belinda who saved herself from Alan, the Belinda who loved a good mystery, the Belinda who had no time for the Doctor's nonsense. But...she doesn't. She calls The Gay Police on her husband and spends the rest of the episode with a :( face yelling that she's married to the Doctor and has a kid and those are her only two concerns. She doesn't even seem to care that she has been arrested, her only concerns are for John Smith and Poppy. She's become a shell, and initially I thought she was written that way to show just how monstrous the wish world is but then...

...we hit Reality War, and Belinda is, quite frankly, brutally murdered on screen before our very eyes. The Belinda in Reality War never gets to be angry at what was done to her. She never gets to take part in any of the action. She never gets to have a single thought about herself or what is happening to her: the only thing she cares about from the first minute she's on screen is the toddler that an alt-right grifter stapled to her in his mummy fetish Daily Mail fantasy land. And even worse, the Doctor also now sees her as only being Poppy's mum. Not the brilliant woman that he has been trying to get home for seven episodes. Not a nurse. Not a companion. Not even a person at all. Not horrified that he was forced into a non-consensual relationship with someone whilst they were both brainwashed. To Fifteen Belinda is Poppy's incubator/babysitter and nothing else; he literally puts her in a soundproof box to remove her from being able to take any part in saving the day.

And then somehow it gets worse. Not only does Belinda have to suffer the indignity of having every single one of her character traits ripped away from her, not only does she spend her last episode we will ever see her in being trapped in a literal box with nothing to do, but she now also has her entire fucking identity and past overwritten on the whim of the Doctor. The guy who has gone around for an hour telling everyone he can't have kids, and the resolution for this is that Belinda must therefore have his child for him. And she must be happy about this. And we, as the audience, must also be happy about this: this is a good and happy ending, coming on the heels of an episode whose central premise is how horrifying it would be to wake up one day in a world where someone else tells you who you have to be, and having the Doctor's big scene be him rejecting masculine gender roles by changing his clothes and attitude, all whilst pummelling Belinda into a box and saying: you're a woman. This is what you want. Aren't you happy you now have your baby? And having Belinda smile through it all and act like having her independence deleted is the greatest thing in the world.

All set to inspiring music as Fifteen rides off into the sunset - because, you see, Fifteen can ride off into the sunset. He's had the kid he wants, he's shoved it into the arms of a woman to look after whilst he gets to go off and have fun adventures. He's technically a dad even if the baby is no longer his, yaaaay! Belinda even gets a moment to look wistful when talking about how she would have loved to see Neptune, but she now can't, because Fifteen wanted a kid and she's now stuck at home with the consequences of his choice.

Russell T Davies looked at the first black male Doctor and said "yeah, I'm gonna finish his season by having him not show up for the kid he wanted lmao" and in doing so also wrote a narrative in which a smart, driven, feisty, confident woman got squashed into a box and told she can't be anything more than her reproductive ability.

I hate this.

[ovulatingonna]

Title: “Territory Wars”

Pairing: Juju Watkins x fem!reader

Featuring: Jayla, their four year old daughter

POV: 2nd Person (You)

⸻

Warnings:

⭑ Pure fluff & family cuteness

⭑ Light emotional manipulation (by a toddler )

⭑ Playful jealousy

⭑ Reader beefing with a toddler

⭑ Juju being the softest mom ever

⸻

Summary: All you wanted was some cuddles with your wife during weekend family nap time, but your four-year-old daughter Jayla had other plans—and other priorities. Specifically, Juju. Jayla was not one to share, and as usual, she wasn’t above starting a little drama if it meant staying glued to her favorite person in the world. Unfortunately, that person used to be you. Used to.

⸻

📝 Author’s Note: If you want me to make this a series say the word 💞.

⸻

Saturdays were for cartoons, waffles, and family naps in the biggest bed in the house.

You were freshly showered, robe tied loose, hair wrapped, ready to claim your rightful spot on Juju’s chest, the same spot you laid on back in college after games, before Jayla came along and turned your duo into a trio. And now?

Now you had competition.

Because currently, your four-year-old daughter was starfished across Juju’s chest, knocked out like she paid the rent in cuddles and wasn’t moving anytime soon.

You stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. “…Seriously?” Juju looked up at you, grinning. “You coming or just gonna pout?”

“I was coming,” you said dramatically, climbing in. “But somebody keeps stealing my wife.”Jayla stirred immediately. Eyelids heavy. But she heard you.

“No,” she mumbled, voice muffled against Juju’s tank top. “My mommy.” She sassed. You gasped, hand to heart. “Excuse me? Move out my spot.”

Jayla barely lifted her head, eyes squinting at you like you were the IRS. “You move.”

You blinked. “Girl, what?”

And before you could even prepare, she used one tiny palm to try and mush you off Juju’s chest. Not hard, but hard enough to send a message.

Juju cackled under her breath.

“She got this little arm strength,” you muttered, scooting back slightly, half for drama. “But I had you first.”

“Nooo,” Jayla whined, starting to wake up for real. “Mama stop!”

Her little face started crumbling, tears pooling like betrayal lived in her tear ducts. Juju sat up immediately. “Okay, okay,” she soothed.

“Chill, mama.” Juju shot you a look—the mom look. The “stop playing before she really starts crying and you get us both in trouble” look. You held up your hands like a suspect. “She pushed me. I’m the victim!”

Jayla sniffled.

“Alright, come here,” Juju said gently, lifting her up with practiced ease. Jayla instantly melted into her neck, arms looped tight around Juju’s shoulders like she needed to be surgically reattached.

Juju rubbed her back, her voice all soft and gently. “She got you messed up, huh? It’s okay. Mommy got you. We don’t gotta deal with the hater.”

You sat up, jaw dropped. “Hater??”

Juju smirked as she backed toward the door. “Maybe next nap, baby.” Jayla peeked at you over her shoulder, face still scrunched and teary, but smug. She had won.

You whispered, “Traitor.”

Juju blew you a kiss and walked out, whispering to Jayla, “Let’s go get some juice and leave mama to think about her actions.”

You flopped back on the bed dramatically.

Alone.

Defeated.

⸻

[muppetghost]

I don’t normally yap this much on tumblr tbh but I have a lot to say about this in particular so uh,, readmore lol

first, thank you for making your original post!! it was exciting for me to see that someone else remembered this site (which meant i hadnt made it up lmao) and wanted to find it (which gave me a boost in the drive to search!)

id been looking for this site for years myself, telling my wife about it and getting as detailed as i could in case any spare memory could help either of us find it. the art style isn’t exactly as i remembered it, but it was always the writing style that had stuck more firmly with me anyway. and that’s how i ended up finding it!

im always curious what the Magic Words were whenever someone rediscovers old media they had been searching for, so here’s mine: “geocities quiz results page”

i scrolled through old personal geocities sites that had quiz result pages and put every single non-quizilla link through the wayback until things started looking familiar. i ended up finding a site that had mostly anime related “which character are you” results, but a busted image and link to a “what kind of villain are you” quiz. that sounded like one they used to have on the site i was looking for, and when i clicked through and started reading the ADRENALINE rush oh my godddd,, i recognized the writing immediately. the storytelling structure of the questions and the through lines in the answers that follow different “characters” throughout the same narrative event… and at the end you get a fun little personality result and an image to go with it!

it’s crazy to hear the artist passed. heartbreaking for the obvious reasons, but also because 2009 would’ve been only one year after i graduated and stopped engaging with her work. i lost track of all my hobbies from high school, otherwise I would’ve known all along. how sad, but how amazing that we’re here, still thinking about her and what she’d created. how wonderful friends and family have done this work so that people like us, no matter how many or how few, have an archive to enjoy.

i retook my favorite quiz for fun after all these years—the one where a group of friends go camping, which we both mistakenly remembered as being an element quiz but is actually “what kind of mage are you” haha. here’s my result; I’d love it if anyone who happens across this post were to go take this particular quiz and share the results 💚

Really weird post stick with me-

Do any of y'all remember a website like, early 2000's ish that probably had a webcomic but also had quizzes on it? It was all made by one person but I remember two of their quizzes were "What kind of angel are you" and a "what element are you" quiz

And I remember the element one specifically was like, a quiz where all of your options were clearly the same group of people all going on a camping trip and it rained and one friend tried to prank the group by pretending to be a killer or they pretended to die or something, but your choices were really you just deciding which friend you were in each situation

I just remember the person who made the quizzes also drew all the art for the results and as a kid I thought it was really pretty but can't for the life of me find the site now so it might not even be up anymore? But hey doesn't hurt to see if anyone else remembers this

[thecubspeaks]

This is Gale’s hour; Gale’s place, Gale’s people, Gale’s party. A welcome home to the prodigal son, who is worth something to them again. The thought sparks a pit of burning bile in Izar’s stomach, a fury she can no longer tell herself belongs to Bhaal.

For the first hour or so she clings to Gale’s arm, a perfect pair in their so carefully chosen complementing but not too-matched silks, and nodded along while the other masters of Blackstaff Academy and their partners took in the new curiosities, Gale the remade Chosen of Mystra and his wholly unWaterdhavian maybe-wife. She stoically bears their scrutiny, the sideways flick of their interlocutors’ eyes as Gale speaks.

But it’s Gale’s day, and he deserves undivided attention, so she excuses herself and takes up position by the wall, where the dancing lights that bathe the room in elegant, muted tones cast a bit more of a concealing shadow.

She holds a glass of wine she doesn’t drink and tries to imagine she’s back at camp, back in the taproom of the Elfsong, tucked away and watching and at ease in her place a step outside. None of the stabbing self-consciousness she feels now in this outfit she chose so carefully and now somehow feels utterly wrong. Not filling the hollow conversations she overhears at these arrogant, useless people who left Gale to die alone in his tower, who trained him to think he’s worth only as much as his magic.

“Izar.”

Gale’s voice pulls her back to herself as it always does, and seeing his bright, contented expression, she has to wonder on whose behalf she’s actually so angry.

A little crease of concern appears between his brows. “Shall we go?”

“No,” Izar says immediately, and Gale can’t quite hide the flash of relief that passes over his face. “I’m fine. You enjoy yourself.”

His smile returns. “Shall we dance?”

An incredulous laugh escapes before Izar can stop it. “Sorry. I just—I have no idea how.”

“Not all the dances are complicated,” Gale says. “And you’re graceful, with a sharp eye. You’ll pick up what you need to.”

“I…” She takes a breath. Sees how badly he wants this. “Alright. But it has to be an easy one.”

Gale offers a playful bow of acknowledgement and Izar rolls her eyes as he bounds off to have a word with the band. She watches him get pulled into a longer conversation—pull himself, rather, seeming to ask some question or other of one of the musicians, which naturally gives rise to a follow-up, then another—

She’s feeling too fond to be irritated by the time he comes back, deliberately slowing his step so he can arrive and offer her his hand with a sweeping bow just as the music begins. Izar takes his hand. No one’s really looking, she realizes, as he leads her out to join the other couples on the dance floor. This is an ordinary thing to do; an ordinary couple.

“Step on the beat,” he says, “and follow my lead.”

“What does that mean,” she mutters, but they’re off, his hand at her waist guiding her which direction to go. She stumbles after him for a measure or two, but she’s sure-footed when her battered brain isn’t betraying her, and it feels—natural, to move to the sound of the music, to let Gale lead and guide her in his wake. She can feel how, with practice, it would not be such lead-and-follow; they would move as one, the pulse of the music the heartbeat of their joined body—step, turn, shift, with a single, unthinking mind.

And they can get there. They have time. They have their whole lives.

For now, she lets Gale hold her, show her. The press of his hand at the small of her back; the squeeze of his fingers, their palms cupped together. The smell of his perfume and of himself beneath that. His eyes, his smile. Happy to be here. Happy to be.

[holdmytesseract]

moodboard by @chennqingg | divider by @jiyascepter

The Bond We Share

Jotun!King!Loki x fem!Æsir!Queen!Reader

Summary: Away on a hunt, the King of Jotunheim feels his primal instincts kicking in and telling him that his wife is in need of him. Of course, he can't help himself but to follow his instinct...

Warnings: fluff! mentions of hunting, sickness (flu), Loki's primal instincts, slight thirst

Word Count: 1,5k

a/n: You chose it, guys, you get it. I'm a woman of my word. 🤗 Personally, I absolutely love this lil' fic. I hope y'all do, too!

Ice Flower AU Masterlist ❄ Loki Masterlist ❄ Masterlist

"Are you quite alright, your majesty?" Ymir - the leader of the kingdom's army, one of the king's advisors, most loyal friend and hunting partner spoke up; concern lacing his voice. Both Jotun men were seated upon two male wolves - white as snow, thick fur and majestically looking; used by the giants as riding animals. A lot of other kingly huntsmen were not far; most of them sharpening their weapons, sitting around the huge campfire or preparing the hunted animals for transport. Winter was upon Jotunheim and the men out in the rocky, vast uplands; hunting. As the king of Jotunheim, it was upon Loki to make sure his people were fed through the harsh, cold winter months.

The king gave his friend a nod. "Yes. Do not worry. I'm well. It's just..." Loki inhaled deeply and let his ruby eyes wander over the clearance. "My instincts, Ymir... They tell me something is wrong with my mate. I can't shake the nagging feeling that I should return to my wife..." "Well..." Ymir spoke; adjusting his position on the majestic wolf he was seated on and hugged the fur draped over his shoulders tighter. "I would advise your majesty to return to the palace then. You share an unbreakable bond with your mate, my king, and if it speaks to you, you should listen to it. Return to the queen." Loki nodded; the uneasy feeling within him not ceasing. "I trust you to bring our men and the meat which will nourish our people in the upcoming months safely back to the palace, Ymir. You're my best man." The warrior lowered his head in an obeying bow. "Of course, my king." "Good. I'll take my leave then. I expect your arrival in three days. If you're not back by then, I'll send a group of men to search for you."

The warrior gave the king a nod. "Be careful, your majesty." Loki smiled and reached over to clap Ymir on the shoulder, "Don't worry about me. I can defend myself if necessary." before he adjusted the sword on his back and gently nudged the sides of the beautiful animal beneath him. "Come on, Fenrir. Let's head home." The wolf growled lowly and started to move; carrying Loki with ease.

It took the pair one night and one day to get back to the palace. They had gone far this time on the hunt. However, Loki arrived home safely; several stable boys and guards already awaiting him at the stone gates, which got opened for him immediately, of course.

Loki dismounted the stunning wolf and affectionately petted the forehead and furry neck as a praise for carrying his weight all those days. While the stable boys took care of the faithful wolf, four guards immediately ran to stand at their king's side. "Your majesty is back earlier than anticipated. Are you alright, my king?" Asked one guard. "Did something happen on the hunt?" Ask another one; all of them trying to keep up with Loki's quick pace. "All is well." He immediately waved them off. "I just wish to see the queen and make sure she is alright." One of the guards swallowed. "Yes.. About the queen... You should have a word with her maids and healers." The guards words immediately caused the king to stop dead in his movements; a frown of worry etched on his face. His instincts weren't betraying him. Something was wrong...

You were snuggled up in your marital bed; a ton of blankets and furs trying to keep your shivering body warm. Everything was aching; head foggy, nose clogged and throat burning like fire. A very nasty flu had you in its grasp since a few days; not letting you go just yet. You were halfway asleep when a knock against the wooden door of your chambers ripped you harshly out of your slightly delusional state. "Y-Yes?" You managed to croak out; fighting hard to peel your eyes open. One of your personal guards stepped inside. "My queen. Apologies for the disturbance, but I'm here to inform you, that the king has re-" The guard wasn't even able to finish his sentence, as quick, powerful steps came closer. Only a few seconds later appeared Loki in the door frame. "My queen!"

You blinked; still trying to fully open your tired eyes, but when you heard your husband's voice, you were suddenly wide awake. "L-Loki?" The king didn't waste even a second and stormed over to the bed; silently addressing the guard on his way and commanded him to leave. The Jotun instantly obeyed and left the royal chambers; silently closing the door behind him.

"Flower...," Loki spoke in a soft, hushed voice and knelt down beside the bed; immediately reaching for your hand. "Your maids and healers informed me of your sickness. Apologies, wife of mine. I should've been here earlier..." You shook your head at his words; eyelids drooping. "No, love. Don't be sorry, please," you mumbled. "Why are you here anyway? You shouldn't be back yet, should you?" "My instincts, Flower," Loki explained with a soft smile upon his azure lips. "My inner Jotun signalled me that something is wrong, and that I should return home to you - and I was proven right. It was wise to follow my primal self."

You smiled - albeit a bit dopey and felt your husband's big hands softly squeezing your cold hands. "You didn't have to do that for me, you know... I'm in good hands." The king nodded; a few strands of long raven locks falling into his chiselled face. "Yes, my queen, I'm very aware of that. You are in good hands. By the Norns, I demand for you to be in good hands, but... I'm your husband... It is upon myself to take care of you - and I cannot fight my primal needs to do just that."

You couldn't help but smile again. "Thank you, my king." And you also couldn't deny that you were indeed happy that he was back - safe and sound. You had missed him dearly. He reciprocated your smile and leaned forwards to press a soft kiss against your forehead. "Norns, Flower... You're burning up..." You nodded; feeling your skin getting sweaty - and yet you felt like freezing to death. "The healers already gave me some medicine." "Good. That's good." Loki cupped your cheek in one palm; caressing your skin tenderly. "Have you eaten, my love? Shall I go to the kitchens and fetch you something?" Now you shook your head. "No, please. I'm not really hungry." Your husband gave you a worried look, but didn't push this any further, of course. "Is there something else you need? Water? A cool towel?" "No, just you and a few more blankets perhaps?"

Loki's eyes travelled over your thickly wrapped body. "Are you still cold?" You nodded; teeth clattering slightly. "No need for blankets, Flower. I'll join you and keep you warm." Before you were even able to argue, your husband had already risen to his feet again, went straight to the door to tell the patrolling guards outside that the king and queen were going to retire for the night. Once that was done, he quietly closed the door and made sure that the fire in the fireplace was still roaring and keeping your shared chambers warm.

You had already been halfway asleep again, when you heard the soft clattering of the leathery back holster Loki had worn. It caused you to peel open your tired eyes again - just in time to witness your husband shedding himself of his hunting attire. The heavy fur draped around his shoulders and muscular upper body, followed by his boots and thick loincloth. Your fever managed to influence your perception and got you quite a bit... delusional. Therefore, you couldn't help but to bite your lip and shamelessly ogle your husband; suddenly wide awake again. You watched him move around the room, before he made his way over; wearing nothing but a pair of underpants and slipped underneath the sheets to join you; immediately pulling you against his tall, strong body.

You rested your head on his chest; hand resting on the rippling muscles of his stomach. "Better, Flower?" "Mhh," you hummed and let your hand travel lower, until you reached the hem of his shorts. "But I know something which would warm me up even more," you giggled; definitely feeling woozy. "Ah.Ah." Loki immediately reached for your hand and slipped his fingers through yours. "No, my queen. You are sick and this is the fever talking. You have to rest," he spoke in a soft voice and brought your hand up press a lingering kiss against your knuckles. "Now get some sleep. I'll keep you safe and warm, I promise."

You smiled and nuzzled his bare pec; cuddling even closer against him. "Mhm... I love you, my king." "And I love you, Flower. Now hush." You let your eyelids slip shut then; finally giving into your body's raging urge to sleep.

And Loki kept his promise, of course.

Tags: @eleniblue @muddyorbsblr @mochie85 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jaidenhawke @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @multifandom-worlds @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @huntedmusicgardenn @lokiforever @fictive-sl0th @lokisgoodgirl @smolvenger @hisredheadedgoddess28 @icytrickster17 @chennqingg @glitchquake @princess-ofthe-pages @crimson25 @elegantcheesecakecrown @buttercupcookies-blog @mypainischronicbutmyassisiconic @herdetectivetheorist @loz-3 @brokenpoetliz @km-ffluv @stupidthoughtsinwriting @jennyggggrrr @lady-rose-moon @lovingchoices14 @salvinaa @irishhappiness @sheris532 @princessdragon23 @xxannyxx @kimanne723 @mandywholock1980 @the-holy-trinity-l @loki-laufeyson223 @vbecker10 @buttercupcookies-blog

[cursed-spectre]

Spectre looks like the wind was taken out of her immediately.

"Thank god," she says with a smile.

She can't stop herself from crushing Tera in a hug, and almost sounds like she might cry. Then arms still wrapped around her wife, she looks at the red eyelights they managed to save.

"How's my little survivor, huh?"

Spectre comes up to Tera as she's about to go on patrol.

"You think I could join you? That separation thing with Mirror made me realize I... don't actually know that much about certain parts of you. I want to fix that, if you'll have me."

"Hm?" She's strapping her spear to her back as she's asked, her eyelights grow bright. "Y-Yeah! Please. I'd enjoy the company."

Awww... am I not good enough?

"You don't count." She growls at herself before grumbling. "That was supposed to be internal... that was for Mirror."

[cebwrites]

YOUR OC IS SO BEAUTIFUL HOLY SHIT

Thank you anon! Ain't they purdy <33