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sinofwriting · 7 days

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I ❤️ MILFS - Max Verstappen

Words: 9,747 Summary: Max wasn’t too sure who the woman was that was always with Logan, but he was sure that he wanted to get to know her. Note(s): Sargeant Reader, Age Gap, Older!Reader, Logan and Oscar are both 20 during the 2023 season, not 22. The 2023 driver standings are different (I am giving Logan the season he should have had). Reader has the nickname Pan (short for momma panther). Logan is sweetheart, Max is head over heels in love. I’m gonna be honest I never thought this fic would get written or finished. I got the idea for it back in December but only started writing it on March 16th. And it would have never happened without @burningcupcakefire & @pucksandpower. Thank you both so much for all your help. (also if anyone wants to see more of Max and Pan, let me know)

Taglist | Masterlist | Emergency Dental Fund

Max remembers the announcement of Oscar’s arrival to F1, the drama and hilarity of it. Sometimes he sees the kids name and has to stop himself from laughing. No nineteen-year-old had any business being that funny.

Max doesn’t remember much of Logan’s announcement to F1. Only that he was young as well, being the first American in forever, and Williams' quick admission that they hadn’t wanted to sign, had wanted to wait another year.

He wishes now that he had paid more attention.

There’s a woman standing in the William’s garage, on Logan’s side. She’s clearly there for him, with the similar pass that his trainer has around her neck, and the way her eyes intently follow Logan’s movements around the garage as he talks to the mechanics and engineers.

She also happens to be the most beautiful woman Max has ever seen.

—

She can’t help but clutch at Benny’s arm the whole race, terror gripping her along with pride.

Benny chuckles when the race comes to an end, Logan doing his cooldown lap and she finally lets go. “And just think you’ve got over twenty more races of this.” Her nose wrinkle and a hand goes over her heart that’s thudding. “Please, Benny.” He chuckles again but pats her shoulder. “You’ve got this.” “Not gonna tell me it gets easier?” He snorts. “No. This is far worse than F2 or F3 and we still were both scared watching him out there. We’ll never know a day of peace now.”

She sighs, watching the screens as it shows the top three getting interviewed and in the background you can see some of the drivers getting weighed. “He’s going to be sore and in pain.” It makes something clench inside her, the knowledge that Logan would be in pain. It was part of the job, the aches and the bruises, but it didn’t make it any easier for her to know. “I’ve already got everything set up as soon as he’s back and debriefs are done.”

Her eyes catch on the screen showing where all the drivers placed and tears prick her eyes and she shakes her head. “Twelfth in his first grand prix. I can’t believe it.”

The garage is filled with chatter as the team celebrates getting their first points of the season and their rookie driver performing better than they expected. The way they don’t even try to whisper it makes her jaw twitch. She was grateful that Williams was giving Logan his dream, but she didn’t like how they were going about it. Quickly and publicly stating that they didn’t want to sign Logan yet, wanted to wait a year. And now this.

A light nudge to her ribs makes her unclench her jaw and she gives Benny a grateful smile.

Both of their attention is quickly drawn however to the two Williams drivers entering the garage, the space filling with cheers.

She smiles as Logan grins at the team, basking in the smiles they have on their faces for him and Alex, the pats on the back he’s getting. The grin turns to a beam when he spots Benny and her and he quickly bounces over to them.

A laugh leaves her at the way Benny pulls him into a bear hug, lifting him off his feet a little. “Proud of you, kid.” He murmurs. She can’t hear what Logan says, but he’s put down and it’s her turn.

She wants to bundle him up in her arms, hold him and not let go, but doesn’t want to embarrass him in front of his team, so she raises a hand and pushes his hair out of his face. “You did amazing, baby.” He smiles at her, all bright and shiny eyes and then he’s wrapping his arms around her, hugging her tight and she’s quick to return it, rubbing his back. “You did so good, Logan. So good. I’m so proud.” She tells him again, pressing a kiss to his sweaty head. “Thank you, momma.” He tells her, hugging her tight for another moment before letting her go. She smiles up at him and god, that makes her heart ache. Her son, her baby, taller than her somehow. She woke up some days and still wasn’t sure where the time had gone and how he was taller than her shoulders. “Go shower and debrief and then Benny and me will take care of you, yeah? And I’ll get your favorite ordered to the hotel, ready as soon as you get there.” He beams at her again, darting forward to press a quick to her cheek before starting to rush away. “Best mom ever!” He calls over his shoulder and she laughs.

—

Y/N Sargeant will never forget the first time she held her son, only then at nine years old, he had been her cousin.

Logan was small, wrinkly, pink skin, and full of small cries. She could remember staring at him with furrowed eyebrows, trying to understand how he could be what her baby dolls were made to be like. She remembers her mama having her sit on the couch after asking her if she wanted to hold him and how she had quickly nodded, hoping that maybe holding him would somehow make him look better.

She remembers the sudden nerves that built in her stomach as her mama started to hand him to her. Remembers being scared that she would drop him, remembers thinking how stupid it would be if he was still weird to look at like this.

And she remembers finally holding that and it disappearing. His small cries, no more, his wriggling calmed down, and his wrinkles no longer looked weird but cute. She remembers holding him for the first time and feeling unconditional love for the first time in her life.

—

She’s twelve when she realizes that her uncle and aunt don’t like Logan much. It didn’t make sense to her then, still doesn’t know. Because they liked Dalton just fine, but not Logan.

She remembers asking her dad about it. Asking him why they didn’t love Logan, but loved Dalton and worse, she remembers the pained look in his eyes as he realizes that his child picked up on what he and his wife had as well.

It’s the first hard adult conversation she has with her parents and it’s fitting that it’s about Logan, as they sit her down and talk to her about how not all parents love their kids, and how sometimes that includes them only loving one child and not the other.

—

She remembers clearly the first time Logan calls her mom.

It’s her fourteenth birthday and she’s got the four-year-old in her lap as she sits in a rocking chair, reading her English essay aloud for him. Logan’s eyes are closed, head resting on her chest, over her heart, and his little fingers of his one hand are curled in her shirt right by his head.

She wants to sit there forever, reading to him as she rocks back and forth. But she wants another slice of cake before Martha puts it away and Logan needs to sleep in his bed where he can stretch out fully and drool on his pillowcases and not her shirt that Martha will surely tut over but then smile fondly when she sees Logan doing it all over again.

Setting the essay down on her dresser, she runs her now free fingers through his blond hair. “C’mon Logan, time for bed.” He grumbles, fingers tightening on her shirt and she can feel it being pulled slightly. “You can put on your new race car jammies, cuddle with Ello.” He shakes his head, squirming a bit in her lap as he tries to shove himself closer. “Stay with you.” “Oh, baby.” She whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Y’know I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.” His head shakes again and she has to bite her lip as his head hits her collarbone. “Want cuddles, momma.” Her heart thuds painfully in her chest at the name he called her, tears pricking her eyes. “Okay, baby. Let's get you in jammies, grab Ello, and you can stay with me tonight.”

—

She’s only been eighteen for ten hours when she asks her father for the near impossible.

“I want custody of Logan. I want to adopt him. And I need your help to make that happen.” He stares at her, no expression on his face, not even shock. “He’s,” She pauses, jaw twitching and tears springing to her eyes. “He wants to do karting, just like Dalton. And he’s good at it. I’ve taken him. They told him no. They haven’t bought him clothes in two years. They don’t know a single thing about his school, his grades, his teachers. He hasn’t called David dad since he was six and he hasn’t called Madelyn mom since he was four.” Her hands are formed into fists, nails digging into her palms as she speaks. “I have money, I can provide for him. I’ve got my shares of the company now and I’ve got my inheritance from Grandma Talls. But I know that a judge won’t sign off without some influence.” “Madelyn and Daniel?” She leans forward in her seat, a spark of hope filling her. “I already talked to them, they’ll do it.” One of his hands comes up to rub at his mouth, sighing. Then it drops to open up one of his desk drawers and he’s pulling out a bunch of papers, dropping them on the desk in front of her.

“I figured this was gonna happen and I knew after you talked to them and they called me. They signed away their rights three hours ago. Michael and Lily are waiting outside to come in so you can sign the papers.” Tears slipped from her eyes, joy wrapping itself around her entire being from his words, the fact that he called their family lawyer to be on standby, that he and her mother were so supportive. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He smiles at her. “I couldn’t say no to you. Not when it comes to Logan. I’m way too young to have a grandkid, let alone one that’s eight, but I made my peace with that years ago.” “Thank you.”

—

Max watches the free practice session coverage intently as they focus on the Williams garage, nose wrinkling when they focus on Logan’s trainer, Benny and then James Vowles. Could it really be possible that they never once caught a shot of her? He starts to get a sinking feeling in his stomach that he's gonna have to go on Twitter when the camera moves and suddenly she’s there and he’s scrambling for the tv remote, pressing the pause button just before the camera switches to an overhead shot of the Bahrain track.

His heart skips a beat as he gets his first good luck at her. Her pretty eyes and smile. His eyes then travel down, wanting to know her name and his heart drops.

Y/N Sargeant, Mother of Logan Sargeant.

Fuck.

—

“Momma Panther!” Oscar greets to the confusion of other drivers as Logan and a woman enter the room.

Lando’s eyebrows are raised as he watches Oscar stand. Watching as his teammate claps Logan on the back, before giving him an actual hug. Before he then hugs the woman as well, whispering something to her that makes her laugh.

Pulling away from her, Oscar grins when her hand comes up to pat his cheek for a second. “Thank you for the invite, Os.” “Of course.” He sends a fond look to Logan, who's standing awkwardly by the table. “Y’know Logan and you are always welcome.” She makes a humming noise. “C’mon, let me introduce you to everyone.”

Turning around, he smirks at the table. “Everyone, Logan.” Charles lets out a laugh, as the others chuckle. He gestures to her, “This is Momma Panther or Pan.” “Y/N or Pan.” She corrects, playfully shaking her finger at Oscar. “I only let the F2 boys call me Momma Pan.” He sighs. “Okay, this is Y/N. Logan’s mom.”

Lando coughs, water going down the wrong pipe. Fernando’s eyes are wide as he looks at her. Charles, George, and Alex are all nodding. Max has a weird expression on his face and Carlos looks dumbfounded.

“She,” Carlos points at her. “Is his,” he points at Logan. “Mother?” Logan moves away from the table to stand by his mom, easily melting into her side at all the attention. The action makes Oscar smile, all too used to the easy affection between the mother and son. “I got pretty lucky right?” She shakes her head. “I’m just happy you weren’t a difficult child.” Logan both blushes and preens at the same time. Carlos shakes his head, disbelief still clear.

“Please, sit.” George says after a moment. “We haven’t ordered yet.”

The seasoned drivers and her watch amused as both Oscar and Logan usher her to sit first. Oscar easily then lets Logan sit next before sitting beside the American. The two of them sharing a grin after.

It makes her shake her head as she turns her attention to the menu, tuning out the sound of conversation picking back up.

The gentle sound of a throat clearing makes her glance to her left.

The current two time world champion smiles a bit awkwardly at her. “Have you been here before?” She shakes her head, turning her head a bit to look at him better. “No. To Australia of course, for Logan’s races and to visit Oscar once, but not here.” He nods and she can’t help but notice the way he swallows harshly. “We started coming here in 2021, it’s good food. Good drinks.” She laughs, “good gin and tonic?” He flushes a little, but laughs. “Yes. Very good. Heavy on the gin.” She nods, “I think I’ll have one of those then.”

Her eyes drift back to the menu, not even wincing at the prices next to the dishes. This was nearly cheap compared to where she had been forced to eat growing up.

“Momma, can we,” “Yes.” She answers before Logan finishes, already knowing what he’s asking. “Also you two, no hard liquor. We have plans tomorrow.” She continues, still looking at the menu.

They wouldn’t get drunk from a few drinks, but she had a feeling that Lando would try to instigate something again with Oscar, making the poor kid so drunk he could barely walk, again. And she didn’t mind people thinking that she was overbearing with Logan and even Oscar. The boys knew that if they really wanted to do something they could, even if she said otherwise. It was one of the nice things about being an adult.

Logan wrinkles his nose, glancing at the drinks part of the menu, before grinning. “They have it.” Oscar glances at what he’s pointing at, shaking his head. “You and your goddamn obsession.” “We come here like once a year.” Logan defends. “And no other country sells it.”

It’s not until after the server leaves, all of their orders taken, that conversation starts again.

“So, Mrs. Sargeant,” Lando starts. “Just Y/N or even Pan.” She sends a fond look to Oscar who had made that nickname stick. “And I’m not married.” She says, amused. “Ah.” “Not married.” Fernando shakes his head. “Now that doesn’t sound right.” She looks at him amused. “Don’t believe in premarital sex?” She teases. The older driver laughs and so do the others. “No. Just hard to believe that you aren’t married. You are a very gorgeous woman.” “Thank you.”

“So,” Lando starts again, giving Max a weird look seeing how his friend is gripping his glass of water. “Will you be coming to all the races?” She nods. “Yes, I have since Logan started his career. Haven’t missed one.” Logan shakes his head, grinning at her. “Nope, not one.” “Your work allows you to do that?” Her lips press together for a second to try and hide her smile at the gentle but obvious fishing they are doing. “I have shares in some companies and a very generous inheritance. So, no true, real work.” “You do some work for Grandpa when we’re in the states.” “I organize his desk for him, which he then messes up as soon as he sits back down at it.”

“You do not mind the constant travel? It is quite tiring.” Charles asks, curious. “No. And once I got Logan in karting, I promised him that I’d make it to all of his races. Maybe in a few years, I’ll stop going to all of them, but I am part of his team as well.” “Manager?” “God, no.” She shakes her head at Carlos’ assumption. “Cook slash nutritionist. Benny, his trainer is amazing, also doubles at being a physiotherapist for Logan, but he doesn’t know how to cook to save his life. So I make their meals.” “Mine as well.” Alex pipes in. “They’re truly amazing, by the way.” “Of course.” “Can you make mine again?” Oscar asks, leaning over Logan a bit to look at her. “I’ve missed having them.” “Sure.” She laughs. “Get me your new sheets before the next race, yeah?” “Done.”

—

Max watches from the corner of his eyes as she takes her first sip of her gin and tonic. Her brows raise a bit when the drink hits her tongue and he has to force his eyes up, to not focus in on her lips, to think about them and what they’d feel like on, he shakes his head. Forcing the thoughts, the ideas away.

“Very heavy on the gin.” She whispers, turning a bit to look at him. He rubs his hands against his jeans. “Do you like it?” “It’s nice.” She smiles. Relief fills him. “Good.”

He continues to look at her, wanting to tear his eyes away but being unable to. She was simply lovely. And getting this closer look at her, he can’t believe that she’s a mother, or at least a mother to a twenty-year-old. It didn’t seem possible. She looked barely older than him. Not at least thirty-five. She was probably more like Fernando’s age as well and he glances at the fellow two world champion, more disbelief filling him. Because how could the two be close in age at all?

—

Logan sighs as he collapses face first onto Oscar’s bed. Laying there for a solid minute before groaning and turning his head.

“Dinner was nice.” Oscar hums and he can feel the bed dip beside him. “You seemed a bit more relaxed.” “No media, and you and Pan were there. A bit more relaxed.” Logan scoffs. “Yeah, because you were so tense with media before.” As he speaks, he reaches out to lay a hand on Oscar’s thigh, giving the muscle a squeeze. “It’s nuts, isn’t it? I mean we all got told that the media was so much more, so different, but…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Yeah.” Oscar sighs and then he’s laying beside Logan, the American luckily moving his hand off and away from the other’s thigh before he lies on it.

“Y’know I have no personality, apparently.” Logan snorts, eyes opening when he hadn’t even realized he had closed him. The Australian driver also has his head turned so they’re looking at each other. “What? Have they never seen a Prema video?” He shrugs as best as he can. “I’d take that over my apparent frat boyness.” “You? A frat boy?” Oscar laughs. Logan sighs as he thinks a bit more about it, the mood turning a bit serious. “I just hope momma hasn’t seen it.” “What happened?” “She’s just worried. Thinks I haven’t noticed, but she’s wondering if she did a good job with me, done enough for me. And she’s given me everything y’know. I can’t imagine what I’d be like with them as my parents.” Oscar moves a bit closer, just a few inches between their faces now. “You’d still be amazing, still great. Maybe a frat boy.” The American rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“I think Fernando has a thing for her. For Pan.” He clarifies. “What?” “I mean, just during the dinner y’know, he kept looking at her. And him calling her gorgeous.” “Well, he’d be dumb and blind to not notice that.” Logan scoffs, rolling onto his back and turning his head to the side, keeping his eyes on Oscar. “I’m being serious.” The younger laughs, poking him lightly. “I think Alonso has a thing for her.” Logan’s face scrunches up in disgust. “Dude, no. That’s gross. Momma isn’t even thirty and Fernando’s like forty-three. And isn’t he dating that journalist?” Oscar’s brows press together. “What journalist?” “The one that gave Fred shit.” “I thought she died?” The two look at each other, both baffled.

Logan thinks again of the journalist he’s seen around Fernando and the one that all of the Prema drivers, former and at the time current, had avoided or given shit statements too. They did look a bit different now that he really thought about it. Fernando’s journalist slash girlfriend didn’t have a fucking complex.

“Different journo.” Logan mutters. He then blinks, “wait, she died?” “Mate, you didn’t hear about that?” “No!” “She was supposed to be at Spa, remember. And we all were relieved when she wasn’t there. She died, car crash or something, I can’t remember.” “How do I not remember this?” Oscar shrugs as best as he can while laying down. “I don’t know.”

It’s silent for a moment, “you don’t think,” “No.” Oscar shakes his head, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “I mean, yeah no.” “Right.” He looks up at the ceiling.

“Okay, so Fernando is out of the running.” Logan groans, “Os, no.” “Look he clearly has eyes, but if he’s dating someone he’s out. He wasn’t the only one looking.” “Oscar, please, it’s my mom.” “She’s like my mom too, which is why we have to talk about this.” Oscar insists, wriggling closer to Logan. Their sides completely pressed together and when Logan turns his head to look at the other, their noses nearly brush. He looks at Oscar’s face, all earnest and caring and sighs. “Fine. Charles was looking, but he only dates one type, so safe from him.” “Lando was looking.” Logan snorts, “I thought this was for potential dates, not another kid.” He laughs, their noses brushing together from the movement. “Okay, no Lando. Max.” “He kind of looked weird when you introduced her.” He frowns. “I saw that too.” “But he also got all blushy when they talked.”

“The drivers do know, I mean Alex knows that she didn’t like birth you, right?” Logan’s frown deepens. “Of course. I mean, it’s not super well known, but it’s a little hard to believe that she naturally had a kid twenty years ago.” “Thought so.” Oscar then chuckles. “Imagine, them thinking that she did, though. Just thinking she’s got some sort of insane skin care routine.”

—

“How in the hell does she look like that with a twenty-year-old kid?” “I know right?” Alex says, looking at Carlos. “It’s insane.” Charles pokes at his own cheek. “I think I need to ask her for advice, what products she uses. I want to age like her.” “We all want to age like her.” George agrees. “What are you saying?” Fernando frowns. A few of them share a look, but Charles and Max share a different one. “Mate, you’ve got wrinkles and all these lines.” Max says. “I mean those are natural, but look at her. The skincare helps.” Fernando frowns, “Lines?” Charles touches at his own lines, “see lines. From smiling, laughing, frowning. All good things, very nice. Just not uh,” his brows furrow drawing a blank. Lando snorts at his struggle. “You just want to help your skin. Keep it healthy.” The older driver makes a humming noise, considering.

—

Her breath is caught in her throat, eyes wide as she watches the screen. Her heart feels like it is beating in double time. She wants to look away, doesn’t want to watch in case something horrible happens, but she can’t. Because Logan just overtook both Magnussen and Ocon in the same lap. Logan is in 9th. Logan is in a point scoring position with only five laps of the race left. Logan might score his first formula 1 points at his home race, at his actual home race, at his first ever home race.

Her hands are shaking, fingers locked together as she presses them against her mouth, trying to breathe, praying that Logan won’t fall back out of the points.

She doesn’t even notice that he’s lessened that gap to Pierre until suddenly he’s overtaken the other French driver, just three laps later. “Oh my god.” “Fuck.” “Benny,” she whispers, and one of her hands is dropping so she can clutch at the older man. “Benny, I think,” “He’s gonna do it.”

And sure enough he does it. Logan holds his place in front of Pierre and finishes in 8th.

“Yes!” The whole garage is cheering and she’s wrapping her arms around Benny, laughing when the trainer lifts her. “He did it! He did it!” She cheers. The garage quiets though as Gaetan starts to speak on the radio.

“Logan, you are on your cooldown lap.” “Got it. Where’s Alex?” She winces at the question, one of her hands grips at Benny’s shoulder as he sets her back down, the other holding onto her headphones that miraculously didn’t get thrown off her head or disconnected when celebrating. “Alex is P14, P14.” It’s quiet for a moment. “Okay, I’m sorry we didn’t get any points today, next race is ours right? The car felt great.” Both of her hands fly up to her mouth. “Logan.” Gaetan’s voice is full of disbelief and laughter. “Mate, you finished P8. You got us points. You got your first points.” She can see him react to the news, the car jerking underneath him for a second, before he wrangles it back under control. “What? What do you mean?” “You finished in P8. Clean race, finished ahead of both Alpines and Magnussen.” “Holy fuck.” The garage fills with laughter at his reaction and tears start to build in her eyes. “You guys,” his voice breaks. “Thank you guys so much. This was you guys, the car felt great, really.” She watches as James hops on the radio. “This was you as well, Logan. Amazing drive today.” “Thank you, James. Thank you so much for this.”

His mechanics, Benny and her, quickly go over to where the cars are parking, watching as Logan slots it into place. He’s a little shaky as he gets out of the car and he’s about to dart towards them but someone from the FIA, is ushering him to the scale.

His reluctance is clear even with his helmet on, but he goes. Letting them take his weight and as soon as it’s written down, he’s stepping off and away, fumbling with his gloves and then his helmet.

There’s an awed grin on his face, tears in his eyes, and seeing it makes the tears that have built in her own fall.

His gloves and helmet tumble to the ground as his mechanics and Benny surround him, celebrating his points.

Logan laughs when they finally let them go and his eyes light up when he sees her and he darts to her and she easily welcomes him into her arms.

“I’m so proud of you.” She tells him, squeezing his sweaty body close before running a hand through his hair. “You did amazing.” “I did it, momma.” His voice is weak and she can feel tears hit the skin of her neck where his head is buried. “You did it.”

—

“Logan did amazing, it was a good drive.” She blinks in surprise at the voice, turning in her barstool to look. “Max?” He smiles at her, cheeks flushed. “He did really well.” “He did.” She agrees before patting the stool next to her. His smile widens as he takes the seat. “I didn’t realize that Red Bull was in the same hotel.” Maybe she should have since she had spotted a few Red Bull polos, but she figured it was fan gear. “I think Aston is here as well. You aren’t celebrating with Logan?” She shakes her head. “We already celebrated. Him, Oscar, and a bunch of his friends here are throwing a party. I wasn’t really interested in watching them all get wasted, so this,” she gestures to the hotel bar, “is me having a drink to celebrate before going up to my room and ordering some room service.” “Could I join you?” His cheeks redden at the words, at the way her eyebrows raise. “Not like that. But for food? I’ve never actually eaten anywhere in Miami that wasn’t catering.” She stares at him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. And I have the perfect place to take you.”

—

“Did I actually score points yesterday?” “You did.” “Sweet.” “Very. How’s the head?” Logan shrugs, “I mean, I drank a lot, but like I’m just dehydrated.” She shakes her head, “That will change in a few years.” “Not gonna tell me to not drink underage?” He teases, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek before grabbing her glass of juice and draining it. She snorts. “We’re in Europe most of the time and I gave you your first drink. I don’t think I have a leg to stand on. And you were celebrating.” “True.”

He sits across from her, refilling the glass and taking another drink from it before setting it down and starting to help himself to her pancakes, which she just pushes closer to him. “How was your night? You could have joined us. We wouldn’t of minded.” “I’m your mom, Logan.” She laughs. “I think the me going to your friend's parties ship sailed a few years ago.” “Yeah, but you're awesome. We like having you around.” “I know.” She smiles. “I wasn’t in the mood to watch all of you get wasted.” “Fair.” he says around a bite of pancake, which she sends him a look for and he quickly swallows the food. Giving her a smile that says sorry.

“So, how was your night?” “It was good.” She tells him, spearing a piece of fruit with her other fork. “I came back to the hotel, had a drink, and then got dinner with Max.” His brows press together. “Max?” “Verstappen.” She clarifies. “Red Bull is staying here as well, he saw me at the hotel bar and asked if he could join me for some food.”

“You went on a date?” Her eyes narrow at him. “It wasn't a date.” “You went on a date.” He scrambles for his phone. “Oscar is never gonna believe it.” “I go on dates.” “Momma, you’ve gone on like five dates. And two of those were before you turned eighteen.” She scowls at him. “It wasn’t a date. We just got dinner.” She insists. “Uh huh.” He says, clearly not believing her. “Did he pay?” “Yes.” “Pull your chair out, help you with your coat, anything like that?” Her mind flashes back to Max helping her get out of his car, his insistence on opening doors for her. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean,” Logan continues. “Did he walk you to your hotel room? Say that he had a good time and he’d like to do it again?” “Oh.” Logan grins at her, smug, as he finishes typing out a text to Oscar. “You went on a date last night.” “I went on a date last night.” And she doesn’t mention the fact that a new number resides in her phone.

—

“Logan!” He stops at the sound of his name, turning to look behind him, where Max Verstappen is nearly jogging to catch up with him. “Max.” He greets, when the older driver is next to him, nerves filling him at the eyes of said driver on him, along with how a few other drivers are also looking at the pair, shock and surprise clear on their faces. “Hey.” Max grins. “How are you feeling about the track?” He looks at the older driver in confusion. They had just left the drivers briefing, why was he asking him this? Alex had already spoken about how the team was feeling about Monaco. “The car won’t be the best here, but we said that in Miami, so we’re hoping to repeat that here. Alex has a good chance at ending in a point scoring position.” He reiterates what he's been told and what he’s been telling the press. “But how are you feeling about it?” Logan stares at the Dutchman, eyes flickering around trying to see if cameras are there, if his momma is there, but there isn’t anyone. The other drivers are already gone, so are the FIA people. It’s just him and Max. “Y’know you don’t have to talk to me because you went out with my mom.” He expects relief, like that one dick Jase, and really who puts that on a birth certificate, but Max just frowns. “I know, I don’t have to.” Logan swallows around the lump in his throat, “right.” Turning around, he starts to walk, somehow knowing that the other driver will join him. “It’s a tricky track, it’s Monaco. I was here last year and I barely got in the points.” “P10 and P9.” He throws the driver a look, because that was too much to know, but Max is just looking at him, encouraging him to continue. “The car isn’t suited for it. I mean it wasn’t for Miami, but this is different. And I’m still not managing my tyres correctly, so even if I did manage to gain positions, I’d get called in to pit and lose them.” Max huffs out a laugh. “You are a rookie in a Williams, it’s impressive that you’ve already gotten points. If you could manage your tyres, when sometimes even I struggle, well I’d put you in Checo’s seat.” “Not yours?” He laughs again, “No. I’m a bit better at it than Checo.” Logan couldn’t really deny that.

“Do you want some advice? On the tyres?” Logan quickly nods. “I’ll take anything I can get.” “Don’t fight the car too much on the turns. If you need to get it to turn properly or without going on the brakes too soon, fight it. But when you don’t, let the car be stable, keep it fluid. When you come out of the corner, press harder. It might feel like you’ll go into the wall, but you won’t.” “And if I go into the wall?” Max laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “I think you're a better driver than that mate.”

—

“How are you doing that in the turns?” Logan looks up from his notebook, where he’d been scribbling a bunch of random words. Looking at the screen, he watches his own onboard. He thinks about saying that it was Max that told, but no one at Williams liked hearing about Red Bull, especially with Alex in the room. “Just something I thought I’d try.” “Well, it was good, continue doing it. We may have ended up out of the points, but we got close.” Logan nods. Even with his five-second penalty, he had still kept fourteenth, and Alex ended up in twelfth. “Will do.”

—

Max had thought about her in his apartment a lot, an embarrassing amount. He had also pictured it very differently. A nice dinner, wine, even though a majority of it made his nose wrinkle, perhaps some kissing on his couch as a movie plays that they both don’t care about.

He hadn’t expected lunch, with juice that he’s trying to figure out how he’s never had it when he’s lived in Monaco for so many years, and a somewhat serious conversation, though maybe he has been expecting that one or rather anticipating it.

“I like you, Max.” He flushes, “I like you too.” He really did, even though his mother was going to have a heart attack when she found out how much older Pan was than him. “And I want to continue doing this.” She gestures between them with her free hand that isn’t being held in his. “So,” sensing that there’s something she wants to say. “I’m a mom.” He blinks at her words, panic starting to fill him. He thought he’d made that clear that he knew that, understood that. He always made sure to ask about Logan. He even had Logan’s number now after talking to him about how he felt about the Monaco track. “I know.” “Logan is important to me.” Oh, god, did Logan not like him? “The most important thing to me. And if we're going to continue to do this, I just need you to know that. He’s always going to be my first priority.” “Of course.” Relief fills him, his heart slows from its frantic beating. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” She stares at him, trying to gauge how truthful he’s being before nodding. “Okay.”

“Did you think that I didn’t know that?” She shakes her head immediately. “No, it’s just. I don’t really do this.” She laughs. “Dating, relationships. Logan pointed that out to me, so I don’t really know how this goes and I just had to make it clear, put it on the table now.” “I don’t really do this either.” He hesitates to ask his next question, but does. “Logan’s father. What was your relationship with him like?” Her face screws up in disgust. “Ew.” He laughs, not expecting that reply or that word to sum up a relationship. But fair enough.

“I mean the idea of a relationship between me and Logan’s father is gross. Logan’s,” she pauses, seeming to settle on a different word. “Birth parents are my aunt and uncle.” “His what?” He could have sworn she said birth parents, but that couldn’t be right. “His birth parents.” She looks at him, concerned. “I adopted Logan when I turned eighteen. Did you think I gave birth to him?” “No.” He says, shaking head and clearing his throat. “Of course not.” She stares at him, lips pressed together. He sighs, slumping in his seat, eyes closing. “I may or may not have thought you were just a really, really young looking forty-something year old woman.” She immediately bursts into laughter and his eyes fly open at the sound. “You thought?” “The graphic for the race footage says you are his mother, I did not think otherwise. I just thought you looked great for your age.” He defends, a little embarrassed, but delighted by the expression on her face and her laughter that is still filling his ears. “I am his mother, just adopted.” “Not that either of you see it that way.” “No.” She shakes her head, laughing one last time before calming down.

“No. Logan’s mine, he’s been mine practically since he was born. It just wasn’t seen that way legally until I was eighteen and custody got signed over to me.” “Of course.” He then flashes her smile, “So can I ask how old you are?” She laughs, nodding. “Yes, Max. I think just this once it’s better to ask a lady her age than assume it.” “How old are you?” “I’m twenty-nine.” He looks at her with new eyes, the age making much more sense. “I would’ve said twenty-five.” “Really? I think you would’ve said forty-something.” “How was I to know?” He throws his free hand in the air at the tease, his other still holding hers.

—

“Hi, baby.” She greets when Logan stumbles out of his room, practically still asleep, as he drops onto the couch. “Momma.” He whines, resting his head on her lap and turning his face to press it into her stomach, trying to block out the sun. Her fingers brush through his hair as she forces her body to stay relaxed. It was always a fight when he did this.

She hated that her body didn’t bear any signs of being pregnant before, no stretch marks around her belly. She hated that she hadn’t actually gotten to carry Logan no matter how impractical it was, unless of course she was as old as Max had thought she was. She smiles at the memory of how flustered Max had looked when he realized her actual age.

He mumbles something and she turns his face away from her stomach. “What?” “How was your date last night?” Her smile widens. “It was good.” “Yeah?” She nods. “Did you see Jimmy and Sassy?” “No.” She runs her hand over his forehead, knowing that he’s thinking of Sooty. “We should talk though after you’ve had some breakfast.” “About what?” “Breakfast first.”

“What do we need to talk about?” Logan asks nearly thirty minutes later, his fruit bowl all gone and his coffee on its way to be there as well. She swallows, hands flexing. “Max.” “What about Max?” She sighs. “Well, baby, him and I talked about becoming serious last night. But that’s not gonna happen until I know how you feel.” “You know, I’m okay with it.” “I know you're okay with me dating, but this is a bit more complicated. Max is on the grid with you and we’re talking about a relationship.” Logan eyes widen a bit at the word relationship. “I mean, how does Max feel about it? About being with someone who has a kid on the grid?”

He asks knowing it will give him time to figure out how to tell her how he feels and because he wants to know, he kind of wants Max to be okay with it. He likes Max, and not just as a driver. The older driver is kind and funny, he also looks at his mom like she’s the sun, he makes her happy and that’s enough to put him in Logan’s good books. His mom deserves the best and he thinks from what little he’s seen, from how much more happy his mom has been (and god that was weird, because it wasn’t even like she wasn’t happy before) that Max might be the best for her. And Max now every time he sees Logan is always stopping to talk to him even if it’s just for a second to say a quick hi.

“Max is good with it. He knows that you're my number one and that’s never going to change.” Logan flushes at the words. “He also likes you, thinks you're a good kid.” She lets out an amused huff as the word kid leaves her mouth. It was odd to hear Max describe Logan that way, with only five years between them. But at the same time she knew it came from being practically a veteran in the sport. Max was coming up on ten years in Formula 1 despite his young age. He flushes even more. “Really?” “Yeah.” She smiles. “He always asks about you, it’s really sweet. And he knows to that if you aren’t comfortable with this or need more time then that’s what will happen.” “I am an adult.” “You are.” She was sadly well aware of that fact. “But you are my baby, my kid. I couldn’t be in a relationship with someone if you didn’t like them or if it made you uncomfortable.” He nods. “I’m okay with it. Max makes you happy, he’s nice.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

—

She lets out a giggle as arms wrap around her from behind, lips pressing against her cheek. “Hi.” “Hi.” Another kiss is pressed to her cheek. “Can I help?” She glances down at what she’s finishing up. “No. You could set the table, though?” “Done.” A kiss is pressed to her temple and then the blanket of heat that covered her back is gone. “What cabinet?” “First one entering the kitchen on the left.” She says, turning her head a bit to watch as Max pulls the dishes out.

Her mouth goes a little dry as she watches him. His t-shirt is tight around his biceps and chest. His skin is a little tanned after their date a few days ago on a friend's yacht. She forces her eyes to not look at his hands, instead trailing them up to his strong shoulders and neck and then to his face. Max, she thinks as he starts to put the plates on the table, is unfairly attractive. Before he can catch her staring, she checks on the final thing on the stove. “Perfectly done.” She mumbles with a smile.

The sound of the front door opening makes her smile grow wider as she grabs a pot holder. “Am I late?” “Just on time.” She tells Logan as he steps into the kitchen. “Can I,” She stops him before he can continue. “No, go wash up.” “Alright.” He bends a little to press a kiss to her cheek before turning on his heel, offering a wave to Max. “Hi.” “Hi, Logan.”

Picking up the pan, she shakes her head as Max goes to try and take it from her. “Logan and you are both going to get on too well.” “Why’s that?” He asks, a twinkle in his eye. “You both don’t like when I lift anything.” “What’s the point of having a son or a boyfriend, then?” Logan says, clapping Max on the shoulder as he comes back. Max grins at the younger, delighted as he claps him back. “Exactly. We feel a bit neglected.” She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, though a smile is stretching across her lips.

—

Max watches amused as the mother and son argue.

“Mom, it would be for two races, two, that’s it.” “One race, really.” Max chimes in, smiling when she glares at him. “Spa is nice, but Zandvoort is really what I consider my home race.” “See, it would be one race. Max wants you in his garage.” Logan says, looking at the other driver, begging for him to help but at the last sentence Max shakes his head. “I never said that. Well, I would like to see Pan in my garage, not for the whole weekend, or even a day. She’s part of your team.” Logan looks at him, bewildered. “But, it’s your home race.” He shrugs. “I’d like for her to stop by, you as well. I already have it cleared with the team. Staying for even a whole session though just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t need her on my side of the garage to know that she’s supporting me, wanting me to do well, not when you are on the grid.” “Are you sure?” Max smiles at Logan, because yes he was sure. Did he want her there, supporting him? Maybe even dressed in something with his number? Of course. But, he liked seeing her in Logan’s garage. Supporting him, wearing his merch, being a mom. “I’m more than sure.”

“Besides,” she says, drawing both of their attention. “Max and I haven’t gone public yet. Or really told anyone yet.”

—

“Well, this is a bit of an odd one.” Laura says as they stop in front of the Red Bull garage. The cameraman focuses on what she’s looking at. “Both Logan Sargeant and his mother, better known as Pan from Formula 2 fans, are in the Red Bull garage, currently talking with our current championship leader Max Verstappen, his engineer GP, and Daniel Ricciardo.” “Shall I see if I can steal one of them away?” Will asks, smiling at the camera as he holds the F1 TV microphone loosely. “Please.” She gestures.

Will steps towards the garage smiling at the small group hovering just inside. “Could I steal one of you for a quick minute?” The five exchange a look and Will stops himself from rolling his eyes at the way they all look annoyed at the idea, but Logan nods. “Sure.” “Thank you.”

He watches as Logan says something quietly to them, getting nods from them all. His brow furrows when Max squeezes his shoulder before the younger driver gives his mom a quick hug, making him shake his head. Logan Sargeant was an absolute mommy’s boy and it was embarrassing as all hell to see. He couldn’t imagine being twenty and hugging his mom in public, let alone all those videos and photos of him reaching for her hand.

Will ignored the part of him that did think it was sweet and felt bad for the kid. He couldn’t look all sappy while filming, especially not when in front of the Red Bull garage.

“Hi everyone.” Logan greets, taking the third mic from the newest crew member. “Hello, Logan. How are you feeling about this weekend?” He smiles at Laura. “I’m feeling okay, I’ve raced here before, obviously not in an F1 car, but I do have some experience with this track.” “And you and your mum’s visit to the Red Bull garage, should we expect an announcement of you switching teams?” She teases. “No.” He laughs. “No, uh, just visiting for personal reasons. Saying hello to Daniel, wishing Max a good home race.” “I mean, I’m not sure, he needs it.” Will jokes, gaining a few laughs. “So, no business to be done at Red Bull? Just saying a hello and wishing a good race to a fellow driver.” “Yeah,” he pauses, looking back at the garage where it’s just Max and his mom standing now watching him with smiles on their faces. It’s only that he continues when his mom gives a brief nod, one barely able to be seen by the camera. “And I wasn’t just wishing a fellow driver good luck.” “Oh?” Logan grins, looking pleased with himself. “I was wishing my new dad good luck.”

—

“Carlos Sainz is a cunt.” Max freezes at her words, hand still on the doorknob from just stepping into the room. “Hi, schat.” “Carlos Sainz is a cunt.” She repeats. His brain is scrambling because what exactly had Carlos done but also why was it so attractive to her say the word cunt. It had to be the accent, he decided quickly, still trying to figure out the Carlos thing. “And why is Carlos a cunt?” He finally asks, releasing the door knob and stepping further into the room.

She’s on her laptop, rapidly typing something, and he can feel anger radiating off her.

“That bullshit he spewed, blaming Oscar’s inexperience.” She scoffs, pausing her typing as she shakes her head. “It was an incident, a racing incident, something he knows a lot about. There was no inexperience fault.” “Oscar’s okay?” He already knows that he is, but knows it's good to ask. “He’s good. He knows that it's a racing incident.” Max winces. Wonders for a second if he should warn Carlos to keep his mouth shut, but shrugs. It wasn’t his fault that Carlos was getting in trouble because he couldn’t watch his mouth or correctly look at footage. “Can I help?” She sighs, hitting close on whatever she was writing in. “No.” She then closes her laptop, turning to face him, with a smile. “Hi. Congrats on the win.” “Thank you.” He bends to kiss her. “You okay?” “Yeah, just,” she waves her hand at her laptop, “stuff.” “Anything I can help with?” She starts to shake her head no as he sits on the edge of the bed, but she stops. “Actually, could I get your insight on something? Not just as a driver, but as someone who lives and breathes racing, loves data, really knows how the sport works.” “Of course. What’s going on?”

Another sigh leaves her, hand coming up to rub at her mouth for a second before it drops. “Why would a team not resign a driver?” His eyebrows furrow, because she knows the reasons, but he answers. “Not performing well, they want out of the team or sport, sponsorship issues.” “The driver wants to stay in the sport and the team.” Her lips turn downwards a bit at the word team. “And the driver brought new sponsorships to the team.” “They have to be not performing well.” “They’re a rookie in a back marker team.” “They have to be really performing badly.” Max says, trying to think of who in Formula 2 or 3 she’s talking about. “They already have six points and have placed ahead of their experienced teammate three times.” His mind is scrambling again, trying to find a reason, because what? “How many does his teammate have?” “Nine.” “I have no idea. Not unless there’s conflict within the team.” She shakes her head. “Is there potentially a more experienced driver for the spot?” She shakes her head. “They’re looking at another rookie or maybe someone who stepped away from the series for a year, though they’d rather take a rookie than him.” “I don’t have an answer for you. It doesn’t make sense to me.” She nods, expression falling and she’s rubbing at her face.

“What’s going on?” He asks, standing up just to crouch down in front of her, taking her hands in his. “The driver’s Logan.” “What?” “Williams isn’t sure they want to offer Logan another year.” Max stares at her. “How?” “I don’t know.” She shrugs, laughing. “There’s talks of them signing whoever wins this F2 championship or even the runner-up depending on who it is. Logan’s making too many mistakes.” “He’s costing them too much money.” Max fills in the blank, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t take a rookie if you can’t afford it. You are supposed to account for the worse. And he’s doing well. It’s not his fault that they built a shit car.” “I don’t know what to do.” She admits, voice just a whisper, and his heart clenches painfully at the sound of it, at the tears in her eyes. “This is his dream. I don't know what to do if that gets taken away from him.” “It won’t. We’ll figure something out.” He tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

—

“I think I’m spoiled.” Max says, watching as she gets ready for bed. A faint feeling of arousal pooling his gut as she pulls on one of his shirts. He absentmindedly wonders if it would be weird to wear it tomorrow to the track, the scent of her lotion clinging to it. “Why’s that, honey?” He smiles, cheeks a bit pink, and that arousal builds a bit more at the pet name, at the way she shifts in the vanity chair to loosen some tension in her back. “You come to every race, you see me win, you celebrate them, you got to see me win my third championship today.” Those words feel weird off his tongue, today, but totally sober to celebrate. He wants desperately for tomorrow to come, for the race to finish so they can celebrate, him, her, Logan, the team. “I guess you are a bit spoiled.” He gasps, clutching at his heart, making her giggle. “That’s okay though.” She says, getting up and moving onto the bed, straddling him. “I think I like you spoiled.” He groans as she dips her head, pressing a kiss to the flutter of his pulse. “Schat.” It's a warning to stop and a plea for more. “I know.” She kisses the spot a bit firmer. “Celebrations will have to wait just a day longer.” She then rolls off him, his arm immediately lifting so she can press against his side.

“It’s cruel to win with a sprint race.” She snorts, “A sprint race never stopped us before.” “It’s cruel to win with a sprint race in Qatar.” He amends. “Very true.”

He sighs, staring at the ceiling as he calms down, luckily the feeling of her fingers tapping along his stomach not making it harder. “How’s Logan feeling?” Max asks, remembering how pale he looked when they got dinner. She sighs, moving somehow closer. “Not great. No fever, but his stomach is still a bit upset.” He winces. “He gonna be okay tomorrow?” “I hope so. The team knows that he’s sick, they’ll make the right choice.” “I hope so.” He echoes, wishing that Logan felt better, hoping that he feels better by the time the race starts.

—

“We are confident in him.” Max scoffs, tossing his phone aside. “I know.” “Logan still wanting to do his new routine.” She nods, lips pursed. He shakes his head. “He did good.” It wasn’t the rookie season that Oscar had, but it couldn’t be. Oscar got lucky enough to get a seat in a near top team, while Logan got one with a back of the grid team that was sometimes midfield.

Logan scoring ten points, getting himself to sixteenth in the standings, tied with Bottas in the standings, was very good for a rookie. It was a shame that Williams seemed to think he could’ve and should have done better. At least, Max thinks, the 2025 grid was wide open for possibilities.

“Are him and Oscar still joining us?” She throws him a look. “Us?” “You.” He amends, knowing that despite him joining her, he’d get caught up in Redline and different things. He was just happy she didn’t mind that. “Only for a few days and then they both are off to Australia.” “Will Logan be joining us for Florida?” “Yes. My mom has been asking the next time she’s going to see her only grandchild.” Max laughs at the eye roll. “So, Belgium first, then Monaco,” “You go to Milton for a day after.” He nods, “then Greece, Florida, Monaco.” “Not bad for the first few weeks of winter break.” “Not bad at all.” He agrees, wrapping his arms around her waist, chest pressed against her back.

It’s quiet between the couple as Max sways them.

“Max.” “Yes?” “Your mom, she does know that I’m not in my forties right? Or thirties?” She figured that the woman did, but she also had only briefly gotten to meet her at the one race, and there had been an odd expression on her face when Max introduced her as his girlfriend. He freezes. “Max.” “I knew I forgot something.”

@ohtous @cixrosie @darleneslane @fanboyluvr @teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @quackquackhun @rewmuslupin @copper-boom @stopeatread @crashingwavesofeuphoria @jointhehunt67 @namgification @asphalstead @poppyflower-22 @racingheartsposts @gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @hiireadstuff @iloveyou3000morgan @boiohboii @bibliosaurous @skepvids @elliegrey2803

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #I ❤️ MILFS verse #I was on something when I came up with this idea and the name of this fic

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ncttytrack · 3 months

Text

Sinful - s.j (m)

It’s not long before he comes all over himself, and the sight of him makes you bite your lip to not let out any sound. It’s then the reality hits you, you just watched Jake Sim jerk off infront of his computer, and he has no idea.

Summary: Your church counselor , Jake Sim, makes you feel stuff you never felt before. Are you strong enough to resist the temptation or will you let the sin of lust take over you?

Genre: SMUT, Churchboy!Jake x reader

Words: 3k+

Warnings: Agegap (Reader is 19 and Jake is 22), cry kink, creampie, slapping, chocking, slut shaming, Dom!Jake, Sub!Reader

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆

You lean against the bus window, looking out at all the trees passing before you. It’s in the middle of summer, and your mom decided to pack your bags and forcefully send you away to a church camp for kids your age. You are nineteen years old, old enough to make your own decisions, but not according to your mom, using the argument that she is your parent and that you should respect her. What about her respecting you? At least you weren’t going to this camp with strangers, the others were a part of your Sunday church group that you attended to church with every week. The bus is completely cramped, and out of curiosity, you look around only to get eye contact with one of your church concealers, Jake. He smiles when he sees you looking at him, which makes you quickly look away.

Jake was not your average church-boy, you knew that. He was hot, super hot. And not to forget to mention, he was young too, almost too young - only being 22 years old. He was older than you but still, did the hot and young church concealer have to come on the trip surrounded by girls checking him out every second? Not that you were any different. It was hard to ignore those soft plump lips, his expressive eyes and his fluffy black hair. You have always imagined how it would feel to ram your fingers through it. You looked back at him again to get another peak. Today he is wearing a white sleeveless shirt, making his muscular arms visible for you to gawk at. Your eyes follow down his arms to his hands. His hands are slender and long and he was always wearing stacks of silver rings. You imagine how it would feel if the cold metal rings made contact with your warm body.

It’s then his hand waves at you, making your eyes widen and look up at Jake's face. He looks at you with an amused expression. “Hm?” Your breath hitches and you look away again. You squeeze your eyes shut out of embarrassment. Why did you have to stare at him like that?

You finally arrived at the camp, that bus ride took forever. You walk out of the bus, trying to drag your heavy backpack behind you. All of a sudden, you feel a hand on your shoulder. You look up, to see Jake standing beside you. “Um, did you want something? You looked at me a few times on the bus" He says and looks at you with a concerned look on his face. Coward. You only looked at him two times, what does he mean by ‘a few’? You look down on your feet, not being able to hold eye contact with him for more than three seconds. As a nervous reaction, you fiddle with the straps on your backpack. Not being able to stay silent forever, you finally answer him, occasionally being able to look into his eyes. “Ah, no it’s fine, I’m sorry for looking at you.” He looks at you up and down, still holding your shoulder. “No prob, just let me know if you need something m’kay?” He says, giving your shoulder a small squeeze, before walking away to talk to another counselor. It’s amusing that he acts so polite, as if the rumors about him weren't the nastiest you have ever heard. Apparently he sleeps around a lot, including with girls in your sunday-group. And according to a reliable source, or in other words, a girl you heard talking to her friend, he was "super big". Whatever that means.

Because of your strict religious family, sex was not a part of your everyday life. You kissed a guy once, on this camp when you were seventeen, and you still remember him trying to grope you under your clothes, before walking away when you pushed him away from you. You have never watched porn, let alone masturbated, your mother making sure that your hands should always be over the duvet when sleeping. Probably so she would know if you did something. You didn’t want to risk your parents getting disappointed in you.

It’s the next day, and you are walking from the camp's library back to the room you are sharing with three others. It’s then something in the counselor's room catches your eyes. It’s Jake, his head is tilted back, leaning towards his chair in front of the camp's (only) computer. The room has two big glass windows facing the hallway, and because the curtains aren’t down, you see everything inside.

His face looks weird, it’s an expression you had never seen before. His mouth is open, and his eyebrows are furrowed and it almost looks like he is in pain. What if he is hurt? Should you go in and help him? You are about to open the door, before suddenly stopping yourself. He seems to be watching something? You try to look closer, leaning in as much as you can on the window. It’s then you what he is watching.

It’s two people, pleasuring themselves in front of a camera. He's watching porn! You step back and your hand covers your mouth to cover the sound you let out. That’s why it looks like he is in pain, he is pleasuring himself. You try to look away, but the sight in front of you is too intriguing since you had never seen something like it before. You gain enough courage to look down at the ‘thing’ he is touching.

His hand is pumping his cock, and it’s leaking preecum. You suddenly begin to feel weird between your thighs, making you squeeze your thighs together to numb the feeling. The more you watch him get closer and closer, the more the pleasure grows inside your lower stomach. It’s not long before he comes all over himself, and the sight of him makes you bite your lip to not let out any sound. It’s then the reality hits you, you just watched Jake Sim jerk off infront of his computer, and he has no idea. Before he catches you, you run away back to your room and lock the door.

You sit down on the wooden stump in front of the fireplace. Everyone attending the camp is outside around the fireplace, forcefully listening to the counselors singing songs about Jesus and heaven. Jake suddenly appears besides you, switching places with another counselor, blaming it on the smoke coming from the fireplace. You still haven’t forgotten what you saw earlier, and the feeling you got from watching him between your thighs never left. “It’s beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Jake says and looks at you. How could he look at you like this as if he doesn't know what he was doing earlier in his room the same day. Your lack of response makes Jake put his hands on your thigh, making you gasp at the sudden feeling of his fingers making contact with your inner thigh. What if someone sees him? “Hm?” He looks at you and raises his eyebrows waiting for your response. You look up at him, his hands still on your thigh. His eyes are beautiful, making you lose your breath for a second before giving him an answer. “Yes…it is ”you say, and look away from him. He looks away from you and licks his bottom lip. You thought that he would leave your thigh alone after you responded, but it’s still on you. It’s sliding up and down your thigh, getting higher by every second. The arousal between your legs is getting too much for you to bear, and suddenly it’s enough. It begins to hurt, and you need to do something about it. You can’t wait for the feeling to die down, because it won't if you don’t make it go away. Whether you like it or not you need to touch yourself. To Jake's surprise you stand up abruptly, “Excuse me…”, you say as you walk away as quickly as you can to your room.

You try to open your door, but to your disadvantage it’s looked. Urgh. You forget that the counselors lock the rooms to stop us from skipping the campfire evenings. You look out of the window at the church only a meter away from the camp. The guilt inside of you increases as you make your way to the only place you know would give you privacy. You hurry your way to open the big heavy door of the church, walk down the narthex and sit on the first row. Too bad that this church doesn't have a confession booth, though otherwise you could've hid in there to act out your sins.

You button up your pants quickly to get it over with, and lean back on the wooden bench. The image of Jake Sim enters your brain, but the moment you touch your core outside of your panties you stop. You have never masturbated before, and you definitely don’t know what to do. You look at the big Jesus sculpture by the altar, and it feels like he is staring at you. You close your eyes out of guilt and begin to cry. You are so frustrated, and the guilt inside your chest makes you want to disappear. It’s then you feel a hand on the top of your hair, patting it.

You didn't notice anyone walking into the church, so the sudden touch makes you open your eyes, only to meet Jake's gaze. You let out a small scream and cover yourself with your arms. He looks at you with pleading eyes, before crouching down so he is eye level with you. His hand leaves the top of your head, and he cups your cheeks with both of his hands. His lips form into a teasing pout. “Aw baby, why are your pants down? And why are you crying?” You look at him with tears in your eyes. Your whole body hurts and you have no idea what to do with it. “Jake, please, it hurts”. He pokes the inside of his cheeks with his tongue, and looks at you trying to act disappointed. His hands leave your cheeks and he stands up, looking down at you. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, and tilts his head to the side, trying to look intimidating. It’s working. Your heart sinks.

“I don’t know baby, what would god say if he saw you like this in his holy temple.” You are desperate, so desperate that you kneel down infront of him, clapping your hands together in front of him, begging. You look up at him “Please Jake, please help me and make this feeling disappear. It hurts, it hurts so much. I don’t know what to do.” He looks down at you pleading, and sighs. He brings up his finger and points at the bench behind you, signaling you to sit on it. You do so, standing up from your kneeling position. Your knees are sore from the hard contact of the church floor, and the pain makes you limp to the bench. He sits down beside you, grabs your shoulders and turns you so you face him.

You part your lips and look at him, and his eyes look at your lips. You get ready to kiss him, when one of his hands suddenly caresses your chin softly, before pushing you down on your stomach on his lap. You let out a yelp, and your hands try to cover your bare ass from Jake's sight. He slaps your hands away, and grabs your wrists so you are unable to push him away. His hand suddenly touches your ass rubbing it up and down. You begin to whine at his touch, he is such a tease. “Tsk, tsk, do you really think you deserve my help without getting some sort of punishment for your actions?”. He doesn’t let you answer, before his hand suddenly slaps your ass hard. You let out a gasb and your back arch, getting wetter by his harsh treatment. “Please-” He slaps you one more time, and then once more right after - harder this time, leaving a big red mark on your skin. You begin to cry again because of the pain, and how wet you are from it. “Shh, baby, you are doing so good for me, ok?” He says and massages the cheek he just slapped. He pushes you away from his lap, moving back so he appears behind you, you are still laying on your stomach on the bench. You look back at Jake, the look on your face is enough for him to know what you want. He leans down over your back, and his face is right by yours. “What do you want me to do baby, use your words”

You can feel his soft breaths against your neck, and you begin to tremble. “I want you to take care of me Jake”. He leans back away from you, standing on his knees on the hard bench. “Do you want Jake to take care of you, to make the ache go away?” He says as his hands come in contact with inner thighs, pushing you up so your ass comes in contact with his lower stomach. He grabs the side of your panties, slowly dragging them down, making your juices slide down your inner thigh. He groans at the sight of your drenched pussy, lightly touching it with his fingers to feel you, making you let out a breathy moan.

“You are so wet already, was that from the slapping? You dirty slut, what would god say if he saw you?”. His finger slides through your folds, coating his finger with your juices. He puts his finger into his mouth, tasting you. “You want Jakey to touch you, baby?”. You look back at him and whine, not being able to speak. He chuckles at your expression and slides two fingers into you. You let out a loud moan at the unusual feeling. Automatically you start to grind down on his fingers, wanting to feel more of him. He slaps you making you yelp. “Eager now are we? You are so dirty.” The feeling of his fingers, combinated with his harsh words is making you feel more pleasure.

While still pumping his fingers in and out of you he unbuttons his pants with his other hand and lets his hard cock out, slapping it on your ass. You gasp, and look back, seeing it for the second time. He was huge, definitely too huge for you to handle when it your first time taking cock. “Are you a virgin?” He says, and you nod your head, biting your lip. He pulls his fingers out of you, slaps your pussy, and brings his cock close to your hole. He teases your already sore pussy with his hard cock, before pushing it into you. Your moan could be heard throughout the whole church, making Jake grab your neck from behind, so your back leans on his chest. While he slowley begins to fuck into your tight hole, he takes over your mouth with his to muffle your loud moans. He kisses you softly, roaming your mouth with his tongue, while fucking you gently. He stops kissing you, and brings up his hand to your mouth demanding you to suck on it. You let his finger into your mouth, lubricating it with your saliva. He pulls his finger out of your mouth, and brings it up under your shirt to your nipple.

He plays with your hard nipple before pinching it harshly making you let out a scream. His hands leave your breast, and place it on your waist. His thrusts are still slow, and you want it faster, deeper, harder. “Please Jakey”. The hold on your neck gets tighter, making it harder for you to breathe. “What do you want, baby? Tell me what you want, like the good girl I know you are, or I won't give it to you.” You let out a shaky breath and look up at the church painting in front of you. The painting makes you cry, you can’t believe you would let someone like Jake Sim to take over your body in such a holy place like this. Your tears fall down your cheeks and make contact with Jake's hand. “I want you to fuck me harder Jake, to use me until there is no sin left for me to commit”.

As Jake begins to fasten his pase, going in and out of your drenched core, you continue to cry. Getting close, Jake leans down into your neck to muffle his moans, and you feel the sweat from his forehead sliding down your chest making your stomach wet. The closer you get, the faster he fucks into you, the deeper he fucks is cock into you. It’s not long before he comes into you, making you come as well, filling you up completely. You can feel his cum leaking out of your pussy and it's warm and sticky. He slides his cock out of you and wraps his arms around your body, as he kisses your neck, being extra careful to not leave a bruise. His hand grabs your chin softly and makes you look up at him. Your mascara is on your cheek from all the crying, and he uses his thumb to make the black smudge go away. “You know what to do baby” He says and looks down on your hands before looking at the holy painting on the wall in front of you.

You bring your hands in front of you and begin to pray, still looking at Jake.

“Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love according to Your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me.”

But you know that is no use, and Jake knows this as well. He grabs one of your praying hands and brings it up to him mouth, kissing it. No matter how much you pray, you don't belong to Christ anymore.

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆

Finally wrote a Jake fic 🤞 Hope you liked it!

Xoxo 💋

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haknom · 6 months

Text

EXES SUCK! — PARK SUNGHOON

SYNOPSIS ⇾ Park Sunghoon, a former figure skater, and your ex-boyfriend. He was your first love back in high school, and was also your very close childhood friend but distanced away after he left unexpectedly. Now you two don’t communicate anymore which is quite sad but debuting with your newly made friends was amazing. And to help your group with promotions, your manager suggests you to be an MC at Music Bank with another male idol after your debut, only to find out it was your ex-boyfriend, Park Sunghoon.

PAIRING ⇾ idol-ex!sunghoon x idol-fem!reader (ft. enhypen, joonie from ichillin’ as y/n, chaewon from le sserafim as kia, ningning from aespa as mei, liz from ive as daisy, wonyoung from ive as melody, and many mentions of other idols).

WARNINGS ⇾ sunghoon is delulu (what’s a kayla smau if one main character isn’t delulu???), swearing, random time stamps, inside jokes, newjeans is the groups face claim, universe’s songs are from acc kpop groups um, more will be added!

STATUS ⇾ on hold (updates are whenever!)

NOTE ⇾ this idea is like a Year old LOL… it was supposed to come out instead of bad news but then i changed my mind (idol aus were Not my thing back then) TRUST i have good hopes for this one ! — also happy early bday soph 😁

TAGLIST IS CLOSED! ❤️‍🩹

PROFILEZ — one / two

ONE — 5ALIVE NEVER FALLING!!!

TWO — i’m Alive.

THREE — ROTY + SOTY + AOTY.

FOUR — FATE

FIVE — but the bad news …

SIX — stayc and universe crumbs

SEVEN — funny joke!

EIGHT — surprise surprise!

NINE — does she want me be honest

TEN — reaction pic kms

ELEVEN — THE FUCK???

TWELVE — you’re so fucking in love

THIRTEEN — what the fuck is going on

BONUS CHAPTER — jungwon’s damage control

FOURTEEN — villain arc?

FIFTEEN — you’re y/n right?

SIXTEEN — you never cared

SEVENTEEN — case study for delusion

EIGHTEEN — tba…

NINETEEN — tba…

more coming soon! (unreleased chapter names may change!)

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ma1dita · 3 months

Text

a wish your heart makes

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 1.4k

summary: (established relationship) The one where you share dreams, burn cookies, and it still reminds him of home. You try to do something nice for your boyfriend and everything goes wrong, or so you think. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader

a/n: I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come ho—OH FUCK OFF, UNCLE RICK. sidenote this haunted me.

(posted 1/26/24 unbetad)

—

Luke’s dreams were always different from yours.

Both when he’s awake and holding your hand up until sleep finally rips him away from your earthly embrace, he’s always been certain of who he was and what he wants to achieve. To be a hero providing salvation for the needy, to be a half-blood son worth the love of a god, and to be a fierce soldier, leading his troop into battle for glory. These are the thoughts he routinely pounds into his brain, so much so that anyone who knows him knows of his aspirations.

You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone so insistent on wanting to be remembered. Luke wants to leave a legacy worth dying for, worth talking about for millenia to come. And your boy persists, despite the trials of life, the ignorance of his father, and the strings of the Fates.

Your dreams, however, were always much simpler.

Cuddled under your covers and brushing your lips against Luke’s forehead to quell the growing unease that occupies his brain, you whisper what you deeply wish for.

“We’re getting old,” you mumble, and the breath of his laugh tickles your ear. He lazily runs his nose against the slope of your collarbone, sighing when he finally hears the steady beat of your chest, “We’ve definitely surpassed the average life expectancy of a typical demigod. Look at us…” he jests.

Your breath jumps in amusement as you feel his lips against your sternum, and then your boyfriend is smiling against your heart, using you for comfort as you both pass the time waiting for Hypnos to come calling.

“In a year, we’ll be nineteen…And I know you never wanted to stay here forever, so… What’s next?”

You hold in a bated breath, always unsure of where to place yourself in rank of his priorities. Who were you if not his biggest supporter?

Luke contemplates for a moment in the silence of your bedroom. It’s much easier to think and have more adult… conversations… without the many meddling children of cabin 11 always asking for one more lullaby, one more glass of water, and one more tuck-in goodnight. Here in the privacy of your room, he gets to be a boy void of his responsibilities besides hiding under his girlfriend’s duvet, giving her another shirt of his to wear, and kissing her until Apollo’s rays of light gently help you wake.

“You tell me, trouble. What does the future have in store for us?”

Us.

He’s sweet to indulge in your fantasies like this, and you stroke your fingers through his curls as you speak, ‘I think it’d be nice to go to college. Made it this far, so maybe being normal won’t be so hard…”

A soft noise leaves his throat, urging you to continue as you bite your lip and smile.

“Maybe someday, we could get a house. One on top of a hill. I don’t need much, something like the Big House, but one we can call home.”

You can feel the teeth of his sleepy grin against your skin as he whispers the next words into your heart.

“We could do that. House with big bay windows, and the smell of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies in the air. Sounds nice, baby.”

And it does.

Luke’s eyes flutter shut shortly after, but your mind is awake with how to make the dream you now share a reality. Perhaps you couldn’t give him glory, or pray hard enough to Hermes so that he’d talk to his son, but you reckon that chocolate chip cookies would be easy enough.

—

At least, it was supposed to be—until you set off the smoke alarm again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Clouds of grey are billowing from the communal kitchen oven after your multiple attempts of trying to get this right. The dryads had both partially given up on the havoc you wrecked upon their workspace as well as your increasing frustration towards them. It wasn’t their fault, you knew that—but as a perfectionist who followed the recipe to a t, how was it possible that everything was still going wrong? The first batch, you got too excited and mixed all the ingredients together, making them lumpy and inconsistent. The second batch was over-creamed, and you had to scrape them off the tray, and with this one… well you had the oven setting on a bit too high.

You sigh deeply, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes as you try to will away the mania creeping up your neck. Being the daughter of the god of insanity was hard, having to consistently control your emotions for the sake of others. Taking a shaky breath, you stare blankly at the darkened cookies, close to being burned to a crisp. The jingle of the windchime against the door rings across the room and you barely hear it until you feel Luke’s hands skate past your waist to go open a window.

“What’d you get into now, trouble? Been looking for you,” he says, coughing lightly from the smoke.

You groan, trying to cover the mess behind you on the counter and accidentally catching your arm on the hot tray, making you flinch.

“Ow! Ugh, babe, you’re not supposed to be here yet! I thought you were still sparring…”

Your boyfriend approaches you, squeezing your arm to examine if you’ve gotten hurt and tugging you towards him.

“That was an hour ago—how long have you been here, baby?” Luke pulls you into his arms, placing a kiss on your warm wrist, instantly soothing your anxiety until you see his eyes meet your latest failure.

“You bake now?”

“Clearly not, Luke, I’m sorry…I tried but I kept getting it wrong and then I got mad at myself for fucking up something so…” your voice weakens, tears welling in your eyes again thinking you’ve disappointed him.

Luke steps away from you and towards the kitchen counter, warm cookies browned to a crisp. He reaches out to pick one up before you can stop him, crunching down on it, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth as he sniffs.

Just like his mother would make them, through her madness and all.

He’s transported back to a memory of a house with big bay windows, kind of like the one you two dreamt up last night, but he’s nine and sitting at the kitchen table drinking Kool-Aid while his mom makes peanut butter sandwiches. May Castellan forgets the cookies in the oven again, and for a moment, Luke forgets that the last time he saw his mother was a lifetime ago.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels your fingertips brushing away the saltwater from his cheeks.

“Didn’t mean to make you cry, angelface, I’m sorry…” you mumble, but stop speaking when you see him take another bite.

“They’re great.”

“What?”

He chomps on another singed cookie, his lips quirking into a soft smile. Luke’s not going to let you throw the rest of this batch out. Chuckling weakly, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter as he slots himself between your legs, rough hands patting your thighs.

“Well, they’re not great. But they’re perfect. Just the way I remember them,” he smiles, kissing the furrow in your brow. You don’t bother trying to comprehend his statement, happy that you didn’t mess up a memory he holds dear.

Luke wonders if maybe he’s been blessed by his father after all, to have such extreme luck to exist at the same time as you. He doesn’t answer to the gods, to fate, but he does answer when you call his name, and settles into your arms. Love is an action after all, uncontained by just words, and he knows you tried your best, which makes it more than enough.

“She would’ve loved you, I’m sure of it,” he says rubbing his nose against yours before you can interject again, “I love you, so I know she would’ve too.”

Luke presses a tender kiss against the palm that caresses his jaw, before meeting you in the middle and finding your lips. It’s a dance you two have memorized, sweet and breathless as you meld both of your grins together. To him, you taste like chocolate chips and feel like home.

“I love you too, angelface. Almost burned the kitchen down for you,” your chuckle is cut off when he goes to press against your pout again hungrily, tracing patterns against the soft skin of your thighs as he just eats you up. The sound of your moans escapes between kisses as you wind your legs around his waist and it dampens the sound of the kitchen timer when it goes off.

(You forcibly have to detach from Luke’s embrace, much to his displeasure so that you don’t burn the next batch too.)

—

"Your name is humming inside my chest. I think this is what it means to love. I think this is what it means to be living." -Emma Bleker

ask to be added to general/luke taglists!

luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings

#luke castellan x dionysus!reader #luke castellan x reader fanfic #luke castellan x reader #pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan fluff #made by ma1dita ♥︎#trouble!verse #thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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mayhemories · 1 year

Note

Pregnancy baby trope baby daddy Neteyam x reader please

TELLING NETEYAM YOURE PREGNANT 😩😩😩😩😩😩

Tsahik Always Knows

Oh my god!! Daddy Neyetam would be so sweet! Also, I'm sorry for the lack of posts, I've been studying overseas and this course is an intensive fieldwork unit so I have had like no time to think. Additionally, some of my tags are working and some are not - I'm so sorry if I miss out on tagging you!

Pairing: Neteyam Sully x Reader (James Cameron’s Avatar)

Requested: Yes | No

Warnings: none. Vomit? Fluff?

Words: 1.8k

Author’s Notes:

Neteyam is 24, reader is 23, established relationship. AU where they never left the forest and Jake is still Olo’eyktan, Neteyam will take that mantle eventually,, happy-happy can’t read or write any more angst for real.

Please note that the reader utilises she/her pronouns. If you’d prefer male or gender-neutral pronouns in fic I’m more than happy to repost a male or gn version of the story, otherwise include any pronoun preferences in the request box!

Tag List: @lilprettypetite @nyotamalfoy @weasleytwinwheezes @aonungs-tsahik @rainbowsocks @glitterandgoldfinds @bluealiensimp @melsunshine @ussoppl @wondxrgurll @luvlykrispy @myheartfollower @gloryavila

Read Below Cut:

You stared at the remnants of last night’s dinner on the floor. You had vomited, again. This had been happening in the mornings, on and off for the last few weeks. You did not feel sick, so why were you sick?

Normally the vomit happened at home. Normally Neteyam had already left to tend to his duties. Normally you could clean it up and pretend like it never happened.

The heat of your embarrassment swarmed over your neck and shoulders, sweeping up into your cheeks and ears. You knelt, frozen in place over the bile you had just produced.

On Mo’at’s tent floor.

She was practically, and legally, your grandmother, and had been since you were nineteen-years-old. But you never thought of her like that. She was your Tsahik, your teacher, your elder, your spiritual guide, healer of the Omaticaya.

And you had vomited on her floor.

Mo’at cleared her throat, sitting across from you, your shameful vomit between you. Tears welled in your eyes. This was the worst day of your life.

“Well, luckily it was just you and me here, hm,” Mo’at said with an unusual lightness, a sweetness that was enough to spin you out of your own thoughts.

“My Tsahik, I am so sorry I do not know-”

“Don’t be stupid, how can you not know?” The typical biting Mo’at that you were familiar with came back, quickly. The woman leaned forward with a cloth, mopping up your watery bile like a dealdly secret to be kept between the Tsahik and her assistant.

Now, you really did not know what she meant. You sat up taller, finding a cloth to wipe your mouth clean, something tangible to hold onto.

“My Tsahik, I promise you, I do not know what you think I know.” You whispered into the cloth at your mouth. Mo’at discarded her cloth that blotted your vomit into a wooden bowl. Some poor trainee will deal with it later. She squinted at you, taking you in. Harshly, she grabbed at your wrists, inspecting your palms, and your shaking, delicate fingers.

She huffed as she held your wrist tightly in her left, her right hand poking at your cheek, breasts and thighs. “Hey!” you had enough of her prodding, as you pulled your wrist from her vice-like grip.

“Lay down. Now.” The Tsahik made moves to push you back onto the woven mats on the floor. You were scared and confused and honestly, getting rather emotional. You were still reeling over the embarrassment the vomit caused you. More and more these days you found yourself crying over nothing, or getting easily embarsassed.

You laid still, scared of Mo’at, and, scared of vomiting again. Flat on your back, you stared at the keen weavings of Mo’at’s medical tent. You hissed, looking down, Mo’at has placed a cold hollowed stone on your lower stomach, her ear pressed against it, she furrowed her brow bone.

The elder woman jerked up once she was satisfied, discarding her stone instrument, she settled back into her seated position on the floor, you mirroring her.

“Tsahik-”

“You are with child, quite obviously.” Mo’at had cut you off, while simultaneously giving you news that ripped all the air from your lungs.

Your mind was spinning. You were happy, you were sad, you were excited, you were embarrassed. How could you not see the signs within yourself? Obviously you and Neteyam mated often-

Oh, Eywa.

Neteyam.

You were going to have to tell him.

It was not like you both hadn’t spoken on the topic before, you knew you both wanted kids, a family. Additionally, children were expected, a future Olo'eyktan must be secured.

But the two of you had not planned for it to happen so soon. You had been so careful, tonics and teas. God, Neteyam pulled out most of the time.

Subconsciously one hand laid across your abdomen, the other covering your mouth. You felt your eyes struggling to focus on Mo’at, on anything really. You felt like a shell. A shell with a small shell inside.

“How far along?” You whispered, normally you would scold yourself for your informality towards Mo’at, but you would give yourself a break just this once.

“A month, maybe two. Nothing more, nothing less. You are not physically showing yet but you cannot be far away.” The rare gentleness from Mo’at rose its head once again. You were grateful for it. “Now, my lovely girl, go. Go collect yourself and tell my grandbaby that you’re having my great-grandbaby.” Mo’at said softly, helping you to your feet.

You couldn’t remember the short walk from Mo’at’s tent to the home you shared with Neteyam. You felt as if you were on auto-pilot, blacking out and teleporting from place to place. You quickly sat on the side of your shared bed. Furs and gossamer blankets providing comfort to your shaking legs. Laying back, you stared at the gossamer canopy Neteyam had only recently erected above your bed, dangling your legs off the side.

You rested your hands on your stomach, trying to etch into your memory what it felt like now, knowing that it will eventually swell with the growth of your baby.

Neteyam’s baby.

Realistically, you knew that Neteyam won’t be angry. Shocked? Maybe. But angry? Neteyam had never, ever been angry with you before. Emotionally? It was a different story, you imagined Neteyam being frustrated and screaming at you. You imagined him being disappointed. You imagined him packing his things and leaving. The passing thoughts alone were enough to put you on edge.

Sighing aloud, you had a look at the water clock resting on the other side of the room, you still had a few hours before Neteyam was to return. You still had a few hours to pull yourself together and work out how you were going to spit it out.

Neteyam ran his hands over his face, pulling up his ionar onto his forehead. His whole body burned from that flight. He had missed you today, not usually staying out on patrol this late, but the young recruits needed training, and Neteyam was always eager to please. But, he was a domestic man at heart, he loved being at home with you, loved pulling you to his chest, loved making whatever new thing you asked for.

He loved nesting, he realised. Loved doing it with you.

Striding from the Ikran keeper, Neteyam wanted nothing more than to see you.

The warm lights of your home welcomed him, though when he peered through the gap in the curtain flap, all he saw was your anxious figure, pacing back and forth, muttering to yourself. The air was wrong, Neteyam had never really seen you like this. He watched quietly, confused as to how you had not scent him already, something was wrong with you and he would be damned if he did not find out what.

“Oh Eywa, what am I supposed to say?” You prayed silently, wringing your wrists. You thought the pacing would bring you clarity, as it often provided your father-in-law. Yet you felt empty. And so unbearably full at the same time. In the few hours you had to wait for your mate you had come to love the little life growing in your womb.

You were so excited. You could hardly contain yourself. Neteyam would be the most perfect father. But as the night grew closer your brain started to pick itself apart.

It was all too much. You fell to your knees in the middle of your home, letting the tears flow freely now.

Neteyam did not let that stand for long. He quickly rushed in, picking you up and placing you in his lap. His strong arms snaking around your sobbing form. Your head quickly found is chest. He felt your hot tears streaming down your beautiful face and onto his skin. Neteyam hushed you, like he watched his mother do with his siblings, gently rocking you back and forth. It was so silent, save from your sobbing hiccups. Neteyam did not dare speak until you had stopped.

“My love, what has happened?” He asked gently, pulling away to cup your delicate face in his large, calloused hands. His eyes found yours, and he could see something was creating great turmoil in the labyrinth of your complicated, intelligent mind.

You sighed in response, shaking your head. Trying to find any courage at all. Knowing you have news that will change the course of someone’s life was not something you dealt with well. Maybe you were not cut out to be the clan’s spiritual leader as Tsahik. But that was a different problem for a different day.

Neteyam placed a chaste kiss to your lips, then your cheeks, under your eyes, the tip of your nose, your forehead. You were loved, he said through the gesture. You are safe here.

“Neteyam,” You started, softly. You were always softspoken. Something of which drove Neteyam crazy in love with you. So gentile, so docile, so calm. “I have something to tell you.” Neteyam’s stomach started to flip at your words, anxiety settling in, but like any good soldier, he willed his face into a blank expression. Giving nothing away.

And, in turn, giving you nothing.

“Continue my little love.” He said, putting your baby hairs behind your ears, smoothing your loose hair down as you spoke.

“Neteyam,” You cleared your throat, forcing that invisible, metaphysical bubble away. “I am with child.” The words hung in the air between you, and all you could do was wait for your mate to respond.

Neteyam felt like he was dreaming. Of all the things he prepared for you to say, you being pregnant was not one of them.

His tail betrayed him before his mouth did. Rapidly going side to side, the smile that erupted on Neteyam’s face threatened to split his jaw apart.

You were carrying a baby. His baby. Your baby, together, with him.

You melted into Neteyam’s searing kiss as he held you flush to his body. Pulling apart, Neteyam’s hands rested on your stomach, bright eyed and smily. He kissed your stomach over and over and over again. Peppering the whole area with his hot lips. You giggled at him. He was perfect.

“Oh (y/n), I am so happy.” Neteyam kissed you again, your giggles erupting between kisses as he could not decide on what he wanted to look at, your face or your stomach. “How long have you known, sweetheart?” He rested his forehead on yours, his hands resting on your still flat stomach.

“I found out earlier today.” You couldn’t help but smile. “Your grandmother knew.”

Neteyam laughed, his shoulders shaking, beads of his braids clinking together.

“She knows everything.”

That night as the two of you laid in bed, Neteyam spooning you, you rose out of your slumber briefly. Neteyam’s tail had wrapped itself around your thigh, your own tail sat under your abdomen of its own accord. Neteyam’s fingers splayed over your stomach. He was so protective already. So in love with you and your unborn baby.

You smiled. Shutting your eyes you thanked Eywa for gifting you with something so precious.

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sweetercalypso · 4 months

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What Takes the Edge Off || Joel Miller

Word Count: 2.0k

Summary: Now that Joel is living in Jackson, he’s picked up a few bad habits. When he comes home smelling like cigarettes, you punish him for his choice of vices

Notes: smoking, lap sitting, hair pulling, semi-public sex, grinding over clothes, edging, dom reader, sub(ish) Joel, no reader pronouns; smoking is gross unless you’re hot <3

joel miller masterlist main masterlist

Joel’s problem started with a crushed pack of Camels he’d found just a few short months after settling down in Jackson.

Truthfully, his problem had started when he was nineteen and naïve about the habit he was forming with the hand-rolled cigarettes stashed in his glovebox. They’d belonged to Tommy before Joel had quickly confiscated them with a lengthy lecture about the dangers of smoking.

Tommy was still a kid, but Joel was old enough to choose his own vices.

Everyone in Texas smoked; pipes, cigars, cigarettes – it was all commonplace in the rural heat of the South. Even after the world fell apart, there were plenty of people in QZs willing to trade a week’s worth of ration cards for a single carton of cigarettes, a stale taste of the life they’d left behind.

Joel had been more than happy to meet their demand, only occasionally skimming a few from his and Tess’s supplies. He didn’t crave the relief of nicotine any more than he craved a bottle of old whiskey or a quick, drunken fuck – it was just a way to cope with the life he’d been given.

Living in Jackson is different. The air is cleaner, the streets aren’t littered with soggy cigarette butts, and the weight of Joel’s bad habits has finally caught up to him.

The first pack he found, he’d shared with Tommy. The pair stood outside a crumbling house on their patrol route and chain-smoked what was left in the half-crushed box, reminiscing about the time Tommy stole an imported cigar from their father’s nightstand and had gotten sick from the first puff. Twenty years since they’d seen home, their Southern upbringing still kept them from smoking indoors.

The smell of tobacco had worn off by the time they returned to the city gates, and you were none the wiser about their indulgence. Even when you threw your arms around Joel and buried your face in his chest, you’d greeted him like nothing was out of the ordinary.

A couple days after he’d finished the first pack, Joel realized how much he enjoyed smoking. He found himself missing the bitter taste in his mouth, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s flicking loose ashes from a phantom burning tip.

There’d been a gun in his hand for as long as he could remember, and now that his days are spent in protected leisure, Joel feels like a crucial piece of himself is missing.

He’s constantly searching for the sleek steel of a pistol, the pressure of a trigger responding to his unabating command. The weight of a cigarette balanced between his fingers had eased the grief of being still.

A sealed pack of Marlboro’s was Joel’s next find, left behind on a coffee table in a house just beyond his normal patrol route. His habit had never been routine enough to pick a favorite brand, but the familiar red and white emblem is a welcomed sight, a promise of earthy tobacco and a good, slow burn.

The matchbook in his pocket is a heavy burden on Joel’s conscience as he picks up the cigarettes and quietly slips them into his supply bag. This time, he isn’t sharing with Tommy or anyone else who feels they have a claim over a portion of his findings.

Jackson might be a commune, but just this once, Joel’s nicotine-fueled prerogative trumps his commitment to sacrifice.

He waits until he’s past the city gates to unwrap the crisp plastic and slide the first cigarette out of the pack. It’s nearly midnight when he returns his horse to the stable and begins the short walk home, unlit cigarette dangling between his teeth as he attempts to light a match under the warm embrace of the streetlamps.

The initial thrum of nicotine flooding his lungs is bittersweet, a slight burn that dulls his senses with each deep breath. He walks with his cigarette pulled up to his mouth, the weak orange glow of lit tobacco burning a crude effigy into the shadows of his face.

You’re sitting on the porch when he rounds the corner, lazed in a rocking chair that Joel had built the previous summer – his attempt at adjusting to the slow life.

When he realizes that you’re still awake, he flicks the half-finished cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with the toe of his boot, waving a hand to clear the lazy smoke lingering in the air. He grumbles under his breath and pulls the front of his jacket to his nose to gauge how long it would take the smell of tobacco to fade, but he realizes too late that the sickly-sweet aroma is already woven into the material – still clinging to his breath.

He makes his way up the sidewalk with a guilty look on his face and a hand tucked in his pocket, thumb rubbing soothingly over the side of the cigarette pack as if the feel of the box was enough to bring him relief.

It wasn’t that he expected to be chastised for his nasty habit – you knew better than anyone that Joel preferred to take care of himself. But he distinctly remembers a conversation you’d shared some time ago about old-world vices and your distaste for smoking.

He didn’t think it was worth mentioning his habit at the time; smoking was a luxury he doubted he’d ever have again, so why ruin his image of calloused self-restraint?

The sound of the porch steps creaking under Joel’s boots grabs your attention from whatever book you’d been reading, now abandoned face-down on the arm of the rocking chair as you turn to greet him.

“You’re home,” you drawl, the tired lilt in your voice betraying your content expression.

His chin dips in a bashful acknowledgement, tucked to his chest as he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your face. He still isn’t used to having someone waiting up for him; the thought only adds to the weight of his self-reproach.

“How was patrol?” you ask as Joel pulls away, though your eyes rake over him with another question in mind.

Before he can answer, you reach out and grab the front of his jacket, bringing the material to your nose to confirm what Joel already knew. “You smell like smoke.”

He swallows the sandpaper feeling in his mouth and shrugs. “Got a little cold out tonight, we stopped to make a fire on our way back.”

He cringes internally at his halfhearted attempt at avoiding the matter, but it doesn’t seem to deter you from putting the pieces together anyway.

“No,” you interject, brows pulled together in confusion. “You smell like cigarettes.”

He’s silent for a moment, unable to think of an honest way out of this conversation. “Huh.”

“Joel,” you drawl, standing and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. A teasing grin pulls at the corners of your mouth, a scandalized amusement that makes his cheeks burn. “Have you been smoking?”

Your fingers weave through the dark curls at the nape of his neck, tugging softly until his head rolls back.

His eyes flutter shut and he shudders as he pulls the offending pack from his pocket. “Found ‘em on patrol,” he pants, his free hand gently squeezing your hip. “People leave all sorts of useful things behind when the world’s endin’.”

You offer only a simpering tsk in response, not quite the reaction Joel was expecting.

The night air is silent beyond the quiet lull of Jackson and the floorboards shifting under your feet as you shuffle closer together, sharing an intimate moment in the dim light seeping through the front room windows. Joel’s hands are a firm presence on your waist, separated from your skin by only the thin flannel shirt you’d stolen from his closet.

Eventually, you pull away, ushering him into the seat you’d abandoned upon his arrival. He drops into the rocking chair with a grunt and drags you into his lap.

“Missed you, baby” he murmurs, admiring the way you fit perfectly into the hollow of his frame, the way you balance yourself overtop him with practiced ease.

He knows he should be more concerned about your indifferent reaction, more worried about the possibility of someone walking by. But his sensibility is swept away by the heave of your chest and the little sound you make when his hand presses against the base of your spine.

Your hips drag slowly over his and for a moment, Joel thinks you’ve forgotten about the cigarettes. Or maybe you won’t mind his indulgence as long as he makes up for it. The warmth of your body pressed against his makes Joel ache for more, ready to offer an apology with more than just his words.

Just as he leans in to press his mouth to yours, you pull away far enough that he misses.

“Ah-” you stop him with a raised hand, fingertips pressed to his pouted lips. “You can kiss me when you don’t smell like cigarettes.”

The warm, hazy feeling is suddenly ripped from the air. Joel’s head jerks back in a look of disbelief, mouth hung open and brows pulled together as if he’d been scorned. “You’re serious?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, running a hand over his chest to soothe his trampled ego. “Can’t stand the smell, baby. You know that.”

The rocking chair dips forward as Joel drops his head onto your shoulder with a groan. “That’s just cruel.”

“It’s not cruel,” you laugh, pushing back the mess of curls falling into his face. “When you come home from patrol, I wanna taste you, not smoke.”

Your hips stir over his once again and Joel swears under his breath. His cock twitches in interest and he begrudgingly accepts the torment of your slow pace. This isn’t the time to take charge and chase his high; he’ll let you take the reins until you decide that he’s forgiven.

He picks his head up to glance around the empty streets, assuring himself that there’s no one here to witness his weak-willed acquiescence.

“I wanna touch you, make you feel good,” you continue, ghosting your fingers over the front of his jeans. “But how can I do that when all I can think about is those nasty cigarettes? Hmm?”

Your hands travel back to his chest, but your hips continue to roll over his, trapping his stiff cock beneath the comfortable pressure of your thighs. His eyes flutter shut once more as he leans back into his seat and lets you have your fun.

It doesn’t take long for Joel to near his end, subtly bucking his own hips to help himself along. He’s right there, right at the edge of his release, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the arm rests and—

The weight in his lap is gone, replaced with an empty chill that makes Joel’s hips stutter. His eyes snap open as he struggles to focus in his blissed-out state, but a hand on his shoulder brings him back to reality.

You’re standing in front of him now, no longer providing the friction that’d been fueling the fire in his belly. “Sorry, baby. You don’t get off that easy.”

He groans when you crawl back into his lap and you’re flooded with a sense of empowerment. It shouldn’t feel this good to see Joel suffer. You know it’s not fair to tease him like this, but maybe he deserves a little punishment.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been smoking, I’d let you enjoy this. Let you use your mouth to make me come, let you fuck me the way you want to.”

Joel stays silent, obedient. He swallows around shallow gasps of air that make his chest rise and fall with the labor of his breaths, thighs tensing as he struggles not to chase that feeling dangling just out of reach.

“I could do this all night,” you note, settling your weight in his lap again, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And I think you’d let me.”

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller one shot #the last of us smut #the last of us x reader #the last of us fic #tlou #tlou x reader #tlou x y/n #sub!joel #sub!joel miller

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0bticeo · 26 days

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lurk | feyd-rautha

part one of five. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary:

feyd-rautha.

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

it is kill or be killed, and you intend to live.

wc: 2k

tw: blood. death. non graphic description of gore (this is a gladiator fight). mentions of eugenics. fighting as foreplay. reader may or may not have a blood kink. knife kink??? reader is more refined than feyd but don't let it fool you she's a freak. uuuh hubris? probable inaccurate handling of dune lore, esp with the voice (forgive me for the creative liberty of assuming the mother of the kwisatz haderach should be a freak. as a treat.)

many, many years ago, the sisterhood deems you ready for the gom jabbar. you enter the room, your mother a looming shadow, hands folded in her sleeves, head bowed before a long figure cloaked in shadows.

it doesn’t sit right with you, this intrusion in your mother’s parlor. how dare that old witch make a servant out of your mother in her own house?

“kneel.”

you do. you fall to your knees. before you, a phalto green box. in it, pain. at your neck, the gom jabbar, its deadly poison whispering into your ear.

it tells you about sweet, sweet little death. it tells you the reverend mother will not put your life in danger. not when you’re the culmination of nineteen generations of careful planning.

you are to be married to a harkonnen and bear the kwisatz haderach.

so you raise your head and put your hand in the box, eyes boring into the old crone’s. you see something flash in her depthless eyes. you think of the calm before mother-storms, the stillness of the air before pounding rain.

it’s rage.

pain shoots through your hand. fire that burns and charrs and eats away at your flesh, consuming one layer of skin after another until you’re sure it reaches the bone below. you almost scream. instead, you bite your lip until metal-blood stains your tongue.

you will endure this pain. you will not let fear consume you �� you have nothing to fear, you shall not die, not here. fear is the mind killer. pain is the mind killer. you will let it wash over you and face the eons of bene gesserit knowledge standing before you.

through gritted teeth, you ask:

“am i human enough, oh wise one?”

you were. otherwise you wouldn’t be here, years later, rotting in a harkonnen cell.

(there are things that have been kept a secret from you. you have been raised following your mother’s footsteps in the weirding way. the reverend mother denied you a place under her tutelage with harsh words and a harsher look. you’ve caught wind of her thoughts in shimmering fragments of dreams — what has jessica done?)

it will matter, in the end, that your mother decided to give your father a son. already, you’ve seen it, behind the web of your eyelids, the lone silhouette of your brother, blood of your blood, rising, rising.

he will gather them, the fremen, from the burning sands of arrakis, and rise, blade glinting under scorching sun. lisan al gaib, they already call him, hushed whispers lost in the shifting sands of dunes.

your hand falls to your womb, empty still.

they were scared, the bene gesserit. the atreides line was growing too powerful, too fast. you — the promised daughter, skilled in the way, with tongue and mind sharper than your blade — are to be bred and deliver the one.

but in came paul — beloved little mouse of a younger brother. too smart, too observant, too skilled, too much. your mother’s defiance, your mother’s love for your father led her to commit the unthinkable and defy the order.

it retaliated.

you’ve been betrayed. that, you’ve seen coming. so did your father. so did your mother. even your brother felt it, in his very bones, the low thrum of wrongness. something was bound to happen. something was bound to shake you to your very core.

something happened.

the harkonnens came. house atreides fell. you can still smell it, the stench of death, the bloodied sands beneath your feet as you struck and struck.

all must die, and so they did.

you feel it still, the blood coating your hands, your forearms, dripping from your blade, the old scar on your forearm burning righteous fury.

they caught you, in the end. you, who willingly put a target on your back, allowing your brother and mother’s quiet escape. you, beaten down, bloodied. grinning, voice warping the harkonnen rats’ perception.

“you will not see me as i am.”

the atreides have been set up. offering arrakis has been nothing but a convenient way for the emperor to get rid of your bloodline.

you scoff; in the quiet depths of your cell, your fingers dig crescent moons in your palms.

you’ve been taught to read behind veils upon veils of lies. the truthsayer suggested the eradication of your house. painted you a threat.

being able to breed the kwisatz haderach won’t protect you.

so here you are, eldest daughter of duke leto atreides and lady jessica, older sister to paul atreides. here you are, sitting with your back pressed up against the wall. cold seeps into your marrow, reaching bone. rage simmers low in your gut. you quell it. nurse it until it becomes a living beast eager to feast.

you will need it.

your body fails you. your sight is blurry, your hands tremble. they should not. duncan would have hit the back of your head had he been there. he isn’t. (dead.) breathe in. breathe out. focus what’s left of your attention on the too small bowl of food that’s been given to you, on the glass of water. empty, both of them.

poison isn’t a problem — not with your training, not with the constant shifting and turning of lethal molecules within you. there. prana bindu — precise alteration of the body’s vitals. you will bear your condition for a time, weakened, but alive.

you clench your fist and slam it against the wall. pain surges through you, burning through your joint. good. if fear is the mind killer, pain clears the fog clogging your brain.

here goes: you’re rotting in the cell of your hereditary enemy, malnourished and poisoned. you’ve heard the guards, their off handed comments when they thought you too drugged to understand. your cell is below an arena. you will need to fight. perhaps, they’ll pit you against your men. the atreides house, dying by its own hand. fitting.

you’re neck-deep in trouble.

the door slides open. two guards come in, all dressed in black. harkonnens. harkonnens everywhere, and you cannot do a damned thing as they pull you up, pushing you out of your cell. they’re laughing. those bastards are laughing.

one less atreides scum in the known universe — good riddance!

you will tear into them and rip out their spine with your teeth.

they drag you in a maze of hallways, each darker than the last. you’re ascending, a catabasis of twists and turns and sliding doors. there’s a low thrum in your gut. louder and louder with each step is a pulse. a chant. a name.

the guards press a blade in your hand and push you forward.

the door slides up. shadows part. you blink with a low hiss. light pours down on you, all-consuming, blinding. sands stretch before you, unnaturally white.

the arena.

thousands upon thousands of people gaze down at you. the voice surges forward, eons of your foremother speaking through you.

“you will not perceive me as i am.”

something trickles down your nose. blood. you’ve overdone it. the voice isn’t meant to be used against that many people, not for long.

you wipe it off.

it will have to hold for the time of this fight. the harkonnen won’t rest until the atreides are completely and utterly wiped out. deceit is your only chance at survival.

the thought makes your blood boil.

good thing the crowd is screaming for it. they're all screaming for it. a pulse. a chant. a name.

feyd-rautha.

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

the noise alone has him turning towards you, head tilting to the side. he’s assessing you, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen. he glances up. for a split second, you follow his gaze. above, looking down upon you, is baron vladimir harkonnen, gargantuan mass of flesh.

you want him to collapse. to watch as his bones break under the weight of monstrous grease. you make out the movement of his lips.

happy birthday, nephew.

he’s on you before you can react. your blade raises. steel meets steel. you clench your teeth. his strength surpasses yours. you won’t yield, not to him. but by god is the bastard strong. you’ve got your hands full with just parrying his blows, the force of them echoing in your very bones. your feet slide on the sand below. any more and you’ll lose your footing.

his blades meet yours, again and again, their serrated edge slicing the corrupt air of the arena. they slice through you, too. a vicious cut on your bare forearm has you reeling back, your blade and sheath raising to parry.

this is bad. there’s only so much you can deal with in your decrepit state. fighting to survive isn’t an option — you must kill or be killed.

you draw in a sharp breath.

watchful eyes bore down upon you. bene gesserit. the reverend mother herself has come to geidi prime.

something at your side — you let your guard down. there’s a flash, a metallic clang. feyd-rautha gazes down upon you, apex predator with your death written in the greedy sands of the arena. here, you’re precious prey.

rage grips you by the throat and has you baring your teeth.

there you are, blades intertwined with harkonnen scum, a breath away from his lips. they part in a slow, assessing grin. you feel more than you see his appraising gaze raking over you. you, unyielding, matching him blow for blow, blood drip drip dripping down. under the black sun of geidi prime, it, too, has turned a velvety black.

from above your crossed blades, you raise your head and meet his eyes — twin pools of dark, abysses made to consume you whole. time slows down. you want to drown in the marrow of him and feel the warmth of his flesh beneath yours, lost in rapturous agony. something settles in your gut, low and warm.

you call it fury.

you pivot out of the way and nick him, a thin cut splitting open the skin of his cheek. he laughs. slashes at you with deathly precision. you duck, squatting down, leg springing forth, slamming at the back of his knee. he falls. catches you by the ankle and drags you to him.

you snarl.

“let go.”

how utterly pathetic of you. his grip falters. you hear his blades fall to the ground. you twist, pivot until you’re straddling him, blade pressed against his throat.

there you have it. internal carotid, right below the sculpted edge of his jaw. five minutes until death. five minutes, with his lifeblood coating your hands, soaking your robes, sinking down to your skin beneath.

your hand cramps on the handle of your weapon, in a mockery of rigor mortis. nervous impulse. the tip of the blade pierces tender flesh, drawing a droplet of blood. you follow its path down the column of his flesh, until it reaches the edge of his collarbone.

his hands surges forward, seizing your forearm in a vice grip, yanking you towards him. you feel his breath on your lips with his next words.

“do it.”

his voice sends a shiver down your spine. low, gravelly, it calls for blood. if you don’t spill his, yours will be drawn. yet, you do not move, eyes riveted to his face, to the vicious impatience carved in his features. if you kill him, you’ll be hunted and put down like a dog.

he shifts under you, the nervous twitch of a beast untamed. even through the hard edges of his ritual armor, you can feel the raw power of him.

you feel his thumb trace the edge of an old scar, up, up your forearm, a flash of black teeth and then—

pain.

there’s something in your side, serrated, razor-sharp, twisting. your hand raises to your side. warmth trickles down your fingers. his hand wraps over yours, warm, blood a silky black against the porcelain of his skin.

he watches you, twisting the blade until yours fall to the ground, bloodied hand coming up to your cheek. you lean into it. welcome him, as his thumb smears blood across the edge of your parted lips.

“you fought well, atreides.”

he pulls out the blade.

you fall.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

#obticeo writes #dune #dune part two #feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha x you #@space boo you have inspired me i dedicate this to u #and the bald freak #gotta perpetuate the tradition

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hanasnx · 3 months

Note

brucie and his 19 year old girlfriend who he flaunts around Gotham like it’s no big deal. he takes her everywhere and anywhere there will be press. everyone is so shocked and they don’t even know what to say. especially the kids. dick and jason are (high key) jealous of it… -🍓

PART ONE ✩ PART TWO MINORS DNI 18+

BRUCE WAYNE has been keeping you around to garner attention around himself and off of his dealings as the Batman. You were the perfect candidate given your social influence, your popularity, and it helped you were easy on the eyes. If Bruce Wayne was the center of controversy for dating someone half his age, Batman could keep a lookout on Penguin’s latest caches without distractions like the Cobblepots releasing a statement that Batman is wrongfully investigating a man based on appearance. Prejudice doesn’t make the news, but an age gap does.

You practically float off the floor when Bruce is around, whether it be an arm around your waist; leading you or twirling you like a dance with music he hums; sweeping you off your feet, easily up over his head. It becomes clear why he’s so dangerous, he’s such a charmer. Somehow he has romance dialed in, and you fell for someone so put-together. You love going everywhere with him, and when a fan asks for a picture, he’s the first to hug you from behind and curl his huge body around you, cheek-to-cheek with his chin over your shoulder. He’s so shamelessly touchy. It gets to a point where he likes when you scold him with a pat. Hitting his sturdy bicep when he tugs the neckline of your dress to him for a peek at your tits, and all he does is growl at you playfully, like you’re asking for it later.

To be honest, you are. Yet, Bruce won’t get it to you. He dangles it over your head in public, but alone he makes up some excuse and calls his butler to drive you home.

One time when you’ve been invited to the Manor, it was so you could get ready and drive to a gala with Bruce. Arriving together is a big statement, and you’re excited, but in a much realer sense there’s a tickle of dread in your stomach. Bruce told you to make yourself comfortable and wait for him, he’s terribly sorry that he has to attend to something first and if he’d had it his way a lady wouldn’t wait on a gentleman. You’ve already fantasized this might be it, he’s finally going to ask you. Sitting on this chaise in front of a fire you clench your legs together at the reminder. Perhaps he’s getting ready so he’ll finally sleep with you. Briefly, you imagine what the paparazzi would bark at you if you arrived to the gala with sex hair. It brings a smile to your face.

Just in case, you had outfitted yourself with a tasteful nightgown underneath your clothes, and you decide now is the time to enact it. Shimmying off your garments, you then arrange yourself seductively on the chaise. Bruce’ll be here any minute, and he always acts so insatiable in public. Maybe if you surprise him, he won’t be able to steel himself. Your fingers play with the hem, already short but your ride it up even more, and trace circles onto your bare hip. You’ve felt his hands on your hips when you wore a stringy little bikini for him on his yacht, and those callused hands had pulled you right down on his lap to stick his tongue in your mouth. You can still taste it, closing your eyes to revisualize it. He was so big underneath you—

“… and this is a one time thing, understand? My debt is paid.”

“Don’t worry, birdboy, I won’t tell your old man—“

Voices come into focus, alerting you as the door opens and not one but two people come in. Two people you do not recognize. Without thinking it through, you stand to conceal your seductive pose meant for someone else, and everything else slips your mind.

Two men. Boyish. Both with black hair that’s grown out, and one of them with a white stripe sprouting from the front of his hairline.

“Oh,” DICK GRAYSON says. He’s no stranger to walking in on something he shouldn’t see. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“Nice outfit.” JASON TODD adds, and you can tell he’s making fun of you. Your cheeks grow red hot, and you scramble for something to cover yourself up. A thin throw blanket folded over the back of the chaise is hastily straightened out to cover yourself.

Wary he might cause you grief, Dick points to a bookshelf behind you. “We just have to… get something.” He waits for something, and you realize he wants you to reply. You nod, hoping to just end this as soon as possible.

The blanket covers most, but a lot of your thigh is exposed. You try to turn with them as you they pass you, but Jason cranes his neck to catch a glance of your ass. The undersides of it hang out of your tiny nightgown. An indignant crease in your brow forms, and you make an obvious move to yank the blanket over your ass, turning it away from him. Dick keeps going, Jason hangs behind. “What’re you doing here, missy? You look a little young.” Condescension. The last thing you need right now is a conversation.

“Yeah, are you looking for someone?” Dick asks over his shoulder, more polite than his companion as he searches the spines of books with a finger.

You hesitate to say anything, you don’t know these people. “I’m waiting on someone.” A tremble shivers through you, the back of you cold from being away from the fire, and your nerves didn’t help.

“You’re not a hooker, are you?” Jason’s blunt nature shines through in his question, not that he’s intrigued or judgmental, just curious.

Your first instinct is to be offended he’d say something like that to a lady, frowning at him with a scoff. “What? No! And—!” It dawns on you that you shouldn’t put down sex work, you’re overreacting. So you wiggle your shoulders and stick your nose in the air, prissing up your attitude. “It wouldn’t matter if I was.” you say, quieter this time.

“Sure, it does. I’ve got cash on me.” Jason replies, only to get that cute offended look back on your face.

“Jason, shut up. She doesn’t know you’re trying to get under her skin.” Dick plucks out the book, and flips through it. He joins you and Jason, and you take a wary step back. He doesn’t notice, snapping the book shut and handing it off to Jason. Those blue eyes are back on you again, and you swear you see him give you a quick once-over. “Whoever you’re waiting on is a lucky guy.” he says, and by his tone you’re unsure if it’s a genuine flirt. When he smiles, dimples define, and for a brief second you’re weak in the knees.

A third voice pipes up, deeper than them both. “She’s with me.” Bruce says, walking in as he adjusts his cuff links. “Jason, always a pleasure to find you sneaking around my house.”

903 notes · View notes

tzuberry · 9 months

Text

(cute) things zerobaseone maknae line do as your boyfriend ૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა

pairing shen quanrui (ricky), kim gyuvin, park gunwook, han yujin + gn reader⠀⠀⠀details fluff, established relationship, bulletpoint

cw none ⠀⠀⠀wc 410, 418, 505, 462 (1,795 overall)⠀⠀⠀reading time 12 minutes

note HELLOOOO i havent posted a fic since july 15th and that was my first fic ever on this account omg... thank u for all the notes on my other post LIKE i didnt expect so much + thank you for 90 followers!! also i might start writing for tiot and evnne if i have time 🫡 likes are reblogs are appreciated if u can 💟

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ricky 리키

lets you play with his hair

i think ricky is honestly extremely particular with his hair, and especially who gets to touch it

his hair isn’t very visibly damaged despite getting it dyed frequently / basically not having black hair since he was probably fifteen years old (and he’s nineteen now, so that says something) so he has to take good care of it not to have it fried off

there were stories about him during bopeul where they said they always saw him fully ready with perfectly styled hair whenever he left his room, too

like i’m not even kidding he has to care for his hair a whole lot or by now he could’ve been bald i’m sorry

when his friends—mainly gyuvin—try to play with his hair or comb their fingers through it, ricky allows it but is not that pleased because he put effort into styling his hair and doesn’t want it to get messed up

gyuvin jokingly whines a little, but is over it after a few seconds

when ricky started dating you, although he thoroughly knew you and almost all of your habits and mannerisms, he didn’t think you would be into playing with his hair

you’re hanging out, watching a movie at your apartment while your head is rested on his shoulder when he feels your fingers suddenly brush through the strands of his hair

he turns to look at you, partly shocked but also just wondering what you’re planning on doing to his hair

you shrug your shoulders, keeping your eyes on the tv and not minding him one bit

“what are you doing?” he asks, a little amused

he expects you to reply playfully, to exchange banter or something like that

but instead, you say, “your hair is really soft, you know,” as you proceed to curl a portion with your finger acting as the curling iron

ricky quite literally folded that day... now he lets you do whatever you want with his hair

you can braid it, curl it, whatever

he doesn’t mind as long as it’s you, even if he spent nearly an hour fixing it this morning

you’re in a cafe talking to gyuvin and gunwook, sitting at the other side of the table when you lift your arm to twirl ricky’s hair, him not remotely flinching at the contact

gyuvin is pleasantly surprised to witness this sight

“you don’t let me do that,” he sulks, aimed at ricky

your boyfriend scoffs. “you’re not [name].”

gyuvin 규빈

always texts you + makes sure you’ve eaten

okay i think i’ve seen a lot of people say this already idk but i think it’s soooo true

gyuvin texts you excessively

like. about anything

there was one instance when his little brother had a crush on a girl, and gyuvin literally went to you for help and his brother didn’t even have an inkling of what was happening

gyuvin (DO NOT REPLY): [NAME] MY LITTLE BROTHER... is... growing up :(

gyuvin (DO NOT REPLY): he used to be so small i could put him in my pocket and now

yn: what happened???

gyuvin (DO NOT REPLY): he LIKES A GIRL. who told him it was okay to get a girlfriend? at his toddler age??

yn: gyuvin i love you but we started dating when We were his age

and then he continued to ask you for advice on how to help his brother get the girl he liked

there’s more instances of him oversharing his brother’s life with you, but that ends there

he also buys you snacks all the time

even if you don’t want it. even if you verbally, very clearly, straightforwardly tell him you’re not the tiniest bit hungry

he’s basically your mother oml

he makes those little snack baggies for you to take

before you both graduated, gyuvin would bring you lunch. it didn’t just stop at snacks

he would ask his mom to help him cook for you

and he’d make it all cute and stuff like shaping the rice to be your favorite character

he’d pack it to school and give it to you in the morning. omg

mixing those two things together, you get “have you eaten yet” texts all the time

it’s two pm, and you were so stuck while helping a friend that you regrettably forgot to eat lunch. ‘it’s okay,’ you assure yourself, ‘i had a late breakfast’

gyuvin texts you, asking the usual “have you eaten lunch????” and you lie and say yes

and then your phone rings and you know you can’t avoid it anymore because he can see through your voice when you lie

from the speaker of your phone, gyuvin’s voice is unbelievably attractive—but you choose to ignore that fact for now

“[name],” he deadpans. “be honest. have you eaten?”

choosing to accept defeat, you exhale deeply. “no.”

gyuvin suddenly hangs up and only a text is left on your screen

gyuvin (DO NOT REPLY): i’m coming over in. like 30 minutes i have to ask my mom to help me cook

gunwook 건욱

teaches you how to dance

gunwook is SO good at dancing it’s so crazy

i love watching him on stage because he’s the best performer ever. like he seems to genuinely enjoy it and i hope he never loses that love for dancing / singing / rapping

you on the other hand..... you could be good at dancing too, just definitely not as good as gunwook

so whenever your scheduled dates are interrupted by his extracurriculars at school, you decide to tag along with him, if the members of his clubs don’t mind (which they usually don’t)

one of his extracurriculars is the dance team

and most of the time, when your preplanned dates are cancelled because of an extracurricular he has lined up for him, it is almost always dance

so you end up following him to the practice room, silently watching him in the corner so as to not obstruct their view of the mirror by sitting directly in front of them

his eyes light up with the flame of passion you adore so much, and you’re so content that even if your date is cancelled because of this, you’re not annoyed and you still get to indirectly spend some time with him by spectating him as he does what he likes

in the short breaks that he gets, he takes the opportunity to sit beside you on the floor and ask about your day

when the practice session ends, he asks if it’s okay with you if he stays to polish up the routine, to which you say yes and offer to stay with him because everyone else has started to leave

after a while, he grows tired and plops down next to you

gunwook chuckles. “i’m sorry for cancelling our date and making you stay with me.”

“it’s alright, i like watching you dance.” you smile

he abruptly stiffens up, irises reflecting the light, making his eyes glow excitedly. “do i dance well? what do you think?”

you giggle. “you dance very well. a lot better than i can, for sure.”

“mhm, yeah?” he grins widely, and you know what he’s going to do

gunwook jumps up on his feet, extending his hand out to you to help you get up

“you just need a little help.” he nods proudly. “you’re lucky i’m your boyfriend.”

you take his hand, and he leads you to the center of the room and he starts to dance with you ballroom style (???) like the waltz and stuff

he guides your arms over his shoulder to circle his neck, and his hands rest on your waist and then he starts counting, “4... 3... 2... 1... like this,” as he takes a singular step in different directions, encouraging you to mirror his movements

you almost trip, but you tightly cling on to his shoulders before you can fall

gunwook laughs. “enough dancing for today?”

“yes, please,” you agree, letting your body fall forwards into a hug with him

“alright. if you’re not that tired, are you still up for that date?”

yujin 유진

(tries to) initiate / enjoys physical touch

yujin doesn’t seem like his love language is physical touch.... i know gyuvin does it a lot to him and he kinda pretends to not like it but it’s so endearing and i sooo believe he deep down loves it

it’s the same with you, but he’s the one intiating it

he never thought he liked skinship all that much, because he would even jokingly say it pestered him a little at times when gyuvin would dote on him

but when it came to you, and when you first started dating, he was itching to hold your hand

it was so new to him because he never craved for anyone’s physical affection before

all his older friends like gyuvin and gunwook would always just.... initiate skinship for him and he thought he didn’t like it but

suddenly you come along, and you don’t even try to hold his hand

he thought couples were supposed to hold hands?? and hug??

but you’re not budging and it’s so frustrating

while walking you home from school like usual, as you tell him about your day, he tries to gather the courage to intertwine your hands

it doesn’t work, and he’s left with cold hands as he stares at you enter your front door

“next time,” he whispers to no one but the wind

next time comes and still... he’s too nervous to hold your hand

the distance between your palms is less than four inches, and all he has to do is take the leap—besides, nothing could go that wrong. you like him and he likes you

he purposely bumps the back of his hand with yours, but doesn’t actually take your hand in his

he awkwardly rubs his nape, unsure of what to do now

your brows knit together, as you’re now aware of yujin’s weird behavior

“yujin?” you tug on his uniform sleeve. “is something wrong?”

“no! nothing’s wrong,” he quickly denies, “don’t worry about it.”

“okay... can i see your hand, though?” you request, and it successfully confuses him because why do you want to see his hand?

he obliges, giving it to you palm up when you lace your fingers with his

“i’ve noticed you trying to hold my hand since last week,” you say, giggling. “i was waiting for you to do it, but i guess you’re too shy.”

“i’m not that shy,” yujin defends, looking down at your interlocked hands... ‘this is a good feeling,’ he thinks

you nod passively. “it’s fine. it’s one of the reasons why i like you.” you swing both your hands back and forth in the space between you

yujin doesn’t try to retort, only relishing the feeling of your hand in his

skinship isn’t so bad... maybe he could get used to this.

2K notes · View notes

ellieswrldd · 8 months

Text

*.✧ arabella ✧.*

pairing: brother's best friend! ellie williams x f!reader

summary: the last time ellie saw you, you were sweet and innocent. now, a year has passed and you've grown up.

content warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, a bit of angst, r has a tramp stamp (lower back tattoo) & is described to be a party girl, brief dry-humping/grinding, strap-on use (r!receiving), reverse cowgirl & doggystyle, praise & degradation, use of terms pretty girl & princess, ellie calls the strap her cock

a/n: very loosely inspired by that one ph video..iykyk! also, named after the am song bc i think it give the vibes i was going for teehee

The last time Ellie saw you, it was the summer before your freshman year of college. You were still rather innocent, not yet tainted by the bad behavior of others your age. You didn't party, kept away from alcohol and drugs, and preferred to spend your Friday nights reading in your room.

That was how she remembered you, her best friend's cute younger sister. She knew better than to get involved with you, honest to God, she did. The first day the two of you met, your brother had stated that if she were to get too close, she'd find herself with a black eye and a restraining order. But the last day before you left for college, Ellie found herself uneasy. She was nervous, nervous to be around you.

So when she found herself alone with you in your childhood bedroom, your brother stuffing your luggage into the car, Ellie felt herself losing her cool. It was an innocent kiss, sweet and meaningful. One that started when you began to pull away from her hug and looked at her with those beautiful doe-eyes. Her lips found yours with ease like she had been waiting for this moment. The sweet sigh that escaped you was what urged Ellie to pull away. She let her slim hands drop from your sides and turned away from you, awkwardly rubbing her neck. Ellie mumbled something along the lines of a 'sorry' and a 'goodbye' before going downstairs to talk to your brother. That was over a year ago when you were just nineteen. Now, you were back for the summer, excited to spend time with your brother after being swamped all year. You were different now, to say the least. Even though you were still funny and caring, you were far from the innocent girl Ellie once saw you as. You partied, you drank, and now you spent your Friday nights in the beds of hot girls who caught your eye. The morning after you arrived home, Ellie stumbled upon you in the kitchen. She was staying with your brother for the summer, and while she knew you would come home eventually, she didn't expect you to be so...changed.

You wore a fitted baby tee, cropped just above your navel, and a pair of snug, light-wash jean shorts that seemed to end right where your ass met your thighs. It was something Ellie would have never pictured you in.

You glanced at Ellie from where you stood in front of the fridge. "Oh, hey, Ellie," You greeted her softly, returning your focus to the contents of the refrigerator. "Y/n, I didn't know you were back." "Got in last night," You hummed, closing the fridge door with your hip. "Almost didn’t recognize you,” She chuckled awkwardly. “You seem..." "Sluttier?" You muttered. It wouldn't be your first, not even your third time hearing that one. It was a comment your old friends from high school loved to whisper to one another when encountering you on campus. "Older." Ellie rasped, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants and briefly looking down at her feet. "Hm," You shrugged and bent down to rifle through a cabinet under the kitchen counter. Ellie's breath hitched slightly when she caught a glimpse of thick, dark lines imprinted on your lower back when you bent down.

A tattoo? She thought to herself as a bright pink blush painted her cheeks. The old you would never get a tattoo, you were always scared of how permanent tattoos were.

"I think I'm going to go for a morning swim in the lake, want to join?" Your eyes darted over to her green ones as you asked. "I'll have to pass, maybe some other time," Ellie said. You shrugged and brushed past her to slip out the back door. Watching you walk down the grassy path toward the lake, Ellie groaned softly and turned to go back upstairs.

You weren’t the sweet, pure girl she once thought you to be. You were a woman now. And Ellie was fucking screwed.

~~~~

You found yourself on the couch with your brother and Ellie later that week. The sun was long gone, and the only sounds you could hear were the crickets in the backyard and the audio from the movie playing on the tv.

Your brother sat between you and Ellie, chewing loudly on popcorn and whispering little comments about the movie to Ellie as they watched.

You stared at the tv lamely, you eyes occasionally flicking over to Ellie’s face. She looked just as bored as you were, a little tense if that. Was your presence affecting her?

After the movie finished, your elder brother stretched his hands high above his head and yawned.

“I’m heading upstairs, you coming Ellie?” He asked as he stood from the couch.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be up in a few minutes.” She nodded and watched as he trudged up the stairs.

You flipped through the channels on the tv, purposefully staying silent as you felt Ellie’s eyes bore into you. It was the first time you two had been left alone with one another since your first morning back.

“It’s rude to stare, Els.” You mumbled as you put on another movie. You heard her take a deep breath and shift slightly.

“You’re fuckin’ killing me,” She whispered.

“Ellie—” You sighed.

“Listen, I shouldn’t have kissed you before you left. I know it was wrong.” Ellie interrupted. “But I don’t regret it, and I’m sorry for the pain I must’ve caused you.”

You turned to look at her finally.

“God, you’re such an asshole, Ellie.” You breathed.

“I know,” She said in a voice just louder than a whisper.

“After you kissed me, I lost myself a little bit. I was so confused and I didn’t want to even think about you,” You bit your lip. Every word you were saying was true, you didn’t want to think about Ellie, even just seeing your brother mention her name in a text made you think about the kiss.

You hated it, you didn’t want to think about the kiss because then your mind reminded you how she cowered away after. How she bolted the minute your lips parted. How the girl you had secretly pined after for so many years had simply left after kissing you.

It gave you a reason to drink, to party a little harder than you should’ve. You tried to forget, and you seeked comfort in the arms of different girls.

“And now, well now I’ve changed. I’m not that quiet girl who read on the porch while you did stick-and-poke tattoos with my brother beside me.” You laughed weakly. “I doubt that kiss meant anything to you, but it meant everything to me, and you fucking left without saying a word.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment, her mouth slightly open.

“You’re wrong,” She stated. “It meant so much to me, so much. It was shitty of me to kiss you then, but now that you know how I feel? I’m glad I did it. I would have talked to you and explained myself, I really would have, but I’m a fucking idiot, and I got scared. Does that make you feel better?” Ellie’s voice was a mix of a whisper and a shout as her wide eyes searched yours. Your breath stuttered slightly as you took in Ellie's expression. You had known her since you were merely ten years old when she was thirteen, and she had just met your brother. All those years of summers and weekends spent together, and you had never seen her look like this.

Her emerald eyes were full of need, love, and something else. Regret? Something like that. She looked thirsty, thirsty for your touch, your forgiveness, your loving.

Just like that moment a year ago, you leaned in your lips mere inches away from Ellie's. You felt her hot breath tickle your lips as she exhaled shakily. The sound of your brother walking down the stairs caused you to pull away from Ellie. He rifled through a cabinet, presumably looking for a midnight snack as you stood from the couch. Without another word, you walked past him and went to your room. You typed a quick message and sent it to Ellie. R: come to my room once my brother is asleep? E: I'll be there. Waiting for her was torturous, like waiting for a storm during a drought. Everything was on the table now after both of you completely spilled your hearts out of one another. Hearing that gentle knock on your door made your heart race. With a low creak, you opened your wooden door and tugged Ellie inside your room.

It was still girlish and organized from your high school years, tiny Polaroids and colorful posters littered your walls. It was home, like a snapshot of your old self. Ellie looked at you with an unreadable expression, her hands slowly finding their way to your waist.

“Tell me you want this,” She breathed, leaning her forehead against yours and closing her eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve wanted anything more.” You placed your hands on both sides of her face and leaned in to gently brush your lips against hers. It was just the ghost of a kiss, but as soon as it happened, it was like something snapped inside both of you.

Gentle, loving kisses quickly turned into ones full of fiery and heated passion. Ellie's hands roamed your body, squeezing and pulling you impossibly closer to her. Stumbling backward, your legs hit the edge of your bed, and you tugged Ellie down with you. She giggled softly against your skin, pulling you to straddle her hips. "I've wanted this..." Ellie groaned softly as your teeth sunk into the sensitive skin of her neck. "For so long..." She whispered and let her eyes shut. Her hands gripped at the flesh of your ass, slowly grinding your crotch against hers. A sharp gasp left your puffy lips as the friction rubbed against your clit and sent a wave of pleasure through you. "My brother would kill you if he knew," You whimpered as her hands moved your hips back and forth against hers. "So don't let him find out," Ellie chuckled and brushed her calloused thumb against your cheek. "Stay quiet, and we'll be fine. Yeah?" With that, she dragged your clothed cunt across her own, letting out ragged breaths as the two of you needily ground your hips against one another. "M-More, Ellie," You whispered as you grasped tightly at the hem of her t-shirt. "What do you need? My fingers?" She squeezed your ass. "Well," You bit your lip and hesitantly climbed off Ellie. You knelt down to the side of your bed and grabbed a box from underneath your bed. Just about the size of a shoe box, Ellie looked at you with a questioning expression. "I have this, it's brand new." Shyly, you passed a thick purple strap-on to Ellie, your face hot as she glanced at it. "Have you...used one of these before?" She asked cautiously. Ellie was soaked at the mere idea of fucking you with a strap, but she didn't want to rush you into anything you weren't completely sure of. You nodded slowly. "Have you?" She bit her cheek and nodded as well. It wasn't surprising, Ellie had been popular with girls since the beginning of high school and was far from a virgin. "Okay, are you sure you want this? 'Cause once we do this, there isn't any going back." Ellie murmured as she leaned in close to your face. "I'm sure, Els." You kissed her softly and watched as she quickly stripped herself of her baggy sweatpants. Ellie slid the dark straps around her hips, allowing the strap-on to rest comfortably over her navy blue boxers. Effortlessly, she pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it to the floor of your dark room. She chuckled softly when she caught you staring at her toned torso. "Can't fuck you with your clothes on, princess." Ellie grinned and glanced down at your flowy pajama shorts. You tugged your shorts off first, then your shirt came off, leaving you in only your panties. "Jesus Christ...what am I supposed to do with you?" Ellie mumbled as she watched you lay back on the bed and spread your legs for her. "Whatever you want," Ellie narrowed her eyes slightly, tracing over your nude figure. "Get up," You wasted no time obeying her command, standing up and waiting at the edge of the bed for her next instruction. She sat down on your bed, stretching out her legs and leaning against your headboard. Ellie pat her thigh. "C'mon," You straddle her hips, the dildo resting against your backside as you kiss her feverishly. Ellie took a deep breath and slid her hand past the waistband of your panties, and gently touched your sensitive clit. She brushed the tip of her middle finger along your aching slit, mouth falling slightly agape as her finger slid against your wetness. "So fucking wet," You gasped sharply and bucked your hips against her touch. "Bet you don't even need my fingers, already so wet for me, could probably just put the strap in right now," Ellie muttered against your ear as her fingers teased you. "P-Please..." "Please what?" Ellie cooed, her hands drifting to palm at the exposed skin of your ass. "Fuck me, please fuck me," Ellie chuckled and pat your hip.

“Turn around, pretty girl,” You bit your bottom lip and slowly turned your back to Ellie, your hips hovering over hers as you tentatively waited for her next instruction. "Look, you can see yourself in the mirror," Ellie grinned and pointed to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room that was angled toward the bed. "Raise your hips and keep your eyes on the mirror." Your gaze drifted back to the mirror, one your brother and Ellie had put together for you many summers ago. The sight you saw in the reflection was wrong, it was all plain wrong. Your brother's childhood best friend aligning the tip of the strap with your entrance, your panties pushed to the side, and concentration painting her face. A choked moan escaped your lips as Ellie gently pulled your hips down onto the dildo. You covered your mouth with a shaky hand, a weak attempt at muffling the cries of pleasure that left you. "That's it, yeah, ride me, pretty girl," Ellie guided your hips, her hands splayed out across your ass, two thumbs aligning with the dimples of your lower back. She watched in awe as you began to follow her lead, slowly bouncing on her strap. "Takin' me so good- knew you'd be all ready for my cock," Ellie grunted. You felt her thumbs swipe back and forth against your lower back as she mumbled incoherent praises. "God, you're so sexy...fucking love this tattoo..." Ellie breathed heavily as she stared at the dark ink that painted your skin.

It didn't take long for you to begin moving without her guidance. Your slow movements turned frantic and needy while pleasure burned deep inside of you. You had been fucked with strap-ons before, but it had never felt quite like this. This was more than just meaningless sex. With each buck of your hips, each movement you made, the strap pushed against your g-spot and ever so slightly brushed against your cervix, stimulating all of the most sensitive spots inside of you. "E-Ellie-" You whimpered, reaching a hand behind you. Ellie groaned and quickly intertwined a hand with yours. "Holy fuck," She whispered as she looked over at your reflection in the mirror. Your breasts bounced slightly every time you quickly sunk down onto the toy, and your expression twisted into one of pure ecstasy. Not to mention, the way your ass rippled when the skin slapped against hers made Ellie nearly lose her mind. Everything was too much, and she could hardly decide where to keep her eyes, or her hands for that matter. Her large hands squeezed at the fat of your ass, digging her fingers into your skin. Then she slapped the flesh playfully, just enough for the sting to fade into pleasure.

"I-I'm gonna-" You gasped sharply as you felt a familiar tension growing deep inside you. "Get on your hands and knees. I'll get you there, princess," Ellie murmured. You nodded and did as she said, leaning forward into doggy style. Ellie paused for a moment to realign the strap with your cunt and to grasp at the waistband of your panties. Soon, Ellie began to thrust into you quickly and deeply. She dragged your hips against hers by the band of your underwear, pulling you back and forth on her fake cock like you were some sort of doll for her to use. A loud smack echoed throughout your bedroom when Ellie slapped your ass. You moaned into the fluffy bedsheets you were pressed up against. "My brother- he's gonna hear us-" You whined as you glanced back at Ellie with glassy eyes. "Don't worry about that, pretty girl, he sleeps like the dead." Ellie laughed softly as she plunged deep inside of you. "Oh! There! Right there!" You practically sobbed when she repeated the same movement over and over again until your legs were shaking. On the verge of your orgasm, your body buzzed with pleasure, and tears threatened to spill from your eyes. "Mmh- Els, m'gonna.." "Yeah, cum for me princess, cum all over my cock." She whispered as her thumbs traced the intricate lines of your tattoo and her hips slapped against yours. One of her hands slid around your waist and moved down to begin quickly circling your clit. Ellie was desperate to get you off, she wanted to watch as you lost control of your body and experienced an intense orgasm. That was enough to push you over the edge, you screamed into the bedsheets as you felt your body stiffen and shake against Ellie's. Her thrusts slowed but didn't completely stop, as she wanted to prolong that climax as much as she could. Your senses were clouded with nothing but white-hot pleasure while you rode out the rest of your orgasm. After what felt like a few very long moments, Ellie slowly pulled out of you and sat back on the bed. She undid the straps on her hips and placed the toy on your bedside table. "C'mere, pretty girl..." She cooed softly as she gently picked you up and pulled you into her arms. Ellie lay with you in the bed, her fingers lightly tracing patterns along the skin of your back as she cuddled you. "You did so good, you're so perfect..." She said quietly. You hummed softly in response and closed your eyes. "You better get back to my brother's room, he wouldn't be happy to see you coming out of my room in the morning." "I know, but I'll stay until you fall asleep. Don't worry about me, princess." And for once, you listen to her. You focused on the heat Ellie's body radiated against yours and how peaceful you felt in her loving embrace. It felt right. --- tags: @asteroidzzzn , @ellabsprincess , @ximtiredx

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sinofwriting · 7 months

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Private Professor - Max Verstappen

Words: 5,576 Summary: For years and years, Max has claimed that he has a girlfriend, but no one has ever met her and he refuses to talk about her with the media. And it’s far easier to believe that he’s lying when no proof of a girl exists. Note(s)/Warning(s): Small Age Gap (Reader is nearly two years younger), Some Angst, Mostly Fluff, Jos Verstappen. Thank you so much to the anon that requested this! I had a lot of fun writing it!

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At fourteen and sixteen, their relationship is all blood rushing to their cheeks, fluttering hands, kisses that last too long and not long enough, panting breaths, and hickeys below shirt collars. It’s whispers of forever, of I’ll take you here and there. That house will be ours one day. Whatever you want, you’ll have. I’ll be on break, you’ll come home and I’ll be waiting. You’ll follow me everywhere and I’ll do the same.

It’s promises they don’t realize they shouldn’t be making but do. It’s sweet nothings and petty fights that last a day before they’re back in each other's arms. It’s pretending not to notice how his dad watches him amused as he walks calmly out of the door before sprinting over to her house and sneaking into her bedroom. It’s her parents pretending not to hear the thud of him falling into her bedroom and the light giggles their daughter makes.

At fourteen and sixteen, their relationship changes. It’s no longer seeing each other when he doesn’t have a race or training and is home, no Red Bull duties to be done. It’s long phone calls, texts, snapchat streaks, learning how to video call. It’s carrying two power banks with them everywhere and Max buying them both expensive phone cases that charge their phones. It’s falling asleep on the phone while the other is just beginning their day. He attends classes with her, while she listens to him train. He goes to red bull meetings and pretends not to have the light sound of breathing in his ears from her falling asleep while studying or doing her homework.

Fifteen and seventeen, brings them peace. She’s still studying like a mad woman at Harvard of all places, but he’s got an F1 seat of all things. He’s in F1. He suddenly has more things to do but more free time. When he’s not racing or at the factory or doing weird press things that make him want to rip his hair out, Jos is putting him on a plane to America, to her. And he soaks up all the time with her he can, despite it being filled with her studying, attending classes, and forcing actual food down her throat which her parents both thank him for.

It also brings the stupidest thing in the world; the doubt and disbelief that he has a girlfriend.

Carlos is the first to bring it up upon seeing his home screen that’s just all black, not even the default that iphone has.

“No girlfriend?” Max frowns at him, pocketing his phone and sending a glance over to where his father is standing and talking to his race engineer. “What?” “Your home screen, it’s all black. You don’t have a girlfriend?” Carlos is teasing, joking. The whole paddock already knows that Jos Verstappen wouldn’t let his son have a girlfriend, not now when he’s got an F1 seat. Such a thing would be a distraction and Max isn’t allowed those. Max isn’t allowed friends on the grid either. Carlos wonders though how much the last part is just a Jos thing. “I do.” Then he says her name, all soft and sweet in a way Carlos never thought Max could be. It’s nearly enough for him to believe Max, but then he catches a glimpse of Jos and shakes his head, clapping the seventeen year old on the back.

He is the first to not believe Max, but far from the last. It’s Daniel next, Christian, Esteban, Pierre, Sebastian, Lando, every interviewer that asks.

It doesn’t matter because at seventeen and nineteen, she gets her second degree and begins the nightmare of getting her doctorates in education and history. And he picks out a ring before making his father hide it away. And instead of him constantly flying to her, she’s flying to him. Hiding out in his Monaco apartment, turning his living room into a disaster zone as she spreads her things around to study.

The mess drives him crazy, but he doesn’t move anything no matter how much his hands itch to do so, instead just pressing a kiss to the top of her head before pressing himself in between her and the couch. Grinning when she sends him a look, a clear don’t be a distraction, before giving him a kiss.

His days in Monaco when she’s there are spent in the living room after training, playing fifa or watching some documentary for one of her classes with her, and poking at her lightly because he doesn’t know shit about history but he’s still able to remember countries quicker than her.

They turn eighteen and twenty and nearly get married when her family goes on vacation to Vegas, dragging the two along despite them not being able gamble, which is the only reason her parents had chosen Vegas. The only thing that stops them from getting married is him not being a US citizen and her visa just being for school. It’s a fucking wakeup call for him and he can’t help but pester her about places in Monaco to live.

She entertains it for all of five minutes before she’s cupping his face and kissing him. When she pulls back, she’s shaking her head. “As long as it has you and four bedrooms, I don’t care.” “Four?” “We’ll need our own offices and a guest room.”

It’s barely anything for the real estate agent to work with but he doesn’t care. He wants something that’s at least four bedrooms, two baths, a decent kitchen, and a view. She liked the Monaco sunrise and sunset and he planned on letting her be able to see it anytime they stayed in Monaco.

His agent gets back to him in a week and he ignores the look on Daniel’s face when he comes over for the first time. Ignores the jokes about it being too big for one person just like Daniel ignores him saying that he has a girlfriend.

“If you had one, I’d have seen a picture of her mate. The whole world would.”

Max still remembers the way his jaw had twitched at the thing everyone said. That if he had a girlfriend, they’d have seen a picture of her, that he’d be showing her off every second, have her at the races, been seen with her. When Max had made it abundantly clear that the worst part of driving was the media, the fame. So why would he ever subject someone he loves to that when they both weren’t ready for that?

Because they weren’t. He wasn’t ready for another part of his life, one of the most important parts, to be something for everyone to look at and dissect. And she wasn’t ready for it either. Not when she was doing so much studying. She barely felt like she had time for him, which he denied and hated vehemently, she didn’t have time for the online vitriol of being a girlfriend to a high profile athlete. And she didn’t need to be harassed as she attended classes and studies groups and such if someone recognized her and didn’t like that she was with him.

Not showing any pictures or videos of her was also easy for him. It wasn’t because he didn’t have any, he had hundreds. But they were pictures and videos of her, only meant for him. Not because they were dirty in nature, though some were, but because how she was in them was something only she allowed him to see. It was photos of her with a finger pressed to her top lip as she glared at her books, videos of her sitting on something too tall for her feet to touch the ground and letting them swing. It was her smiling at him, all fond, shy and in love.

It was them wrapped up in each other's arms and love. Her in between his legs or the other way around. Her sitting on his lap as Vic stole his phone to video them laughing and exchanging kisses. Her giggles as she tries not to fall asleep as reads her books to him over facetime. It’s her in her purest form and he doesn’t want the people in his life who are so quick and sure to not believe him to get to see that.

Nineteen and twenty-one, she officially co-owns their place in Monaco and he starts scouting out property in Belgium and land in France that’s somewhat close to the principality he lives in. It was too early to start building a house to live in forever, not when they weren’t sure what they wanted to live in forever with their kids, but it wasn’t too early to buy the land for it.

It also leads to their biggest fight in years.

“Max!” Her nails are digging into her arms. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying that I want to help, that I can pay. I have money!” “And you don’t need to!” He’s yelling as well, face red with anger. “I’ve got money too! You don’t need to pay for shit when I can.” She shakes her head. “Really? Is that how it's always going to be? I won’t ever get to pay for anything? Just have a salary and trust fund wasting away.” She scoffs, giving another shake of her head. “Is it about being the breadwinner? Because don’t worry Max, I’m well aware that you’ll always have more money than me. Doesn’t mean I can’t contribute to our life.” “Fuck.” He murmurs seeing the tears brimming in her eyes but not falling, the hurt in her words. “It’s not about that at all. It’s not about being the breadwinner.” “Then what is it about?” Her voice is high pitched. “You won’t let me pay for a single thing! I can’t buy groceries without you slipping money back into my wallet. I can’t help pay the bills and now you won’t let me help buy the land that will have our house on it. What is it about Max?” “You’re mine.” Her eyes widened at his quiet but firm tone. “You’re my girlfriend, the love of my life. One day my wife and the mother of my children.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling words and feelings he’s only ever really let come out during sex or when they're both so drunk they barely remember anything the next day. “I want to pay for everything because it’s providing for you, it’s making sure you’re eating, sleeping somewhere safe, getting the best, most accommodating flights. It’s knowing that I’m providing for my family.”

“Max,” she breathes out, arms falling away from her chest and then she’s moving closer, resting a hand over his racing heart. “You want to provide for me?” He nods. “For our future kids?” “Yes.” “So do I. So, we’re going to work on this. You want to buy the land, you can.” He looks at her distrusting, because this didn’t sound like working on it. “But, I get to pay for groceries when I go out for them, without you paying me back. I get to pay for netflix because I use it more and spotify.” She adds. He frowns at her. “I don’t like it.” “Too bad and I’m not done. In return, you get to pay the bills, put gas in the car for me,” he grins at that. “Pay for my flights and we are going to open a joint account to put an equal amount of money in every month. For things like vacations, anniversary dinners, and the kids. Because it’s important that I get to help provide for them too. And when we build that house together, I want to pay at least half of the contracting fee. I’ll let you pay for the rest.” “I want to pay for any of the kids' interests. Like art, ballet or karting.” “No deal.” She shakes her head and he’s frowning again. “You can pay for all the karting, it will mean more. But I want it out of the shared account for the other things. Unless,” she pauses. “Unless,” he encourages. “If any of them decides to go to university early like me, I want to pay fully for it.” “No.” It’s quick and now she’s frowning as well. “It’s our children and their education. Shared account.” “Their first degree.” He shakes his head. “And if it’s their only degree?” Her brows press together, it was a good point. Just because they decided to go to university early like her didn’t mean they’d go for more than one degree. “First year.” His eyes narrow as he looks at her, but he nods. “First year. But only of the first degree.” “First degree only.” She agrees.

It’s quiet between them before Max lets his face soften, lips twisting slightly into a smile. “Are we done fighting?” She laughs, but nods. “Yeah. We’re done fighting.” “Thank god.” He breathes, pulling her into his arms and burying his face into the crook of her neck. “Let’s not do that again.” “Not anytime soon at least.” “I love you.” He murmurs. “I love you too.”

Twenty and twenty-two has their families asking when exactly they’re getting married, wondering why there isn’t a ring on her finger and their only saving grace is their time spent in Monaco together away from them all. But when it gets to be too much as pressure builds as she tries to finish her doctorate in education while still working on her doctorate for history, it’s Jos that steps in for her and Max.

The three of them shared a complicated relationship. She could never like him for the parent he was to Max growing up. From the near abuse he hurled at him when he failed, the pressure he put on a child, the leaving him in a foreign country for a few hours when he wasn’t even a teenager more than once. But she did love him, because Max loved him and in his own way he loved Max and he showed that with his support of their relationship when everyone expected for him to have a problem with it, label it as a distraction. And now as a few years had passed and Max was comfortable in his F1 seat, he was Max’s fiercest defender, unwilling to back down, but would if Max told him too. And he was her fiercest defender as well. Glaring at jokes about her not needing a degree with the money Max made, not forcing her to join on trips when she was busy with school or questioning her support of Max because she didn’t attend races.

So, neither Max or her are surprised when Jos steps in when her grandparents are trying to back them into a corner as to why she doesn’t have a ring on her finger and how they have a number for a wedding planner and she should really give her a call, when all they want is to get breakfast before retreating to their room so she can resume her studies while Max hovers around her while going over his own work.

She hadn’t been thrilled at first when she learned that Jos would join them on the trip, knowing that Sophie wouldn’t be there, but now she was grateful and she made sure to squeeze his shoulder before leaving the kitchen and scheduled a nice quiet dinner for herself, Max and Jos as thanks.

The media becomes relentless when they’re twenty-two and twenty-four and Max wins his first championship. Because there is no girlfriend in sight despite the now champions thanks for her support and love. They tear Max apart for creating a fake girlfriend that has no name or face, call him unloveable with his fake championship. Some tear her apart as well, calling her gold digger, selfish, undeserving, fans of Max and the sport do as well.

It was supposed to be a happy moment for him, one of if not the best in his life, but it’s tainted, ruined, and as soon as he’s home with her in Monaco, all she can do is hold him and pretend that the texts from his friends begging him to go out and get laid don’t make her cry later in the shower.

Despite the texts and a bold one from Daniel about hiring him a prostitute, she forces Max to go out, to celebrate with the drivers in Monaco, to get drunk and have fun, and forget what the media is saying about him.

“I’m coming back if one of them even hints at a prostitute.” He tells her and she laughs, but she knows that he’s serious. He’s never even once considered cheating on her and one of their first serious fights had been about her trying to convince him and herself that she’d be okay if he got lonely while he was traveling and needed someone. He hadn’t believed it for a second and it had been one of the few times he had been so pissed at her that he couldn’t even stomach to look at her.

“Am I making a mistake, mom?” She asks, barely five minutes later, not even bothering saying hi when her mom greets her over the phone. “No.” Her mom’s voice is firm and has her blinking away tears. “But,” “No.” Her mom cuts her off. “Sweetheart, I can’t even begin to try and understand Max and yours relationship. But this, this privacy that you two have, that’s not a mistake. It’s rough right now and it will be. And it will come back later when you two do decide to be public, but it’s not a mistake. You two both made the difficult, heartbreaking, mature decision to keep it private for both of yours sake.” “I know.” She whispers, wiping away tears. “You both still need privacy and there is no shame in that. Max isn’t ready and neither are you. As far as I’m concerned the only mistake you two have made is still not being married with a baby on the way.” “Mom.” She groans and her mom laughs. “I know, I know. Just remember that despite the seven or so years you’ve been together, that you two are still young, still doing so much growing.” “Thank you.” “Of course.”

When Max arrives home hours later, drunkenly stumbling around and into bed, she’s not surprised by the smell of liquor clinging to him or the drunken murmurings he’s pressing to her skin. She is surprised by the deep inhale he takes and the splutter that makes her turn to face him.

Eyes a little blurry from sleep and wine, she makes out squinted eyes, flushed face, and a frown.

“You’re drunk.” “You’re drunk.” She replies, curling closer to him. “You’ve been crying.” “Yeah.” He slips an arm around her, pulling her closer. “We’re going to feel like shit when we wake up.” “Yeah.” He chuckles, brushing lips over her forehead. “That bad?” “That bad.” She nods.

At twenty-three and twenty-four, the itch that Max has had since he was nineteen, one that’s grown worse and worse as the years have gone by, is too persistent and he takes a quick trip to his fathers house the day after she turns twenty-three and returns with a ring and the promises they made at fourteen and sixteen, promising them all over again, as she stares at him with a smile and teary eyes.

“I’d be stupid to not want to marry you Max.” She tells him when he slips the ring on her finger, breathing a sigh of relief when it goes on, fitting perfectly. “You’re going to marry me.” She nods, giggling at his blown pupils and silly grin. “Yes, I am.”

It seems stupid to be so giggly and flustered about it, so love sick, when they’ve talked about it so much. About getting married, about houses, kids, life after racing and teaching. But it’s different with the ring on her finger. Not more real or tangible. Just more.

“I know I proposed early.” She shakes her head, wrapping her arms around his neck and his arms eagerly wrap around her waist. “It’s perfect. I know we talked and had plans, but this is perfect. Besides, I’ve got news of my own that’s early.” “Oh?” Max’s eyebrow raises and he knows it’s not possible, not really with her religious use of the birth control shot and the way they mainly use condoms, more for convenience than anything else, but his eyes drift down to her abdomen that’s exposed. There’s no difference, but he can imagine what it would look like, he can also imagine what it will look like in a few hours. “Not that.” Her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth. “I got an email about my viva exam.” “Your viva? But you haven’t submitted your thesis yet.” “Actually,” “Stop.” He lifts a hand to press it against her mouth. “You submitted your thesis already? You completed it?” She nods, her laughter muffled by his hand and he drops it. “Well, what did it say? The email.” “Once I get to the ceremony, I will officially hold a doctorate in education and history.” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

“Unbelievable my love, unbelievable. Two doctorates by twenty-three.” He shakes his head, smiling wide. “You know what that means right?” He shakes his head again, unable to think of anything. Too overcome with his proudness and love for her. “I’ll have my position at Harvard right after the ceremony.” Blue eyes widen. “And they agreed to let me teach a mix schedule for all of 2022, but when the official school year starts for 2023, I’ll just be teaching digital.”

Twenty-three and twenty-five has them weathering the media storm once again as Max wins his second world championship. It’s worse this time. Not because he says more than he did last time about her or says her name or slips up and calls her his fiancee and not girlfriend like they agreed to. But because this championship no one can deny is his and she’s still not there. Too busy in a different continent with the start of the school year as she teaches by herself for the first time since earning both her doctorates.

It’s also not as bad this time, because some of his friends do think that he’s seeing someone, not the girlfriend of years, or even really a girlfriend, but just some random girl that understands he’s too busy for an actual relationship and willing to put up with him spouting to the media and everyone else that he’s in a committed relationship. She doesn’t have time to focus on the media and fans that believe she exists, she barely did last year, but this year she really doesn’t.

“You know,” she says five days after he’s won his championship and they are in the house they have stayed in for the past two years when she has to be at Harvard and he wants to join her. “Around this time next year, we’ll be public.” His face does a weird contortion at the thought. There was a giddiness to the idea, to the thought, but also dread. “That means,” she continues when Max doesn’t say anything. “That you have ample time to figure out how you want to tell people.” “How I want to?” “Yeah. This is your world, your friends, colleagues, nightmares,” she adds and they both laugh. “You can decide how exactly you want to get back at them for not believing you.” “I’m not going to be cruel.” “No.” She lifts her hand and lets her pointer finger trace over his lips. “You’ve never been a cruel person, Max. But you can be a menace.” His eyes light up at that. “Oh. And you don’t care?” She shakes her head, “This is all you and I’m more than happy to be along for the ride.”

She is twenty-four and he has just turned twenty-six when he decides to enact his plan that he came up with so many months ago.

He had made a reservation for a private hall in Monaco months ago, hired a party planner to take care of the finer details, but sorted himself out the place and the food and drinks that would be served. And the day after he turns twenty-six, he picks up the large stack of enveloped invitations he had made and carefully packs them in his suitcase for Qatar. He was winning the championship there and he’d be damned if he didn’t make an already memorable weekend even better.

It’s the first time in a decade she has traveled with him to a race to actually watch the race and not just be there at the hotel to support him as she studies and he can’t help the smugness and happiness that radiates off him when he shows up to the track for the first day.

He’s got his backpack over his shoulder, but the invitations are already in his hands, ready to be passed out.

“Max!” Charles greets when he arrives in the driver's debrief room. All twenty of them, plus reserves, team principals, and Daniel sitting and standing around as they wait for the FIA representative to get here. He looks down at his watch, noting that it will at least another ten minutes, before his eyes flicker to a member of the Red Bull staff that’s standing against a wall, but just like he asked, they’ve got a camera in their hands and there’s another one standing leaning against the opposite wall, also with a camera. “Charles. Safe flight?” “Always. What do you have there?” “Ooh,” Daniel chimes in, moving closer and looking at the envelopes in his hands. “What do you have there?” He smirks and he can see Daniel’s grin flatter at the sight for a brief second. “Invitations.” He says, before tossing or passing them around to the different drivers and Christian. He nearly avoids giving Lando one just to be a shit but Toto isn’t there to give it too and it wouldn’t be the same to give it to a different team principal jokingly.

“What is it for?” Carlos asks, eyeing the dark envelope like a lot of the other drivers are, suspiciously. He shrugs, eyebrows raising when he sees the way Lando is feeling the envelope. “Mate, I’m not giving you money.” Lando frowns, before ripping it open. “You’ve got more than enough to spare.” Seeing Lando open his, has the rest of them following suit.

“Dear friends of Max Verstappen,” George reads out and the wording earns a few snorts but he continues. “You are invited to celebrate at the” he pauses squinting at the french on the page. “The Salle des Étoiles” Charles says. “Cheers, mate. You’re invited to celebrate on the 8th of November at 4pm.” His eyebrows furrow. “Celebrate what?” Max watches from the corner of his eye as Christian flips the invitation over and nearly chokes.

“Your engagement?” “Your what?” “Engaged?” “Impossible.” “Lies.”

The whole room is filled with denial and panic and Max just smiles, nearly laughing when Logan thrusts his invitation into James’ hands and asks the team principal if it’s true.

“Max, you aren’t engaged, right? Like that was a fuck up with the print place?” Daniel is nearly pleading, begging, and Max would feel sorry, but for the past ten years he’s been telling people he isn’t single, and sure he’s never shared many details, but they all refused to believe or even consider it. He ignores him, instead looking at the room in large. “You’ll meet her tomorrow. She’s very excited about it.” And as if he planned it, the FIA official walks into the room and no one can question him.

When the meeting is over he manages to avoid all of them except for Christian, who nearly drags him into a private room.

“Is this real?” Max raises an eyebrow at the way he’s waving around the invitation but nods. “Yes.” “You’re really engaged.” “Yes, Christian. I am.” The older man stares at him, not blinking before sighing and running a hand over his face. “Is she pregnant?” “What?” “The girl you’ve been sleeping with recently. Is she pregnant, is that what this is about? Because you don’t have to marry her.” “No one is pregnant.” He reassures, not even able to find any anger for Christian and his assumption. The older man sighs again before sitting down and slumping in the chair.

“You’ve had a girlfriend since you were sixteen.” There’s regret, guilt, and sorrow in his voice. “Yes.” “And I never believed you.” He shrugs, it had hurt yes, but he had always understood Christian’s disbelief in it over anyone else's. “No.” Christian nods. “And I owe you both an apology for that. I should have believed you Max.” “Thank you.” “But really, ten years and you’ve just put a ring on it?” Max groans, rolling his eyes. “You sound like our families.”

They are twenty-four and twenty-six when Max wins his third championship, with the sprint race of all things, and the whole world watches as he’s enveloped by his team before he’s tugging off his helmet and kissing the unfamiliar girl that’s between Christian and Jos, shielded from the rough crowd of Red Bull mechanics, crew, and such. They are twenty-four and twenty-six when everyone finds out that Max had been telling the truth the whole time.

Just about a month later, she eases into the spot between Max and the arm of the couch, eagerly tucking herself closer to him when he drapes an arm over her shoulders.

“You alright?” She nods, “Yeah, Vic and Tom finally left.” Max snorts, “It only took them thirty minutes.” “A record for them.” She grins, before looking at the other people surrounding them, or rather Max. She wasn’t surprised that Max had taken to quickly grabbing a few people and secluding themselves in a corner. She was a bit surprised by the people however.

Charles and Daniel which isn’t too surprising, but there’s the three rookies of the season, Liam, Oscar, and Logan, as well, a little surprising, but nothing compared to the two Mercedes drivers also in front of her.

“You aren’t trying to get Lewis to play paddle are you?” Lewis laughs, shaking his head. “I get enough of competing with him on the track. There’s no convincing me there.” “It’s fun, Lewis.” Charles says. “You should join. George you too. Make it Mercedes versus,” he pauses, eyebrows scrunching together as he tries to think of something to call himself and Max. “Lestappen.” She offers, inching away a bit when Max pinches her side. Charles doesn’t notice the pinch, just smiles at her, before looking at the two British drivers. “Yes! Mercedes versus Lestappen.” His eyebrows then furrow. “What is Lestappen?” “Mate, you don’t want to know.” Liam tells him. Logan chuckles, “I don’t know. Either he finds out now or he finds out when he googles it later.” “Googles it.” George murmurs, mocking the American accent that Logan has. “Bloody Americans.” “Yeah, yeah, tea and crumpets.” Logan waves off Georges mocking with a grin as he looks at Charles. “It’s what people call you and Max, a nickname you could say for when you two are together.” She tells him before Logan can say anything. “Oh,” he frowns, considering. “That doesn’t sound so bad.” “It’s not.” She assures.

Before anyone can say anything else, someone joins their group, eyes focusing on her.

“Dr. Y/L/N, congratulations on your engagement.” She looks at the older man in surprise before quickly standing to shake his hand. “Toto, a pleasure to see you again. And please you don’t need to call me doctor.” Toto smiles, tilting his head forwards, conceding as she sits back down. “Doctor?” Daniel questions, eyes flitting between her and the Mercedes team principal, not sure of what to make of the interaction, though Max seems perfectly fine with it. She presses her lips together and she can feel Max move a bit closer as Toto’s eyes narrow at Max. “Yes.” She tells Daniel and the rest. “I managed to get both of my doctorates last year.” A few jaws drop and Lewis whistles. “And I thought you were just a teacher.” Toto’s looking at her now, with narrowed eyes and she sighs.

It would be just her luck that despite having just met the man once, that one time had resulted in a long conversation after he gave his guest lecture at Harvard.

“You told them you're a teacher.” “I told them I teach.” She corrects. “Let's not make a big deal out of it.” “I want to make a big deal out of it.” Max mumbles and she sends him a pleading look. But Max doesn’t give in, instead he turns to the rest of them. “She’s a professor at Harvard. She got both her doctorates at twenty-three and quickly was signed on as professor.” “So, what you’re saying,” Oscar starts, breaking the silence that has fallen over the group. “Is that she is way too smart for you?” Max laughs, eyes crinkling and body bending forward from the force of it. “Without a doubt, mate. Without a doubt.”

@cixrosie @darleneslane @teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @fanboyluvr @gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @benstormy @iloveyou3000morgan @copper-boom @boiohboii @topguncultleader

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine

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anakin-skywalker-always · 8 months

Note

padawan/atoc era anakin x reader, they're in love with each other (both jedi) but obviously can't come forward. Anakin confides in Padmé, reader becomes convinced/jealous that anakin is with padme

(bonus points if you can make it angsty and fluffy)

As Easy As Breathing

Hi nonnie! Thank you so, so, so much for this rec! It’s my first one on this account and it’s really quite the christening. Hope its okay, I’m not the best at angst!

Pairing: Padawan!Anakin Skywalker x Padawan!Reader (Star Wars)

Requested: Yes | No

Warnings: none!! Should be all good, let me know if you caught anything I may have missed. Not beta read!

Words: 1.8k

Author’s Notes: Anakin is canonically 19 in AOTC, reader is the same, maybe a year younger. Clone Wars have not yet started in this fic, I’m just assuming Padmé and Anakin stayed besties after the whole nonsense in Phantom Menace.

The warm sun filtering through the windows fell upon Anakin’s face, in a soft moment of solitude, the sounds of the Coruscant cityscape provided him with a brief reprieve to Padmé’s chastising. He often thought that his ability to talk to Padmé about anything was his strength, but in this moment he couldn’t help to think of it as a weakness. Anakin cringed as Padmé continued to berate him; On a rare afternoon off the nineteen-year-old padawan found himself lounging on the senator’s couch.

“Seriously Anakin, you should just-” Padmé stilled, her slender hands finding her hips, huffing, she continued, “Are you even listening to me, Ani?” The forceful tone on his nickname got Anakin’s attention once again.

“I am!” Anakin raised his eyebrows in addition to his hands, in mock surrender. “I swear Padmé!”

The senator found it easy to roll her eyes at his antics, like always. But she could see the change in Anakin, could see how his emotions for his fellow padawan learner have caused conflict in him. Her friend wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t eating. Padmé knew Anakin was an intense person, a strong personality, everyone knew that about him. But this, this was different. He seemed lost, like he was missing something he needed to operate. Padmé found her way to the couch, sitting beside Anakin, grabbing his tanned, calloused hands in her own.

“Anakin, if you do truely care this strongly for her, you must tell her.” Anakin’s eyes found Padmé’s own. “It would be cruel, to withhold this love.” There was a time in Anakin’s life where this is all he wanted, being with Padmé and he knew his nine-year-old self would be so excited by innocent hand holding. But his nineteen-year-old self was happier to have such a strong, nonjudgemental friend.

“How did you know that you loved Sabé?” Anakin asked gently, knowing how the senator safeguarded her relationship with her handmaiden fiercely.

Anakin noted how Padmé seemed to glow at the mention of her lover. A warm smile graced her pink lips, eyes crinkling at the sides, a faraway glaze coated her sparkling eyes. Her signature in the force felt warm, it wrapped around Anakin’s brain, made him feel safe. Padmé’s love for Sabé was so tangible it extended outside herself, adjusting her force signature.

“I realised I loved Sabé when being around her became a necessity, an honesty, a truth that I did not know I was constantly seeking out.” Padmé gushed, a light trail of pink lit itself over her high cheekbones and freckled nose. “I felt as if Sabé had breathed new life into me everytime I saw her, it was natural, it was right.”

Anakin was quiet for a moment, Padmé became worried that she had overstepped somehow, projected to far onto Anakin’s feelings.

“Loving y/n is as natural as breathing.” He replied.

Anakin rolled over on his hard, standard issue, Jedi temple bed. A sleepless night was not uncommon for him, but this felt inherently different. Padmé’s words from earlier in the day rattled around his brain, demanding to be dealt with. Anakin never saw love as a weakness, never saw attachment as weakness. How could he? Love was the basis of the light, the well of Jedi power that Anakin drew from was a labour of love, was purity, was peace, was built with empathy and centered by knowing himself. His love for you did not make him a bad person.

But he knew it would make him seem like a bad Jedi.

Not knowing your stance on him, on the rule of attachment was slowly eating away at Anakin’s peace.

Groaning aloud, Anakin ran his hands down his face.

Your head whipped around, anxiously. You knew it was embarrassing that you always looked for him in a crowded room, but you could not help it, you felt as if the force was electric until he calmed it. His signature singlehandedly smothering anything else it came in contact with. Being around Anakin, to you, felt as natural as breathing.

“Looking for young Skywalker, are you?” Your master, Mace Windu asks, a small smirk whispers across his face, lightly nudging you in the shoulder. The two of you stood in one of the reception rooms of the Republic building. The Senate was hosting a charity gala with the invite extending to the Jedi temple. So, there you stood, in your best robes, breaking your neck to catch a glimpse of The Chosen One.

“No Master.” You said, quietly. Turning your head away from the powerful Jedi Master to not embarrass yourself further with the luxury of him catching your furious blush. Your master excused himself, laughing, finding Master Plo Kloon.

So, you stood there, alone, foolishly searching the room for your fellow padawan, the one that consumed your mind and soul.

It wasn’t completely unlikely, you reasoned with yourself. You and Anakin were friends, were very well matched, sparring partners. But, Anakin was a good Jedi. A strong Jedi. Following orders wasn’t Anakin’s strongest suit, you’d admit. Pondering whether he would disregard the rules of attachment for you, however, was different.

Nonetheless, like a junkie craving death sticks, you craved Anakin’s presence, his force signature was all you needed to feel right. The anxiety of the gala was too much. Closing your eyes, tightly, you reached out into the force to find him. Anakin’s signature, golden like it always was flocked to your senses, like always.

Opening your eyes, you began to weave through the bustling crowd as quickly as one could who was masquerading as casual.

“I’m not going to say anything to her now, Padmé.” Anakin huffed, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms across his chest, defensively. “Not in front of all these people, you’ve got to be joking.” He scoffed.

Sabé giggled quietly, the two women joined their arms at the elbow. Padmé just rolled her eyes at Anakin’s supposed insoclence.

Your frame weaving through the crowd in his direction caught Anakin’s eye. He smiled, quikly raised a hand, and was delighted when your devastating smile echoed back.

“Anakin.” You greeted him, with a small bow of the head. His name sounded heavenly whenever you deigned to let it fall from your lips. Anakin was convinced he could breathe easier with you around, like he had been purged of something suffocating him.

“Y/N, this is Sen-” You quickly cut him off, not wanting to hear the name of your rival come from his beautiful mouth. Your jealousy that you held for Padmé reared its ugly head, and you couldn’t help to feel shame burn deep inside the space between ribs.

“Senator Amidala, a pleasure it is to finally meet you,” You stuck your hand out, awkwardly hoping for a handshake. “Anakin has told me so much.” Cordial. It was a good tactic. You were a good person, a good jedi. You would not succumb to jealousy. Besides, Padmé had other qualities you were far more jealous of than just her nonexistent romantic relationship that you deludedly conjured up in your mind when you tried to sleep at night.

“All good things I should hope.” She smiled, her soft hand finding your own, a small shake. You could empathise with Anakin for falling in love with someone like her. Someone so intelligent, powerful, beautiful.

It was not lost on you, the way the senator’s hand quickly found the one of the woman she stood beside.

“This is Sabé.” Anakin started, introducing Padmé’s guest. “Padmé’s hand-” For the second time tonight, but surely not the last, Anakin was cut off.

“My partner.” Senitor Amidala said firmly, though her eyes twinkled with pride. Sabé’s own shock manifested itself into a wide smile. The two looked eachother in the eyes and you couldn’t help but feel silly. Of course. Of course.

For whatever reason, the words you thought you had died swiftly in your mouth, “Oh.” was all you managed to get out. “A pleasure to meet you too, Sabé.” You tried quickly to save the situation, to save embarrassment. But Padmé’s slight smile, Sabé’s coy smirk. You felt like the two Naboo women knew you, saw you. They somehow, in this embarrassing blunder of a meeting had already clocked that you harboured feelings for Anakin Skywalker. It made you feel foolish, moreso than what you already did.

“If you’d excuse us, Jedi, we have futher business to attend to.” Sabé quipped strongly, leading her senator lover to the next group of politicians. The art of smalltalk was something else you could add to the list of Padmé’s items you were jealous of.

Anakin turned to you, chuckling. His standard-issue Jedi robes moving effortlessly with his chest. Running a hand through his cropped hair, you felt his eyes scanning your face. You knew your blood would betray you, like it so often did around your friend, rising to the surface of your cheeks, splattering down your neck and chest. Embarrassment clung to you like a rash.

“Don’t mind them, they like setting me up.” Anakin scoffed, shaking his head.

“Setting you up for what?” You asked, eyeing him micheviously. Chatting with Anakin felt natural; He was quick witted and liked challenging you, he was a tease.

And, more often than not, a flirt.

This was different though, Anakin had an air of nervousness about him. You noticed as your fellow padawan’s large, veiny hands found the way to the back of his neck, rubbing sheepishly.

“Oh you know…” He trailed off, looking everywhere except for your eyes, his own blue ones scanning the ornate ceiling of the reception room. “Setting us up to be alone together.” He admitted, squinting as if the words bought him some kind of physical pain.

You quirked a brow, your arms quickly crossing your chest - a defensive stance. “Would that be so bad? Being alone together?” The words meant to be teasing, non-serious. But it was too late, the seed was planted in Anakin’s brain.

To him, that felt like an admission of sorts, an admission that you wanted him as much as he wanted you. Well, if he squinted it seemed like that.

In a tender moment, something rare for Anakin, he reached out. Tucking stray hairs behind your ear, gently following your padawan braid around the cusp of it.

“You know, y/n, that I want nothing more,” He smiled. It was pure, and real. You felt the sincerity in the force, the truth within him. Moreso, you felt your ear burn from the brief contact, felt your heart swell in your chest at the mere thought of being alone in close quarters with him. “I want nothing more than to be alone with you.”

He retracted his hand, but you still felt alight with his closeness. His force signature felt palpable, you were enraptured in his warmth. He was golden. Your golden boy.

“Why don’t we go get lost then?” You whispered, scared anything too loud would betray your eagerness. Anakin’s smile split across his face, eyes crinkling and dimples showing. Smirking he placed a strategic hand at the low of your back. He was so incredibly tall, bending over you to whisper back,

“After you, my lady.”

—--

AN: Hehe all done! Left it open for more if you wanted, but teasing enough to be left as it is! Hope it’s alright and I hope you could enjoy at least some of it <3

P.S This is a side account, my main is @mayhemories, so I will be answering any comments with that account but rest assured it is still me :) <3

Much love, El.

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