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sordidmusings · 3 months

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Thirsty Thursday with Mihawk - The Hat Stays ON

Art by koitosoup

A/N: Y'all can blame @fanaticsnail for me posting this 💀 it is very indulgent because I needed desperate and needy Mihawk to exist and this prompt tumbled right on into that to sate me 🤡 (at the airport hoping no one is looking over my shoulder rn too LOL)

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: afab!reader, NSFW, p in v, forceful undertones towards beginning, desk sex, creampie, begging, praise, lots of the pet name "love", Mihawk is like super needy he moans "please" dude, he's also very in love, and trying sUPER hard not to finish first by the end 💀, stress relief before Cross Guild meeting, brief moment shit-talking the other two lol turns real sweet at the end cuz I couldn’t help myself

Please enjoy this man being as close to a mess as I think I can convincingly get him ╰(▔∀▔)╯

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Mihawk is usually the type of man to fully take his time enjoying every inch of you.

Usually.

“I know, love, I know,” his voice is full of panting desperation, worn to a fluster by his pressing need and his frantic firm thrusts into you. “I’ll make it up to you later, I just -nnhah- just gotta fuck you now -nnnhg fuck- don’t wanna think about anything but how fucking good it feels inside you.”

When Mihawk came to your study not thirty minutes before the next Cross Guild meeting, this was the last thing you were expecting. Though, it did fly right to the top of the list when you saw the intensity of his shining gold eyes on you and the rigidness of his figure, all coiled muscle waiting to pounce and gritted teeth waiting to tear. You’d barely been able to get just his jacket over his shoulders before he was on you, speaking his need and hunger with persistent lips and hands. He was so set on getting his fill that he simply let his prized coat be dragged down his arms and thrown to the floor. Somehow, his hat survived the rush of his motions and the beloved closeness necessary for his demanding kisses.

Though they were rare, you loved the times he was like this, using you for his pleasure, clinging to you and taking you like nothing else in the world would ever suffice in sating him. You got just as much out of these times as he did, but you played it as a favor, partly for the delicious flavor it added to the dynamic to hear him apologize, beg, and thank as much as the stalwart Dracule Mihawk can and partly to earn the long and worshipful treatment he’d reward you with later. You’re not sure how he hasn’t caught onto you yet. Seeing the meticulously controlled man lose himself in his desire for you has you dripping, shown in the wet slap on each strong thrust. It was surely enough to give your abundant eagerness away.

Beyond that, you are just as ravenous for him, thighs clamped around his sides, hands gripping tightly to his tense forearms as he fucks you on your desk. You feel the jump of each muscle from their work sinking a bruising grip into your hips, manhandling them forward and back opposite the motion of his hips to fuck you just like he wants - like you’re a lifeline and if he just digs as deeply as he can into your sweet cunt as quickly as he can then he can finally breathe again.

Your heels pull him in on each quick thrust, the clench of your legs and abs for the motion helping a rhythmic pulse stroke at every inch of your walls and further firm your swollen lips and clit to absorb each delicious impact of Mihawk’s hips. The soft, sweat-damp skin of his back and sides teases your sensitive inner thighs and calves as he fucks you, his obliques dancing especially sinfully against your flesh. You loved admiring the look of his chiseled figure but absolutely nothing compared to the bliss of him using it against you.

The urge Mihawk has to collapse down over you and continuously drag you as close as possible is strong, but it is beat out by the erotic sight of watching the slap of his hips bounce your body. It lets you have a beautiful sight too; Mihawk backlit and looming over you, muscles fully displaying their strength and tone with the lack of his jacket, his curled hair and the feather on his cap swaying in time with him fucking into you. The hat still resting on his head only makes you feel smaller captured under him; he always looks impressive with it on and it makes the shadow he casts over you that much larger.

Mihawk uses an iron grip to throw one of your bare legs to hook over his shoulder. He uses his other hand to grip the inside of the other and shove it to the side, flat on your desk, trapping it down by putting his weight into his hold on your thigh. It forces your hips to turn on their side, giving him a new angle to work you open on his thick cock. The change has each forceful drag of his cock in you feel new again, recharging your nerves in their pleasant screaming. You tell him their call through whiny panting, chants of his name, and streams of “yes! like that, so good, fuck me harder, need it, need you so bad-”

There’s a firm thump and rattle of your desk as his hand plants next to your head to keep from collapsing over you. It leaves him crouching over you like a predator, but the hazy need in his eyes begging you to let him keep feeling this forever betrays the fact that he’s as deeply in your clutches as he tries to snatch you into his. The thickness of your thigh trapped between you helps keep him up as well as his other hand still pressing your leg down. His fingers that are sunk into your thigh dig deeper and tremble with his pleasure and overwhelm.

“Gods, love, you’re perfect, want to live between your thighs,” Mihawk groans, so close you can feel his panting breath cool the sweat on your face. He’s fighting his eyes to stay open, needing to see the pleasure scrunching your brow, loosening your jaw, fogging your eyes. The fluttering of his lids catches your eyes and swells your heart, shooting arousal through you from knowing he’s feeling so desperately good from fucking you. The amber of his eyes is so bright trained on you that it seems to glow through the shadows haunting his face. It makes him look all the more feral as he grips, spreads, bends, and fucks you like he wants to eat you whole. “Just -hahn- need some more from you, can you -nngaaah- do that for me, little love?”

You sob out a moan as you snap your eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation. The soreness his weight is pressing through your thigh and the tender stretch from your other leg being folded to your shoulder add more buzzing chaos to the sensations swirling their way through your body to flood your brain. The way he holds you open lets your clit take a soft impact every time he shoves his whole length into your plush pussy, giving the bud more little teases with how your body reverberates from the impact.

“Look at me while I fuck you,” Mihawk snarls, but there’s desperation bleeding through the growl in his voice. You want to whine back at his request but you want to please him even more. You blink your eyes open and the raw need in them has Mihawk collapse just a bit more over you, feeling the want you and your pleasures ravage through his body begin to burn him alive. The brim of his hat taps lightly on your forehead from his closeness while he pants and moans to you, “Like that, love, fuck you’re so good for me.”

Meeting your gaze is a double edged sword; his arousal magnifies, his soul lights up, and his cock twitches hard but it also throws him to feeling right on the precipice of cumming and he’s not ready to stop feeling you. The siren song of the wet slapping of your hips, the slick sound of your pussy gushing around him and trying to keep him sucked as deep as he can reach, and your panting breaths carrying high moans and pleads and praises all tempt him to let the torrent of pleasure rush over him, promise him it would feel like endless blissful sin. It is all the harder to resist because he knows exactly how delicious it feels to sheathe himself from root to tip in you and pump stream after stream of hot cum into your welcoming walls while your cunt clings to him almost as tightly and desperately as his hands cling to you.

“Love, need you to cum,” Mihawk rushes out. He palms the hand on your thigh up so he can rub circles over your swollen clit. Your moans gain even more volume, filling the air in your office almost as thickly as the sweet, musky scent of sex.

“Need it, please,” he whispers breathlessly, “Need to feel you -nnnnhhah- love, love, need to feel your cunt sque-heeze me.”

His vision begins blurring from the strain of staying right on the edge of cumming, barely holding back the powerful orgasm built from the burning in his muscles, the tingling in his fingers, the swirling in his head, and the throbbing of his cock. Giving up on trying to refocus them, he scrunches his eyes shut and lets his forehead fall down to rest on your temple, finally bumping his hat to fall onto the desk next to you. His closed eyes allow him to focus in better on all the other ways you are filling his senses, latching especially to your open mouth serenading him with needy babbling and fucked out moans.

“Can you be -ghahh- good and do that for me?” Mihawk pleads against your cheek. “Can you cum for me?”

“Y-yes, please, wanna be -mmmngh- good for you,” you whine back to him. His hips stutter at the tone and you feel his lips pull up around gritting teeth, an airy “fuck” sneaking past them.

“You are, sweetness, you are sooooo good for me,” Mihawk praises, swirling his thumb more insistently across your slick clit. The increase and pressure and perfect timing with his firm thrusts has your core tightening in threat of bursting. Your thighs had already been shaking in warning of your coming orgasm, but now the trembling is seating itself in every clench of your walls around Mihawk’s thick cock, wringing tighter and longer on each pulse. Your nerves sparkle and buzz more with each clamp down, the blazing rub of his throbbing dick and its bulging veins whiting out your mind. “Now come on, love -nngh- cum on my cock -fuuck please- let me feel you, make me cum -nnnghah- need to fuck you full.”

With a sob of his name, you finally fall over the edge. It feels as overwhelming as you had been expecting since he first stormed in and threw you over the desk. Your hands and cunt cling to him in need of a tether and in need of more; while your body is trembling with the bliss of your orgasm a tiny piece in the back of your mind is waiting for the final thing that will melt your whole body into a honey drip of heaven.

Mihawk doesn’t leave you waiting long; he is only able to feel your pussy milk him a handful of times before he can hold his end off no longer. With slurring groans of endearments and praises, he is overtaken by pleasure and can think of nothing beyond the relief of pumping you full of his cum with his twitching cock and grinding hips. The force of it has his thighs quake and numb out, making his weight crumble over you as he can no longer hold himself up. He nuzzles his face down the side of yours until he’s tucked panting against your neck, forehead pressed snuggly against your racing pulse.

You welcome his weight with open arms, one dragging him ever tighter to your heaving chest and the other winding its hand into his thick dark hair to ensure he never leaves. Both of you are still gasping for breath, your pressed chests rubbing and shaking against each other much like your greedy hips do as they ring out the endless pulsing beats of your orgasms. Your cunt and core continue to massage down on him and wring every bit of tight and bubbling bliss from his still hard and pumping cock that they can get.

The feeling of being not only filled with his large and achingly hard cock but also the swelling heat of his cum makes your eyes roll back. He’s filled you full to bursting, now leaking out of you on every grind and the warm sticky sensation and sound matched with his pelvis massaging small sweeps across your clit prolongs your peak. You get to spend a long time suspended in the feeling of your body bursting with heat and joy and relief and electricity, all shoving your soul right out of your skin only for Mihawk’s presence to trap you right back into the storm raging in your nerves.

Mihawk begins to feel foggy and a bit delirious as he finally releases his pent up need in you, finally sates his ferocious hunger for your delicious touch, finally finds his comfort and peace stuck as close to you as he can possibly get. He makes a halfhearted attempt to bring his mind back to his body but is happily distracted by the aftershocks that jolt your body and flutter your cunt. They pull extra little spurts and groans from him each time and he’s defenseless to the contentment he feels following their slowing pace into the warm hover of affection that always envelops him after sharing bodies with you.

It takes a long time for either of you to actually come back to yourselves. The whole time you are afloat, you guide each other with trailing touches from limp but loving hands, quick kisses stolen between smoothing out your breath, and gentle squeezes in the embrace you keep on each other, needing those little moments where it's even more of a hug than a hold. Mihawk chases the touches that tease across the dips of his lower back or scratch up the back of his neck and across his scalp just a little bit more than the others. You feel too boneless to lean into almost any touch at the moment, but you do manage to roll your head to the side so you can gaze at your grandfather clock in the corner.

“I don’t think there’s time to make you presentable for them,” you sigh out with no real remorse. Mihawk is of a similar mind.

“Not my fault if those two don’t have anyone to take care of their needs,” Mihawk mumbles dryly. “Also not my problem if they’re mad I’ve had mine met.”

The laugh you give at his attitude earns you one of your favorite prizes: Mihawk’s lips making the slow curl then spread into a real smile. It is only topped when they close again to press a kiss in the shape of that smile on their resting place against your skin with enough love to reach straight through your skin and nurture every beat of your heart.

#mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #one piece #opla #mihawk smut #thirst hours #thirsty thursday #mihawk #mihawk x you #mihawk x y/n #reader insert #afab reader #one piece smut #reader insert smut #my writing #one piece fanfiction #one piece x reader

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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

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Wayne first saw Steve Harrington when he was on a class field trip to the plant. He couldn’t have been older than 9. Eddie hadn’t come to live with him yet.

He only saw him for a minute, but it only took a minute to see that the boy had dark circles under his eyes that rivaled his own.

It took him a while to forget about the exhausted child in front of him and how much he reminded him of his nephew.

*****

He attended one of the Hawkins High basketball games during Eddie’s first senior year, took the night off for it, even. Eddie was never one for sports, so the fact he agreed to play with his band during their halftime was something Wayne couldn’t pass up watching. It had to have meant something to his boy for him to even mention it, so he played the part of proud parent and sat through the first half of the game.

But when he saw Steve Harrington out there, he couldn’t help but check for those dark circles or the same exhausted slump he saw in a child much too young to show physical signs of exhaustion.

He appeared to be fine, though Wayne couldn’t help but notice how he kept searching the stands for something or someone during every pause in the game.

Wayne had a gut feeling he knew who he was searching for, and an even stronger one that he wouldn’t find them.

After the game and the show, Wayne helped Eddie pack his guitar and amp into the back of the van.

“Hey, you ever talk to that Harrington boy?”

Eddie’s face was answer enough.

*****

To know Eddie was alive wasn’t enough for Wayne, he needed to watch him breathing, watch his fingers twitch while he slept. He needed to know that Eddie was real, was safe, was right in front of him.

But apparently Steve Harrington needed the same reassurances.

Steve had been by Eddie’s side since they let visitors into the room. As far as Wayne knew, he’d only left once for an hour to visit that Max girl’s room.

He was hesitant to say anything beyond kind greetings and goodbyes when he had to head to work. Steve looked one second away from breaking down.

He held Eddie’s hand like it was a lifeline, and maybe it was for him. Whatever they’d been through was serious, proof of that being the injuries they both were dealing with and the fact that Eddie hadn’t opened his eyes yet.

As much as Wayne wanted explanations, he wanted Steve to find comfort in being with Eddie more.

The dark circles under his eyes remained.

Wayne watched the way Steve would stare at Eddie, wordlessly begging him to open his eyes, and wondered what had changed between them. Was it just the trauma of the situation or something else?

He’d known Eddie liked boys for years; hard to hide when you get caught sneaking out of the house to go to a “special” bar in Indianapolis on a school night. He hugged him, told him he loved him no matter what, and offered to drive him out there himself the next weekend he had off if he promised to not go alone on a school night.

But Steve didn’t seem the type. Wayne had learned how to spot them, mostly so he could protect Eddie, and Steve had never seemed like he’d strayed or even thought about straying from girls.

He shouldn’t assume, though.

He knew how Richard Harrington was.

So he sat silently, guarding the two boys who needed it most.

On the sixth day, Wayne asked a nurse if Steve had left the hospital at all.

“No. Poor boy’s been glued to his side. The doctor had to stitch him up in the room because he wouldn’t leave.”

“Stitch him up?”

“Oh, yes! He had a large wound on his side and his chest had a few areas that needed stitches. He wouldn’t let anyone bandage his neck, but they prescribed him penicillin to try to prevent infection.”

Wayne shook his head. So Steve was a self-sacrificing idiot. Time to address that.

“Thanks, Janet. I owe ya a coffee for takin’ such good care of Eddie.”

Janet blushed. “Stop it! I’m just doing my job.”

Wayne smiled at her before making his way into Eddie’s room.

As usual, Steve was in a chair by his bed, hand in hand with Eddie.

The unusual part was that Steve was fast asleep, head nestled against Eddie’s leg.

It couldn’t be comfortable, but going off of how Steve had looked the day before, he was probably too tired to care about comfort.

Wayne looked at the scene in front of him.

Something else was different, too.

Eddie’d moved.

Only someone who’s been in this room for hours on end every day would have noticed it. Eddie’s head was turned towards Steve, and his other hand had found it’s way to Steve’s hair.

Oh.

So it was like that.

Wayne let out a shaky breath, too many emotions trying to escape at once. His boy had woken up, and had found comfort in someone who hadn’t left his side for almost a week. He couldn’t ask for more.

He slowly made his way out of the room, catching Janet just as she was passing to check on another patient.

“Did Eddie wake up?”

Janet’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, Steve hasn’t come to get us. Why? Is everything alright?”

Wayne nodded. “Everything’s fine.”

She smiled at him and continued on her way.

Wayne smiled to himself as he made his way down to the cafeteria to get Steve some food.

It looked like Steve Harrington was finally getting some rest.

Supportive Uncle Wayne Series Part 2

#steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #steddie #idk I just think Wayne Munson would have adopted Steve the second he could #headcanon #tumblr drabbles

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forteafy · 9 months

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You Think, You Know | CL16 & CS55

Summary: Some bridges are due to burn, whilst others are destined to mend. Charles wants to lead you into a traditional happily-ever-after, whilst Carlos is still adamant that he can always treat you better. Part 3 of ‘A House, A Home.’

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: angst, shouting, a lot of swearing, mentions of cheating and divorce. SMUT. Non-protected sex, oral (M&F receiving,) squirting, degradation, aftercare always.

Note: Thank you all so, SO much for being so patient with me. I really wanted this to be something special and I hope you all enjoy it. Please don't get mad at me because this one is emotional. A massive thank you to my biggest cheerleaders, @oconso, @formulaforza, @a-distantdreamer & @silverstonesainz - I love you all so much.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

You loved your sleep.

There was never too much that could wake you from your slumber. Currently, with the combined sensations of crisp sheets tucked across your frame, soft sunlight drawing through the transparent curtains of the bedroom and snug, strapping arms encircling your waist, it would have to be some form of miracle to awaken you.

The form of this came in the body pressed tightly into your back; smoothly, a pair of lips are drawn to your cheekbone, satin kisses being dropped against your skin. Was it possible to awaken to such a soothing interaction? Your face is drawn to the feeling, turning in his interlocked arms, the side of your face nuzzling into the cushion as your eyes meet the deep, dark pools of his.

“Good morning.” Carlos whispers, joyful at your rise from shuteye. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there himself, simply basking in the pleasure of holding the girl of his dreams against his firm body. The man was constantly on a lifeline; each time you interacted with him, he’s certain it would be his last, that one day, you’ll be violently ripped from his arms and his heart.

Suspended in thought, the Spainard is drawn back to reality with the glowing touch of your palm on his skin. Immediately, one of his arms draws away from your waist, resting his own larger hand atop of yours. You look alluring like this; sleep still decorates your eyes, hair tangled from the deep sleep, yet perfect in every sense of the word.

“Morning.” You respond, allowing yourself to set your gaze upon his face for a little longer. It’s a sin, settling in your stomach at how that same face had lifted from between your leg’s mere hours ago, the remanence of your arousal ever-present atop his stubble. You were certain he had a mouth crafted by the angels, the way his lips had toyed with your most sensitive parts and the way they currently pulled into an enticing smile in the present.

Two bodies, two souls were entwined in that bed; you weren’t too sure how long you lay there alongside him, reveling in one another’s morning appearances. All you know in that moment is Carlos is overtaking your mind, sprinting through every vein in your body. Every unanswered question from the previous night rendered numb as the man leant forward in your touch, his lips gaining space on your own.

There’s a sudden, sharp buzz from the other room, causing you both to retract from one another, bodies deep in the king-size mattress. A chuckle leaves his own mouth, running a heavy hand across his face, heart still pounding from the sudden jump of sound in the silent apartment. Something in your heart told you that buzz was for you. Whining from the sudden loss of warmth, you remove yourself from the bundle of blankets and body heat, bare feet padding into his living room, aware of your mobile phone, resting atop of the counter.

The device gave a heavy buzz once more before you had the realization to pick it up, the battery barely there. You absent-mindedly call out to the man in the bedroom, asking if he had a phone charger you could borrow for a little while. There's clutter from the other room, clearly trying to find a space for your own phone. Whilst that incurred, your eyes flickered across the darkening screen, skin turning cold upon reading the text notifications.

02:51: Charles Leclerc

I’m in love with you.

02:53: Charles Leclerc

I’m so sorry she was there – I had no idea. She’s gone now, can I come and collect you? Where are you?

03:25: Charles Leclerc

Please let me know you’re safe as soon as you can. Can I come and see you in the morning, please?

08:47: Charles Leclerc

Good morning, my love. How are you feeling today?

Guilt washed through your stomach, not for the interaction you had shared with Carlos; Charles had done substantially worse to you for the past twelve months. No, you knew what it felt like to have no response from somebody you cared for, terrified for their well-being. Even when Charles hadn’t cared for you, you had still nursed him, waiting up for his return in the early hours of the morning.

With the remainder of your phone battery, fingers fly over the keyboard. Did you want your husband to come and collect you, specifically from his teammates home? He was aware of your building friendship with the Spainard, even if it wasn’t entirely platonic. There wasn’t a huge choice; you especially didn’t want to demand or pry a lift off Carlos, especially after he had come to collect you so late the previous night.

08:58: You

Good morning, I’m at Carlos’ place. I’d really appreciate a lift back to the house, if that’s okay.

The message barely had time to send before it’s marked as ‘read’. Immediately, the blue speech bubble pops to the lower corner of your phone, signaling a response was being formed.

09:00: Charles Leclerc

You don’t need to even ask. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes was not enough time to conceal everything which had happened in the previous hours. Feet now cold, legs now littered in goosebumps, you’d scrambled back into his bedroom, the man now on his own feet, those damn gray jogging bottoms hanging on his hips, a visible outline ever-present. It took your entire soul to remain strong, knowing how tempting this man could become in a matter of moments.

“Charles is on the way.” You state, suspecting that it would cease all his movements, and allow yourself to get ready for your husband’s arrival. Instead, he’d stepped closer to your frame, leaning his toned torso towards you, locking you in his muscled arms, hiding his face in the skin he’d licked and bitten across the previous night. His mumbles are incoherent, littering across your neck in broken Spanish. He’s saying something. Something you can’t understand but is undeniably a plea for you to stay in his arms.

Carlos stays pretty much attached to you the entire time you’re preparing for your departure; his body is pressed against yours, littering kisses to the crown of your head whilst you brush your teeth. His scent is so dominating on the hoodie he insists you borrow, slipping that atop of your frame whilst pulling on the bottoms you had wiggled out of the previous evening. The man’s heart explodes upon seeing you bundled into his clothing, a possessive streak striking through his body and soul.

When your bag is packed, face washed and phone charging, now on the counter of his kitchen, you spend the last few minutes waiting for your husband’s adamant arrival by bundling into Carlos’ side on his plush sofa. It feels entirely natural by this point; his arms encircle your waist, letting you lie against his sternum, soothing yourself to his naturally steady heartbeat. A snippet of your heart desires to take this sole moment and capture it for a lifetime. Safe. Warm. Happy.

The moment is wafted away from you both with the sudden rapping of knuckles on the front door. Whining, your eyes trail on the Spaniard, focused as he presses a final, fleeting kiss to your temple, pulls himself up from the couch and paces towards the hallway. Your own ears strain to hear the latch lift of the front door, Charles praises for looking after you the previous evening falling over his lips, two pairs of footsteps drawing into the front room.

Your husband, despite his usual god-like appearance, looked terrible. His hair pushed to the front, clearly in need of a wash and brush. His skin was rubbed raw, face bloodshot; clearly, he hadn’t got a single moment of sleep the previous night, still dressed in the clothes he’d traveled home in the previous night. Despite the heavy lids of his eyes, they still light up when falling onto you.

“Good morning.” He gives you a smile, only you. You can feel Carlos’ disappointment, even if you can’t see his eyesight at that moment. A pocket-sized smile from your own lips is offered in return, pulling yourself up in that moment, reaching for your bag which remained on the floor, slipping into your soft sneakers.

“Are you ready?” You’d asked softly. Charles’ mouth opened, hesitating before he spoke. He was thinking clearly.

“I just need to speak to Carlos quickly. Something…private.” He tries to explain his standings, tries to make you feel less awkward as he reaches for the car keys resting in his hoodie pocket. “Are you okay to wait in the car?” He asks softly. He feels in no power to demand your movements, yet he requires one private word with his teammate.

Your eyes don’t bother to meet Charles, instead immediately flying to meet the dark ones of your unofficial lover. What on god’s earth was your husband about to ask, and why did he want to do it out of your earshot? The look that you give the man says a thousand words, asking if he needs you to stay, hold your ground against Charles. The warm eyes of him give everything you need, silently promising he could handle this man. An entire conversation through looks alone, a skill the two of you had developed so naturally.

Silently, you take the keys from Charles’ outstretched hand, skin flinching when being pressed against the cool metal. You don’t so much as glance in his direction when you’re walking to the counter, picking up your phone and stuffing it into the pouch of your borrowed hoodie. When turning on your heel, you pace back to Carlos, pressing a surprising kiss to his right cheek, murmuring a ‘Thank You,’ just for his hospitality, of course. You had done all the thanking for the number of orgasms you were granted the previous night.

The walk towards your husband’s car, the SUV rather than his identifiable Pista, your mind clouded, clotted with an array of questions. Why did Charles need to speak to Carlos alone? Was he aware of the relationship the two had been sharing for an undefinable amount of time? Who on earth was the blonde woman giving you a death stare as she walked up the pathway to the complex, red lips practically hissing at your appearance, storming past you within half a second?

When you turn back to take in her appearance from behind, a sense of sickness settles into your stomach. You’d seen the back of that blonde head before; not in person, but rather on a phone screen. Your phone screen, held between white knuckles as you’d watched the man you had begun to fall for wrap his arms around another woman's lips meshed in a private nightclub, unaware of the multiple cameras capturing their searing moment.

That was the same woman, identical in her mannerisms. You felt your tummy curdle into pain, into your vague realization that the only reason Carlos had offered you a place in his home, and subsequently his bed that evening, was because he was trying to fill a void until she returned to the scene. Your stomach wanted nothing more than to empty its remaining content in sheer shock. Instead, you breathe deeply, unlocking the door to the car, climbing into the passenger seat and closing your eyes, relaxing into the plush leather of the upholstery.

You’re not sure how long your husband takes, eyes growing heavy as you await his return. It’s only realized when the driver’s door clicks open, rolling in your seat to watch as Charles climbs into his own, a frown resting at the bottom of his face. However, it’s immediately vanquished when his eyes latch onto your own, grinning at your presence, so close to him. A warm hand reaches out, brushing over the back of your head, sheerly enjoying the comfort you radiated. He'd been lost without you for the past twelve hours.

Your eyes begin to feel heavy again, though you’re determined to get through the car ride alert, even if the soft scent of his cologne and the gentle lulling tunes from the morning radio are drawing you back to your previous state. Instead, you think of that woman. No, not the mistress you had grown numb to; the blonde woman, the one pressed against Carlos’ chest and lips mere hours after you had been. The glint in your husband’s eye is telling as you go through your endless thoughts, he knows something.

“The blonde lady going into Carlos’ apartment.” Your voice is completely out of pocket, echoing through the front of the SUV. “Who was she?” There’s no beating around with the question you had asked; there’s no trying to sugar coat what you needed to know. Charles knows it, too. He knows he can’t hide the truth from you, you’re too smart for lies and manipulation, a year married with a mistress had taught him that.

Instead, he emits a deep sigh from his lips, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as he focuses on the road. “Natasha.” The name falls from his lips, he can’t meet your gaze, not when speaking about another woman to his wife. “She used to work for Ferrari’s PR but left just under a year ago. Carlos and her used to-“

“Date?” You’d cut him off without realizing, eyes widening when he’d shaken his head.

“No, not date.” He responds. “They just had…a thing. Something.” He finished his train of thought, still not mentally ready to turn to you. In a comforting way, you were glad he hadn’t; Charles was unable to see the tears pooling at your lower lash line, the desire to rip off the hoodie now suffocating your body. You learnt in your heart that moment, you were apparently nothing special to Carlos. No, he had a thing. Something, with any woman who passed his way was as a wandering fancy.

The tears decorating your eyes and desire to relax into the leather seat eventually overpowers your emotionally drained body, pulling you back into a slumber.

You loved the sound of music.

A faint tune, one you were certain you’d never heard before lured through your ears, drawing you back to consciousness. You couldn’t remember getting home, let alone getting out of the car and tucking yourself into the comfort of your own bed. Groaning, you’d sat yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and stretching the twinge in your back simultaneously.

The music wasn’t coming from your room; the sound was beautiful, you just needed to locate its source. Your feet twinge when they touch the floor, cool floorboards easing the temperature of your socks. Opening the ajar door to your bedroom, the music grows louder, sound clearly emitting from downstairs, your feet carry you to the staircase with no hesitation. However, when reaching the top of the staircase, eyebrows crease together in confusion, taking in your once-ragged appearance in the crystal mirror.

Your hair had been braided, albeit not elegantly, but at least out of your face, something you did almost religiously before sleeping. Your attire had changed, too, once you were dressed in Carlos’ sage hoodie. Now, your body was engulfed by Charles’ charcoal jumper, sleeves too long but an entire comfort for your drained mind. Is this what it felt like, to be nurtured and cared for by your husband? The pit of your stomach felt airy; this had been everything you desired for so long. And yet, now you had experienced somebody else, despite the heartbreak, your mind was utterly torn.

Music grows louder, your mind is suddenly focused back on its original target. With no hesitation now, you began to walk down the flight of stairs, noting your bag and phone resting by the front door. Even with as many notifications as you’d missed in your time asleep, priorities overtook, making your way towards the lounge, eyes transfixed on the figure by the French windows.

Charles Leclerc sat, comfortably and quietly, gentle fingers dancing over the keys of his piano. The soft lights of the room illuminated the figure, a tune you had never heard was fluttering around the open space.

Of course, you had heard him play the instrument multiple times; during his time spent at the house rather than on the track, he remained transfixed, creating new songs, finding some way to pour every emotion into some kind of melody. You’d lost track of the times you’d come downstairs to get a drink, put the washing into the machine and had instead pushed your body into the doorframe, eyes fixed upon your husband as he created the most beautiful sounds.

The last time you’d done that, his mistress had been present, leaving over the piano as Charles played her an elegant tune. When she had gone to lean over him, her own fingers wanting to press down against the keys, he’d rested a firm hand on her arm, insisting that she sit on the sofa and listen, instead. The sweet moments of silently viewing your husband had turned sour; you’d silently vowed that day you would never enter the room when he was playing again.

You’d broken that promise mere seconds ago, eyes transfixed upon your husband. You can feel the tension beneath his fingers, as if he’s trying to take the sheer thoughts of everything that had been embedded into his mind in the past twenty-four hours and mesh them into some kind of audible release. Underneath the layers of music, your footsteps can’t be heard as you hesitantly walk towards the end of the living space. His tune reaches a climax, but before the piano can take any more notes, you cough lightly, Charles’ hands ceasing in mid-air. Arching his body weight, he sees your frame standing next to his piano, eyes still sleepy from awakening mere moments ago. The breath catches in the back of his throat; did you always look so perfect in his soft jumpers?

“I’m sorry.” He eventually offers, taking in your sweet, soft appearance. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no.” The reply tumbles from your lips before you even realize. “It was…beautiful, actually. Is it a new piece?” You ask, entranced by the music which had been flowing freely.

“I’m not sure yet.” He can’t help but smile at the end of his sentence. “I just sort of started playing and this is what came of it.” The explanation is valid; like many creatives, sometimes a free flow form was the simplest way to go. His next movement is almost a shock to your system. “Why don’t you come and help me?” The offer is completed when he shuffles up on the piano stool, patting on hand on the available gap. There’s hesitation in your movement, before his hand trails upwards, leaning to clasp one of your own, guiding you towards the stool.

There’s an overpowering smell of his cologne, a scent you were slowly drawing yourself towards. The body heat from his frame radiates into your own. Shyly, you reach out, pressing down on one of the piano keys, a tone spouting from the instrument. Charles can’t help but smile upon your interaction, eyes questioning as you analyze the instrument.

“Do you know how to play?” He asks gingerly, watching as you shake your head in response. His actions exchange, resting one of his warm palms over your own. The next moments are filled with your husband guiding your hands over the piano, teaching you the tune to old nursery rhymes. When you reach the end of the piece, he cheers in delight at the achievement.

“Play me something now.” You ask carefully, head becoming heavy, heavy enough to rest on your husband’s shoulder. When you feel his body tense, you immediately sit back up, convinced you’ve overstepped a line. That thought is soon relinquished when Charles’ hand flies out, wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you back down to his shoulder, your breath hot on his neck, it’s enough for him, hesitant to overstep the boundaries you were adamant upon currently.

His fingers move back, continuing the song he had been conducting earlier. The piece had started out slowly, almost sad-like, before building, building towards a romantic counterpart. In his mind, it was the perfect song to punctuate the relationship he maintained with his wife. They both sat there, barely any moment as the music was the only sound present in their house.

When the song finishes, neither of you move, relishing in the soft touch you’re both sharing. Charles’ own head falls atop of your own, letting his cheek rest against your hair. There’s no form of time between you both, simply enjoying being alive, alive with one another. It’s interrupted when you feel Charles’ take an exaggerated breath, removing his keys from the piano. One of his hands rests upon his side, the other slides between the minute gap between you both, wrapping a toned arm around your waist. The movement causes you to lift yourself from his firm shoulder, catching those beautiful eyes from your glance.

“I’m traveling to Monaco tomorrow.” He says it so casually, as if it’s as normal as entering or leaving the building. You can feel his heart race in anticipation of what he was due to say, his body temperature raising dramatically, radiating through his hoodie. You offer him a warming smile. You really didn’t want him to leave, not when you were growing so unnaturally fond of his presence.

“Oh really, what for?” Is the eventual reply. In this moment, you simply can’t hold his eye contact, he’s staring into your soul, it’s as if he can sense every thought which is currently trekking through your mind; does he know how much of a hold he has on you, even if your marriage was entirely staged, at least in his eyes.

“I’m off to see my mother” He clarifies. “It’s been a while and I just want to check in.” It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his body language changes; his hands are suddenly clenching tighter, his grip on your waist firm as if he’s terrified, you’ll run away. He can’t admit it, he’s not strong enough. If you step away, he will fall back to the way he was the previous night; eyes bloodshot, unable to sleep unless he knows you’re safe.

“Give her my best.” The response is blunt, short. You’re on entirely different wavelengths, different planets. He never told you of his reasoning for things; a golden rule you had learnt at the beginning of this era. Just…you’d never question him; you would simply co-exist. What he says next makes your blood run cold.

“Why don’t you come with me? I’d really appreciate it.” Why on earth would your estranged husband want you to come on his travels, presumably when the entire point was to spend the entirety of it wrapped in the arms of another woman. Yet, a feeling in your stomach settled. Did you actually want to spend hours in this empty house alone? Now that Carlos was no longer a welcome distraction, anything would be better than wallowing in your silence.

“I will.” You eventually respond. “On one condition.”

“Anything.” His eyes are wide, so willing. He’d scooted tighter towards you, as if he could hold together this entire conversation, stopping the whole world from crumbling around you. You must be the one to take a deep breath this time. You had to remain firm with your choices, with what you needed to know.

“What was in the white envelope that your mistress gave you yesterday?”

You loved the glow of candlelight.

Having never entered Charles’ study, his fingers interlocked with your own as he guided you through the heavy door, you didn’t realize how many candles he had resting around his office. They laid upon his windowsill, on his desk, he even had a mulberry-scented candle resting next to his racing simulator.

There was only one candle which was lit, he had obviously forgotten to extinguish it whilst you were deep in your slumber. Despite the fact you hadn’t ever been given access to this room, you’d have to make a mental note in order to check for any fire hazards the next time you were in the building alone.

The envelope resting upon the desk stuck out like a sore thumb; his computer, stationary, it was all a cool gray tone whereas the envelope stuck out in a bright white glow.

“I need you to know before you look at this, it’s a lot worse than it comes across.” Even in the candlelight, his face had turned pale, barely able to keep his fear from dancing across his emotions. You need to remain strong. You need to see what was left in the envelope.

Staying firm, your grasp reaches out towards the desk, taking the card into your own hands. “I want to see it.” You clarified, letting your finger trace under the flap of the envelope.

You don’t let your husband’s words overpower you, distract you in any way. Instead, your hand reaches into the envelope and grasps around a stack of…something. It feels like multiple pieces of paper pressed together, though one side remains glossy, as if printed onto a special sheet. Hesitantly, your hand pulls from the envelope, eyes immediately widening upon seeing the content in question.

It's photographs. Multiple photographs of Charles and his mistress. Some of them are casual, taken from her phone, smiling selfies and dinner dates. Others are…compromising, verging on pornographic. You can feel the lump in your throat tightening, tears are forming on your lower lash line, but you must keep strong. You cannot show any weakness when you ask to see this.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Your voice betrays you, weakening as your words continue. “Your…girlfriend.” You don’t want to use the other word; it’s clear from these photographs it was more than sex, it was more than just an escapade.

“She’s- she’s not anymore.” Charles pauses, his eyes don’t focus on the photographs, only on you. His wife, who he has hurt so badly and now must see the pain littered across her face. “She hasn’t been since your mother passed away.”

Your heart stops at the mention of your mother, a sharp spike of longing for the woman suddenly danced through your chest. Then, you were angry. How dare he pity you, you didn’t want it, not from him. But…you still wanted him. He’d clouded your emotions, nothing was black-and-white with your husband, just a cacophony of colors.

“That was your reason for dumping her. Sympathy?” You don’t care how harsh your voice comes across, instead just aggravated you were growing to care about his reasoning. Life had been simpler weeks ago, when you simply stayed at home, minding your own business whilst he got on with his. By the look on Charles’ face, he wasn’t expecting the hostility, either.

“No! I dumped her because it was wrong, because I have a loving wife who I would give anything for.” The room goes silent, giving you time to process the words that had come from his lips. You had been so certain for so long that he didn’t care about you; that everything he did was for his own gain and pleasure. Yet…he had given up his mistress for you. He’d given up something that made him happy because you were not.

Stressing, you run a hand through your hair, placing the photographs back into the envelope, speaking to your husband as you place the card back onto his desk. You feel sick. These photographs exist and it was a perfect way to destroy the two of you, it was perfect ammunition to a metaphorical pistol. “So, what does she want you to do with these photographs?”

“Nothing.” Charles leans over your own body, reaching for a second stack of papers resting upon the desk, one you had considered would simply be notes from Scuderia Ferrari. Warm seeps through your body at his close contact, one hand almost trailing against your back as he grasps to the stack of crisp sheets, barely touched. “She’s threatened to publish them if I don’t sign…this.”

You took the stack of ivory papers into your palms. It was sprawled with a size twelve font, you were uncertain of where to begin until two words in bold took your attention, printed formally across the top of the page.

“Divorce Papers.” Your voice is barely a whisper, heart dropping to your stomach.

“That’s the other reason I’m going to Monaco.” He’s explaining his own status now, eyes glassy with the fear of you walking straight out of the office. He wouldn’t blame you, of course. He couldn’t blame you for anything anymore. Charles reaches out to your grasp, wiggling the paper from your fingers and placing them back against the desk. “I’m filing for a lawsuit against her, a restraining order for manipulation and stalking.”

A scoff falls from your lips; the mere contrast of the events from a few weeks ago compared to now. He truly intended to file a lawsuit against a woman who he’d happily let warm his bed whilst you went to bed each night with nothing but regret and bloodshot eyes. “Do you…do you want a divorce?” You can feel your voice cracking. “I mean, if she’s sent you these, you must have mentioned wanting one-”

“I did.” Charles doesn’t miss a beat. “I mentioned how I didn’t want a divorce because despite everything…I do care for you.” The room goes silent, not even the flickering of the candle or the soft wind from the French windows can pierce the tone of the room.

A huff escapes your lips, arms resting by your side as you formulate a response; “You had a really weird way of showing it.” Your response is blunt, it clearly warrants the sad look on your husband’s face.

“I know. That’s why I’m going to make it right. Please come to Monaco with me. She won’t be there; you don’t have to come to the lawyer with me. But…I need to be able to come back to my wife.” His hand reaches out, cradling your own in this moment. Gently, he lifts your palm to his cheek, resting it upon his stubble and letting his lips trace a kiss across the soft skin.

He truly does know how to make your heart flutter, despite everything.

“Okay.” You eventually respond, focused on his gaze when his eyes turn wide in anticipation.

“Yeah?” His heart is picking up in happiness, reaching to hold you in his own grasp, but instead falling short when you raise a finger, ceasing his movements towards your body.

“But…you need to give me tonight, alone. To process that.” Gently, you take a step forward, leaning gently towards him. You can’t leave him, not before you gently press a kiss to his cheek, turning on your heel, your figure illuminated in the corridor by the soft candlelight. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

You loved the feeling of warm water.

There is only a slender picking of moments in your life where you have felt truly relaxed; sitting by the lake in the rolling fields your family had owned for generations, lounging in the bed of the Madrid-Based apartment your friends had hired for a holiday in the early spring morning.

You had never thought one of those relaxing moments would be as your mother-in-law massaged her hands through your locks, lathering an expensive shampoo into the roots of your hair. She was gentle; no tangles fell through her fingers as her rhythm stayed perfectly relaxing, hitting all the spots which would send a flood of relief through your scalp.

You’d arrived in Monaco early that morning, immediately being transported to the luxurious hotel your husband had booked you into. Most of the trips he’d book you wouldn’t attend, and when you did would be ignored by him altogether. This time, he’d remained present, willing. Your hands had entwined the moment you had left the privacy of the jet, nestling into the back of the car, eyes heavy from the early rise.

Not much is remembered after you’d arrived outside the opulent building; bags were removed and transported to your room by the bellhop, both you and your husband were given hotel cards, an older lady at the desk explaining the functions dotted around the high-end establishment. All you could remember was the door to the room opening, your tired body making a beeline towards the emperor bed, nuzzling into the soft furnishings with sleep overtaking you in a matter of moments.

Charles hadn’t been able to help the tug on his heartstrings as he’d seen you tumble into the mattress. You’d been so thoughtful; dropping everything back at your house and accompanying him to Monaco, promising to be there for him as he promised to fix the wounds from his previous mistakes. He’d give anything to crawl into the bed alongside you, wrap his frame around your own and fall back into his own slumber, one he had despised the night before simply because he wasn’t able to hold you in his arms. He was learning to respect your wishes; after all, he had a lot of repairing to do-so. Even after recent conversations with his Ferrari counterpart, he could never bring himself to hate you.

His phone buzzes from his back pocket and upon inspection he sees the reminder, he’s due with his lawyer in less than forty-five minutes, but he doesn’t want to leave you, not alone. A thought sparks into his head, fingers flying through his contacts and dropping a message to one, asking if they could take you over to his mother’s salon later in the afternoon. By the time he’s returned from changing in the en-suite and brushing a comb through his hair, the responses from both Joris and his mother had lit up his screen, confirming his plans for later in the afternoon.

Your husband had allowed himself one more look at you, so peaceful wrapped up in the comfort of the bed. Silently, he leans over your frame, running a gentle hand across the back of your head, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring his sweet words to your sleeping form.

When you’d awoken, there was a message clarifying that Joris would be taking you to his mother’s salon a little later and he would come to collect you once he was finished with his lawyer. That’s how you had ended up walking into her salon earlier that afternoon, her delighted smile present after seeing her daughter-in-law.

Pascale wasn’t stupid, that much was clear. She was aware of the strain in her middle son’s marriage, just not to the extent that he had been toying with a mistress for the better part of a year. However, she had grown to adore you; your mannerisms, laughter and the fact that you clearly held a candle for Charles, despite the dwindling flame of the marriage. If she had a daughter, she’d want her to be just like you.

“Are you and Charles up to anything this evening?” Her voice is gentle, motioning for you to stand up from the basin chair and walk towards the mirrors, resting yourself in one of the seats. Your reflection bores back into you, focused as Pascale adjusts your head slightly, brushing the tendrils of hair through her comb.

“I’m not sure.” You respond. “I know he has some business this morning.” It’s an understatement. When Joris had collected you from the hotel, he’d tried to give you what information he could – Charles had arrived at his Lawyer’s office, ready to file the case against his mistress. He wasn’t too sure how long it was going to take, though he had told Joris to be on hand for anything you needed when he couldn’t.

“You make him happy; you know?” Pascale mentions, tilting your head to angle your hair correctly. “I know he hasn’t always been…the greatest.” You’re not sure if she’s aware of everything, but her tone seems to stand where you need it to do so, “but you make…such an impact in his life.”

Not much else is said whilst the woman continues to trim your hair, adjusting your face as she does so. It was nice, not to be cooped up into a hotel room for the entirety of the day, nor to be sitting in Charles’ driver room whilst he walked around, finger entwined with his mistress. You’re so engrossed in Pascale drying your hair, setting the locks into soft rollers that you don’t realize when the door chimes open, another figure entering the quiet salon. The woman’s eyes brighten, and you hear her cooing before your own face turns, taking in the figure of your husband in the doorway.

Charles looks breath-taking. He’d clearly showered and changed since you had last seen him bundled in his travel gear that morning. Your deduction would be correct; the man had hastily returned to the hotel to jump into the shower, changing into a power blue shirt and white trousers. His hair, free of styling products curled in an unruly way, one that made his whole face structure elevate.

In his hands, he held both a soft white dress over his arm, one you had packed in your case fleetingly the evening before; it had been steamed and washed, the fabric clear and petticoats of the skirt floating gently. In his other hand, a vibrant bouquet of roses. His smile never faded, walking over to his mother and pressing a kiss to each of his mother’s cheeks. Once his attention turns towards you, his eyes only brighten.

“Hello, beautiful.” You can’t tell whether he’s playing up the affection in front of his mother, or whether it’s genuine. However, when one hand comes to rest on your cheek, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’s being respectful; making sure not to cross a boundary.

“Hello, handsome.” The response falls from your lips without realizing, the grin on your husband's face only rising. Fuck. Did you mean to say that? Regardless, you had done, and by the look on his face he not only didn’t expect it but had instantly grown to love it. Charles had completely forgone the flowers in his grasp, only remembering them after your eyes had darted down towards his palms.

“Oh-“ His mind finally catches up with the present situation, raising his hand to present you with the flowers. They’re colors are soft, delicate, as if etched by crayon. You can’t help but smile at the gesture, even if it was entirely a false pretense in front of his mother. You can’t see her face, but you know she’s smiling, seeing her son present to his wife in such a sweet manner. Now, your gaze isn’t fixed against the flowers in your grasp, but the dress from your suitcase.

“Something tells me that won’t fit you, Charles.” You tease the garment laying over his forearm, only to cause a smile to appear on his lips again.

“I want to take you out for the afternoon. If that’s okay with you.” His voice is low now, hoping to avoid any prying of the conversation from his mother, though her attention was now turned to locating the hair dryer, still needing to complete your own treatment. “Would that be…okay?” He’s nervous. Fearful that after everything, you could now reject him and feel no remorse.

You’re not a cruel person, it has never been in your nature. Instead, you match his own smile, nodding as you take the garment from his grasp, Charles’ eyes widening in confirmation.

“Trust you to pick out my favorite dress, too.” You mumbled.

You loved the sound of the ocean.

You loved everything about the sea, truly. The reflections from the moonlight caused shards to reflect over Charles’ boat; the new yacht had barely had time to stretch the waters, though it seemed to float as if it had been nurtured its entire existence.

The afternoon of a late lunch had expanded into expensive, late-night wine on the boat as your husband had guided you into deeper waters. He knew what he was doing, after all; the waters of Monaco were a comfort to him, a lifetime had stretched out from jumping into the ocean as a child to yacht parties during the Grand Prix.

You’d seemed entirely at home, and it made his heart warm. Charles wasn’t a stupid man; he saw how you kept yourself small, your setup at the house barely spanning over two rooms. He’d wanted nothing more than to break the walls you had put up for oh-so-long and entwine your lives together.

Then he would reprimand himself, remind himself he was the sole reason those walls existed.

Conversation had spanned naturally into the events of the day; you thanked him for thinking of you, he’d responded with a mention of you deserving that form of treatment every single day. Your mind can’t take the anticipation; when your lips lift from the glass of wine, you can’t help but ask what his lawyer had recommended about his mistress. Your husband’s grin had fallen a little, running a hand through his dark curls.

“It’s a difficult one.” He explains. “There’s enough there for a case, considering we haven’t had contact in a while. But…” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence; you do for him.

“The photographs are counted as evidence.” You finish, and he can only nod. He’s created such a mess, something he could never forgive himself for doing so. A web of lies and mistreatment surrounded you both; he so wanted to break each thread and simply cradle you, be in a bubble for the rest of eternity.

He’s expecting you to stay silent, then. Maybe that’s where the evening should have ended, with silence upon the realization that this case will not be easily solved. Instead, you place the glass of wine down on the ledge of the stairs, easing his own glass from his grasp. Charles is confused, even more so when you walk back towards him, wrapping your arms to close around his neck.

“What are you doing?” He whispers. His hands raise hesitantly, as if touching you would break you into a million pieces. His grasp only falls to your waist when you press closer towards the man, resting your gaze on his own eyes. He’s hurt you, broken you to such an extent, and yet you can’t help but draw closer to his touch, to his eyes.

“Being your wife.” You respond, before pressing your lips to his own. This is the first time, the first time in so long that you had been the one to initiate a kiss. Naturally, Charles’ hands wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you into his chest, deepening your touch, your kiss. This. This is the moment he wishes to bottle forever, to live in the comfort of his wife’s touch, no outside means, no other commitments being hung over his head.

You’re not sure how long you both stand there, wrapped in one another, hands fleeting over each other, desperate to find some touch, some form of skin. It isn’t until your fingers reach to unbutton the top of his powder-blue shirt, that his own come to rest atop of yours. He knows he’s made a mistake when he sees the look you shoot him, immediately assuming the worst.

“No, no.” He promises, both hands flying from where they had grasped yours, cradling each side of your face. It feels…warm. It feels so similar to the way Carlos had cradled your head once, when you were both on a boat, much like this. You think of those dark eyes, the whispers drawn into your ear as he had sharply thrusted into you that evening. Then, you think of the blonde appearing outside his apartment mere hours after you had been tangled in his arms.

“I want to.” Charles’ words draw you from your endless train of thoughts. “Sweetheart, I want to more than anything, but I need you to know how much it means-“

You don’t let him finish; instead, you press your mouths back together, forcefully. There are whispers from your own lips, pleading that he take you, that you want nothing more than to feel your bodies atop of one another.

And who is he to deny his wife?

You’re not sure when he scoops you up into his arms, guides you inside of the boat and to the soft bed that had been freshly made mere hours ago, but he never lets your lips leave one another for less than a moment.

He’s everywhere; he’s pressing into you in the most delicious way, he’s drawing your body of the most intense sounds, and then you’re coming, harder than you ever thought was possible, it hits you in the most delicious way.

Your fingernails pressed crescents into his skin as he continued to push into you with that perfect rhythm. Feeling your hot breath dance against the shell of his neck, the sweet whimpers of your overstimulated orgasm falling from your lips. Charles feels you clench around him, dragging you into him deeper, and it's all over.

His head immediately falls into the joint of your neck and shoulder, his pants getting heavier, thrusts rougher as he chases his own release. Teeth escape from his lips, biting down atop of the red marks he'd left earlier in a passion; the gasp you let-out, the roll of your hips against his own pushes him over the edge, a moan falling out from his own lips, hands flying to grip at your forearms pinned above him. You can feel every inch of him buried inside of you, warmth spilling into you.

Heavy hips press into yours, your thighs still pressed around his waist when he lifts his head from the warmth of your skin, pressing one final deep kiss to your lips, a profanity of words escaping from his mouth.

He kisses you again. And again. He keeps doing it whilst slowly rocking his hips, still jittering from his own orgasm. Senses come through, those eyes you had been entranced in so many times fixing to your own, drinking you in, looking so beautiful underneath his own frame.

"You still want somebody else?" The teasing is natural, almost, inflicting you to roll your eyes and playfully push his arm. God, your laugh is the most adoring sound in the world to him, it had been so long since he'd heard it, even then, it had never been due to his own actions until recently. The adorned look in his eye is soon replace with confusion when he feels you wiggle underneath him, soft blankets rubbing against your back.

"Are you going somewhere?" He questions, one hand coming up to trace against your jawline. You want to lean into his touch, it's something you'd been attracted to recently, though the mess between your legs and sweat trailing down your skin seemed to tell you something different.

"I need to clean up." You whine, pressing your body into the plush mattress. "I'm all gooey, Charles."

"I've got it." He murmurs, pressing one soft kiss to your cheek, another to your neck. You expect the weight from above to release you, but the warmth radiating from his body remains. You feel lips trace against your chest, his untamed curls tickle your stomach as he traces down a direct line.

"What are you doi-" You never get to finish you question, the fourth word cut off with a soft gasp, those lips which had pressed to yours, now pressing down against your clit, a soft praise towards your body whilst his tongue traced around the sensitive bud, drawing a slice through your wet lips, pressing deeper and deeper into your entrance.

The room is illuminated with your whines, hips bucking against his stubble as he fulfills his promise of cleaning you up.

You loved the feeling of being held.

You’d been unfathomably happy to walk into the paddock that evening, fingers interlaced with Charles’ as he guided the two of you through the fans and photographers alike, buzzing to be starting on Pole Position when his wife would be watching in awe of his achievement.

You hadn’t been there on qualifying day; you were still trying to keep your distance where you could, to prove to your husband he couldn’t instantly win you back overnight. It had only been when he’d come into the en-suite of your room the evening before, hands wrapped around your waist as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, pleading you came to watch him race the following night.

“I’ll win.” He promises, voice quiet as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I’ll win it for you.”

His sweet words had not only lured you to the race track the following day but had also drawn you to sleep in his bed that evening, curled up into his toned chest as he murmured words of appreciation in French; only a few you were able to pick up and understand the meaning of as you drifted into a comfortable sleep, arms cradling your body underneath the bed sheets.

There was a collective, loving aura that evening when the two of you had stepped into his garage, the team in awe of seeing that their Prince of Monaco and his beloved Princess had been reunited, here to support one another. However, one figure remained quiet, eyes transfixed on your every movement. He felt his knuckles turn white when Charles had changed into his race suit, placing his cap atop of your own head and had lovingly pressed two kisses to either of your cheeks.

Carlos Sainz was a jealous man; he’d been infuriated when his blonde fling had appeared on his doorstep, instantly realizing the kind of man he must have been made out to be when you’d seen her appear on your departure. He’d hoped and prayed you hadn’t seen her, but from the radio silence he received over messages and calls, to the way you had purposely avoided speaking to him when arriving in the paddock, he could tell you were not that naive.

Emotions had played a heavy part on both of the Ferrari Pilots during the start of the race. One, determined to keep his promise and win whilst his wife was present. The other was so clouded with sadness and rage that all he wanted to do was push his counterpart off the track. The lights snapped off, 20 engines revving in unison as the cars blitzed down the first straight.

It doesn’t take long for emotion to overcome; Charles’ P6 soon creeps towards a P3, whilst Carlos begins to drop. A violent turn into Oscar Piastri not only takes the young rookie out of the race, but the Ferrari driver, too. Nobody misses the swears as he switches the engine off, nor the scowl on his face as he removes the steering wheel, ready to be escorted back to the garage.

When the blur of red comes through the paddock, you can’t help but feel guilty, telling yourself that if you had spoken to him, he would have been able to keep a cool head. Silently, you slip the headphones from your temple, murmuring about going to the bathroom before taking a direct beeline towards Carlos’ room, catching the door just before it’s due to slam closed.

He was seething. Pure rage flicked across his eyes; the warm smile reserved for you replaced with a harsh scowl. This may have been a mistake.

“What do you want?” His words are venom, spit towards you. He cannot stand to see you right now.

“I just-“You pause, clearing your throat. “I wanted to check if you were okay.” It’s a pathetic answer, really. One that didn’t sit right in your mouth, even after you had spoken.

“I’m alright?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You ignore my calls, go away and fuck that pathetic man and then come back to me?” He’s pissed, undoubtedly so. “You whore. I understand it all now.” He shakes his head, missing the fire which had begun to burn in your own stomach.

“You have no right!” You’d shrieked so loudly you’d startled yourself; one finger was still pointed into his infuriated face, your finger mere millimeters from the bridge of his nose. Hot air engulfed both of your bodies, the only sound present was the deep and heavy breathing flaring from your nostrils.

Without a thought, Carlos had slapped your finger away from his face, lunging forward dramatically to seize your face into his rough palms. His lips are on yours, roughly seeking the wet trace of your tongue. You can’t fight him; not when his lips feel so flawless against your own. A rough palm encases the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist as he holds your frame tighter against his own.

Your breath barely had a moment to catch when he forcefully pulled his lips from you, emitting a white from your breath. That innocent sound is soon replaced by a sharp gasp, his fingers tightening against your scalp, pulling on your locks.

“Don’t fucking whine.” He spits, ghosting his lips over your own, never letting them touch yours. Warm breath tickles the shell of your ear when his grip pulls tighter onto your hair, tiling your ear to meet his mouth. “I’m sick of your whining, about your horrible excuse for a husband. I will treat you how you should be treated.”

There’s no time to react as his pink tongue pokes from his lips, a stripe tracing from the corner of your ear, across the sweetest spot of your neck. You’re reveling in the wetness, the sinful way his words litter through the air before teeth sink into your skin. He doesn’t bother to cover your mouth, mute the sweet sounds falling from your lips. There’s no decency anymore, Carlos doesn’t care who sees the marks he engraves into your skin. The ring on your left hand means nothing more than a reminder that he could be better.

“Carlos-“ You struggle to connect the two syllables together, hands gripping through his hair, pulling at the brown locks in your fingers. “Fuck-“

“What did I just say?” He grunts from the valley of your neck, one hand sliding from your waist and flying out, smacking on your clothed butt. The shock simply causes you to gasp out loud, pushing your own throbbing crotch into his hard one. A smirk forms against your neck, clear as day when the man pulls himself from your neck. His lips are wet, saliva from his own mouth tracing around your lips.

One hand finds your face again, grasping at your chin tilting your head backwards to hover below his own. A single finger taps at your lips, signaling for you to open wide for him. He’s sinful as he lets his spit fall across your lips, eyebrows raised as he wraps a hand around your throat, clearly overpowering your stance in this moment.

“Swallow.” He commands, hand resting on your cheek firmly. The tone of his voice sends a shock of energy down your chest and between your legs, cunt throbbing at his words. Of course, you comply, swallowing the remanence he had given you. “Good girl.”

The sweet nicknames in this moment have evaporated; Carlos is nothing short of animalistic, his presence all too understanding as one hand takes its place around your neck, the other grabbing firmly onto your wrist as he guides you backwards, softly falling onto the sofa of his driver’s room. The pitying looks the man gives you sends a thousand messages through your brain.

“No, no. Dirty little girls don’t get to sit on my sofa.” He teases, both hands clasping your waist, sliding you off the plush furnishings and resting on the cold floor, kneeling for the Spaniard. “You need to be on your knees, you need to be taught how to behave.”

Eyes widen as his tanned fingers pull at the knotted arms of the fireproofs resting on his waist. Even through his underclothes, the shape of his hard length is clearly visible, even more so as he removes his underlayers and briefs, letting himself spring freely, one hand rubbing his shaft a few times, the other knotting in the back of your hair.

He loves this; cock in his hand as he taps the tip against each of your cheeks, trailing himself against the parting of your lips, having to hide the shiver from his own body when the wetness of your mouth. His eyes are sparkling when he uses his firm cock to press through your mouth, relishing in the warmth of your lips wrapping around his length.

“That’s it, be a good girl. Take it.” He coos as you struggle to take more of his length, attempting to give small, tentative licks to his cock whilst he slides between your lips. It sends him feral, wild. He thinks of nothing else as both hands grip tightly in your hair, shoving your face into his crotch, your gags music to his ears as he continues to take control of the situation.

When your eyes adjust, look up from his groin, he almost feels sorry for you. They’re wide, glassy, snuffles falling from your lips as he continues his forceful attack. One hand slowly removes itself from the strain on your locks, tracing over your cheek, thumb rubbing underneath your eye, removing the salty tears as your breath remains heavy through your nose.

“Oh, poor baby.” He teases, pace never relenting. “This is what you need, someone to put you in your place, remind you what you deserve for teasing me, making me jealous.” He can’t help but chuckle at the pathetic sound coming from your lips. He can feel his stomach tightening, the warmth drawing an imminent release from his cock. This isn’t how he wants to finish, he can’t yet.

Your mouth feels empty when he pulls out, giving you no warning, the gasps falling from your lips at the sudden gain of air. He doesn’t give you time to respond, a heavy hand pushing your front to the floor, lifting your hips, ass straight back in the air. No warning, the skirt of your dress is lifted, the wetness of your cunt seeping through your panties. The anticipation kills you, until a warm finger slides into your folds with no warning. Your body can’t help but react, clenching around the warmness without even realizing. You also don’t realize the sounds you’re making, until the finger removes itself, a palm harshly smacking on your behind.

“What did I say about noises?” He grunts, leaning around to push the wet finger into your own mouth. “Do you like it? Taste what I do to you?” Hurriedly, he presses his finger in and out of your lips a few times before returning it to your wet hole, wiggling in the air. This time there’s two; stretching you out, your palms trying to find anything to grip, to hold on to as he carelessly thrusted, tickling a sweet, sweet spot deep in your stomach.

“I- Carlos I can’t-“ You whine through raspy breaths. He can feel you clenching, swelling around his fingers, and is rewarded when he hastily pulls them out of you, a long moan and a squirt of arousal pushing from your cunt. A sheer shock of arousal floods between his own legs, rubbing his fingers against your wet folds, letting your wetness trail onto the tips of his hand.

“Oh, your husband can’t make you do that, can he?” He’s proud; proud he’s able to draw such a reaction from your body. “Come on, baby, up we get.” His arms are suddenly firm, present around your waist as he pulls you to stand on two shaky legs, still reveling in the feeling he had granted you moments ago.

Hands retract from your waist and come to hold your face, pressing kisses to your scarlet lips as he guides you from a standing position towards his couch, finally allowing himself to sink into the cushions. You want nothing more than to join him, feel his warmth and aura around your own body, but by the finger he’s raised as he situates himself into the sofa, you can tell you’ll have to wait.

The moment he sits down, a tanned hand comes to his crotch to rub his length a few times, your eyes widening as you plead for it; mind clouded by lust, all you want is for something warm to fill you up, make you feel as good as he had done so many times before. Carlos’ finger beckons for you to join him, and you know what he’s insinuating.

Your movements are commanded by the Spaniard; immediately, there are two firm hands on your body, pulling you into his touch and sinking you down onto his cock. You don’t miss the way his lips quirk into a grin, oh-so-happy to see your reaction to the pleasure he had granted you. It’s no match for when he starts moving, bouncing you up and down on his lap, fallen gasps from your lips as your faces draw closer and closer.

You were sinking into one another’s skin; he wanted nothing more than to entwine your bodies for eternity. One hand was firm around your waist, guiding your movement with the strength only he could. The other guided a gentle trace across your face, pulling you closer, closer to his own face as his thrusts got faster, erratic.

“You’re mine.” He grunts, never once breaking eye contact as his hips grew tighter, his cock making your cunt squeeze in a way you didn’t know was physically possible. “You’ve always been mine, tell me you’re mine.”

His eyes go soft, thrusts pausing for a second as he notes the tears pooling in your eyes from the sheer euphoria running through your body. A whine falls from your lips as you feel his strong hand tug at your neck, pressing your foreheads towards one another, hips slowing for just a moment, letting your breath catch up to your aching body.

“I’m yours.” You’d whisper, mind clouded. You were his. There could be a thousand cars, an ocean or a wedding band between the two of you and you would still always find your way back to Carlos. Whatever that relationship would form, you would always be a part of him.

The murmured confirmation was enough to send a shot of energy through his spine, his thrusting becoming deeper, passionate. It barely takes five thrusts before he’s groaning, throwing his head back and letting out a low moan as he spills himself into you. The warmth is enough to send your cunt into flutters, clenching so tightly as your body falls into his chest, whining as you feel a gush of wetness drip onto his crotch.

Undoubtedly, Carlos Sainz is now a part of you. Time seems to flicker between seconds and minutes, at some point you’ve shifted your weight, turning around to fix your eyes onto the television screen of his room, eyes wide as you watch your husband continue to battle out on the track. It felt almost sinful; watching Charles battle for his podium whilst his teammate stayed buried inside of you.

His touch goes soft; one hand remains tight around your waist, though your back is warmed by the way you’re pulled back into his skin. Feather-Light kisses dance across your shoulder, he’s never been this soft, cradling you as if the world would be held together by your content. If the universe was to implode, he would be happy with the fact you were pressed into him in that very moment.

The laps of the race begin to dwindle; a promising second-place is looking pretty much secured for Charles. You’re certain that your silver trophy will be sitting proudly in the hotel room later that evening, until Max Verstappen suddenly begins to slow down, commentators beginning to roar as an unexpected engine issue splutters into the RB19.

“Holy shit.” Carlos murmurs, sitting up from his relaxed position, both arms now tightly around your waist as he shifts the balance of your bodies. “What happened to Max?” His voice becomes a murmur, your attention drifts, focused on the cars beginning to pick up their speed against the current world champion.

Goosebumps litter your skin, you immediately pull away from the warmth of Carlos, eyes wide as you see the scarlet red car glide into view. He’s going to overtake Max. Not only that, but your husband is about to win the entire race.

An audible groan comes from both of you when you slip yourself off his length, searching around for the panties which had been discarded oh-so-long ago; the man rests a hand on your shoulder, one hand tracing across your jawline as the other reaches down, gently smoothing the skirt of your long dress.

“We’ll find them later. We need to go and congratulate your husband, after all.” You can’t miss the cockiness in his voice, still content with the fact his cum is buried deep inside your pussy, panties are left in his driver’s room as a sheer prize for being able to make you feel euphoric. A tinted blush decorates your cheeks as he slips into his old jeans and a Ferrari polo shirt, one hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you out of his driver’s room, never once bothering to fix his hair when you had been the one to grab onto it so tightly.

People wouldn’t think that of him, after all.

You love to be loved.

Your eyes are brimming with tears as you reach Parc Fermé, Carlos finally catching up with you, standing right behind you at the barrier, eyes transfixed onto his teammate, standing atop of his livery, cheering towards the endless roars of the crowd, passing a congratulatory message towards his fellow drivers, Lewis patting his back, Lando cheering on his behalf.

He’s already removed his helmet when he sprints towards his team; the losses don’t matter, not when he can celebrate the win he had been craving for so, so long. There are praises passed, pats on the back as he works his way down the winding line of his team, red in their clothes and their cheeks, it means the world to everybody.

And then, Charles is facing you, his wife. He’s so transfixed upon your gaze, the sheer elation you have for his victory that he doesn’t stop to think when he takes two of his hands on either side of your face, cradling your cheeks as he presses his lips to yours, grinning into such a sweet kiss that you can’t help but kiss him back.

“I told you.” He whispers when he pulls away from you, resting a gentle hand on your cheek for just a moment. His eyes finally turned to where his teammate was standing. Both of them have to forge a smile as they reach out to clasp hands, a firm grip in celebration of scoring points for their team.

You don’t see him again, not until he’s left the cool-down room and is bounding towards the podium. Carlos, having not been called to his post-race interview yet, still stood behind you, though one hand had snaked its way around your waist, as if it had to be there. Nobody notices, of course. The team is too focused upon their driver lifting his golden trophy, in awe of the achievement they had built for seemingly the entire season.

Charles doesn’t miss it, of course. Maybe that’s why his gaze is so fixed on you when he releases a splash of champagne, purposely aiming his bottle towards the man behind you, his heart only crushing further when he sees the Spaniard pull your frame behind his own in protection.

And then, it’s all over. Both Carlos and Charles are rushed away to complete their post-race interviews. You’re left alone, simply taking a slow walk towards the Ferrari Hospitality. Even as you pace through the crowds, you can’t help but feel…sick. Dizzy. Out-of-body.

You cared for your husband greatly, and somewhere during it all, you believed his apology was genuine, that he truly wanted to fix the previous mistakes of the year. But how long would his tether last until his mistress came trailing back, regardless of a court ruling?

And Carlos. The sweet man who had proved to you time and time again, you were worth more than a simple name on a piece of paper. He’d been your soul, you truly were set to drop an entire marriage to live in his arms until his blonde counterpart came along, a knife to the chest after one of the most intimate nights you could fathom.

Your breathing gets faster, the world begins to turn on an axis. From somewhere, you hear a voice asking if you’re okay, if you need help getting back to the hospitality. And then, the world goes black, your body slumps to the floor of the paddock, with only one sentence drifting through your unconscious mind.

Who do you love?

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover @barnestatic @omgsuperstarg @chimchimjiminie16 @caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog @junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt @crowdthena @screemqueen @lewislvr @styles-sunflower @itspaddockprincess @adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins @formulanando @lorarri @christianpulisic10 @gaypoetsblog @thisbitxhs-blog @goldsainz @ru-kru @magical-spit @hrlzy @nooshytushie @gaslysainz @marvel-at-stucky @sugarvibez @adeptustemptations @roseseraj @leclercdream @pjofics @hecatesfavoritechild @poseforme @thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19 @heavenlyiecreature @pink-teddy-bear @nooshytushie @strawberries-and-racing @milasexutoire @ohthemisssery @florkt @obsessedwiththeideaofyou @ru-kru @myhomeworksnotdone @ineedafictionalman @bregarc @allywthsr @summerslike11 @wildcupcake @willowpains @marlenamallowan @leclercloml @katzenwahnsinn @be-your-coffee-pot

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interloved · 3 months

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modern!anakin skywalker as your professor + age gap

lowkey daddy professor!anakin x bimbo!reader

description box; anakin is your professor and your boyfriend. that blurs the lines between his job and you being his student sometimes — but he can’t ever deny his sweet girl a request, and this time you want him to give his honest opinion on the essay you’ve written for an assignment he gave his students, including you.

warnings; nsfw warning, blow job, MINOR BLOGS DNI!!, age gap, smut under the cut!

HE’S TAKING TOO LONG to read it. he’s rereading the same lines, again and again, and he’s frowning.

“you don’t like it.”

you hate the way your quivers, like you’re weak and… and dependant. oh, but you are. you depend on his every word and action like he’s your lifeline.

“no — no, sweetheart, i do, it’s just…” and then, anakin sighs and sets aside his glasses, looking into your eyes directly with his startlingly piercing, frost-coloured eyes.

he’s struggling to find words that won’t bruise your ego too badly. anakin never lies to you, but he can’t find it in him to give you a brutally honest review.

anakin sits on the couch as you pace nervously in front of him, the table in front of him filled with documents, his laptop and… that damned essay.

“it’s just what?” you inquire, and your voice is already breaking, “you hate my essay! i can hear it!”

and then, all the dams break; you’re turning away from him and all the tears start flooding and the overthinking starts to claw its way into your soul.

“you’re… you’re gonna give me an F! you’re going to fail me, i’m going to fail this class — you, you hate my essay…” you’re falling into complete despair.

anakin winces, this is exactly the reaction he had wanted to prevent.

“oh, c’mere, sweet girl, i don’t hate your essay. it’s just a little, er… childish wording, but that’s nothing to worry about — ‘m not gonna fail you, all right?”

you sniffle, and for a moment, your tears stop. “y-you’re not?”

anakin winces again — he may be your boyfriend and he may love you, but he’s also your professor and has to keep a certain neutrality towards the work you offer to him as his student. but he can’t deny it, being so close to you, it’s been blurring the lines of professionalism. you’re such a sweet, little thing — so pretty and so young, so soft and so kind-hearted. he couldn’t ever say no to any of your requests.

and maybe you’ve learned to use that against him somehow. he’s given you way too many A’s and B’s that you did not deserve because as much as he loves you as a person, you are a bad writer. you’re not hopeless; there is definitely a good basic idea and core in every one of your essays, just the execution… somehow fails to be amazing every time. and he’s not exaggerating.

“yeah… yeah, i’ll give you a C, m’kay, kid? it’s not a bad essay, pretty, it just needs a little polishing.” he comforts you, caging your, in comparison to him, small frame in his warm, trained arms.

but this time, you frown. “a C? you… you’ve never given me a C before.”

it’s always been A’s and B’s.

anakin struggles to find the right words again, “well, this time your performance was a tiny bit… lacking… but just a little, darling, no need to cry — aw, sweetheart, don’t cry…”

“l-l-lacking? i’m… lacking?” you wail as you push away his arms and pace to the kitchen, this time sobbing violently.

when he reaches you, your eyes are all puffy and red, and he panics.

“no, you’re not lacking!” he protests, think, anakin, think, “i’ll… i’ll give you an A, m’kay? so stop crying, please, you’re too pretty to be crying like that over a grade.”

your sobbing stops slowly, and a relieved smile makes its way onto your lips. “r-really? thank you so much, ani! love you so much!”

you squeal and jump into his arms, and it’s like the rainbows have started showing after the storm. anakin laughs at your excitement but mentally slaps himself — he’d sworn himself he wouldn’t give you good grades without you earning them anymore, but it appears he really just can’t say no to his little darling.

“i’ll make it up to you, i promise!” you swear to him, covering his handsome face with kisses, and he grins cheekily.

“oh really? how’re you gonna do that, little lady?” he chuckles good-naturedly.

and you think, you think real hard. and you jump down, out of his embrace, and you thank him in the only way you know.

you lead him to the couch and settle between his legs, and you unbuckle his belt.

“oh, like that? i didn’t mean that—” anakin stops whatever he was going to say when you take him whole. whole.

a choked, throaty moan escapes his lips and almost automatically, his big hands reach for your hand; his hand almost covers the whole back of your head, and his fingers are getting tangled in your soft hair, and he bucks up into your soft lips.

“fuck,” he groans and he closes his eyes, and he looks so breathtaking, so handsome, like a greek god, “god, what did i do to deserve you… such a beautiful, obedient girl… must’ve saved a country in my past life to deserve you.”

he feels your lips curling up at his praise and he looks down, and it’s a sight to behold. big, innocent doe eyes looking up at him like he’s a god you’re worshipping, nothing but pure admiration and love shining in those eyes.

“my god, you’re so adorable,” he praises you, eyes closed and brows furrowed so prettily, moaning when you begin to deepthroat him, your pretty head going up and down, up and down, “so, so, so pretty…”

and then, his chiselled abs tenses, his thighs quiver slightly, and you know he’s close.

“c’mon,” he whispers, “swallow.”

and you obey, like his good little girl.

if he’s getting thanked this dedicatedly by a student, surely he can make exceptions from time to time.

he doesn’t get paid enough anyway.

#anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x reader smut #anakin smut #anakin x reader #anakin x you #obsessive anakin #star wars #star wars anakin

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shooting-love-arrows · 6 months

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A noble or bussines person in 1800s yan and the reader is their assistant or personal butler/maid. Where the yan is hiding their feelings but show it in controling way like order the reader to do the most simple stuff even if it was not their jo just to see them? Or steal few touch like head pat or on shoulder or simply their fingers touch😔

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 x [servant] reader (gender not implied/mentioned/specified) Tw. love sick fool, soft yandere, mention of lace but every gender can wear it (?)

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Who pushes to the edge of your limits. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 overworks you to the point where you often catch yourself fainting in the middle of performing tasks. Your position, pay and living conditions might be better than those of the other servants but the list of your tasks was long and more often than not ridiculous. Those little, useless things that took most of your time and energy. But who are you to oppose to someone who had mercifully hired you and give you a roof over your head? No one.

"I have some new tasks I want you to complete." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 regards you coldly and hands you a paper with a list of other (ridiculous) tasks to do.

Who more than once caught you sleeping in the middle of doing your work. But that's alright. He just takes this chance to come closer and hold your hand, caress your head or cheek. Unfortunately, he has to wake you up at some point but he always uses most of this short period of time to have some type of concat with you.

"Oh dearest, if only you knew how I long for you." He whispers into your ear while you were in a deep sleep.

Who never fails to admire (stare) at you while you work. Most of the tasks given to you are either related or include him. Either way, you spent most of your time with him. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 made sure of that and he didn't regret it one bit because he has got to be with you. Oh how he loved it when you are near him. You bring him peace he needs in his stressful and rushing life. You are just so...endearing. To this day he can't decide if he wants to flaunt you around or lock you in one of the chambers where only he would be able to look at you.

"You would look lovely in silk...perhaps some lace?" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 thought to himself, fantasizing about you in different clothes before an image of you without them abruptly appeared in his head.

Who melts when you touch him. Especially when you dress him up and take care of his visage. The cold and calculating man becomes putty in your hands. You are surprised to see him sighing softly, closing his eyes and humming when you button up his shirt or brush his hair. From what you heard from other servants, even from outside your household, no other master seemed to be acting like that. But once again, who are you to pry and complain? And when your fingers happen to touch? A pleasurable shiver runs down his spine.

"You are my lifeline and your touch is like water. I need both of them to live."

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

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knmaskitten · 20 days

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pets !!

pairing— Kenma Kozume x afab!reader

summary— you decide to get a kitty without Kenma's approval.

warnings— none.

notes— I love writing for Kenma, enjoy my first drabble.

You and Kenma have been living together for three years now. After college, you two worked really hard to achieve your goal. It was exhausting but, at the end, rewarding. Kenma didn’t like to put too much effort into things, but you were another story; you were his lifeline, keeping him at bay. So naturally, he didn’t care if he had to get tired just to please you.

You two lived in a very compact but beautiful apartment, It had enough rooms so Kenma could have his gaming space and you could have your own working office. And what drew you to that place in the beginning was the acceptance of pets. You weren’t big on the idea of a family, but you definitely wanted pets.

Kenma used to always argue with you about this, mainly because he thought you couldn’t keep your attention fully on a pet. He said (and this made you very indignantly angry) that you were so absent-minded that you wouldn't notice if the cat left. So you were set on proving him wrong and also satisfying your need for a company animal.

Lucky you, your friend Yukari was giving her cat’s babies away and you begged her to put apart one for you. You decided on a tiny male gray kitten. You were head over heels with him. It was such a sleepy and low-energy cat that it reminded you of how Kenma behaved.

When you went to pick your kitty up, you did not tell your boyfriend; you decided it was going to be a forceful decision in which he didn’t have the right to argue.

So, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, you arrived to your apartment with Taro. You heard clicking and the light pressing of keys alongside the faint voice of Kenma; you instantly knew he was live streaming and thought it was a good time to tell him, with hundreds of witnesses. You left your shoes on your entrance, put your slippers on your feet, and started walking with the little Taro asleep on your arms. His office door was ajar and you knew this meant you could enter if you needed to, so you knocked and heard a tired “Come in.”

“Kozumeeee.” You chanted as you entered the room. Looking around the room, you saw he was playing a game named Omori on stream. The lights in the room were dim and purple, there was no sunlight coming in, just as he liked it.

“Sorry about the interruption; here is my girlfriend.” He said while rolling his eyes, a little bit amused.

“I have a surprise for you, a cute little surprise.” You said, hiding Taro behind your back.

“You’re scaring me.” He then turned to face you, ignoring the fact that everybody in chat saw the cat before him.

“Don’t be mad.” You plead before carefully placing Taro in front of him.

Being with Kenma meant he had few big reactions; he was never a guy who smiled often or got angry often. His reactions were scarce, and you cherished every single one, whether it was anger or happiness. So when you saw him open his cat-like eyes and look directly at Taro, you went silent. He just stood there, making eye contact with the cat. Five seconds passed, and he chuckled loudly.

“I knew you were scheming something.” He said, giving you a lopsided smile.

“His name is Taro.” You replied, giggling mischievously. You let Kenma hold him.

“Hey chat, this is Taro. My girlfriend brought him home without telling me.” He bluntly stated, giving you a side-eye. “He’s cute.”

You walked closer to read the comments; they were saying you were in the right and that the kitty was cute. You thanked everybody for the support and then took Taro in your hands and showed it to the camera. You beamed. Kenma found this whole ordeal incredibly adorable and thought he loved you so much that he didn’t care if you brought a cat home as long as it made you happy.

He got closer to your ear just so you could hear him.

“I love you; you look so pretty when you are happy.”

This made your heart flutter, you had to remind yourself you were live so you didn’t do anything embarrassing or out of place. You thought that this went so well that you might as well get a second cat just to get more reactions out of him.

Gosh, you loved Kenma Kozume.

thank you for reading <3

masterlist and more.

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helen-with-an-a · 3 months

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The Object that stood in the way of a World Cup pt. 3

Hi. So here is part 3 (again, this will have another part because I am determined to get it happy at the end; it's just taking me a while to get there ahahah). Big thanks to @lyak12 for helping me work out my issues with the fic <3

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5 : Epilogue

Ona Batlle x Reader

Flashbacks are in italics

TW: Injury, R ain't ok mentally, suggestiveness

Description: R comes home from Australia to start her recovery

Word Count: 3.6k

You had required three surgeries in total to fix everything – an emergency one to save your leg, one to place the screws and realign everything and one to reattach the ligaments in your knee. The damage the tackle had done was extensive; your shin was splintered into 3, some coming through the skin, and the force of the collision ruptured your ACL and meniscus ligament, too. No one dared show you the video, and you weren’t bothered to look it up. Even though you couldn’t remember what happened, you’d have the scars for life. You had asked what the timeline was for when you could get back on the pitch. One doctor had said it was an if not a when. You didn’t like that doctor. It would be a when – football was your lifeline, your escape when times were tough. You didn’t know how you would cope with it. Your physios at Barca had said that when … if … you were back on the pitch, your playing style would have to change. They had told you in broken English that you probably would never play the same and would have to rely on speed and technical ability rather than strength in matches. But that was ok; as long as you were on the pitch, you didn’t care how you had to play, just so long as you could.

You flew back to Barcelona a month after the World Cup. You wanted to be back earlier, but you hadn’t been cleared to fly and definitely hadn’t been cleared to fly halfway across the world. The medical staff in Australia were lovely – sneaking you extra desserts, cheering every milestone, no matter how small, braiding your hair, and helping apply your moisturiser when you were too tired to do it yourself. Your family had only seen you that first day. You didn’t mind – you didn’t particularly like when they were around anyway. It was always too loud with them. The bad kind of loud. The Lionesses were the good kind of loud. They had piled into your room, staying as long as possible. Georgia had left you with her Tamagotchi, making you promise her you’d try to keep it alive. Being suitably distracted by the mountain of sugary sweets piled on your bed by Hempo, much to the horror of Leah and Sarina, you missed the way Lucy eyed you wearily.

You considered Lucy a big sister, especially since moving to Barcelona. She had been concerned about you since you arrived. The happy, bubbly young woman she had come to care for deeply had retreated back into the quiet shell you had been when you first joined the senior squad. At first, she thought you were just nervous – she knew how scary it could be to be in a new city without many friends. But after a while, she knew it was something more sinister. She barely saw you outside of football; you were always making excuses to avoid team bonding or insisting you needed to stay late to work on things. Things you already excelled at. She grasped just how badly something was wrong with the first international camp of the new year. She thought you would return back to your old ways, finally being around your old friends and not having to navigate another language. But that wasn’t the case; if anything, you grew even quieter – especially around Alessia and Ella. That concerned her the most – you were closer than family to those two. They could always be relied on to drag a smile out of you. So, she kept an eye on you. Quietly observing your behaviour.

Whilst you hated that you weren’t back in Barcelona as quickly as you wanted to be, you were glad you didn’t have to see Ona again so quickly. That night was the last time you had seen her. You hadn’t said anything as she took a seat across from you. She hadn’t said anything as you started to drift into an uncomfortable slumber. Only when she was sure you were in a deep sleep did she break her silence.

“Mai podré dir-te com ho sento,” she whispered. “Sempre t'estimaré. Espero que algun dia em permetis estimar-te de la manera que et mereixes.”

“Oni, I can’t speak Catalan, remember? You’re going to have to repeat that in English.” You laughed as she chattered away. It was an off-day and oddly warm in Manchester. You lay with your head in her lap, top tucked up into your bra, exposing as much skin as possible in an effort to soak up the summer sun.

“Sorry, amor. I’m just happy it’s finally warm here. It reminds me of home a little bit.” She carded her fingers through your hair as you snuggled your face into her stomach.

“Tell me about it?” You asked gently. You loved hearing the stories of her home, her childhood, her life back in Spain.

“There’s this little cafetería back home. It sells the best Crema Catalana ever. I don’t know what they do, but, mmmm ... es tan delicioso. It’s even better than my Mamí’s. It’s so pretty too. It’s got this really cool tiled pattern flooring and vines on the wall at the front. During the summer, they open all the doors and play music and …” You could listen to Ona talk all day; the excitement when she mentions her home is unparalleled. You could feel yourself drifting into sleep – the warm weather, her gentle fingers scratching at your scalp, her intoxicating smell that wrapped around you like a soft hug.

“Mmmm,” you hummed happily. "It sounds fantastic. I wish I could visit,” you commented.

“You shall. I’ll take you. You’ll come to see my home, we’ll do all the touristy things in Barcelona, and then I’ll show you all the local spots in Vilassar de Mar, prometo,” She vowed.

“Good. I …” you cut yourself off with a yawn, “I don’t want to see Barcelona without you.” Your eyes fluttered gently.

“You won’t. I won’t let you. You’re stuck with me for life, amor.” You smiled softly at her words. You liked the sound of being with Ona for life. “Ve a dormir, amor. I’ll be here when you wake up.” You nodded and allowed yourself to slip into a gentle dream.

Arriving home, it was easier to avoid Ona than you thought. You were still on strict instructions to rest. Alexia had tried to force you to stay with her. When that failed, Lucy had tried. You liked your space. You liked your private time. You felt like you could never fully relax around people … except for around Ona - that voice in your head reminded you. No! You couldn’t allow that voice to win. You had a recovery to think of now. You had compromised a little bit, though. You lived in the same building as Ingrid and Mapi, so you gave them permission to get a spare key cut. This allowed you to have people constantly checking on you without feeling like a burden on them. Alexia wanted a key for herself, but she lived on the other side of town, and you didn’t like dragging her so far from her usual daily routine.

To be honest, you were unsure if you wanted to see Ona. Alessia had quietly told you that you wouldn’t calm down on the pitch until Ona held you. In the extra month you were in Australia, you had come to terms with the fact you were still in love with her. You had tried to deny it when you initially came to Spain. But now it was just a fact you had to live with. That night in the hospital was so incredibly awkward … strange … nice. She had stood in a training top you were fairly sure was yours once upon a time, head hung low as she picked at her nails. You wanted to bat her hands away, to tell her to stop, but she had sat too far and out of your reach.

“I’m telling you, Y/N, something’s wrong with Ona”, Hayley whispered to you in the bathroom. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but she won’t stop picking at her nails; she’s really quiet. Something’s not right. I think something may have happened during the break.” You sighed deeply. You also think something may have occurred whilst she was in Spain. You had picked her up from Manchester Airport, and you could tell instantly something wasn’t right. 3 of her fingers were wrapped in plasters, and the others looked just as sore. When you extended your arms out to hug her, she looked a little apprehensive but stepped into your embrace anyway. No matter how much you wanted to keep her in your arms, you stepped away after a few short seconds. You had never seen her so tired, so different, so … you weren’t quite sure what had happened. You kissed her forehead gently as you ushered her to the car.

It didn’t take long for you to find Ona – she was sitting in your cubby after all. Despite your concern, your heart couldn’t help but flutter as you recognised your number on the hoodie she was wearing.

“Me gustas en mi ropa,” You said as you crouched in front of her, hands resting gently on her knee. She didn’t smirk like she usually would. She didn’t react when you started tracing gentle shapes on her bare legs. She just kept picking at her nails. “Oni… lo que le pasó?” You asked in the gentlest tone imaginable. She just shook her head, wiping a stray tear away. “No … hey, hey, hey, no. Oni. Mi niña hermosa. Don’t cry.” You surged forward. “Please don’t cry.” You didn’t know how to comfort her. You had seen her angry, you had seen her scared, you had seen her frustrated. But you had never seen her cry before.

You had eventually coaxed her into going home. You had waited until everyone had left—Hayley hurrying people along to let you deal with the situation. The force with which she gripped your hand left a sour taste in your mouth. You had kept your hand in hers the whole journey home and into your flat. You led her to the sofa as you lay down, pulling her on top of you.

“Now …” You started, “I’m not going to make you talk to me. But I can tell something happened when you were in Spain. I want you to tell me, but I’m not going to force you. Whatever you want to share that’s entirely up to you. But please, Oni … I’m not going to judge you, or laugh at you, or hurt you for telling me anything. Un problema compartido es un problema dividido, right?” You whispered as your fingers slipped under her jumper.

It took a while, but eventually, she told you. You held her as she cried over the conditions in the Spanish camp. You held her as she recounted the story of her being forced from her bed at 5 in the morning for a run and not being allowed to stop until she threw up or passed out. You held her as she ranted about how mean the coaching staff were to Pina, and when she had stepped in to intervene, she had it twice as bad. You held her as she eventually slipped into a fitful reprieve from the nightmare she had just returned from.

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake Ona’s voice from your head telling you, you weren’t could enough for Barca. If she thought that before your injury, what would she think about you now? You were looking at a year off the pitch, at least, let alone having to train in a new style and learn a new way of playing that could have you set back even further. It echoed in your mind before behind, when you looked at yourself in the mirror, when you were with the team as they tried to help you feel better.

Most days looked similar for you in the first month you returned. You were still in a cast and brace, so you couldn’t do much. The doctors - and Alexia - had told you how important it was to establish and stick to a routine. So, you did. You woke up at 8.30 every morning. There was training – you obviously couldn’t go, but since all your friends had that schedule to stick to, so did you. You would go into the bathroom and have a really awkward shower; more often than not, you would flood the bathroom, then get ready for the day. Lucy told you that you needed to change out of your pyjamas every day, so you slipped on loose shorts and a shirt – your ‘day pyjamas’ you had christened. You had breakfast with Ingrid and Mapi before they left for training, and then you sat on the couch. All day. With your mind slowly descending into chaos over everything that had happened. And then you would hear the conversations from outside that told you some of the girls were coming round to see you, and you plastered a smile on your face as you asked them about their day, and they would ask you about yours. On non-training days, you granted yourself a lie-in. Keira and Lucy would come by with pastries from the bakery down the round and fresh fruit for you to snack on. You would sometimes have a Lioness Facetime if everyone’s schedules allowed.

You had yet to go to a match or the training facility, watch a game on TV, or even just play Fifa. But that would come with time; you would have to go eventually because that was where the physios and trainers were. People thought you were reluctant to go because of what had happened. Which you were … a little bit. The main reason that made you nervous about going was Ona. A picture of her on your timeline had sent you into a spiral for a good few hours. You were scared of what seeing her in person would do.

You had seen the picture of her in the Champions League promotion. And she looked so good. You had stared for far too long at her beautiful smile that still took your breath away, her chiselled jawline that you used to pepper kisses across when you cuddled up against her, her veiny arms that had made you feel so safe and loved, her messy bun that you had jokingly begged her to teach you how to do, her freckled cheeks that would sport a soft pink hue every time you complimented her, the dimples you would poke at when she was trying to be angry at you but failing miserably.

“Great game today girls, you played fantastically. And well done to Ona.” You were standing next to her in the post-match huddle, she shyly groaned as her achievements were recognised in front of everyone.

“Mi Oni’s got her name on the score sheet,” You sang out as you walked back down the tunnel, arms wrapping around her waist. “We need to celebrate.” A round of cheers from everyone echoed the sentiment. Just as you were about to separate to go shower, you felt Ona squeeze you gently. “Hm?” You asked, scanning her features for discomfort.

“Could we do something … just us tonight?” As much as she loved the girls, she wanted a night with you. Alone. She looked so adorable as she quietly mumbled her desires to you.

“Absolutely we can,” your smile reassured her. You pressed your hands against her cheeks quickly before turning to head to the showers.

You didn’t even bother with an excuse when you messaged Lessi and Tooney.

Y/N: Sorry not coming tonight - other plans x

Tooney: Rude

Tooney: Do these other plans involve a Spanish defender???

Y/N: Maybe x

Y/N: She wanted to do something just us

Lessi: I want details! x

Y/N: Nothing’s going to happen

Y/N: U know we r just friends

Tooney: And I’m just friends with Joe :p

Y/N: Its just a MOVIE NIGHT x

Lessi: If u say so x

Tooney: stay safe x

Y/N: ffs and I do say so.

Y/N: text me when ur both home pls x

Lessi: Will do x

Your other plans involved very little deviation from your regular nights. She had cooked for you like always, serving up a delicious paella that had you begging her for cooking lessons. Over dinner, you relived her goal from your perspective and forced her to tell you what she was thinking when she sent it into the back of the net.

“Now that you’ve started scoring, you won’t stop. I’m telling you.” She had laughed at your promise. “I’m being serious here. We need to come up with a celebration for you.” She just hummed and kissed the top of your head as she gathered the plates and took them to the sink.

Later, you were lying on the sofa watching a Spanish movie she insisted on, telling you how it was a part of her childhood and she needed to share it with you. You weren’t paying any attention. You were far too distracted by her fingers running up your spine. It was driving you mad in the best way possible. Your ear was pressed against her chest, her heartbeat comforting and peaceful as you burrowed yourself deeper into her.

“Estás bien?” Ona asked, your movements catching her attention.

“Yeah.” You responded. “I’m really proud of you, you know that, right?” You shifted again, this time drawing yourself up to cage her in with your arms. The blush reappeared on her cheeks as you stared intently at her. God, she was so beautiful. “And I’m really happy you came to Manchester. You make everything better.” You told her honestly. She was getting overwhelmed. You could see that as she avoided your gaze. You gently poked the place where a dimple appeared when she smiled. “Oni …” you waited until she looked back at you. “Puedo besarte?” You said as you stared at her lips.

“Sí.” This wasn’t your first kiss, drunk or sober. But this time felt different. You couldn’t explain it. Her soft lips parted as you licked the seam of her mouth.

You continued to make out lazily on the sofa before Ona broke away for some much-needed air. You didn’t care, though. Your lips just moved to her neck – you were careful not to leave any marks, no matter how much you wanted to decorate the pale skin with dark splotches that claimed her as yours. She whimpered and whined underneath you until she was begging for more.

“Por favour. Do something. Anything. Necesito más,” she implored, hands tangling in your hair as you pulled away.

“Relajarse. Let me take care of you.” You sighed into her skin.

You're just a quick fuck. Easy. Nothing more to me. Her wicked words bounced around in your head. God, she had really ruined you. That was the first night you allowed yourself to truly feel everything, every emotion you had suppressed and bottled up for the last 9 months. It was painful. Raw. Terrifying.

At first, you were angry — so, so angry. Pure, unadulterated rage bubbled up and over the top of your carefully constructed walls. You threw a vase. It shattered into pieces like your heart had done all those months ago. It was satisfying, but you wanted more. You needed more. You ripped apart a cushion someone gave you as a housewarming present. You screamed and raged and shouted your emotions.

Then you cried. It started as a few lone drops that quickly became a torrent of unstoppable, hot tears. The sobbing hurt. It was painful and gut-wrenching. You had never cried like this before, and that scared you. These were the tears of someone heartbroken, and desperate. You cried so hard you thought you were about to throw up.

When you came to your senses, you were standing in the middle of the living room – how you got there was beyond you – feathers lightly floating around you, the wall had a slight dent, and someone was knocking frantically on your door. You didn’t move. If it was Ingrid or Mapi, they had a key. If it was Lucy or Alexia, they knew where to find the spare set. If it was anyone else, you didn’t want to see them.

Strong yet gentle arms pulled you to a warm body. The scent that engulfed you was soft and sweet. Alexia.

“Está bien, cariño. Let’s get you to bed, sí?” She was too gentle. Alexia didn’t do this kind of comfort. She offered practical solutions, honesty, and tough love.

“I… I’m scared,” You admitted as she helped you twist into bed.

“I know recovery can be scary, pequeña, but you will do it. It will be hard. But you can do it. Te lo prometo, puedes hacerlo. Everyone is going to help you. You can lean on us. We're here for you, bebita.” She was misunderstanding what you were referencing. You weren’t scared of recovery. You were physically healing well. A physio had been sent to your house from Barcelona to assess you at home to see whether you could start your rehabilitation at the club. She had asked you questions, and you had given the right answers. Your scars were healing well, and you had the expected range of motion for your injuries. Physically, you were right on track.

You were scared of your own mind. In the month you had been home alone, you had thought hard about anything. Ona had really broken you, yet you couldn’t let her go. What did that say about you? You had always thought you were stronger than that. You used to never understand what it was like when people would go back to an ex-partner who had broken their heart. Ona was never even officially yours, and she had managed to do so much damage.

This is becoming a lot more intense than I had planned ahahah. Hopefully, the next part will be out soon.

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #ona batlle x reader #ona batlle #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso soccer #barca femeni x reader #barca femeni #fc barcelona #manchester united #man utd #man utd women #alexia putellas #lionesses #lionesses x reader #woso fanfics

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lecsainz · 10 months

Text

through the storm

pairings: charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader

request: Hi! Would you be interested into writing one for Charles, where the reader is going through some difficult time in life (struggling with mental health, work or "big life decisions", it's up to you), and he's being very supportive and understanding, offering help as well?

authors note: I was kinda hesitating on how to write this, but hope ya like it!

warnings: anxiety attack.

✩. . . masterlist !

It was one of those nights when everything seemed to crumble around me. Life had thrown me a series of challenges that left me feeling overwhelmed and drained. Struggling with my mental health, I felt like I was drowning in a sea of uncertainty. But there was one person who had always been my anchor in the storm - Charles Leclerc.

As a Formula 1 driver, Charles's demanding schedule meant we couldn't be together as much as we wanted. But every time we were apart, he made sure to be there for me, offering his unwavering support and understanding.

On this particular night, as I found myself on the edge of an anxiety attack, I reached for my phone and dialed Charles's number. His voice was a lifeline as he answered, "Hey love, what's going on?"

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I struggled to find the words. "I... I can't breathe, Char. Everything feels like it's falling apart."

"Take deep breaths, Y/NN (your nickname). I'm here with you." he said soothingly. "You're not alone, and you're going to get through this."

As I continued to sob, Charles gently guided me through a calming breathing exercise. His voice was a steady presence, reminding me that I was safe and loved.

"Focus on your breath, in and out." he said. "I'm right here, holding your hand."

His words were like a lifeline, grounding me in the present moment. Slowly, the panic subsided, and I felt a sense of calm wash over me. "Thank you, Charles." I whispered, my voice shaky but filled with gratitude.

"I'll always be here for you, mon amour." he replied, his voice filled with warmth and love. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No, it's okay." I reassured him. "You have your race, and I don't want to distract you."

"Y/N, you're never a distraction. Your well-being is the most important thing to me." he said earnestly. "But if you need me, I'll be there in a heartbeat."

His words touched my heart, and I felt a surge of love for this incredible man who always put me first. "I know." I said softly. "I just needed to hear your voice. It always makes everything feel better."

"I'm glad I could help," he said. "Now, how about we talk about something that always makes you smile? Like that time we got lost on our road trip and ended up in that tiny, charming village?"

I chuckled through my tears, letting his stories and laughter ease the heaviness in my heart. We talked for hours, and with each passing minute, I felt my anxiety recede, replaced by a sense of comfort and love.

His presence, even through the phone, grounded me. I felt his unwavering support, and for that moment, the world didn't feel so lonely.

As the night wore on, I felt the weight of exhaustion setting in. "I'm so tired, Char." I whispered, my voice raw with emotion.

"Then rest, love. You need it," he replied, his voice filled with tenderness. "I'm here with you. Close your eyes, and I'll stay on the line until you fall asleep, okay?"

The simple act of knowing he was there, on the other end of the line, gave me the comfort I needed. As I lay in bed, Charles spoke softly, sharing stories from his racing adventures, making me laugh and smile through the tears.

Slowly, the sound of his voice lulled me into a peaceful slumber, and before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep, still cradling the phone.

Hours later, I awoke to the sound of footsteps approaching. Charles had kept his word and traveled back home, putting aside his racing commitments for me.

He entered the room, and our eyes met in the dim light. "Ma belle." he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I sat up, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. "Char, you should've raced. I didn't want to be a burden." I whispered.

He took my hand in his, gently brushing away a tear. "You're never a burden, love." he assured me, "Your well-being is my priority, and I'd do anything for you."

His love and dedication overwhelmed me, and I buried my face in his chest, finding solace in his embrace.

"I just want you to know that you don't have to face everything alone," he whispered, stroking my hair, "I'm here, and we'll face the world together, no matter what."

In that moment, I knew that I had found a love that was steadfast and unwavering. Charles was not just a talented F1 driver; he was my rock, my anchor in the storm.

As the night wore on, we talked about my struggles and fears, and he assured me that we would find a way through it all. His support and understanding gave me the strength to face the challenges that lay ahead.

In the embrace of his arms, I found a sense of peace and security that I hadn't felt in a long time. And as I drifted back to sleep, I knew that together, we could weather any storm that life threw our way.

#f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 fics #formula 1 x reader #f1 x y/n #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x oc #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc f1 #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x you #f1 one shot #formula 1 imagine #charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader

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ode2rin · 1 year

Note

HELP OF ALL SONGS WHY DID YOU GO WITH THE LAST TIME FOR THAT KAISER ANGST it's my favorite i can't do this mimi

PLS DON'T LISTEN TO YOUR REPLIES !!! IT DOESN'T NEED A COMFORT PART 2 do you know what it needs? reader's pov 🙏🏻 because i am certain kaiser fucked up so good (i'm a kasier kisser believe me) to the point that we can't take him back ;)

you get me anon 🫱🏻‍🫲🏻 i shrieked when i read this in my inbox. i'm hearing you out so here it goes !! (thanks for sending this, i needed a distraction after my previous exam soooo a kaiser angst might just be the best kind of distraction :D)

content/warnings. reader's pov of this (or the break up) | hints of a toxic relationship | heavy in narration !

you can’t say you didn’t see this coming.

you would be lying not to admit that you could sense the storm brewing long before it arrived, an ache that had been etched into your soul from the moment you fell under the spell of those mischievous blue eyes and enchanting smiles.

the world warned you, voices of reason echoing through the corridors of your mind. tabloids whispered tales of heartbreak, fans shared cautionary tales, and even ness, who knew kaiser better than anyone, tried to shield you from the impending storm.

they told you loving michael kaiser wasn’t for the weak. and you shrugged that off, because you know you weren’t one.

now, sitting in the balcony of your new apartment, your phone clenched in your hand, a message arrives from a familiar sender.

you know this all too well. and it reads heartbreak in every word, over and over again.

my mihya: i have a game tomorrow. would you come? my mihya: please come.

loving michael kaiser wasn't for the weak, and you thought you understood what they meant but you didn't. it wasn't just about being strong — it was about the insidious way his love eroded your defenses, leaving you vulnerable and exposed.

in those three haunting moments when michael kaiser arrived unannounced at your doorstep, exuding remorse with every fiber of his being, you had to clench your jaw so tight just not to tell him to come inside.

and every time he calls asking to see you once more, you grasped your phone as if it were a lifeline, the weight of your wounded pride pressing into your trembling hands.

with each time he does ask to try again, it takes everything in you to hold a yes that teetered on the precipice of your lips. it wasn't because you didn't love him, but because you knew all too well that kaiser excelled at chasing you when it was already too late.

it was as though he had finally paid attention to your place in his life, but by then it was too late, you’re too broken to grasp on.

don’t get it wrong, he did love you. fiercely, madly, deeply so. he loved you.

only in his terms, that is.

he loves you when it was convenient, when it was easy. he loves you when he stood high above everyone else, and come moments that he faltered, he dragged you into his lowest of lows.

and you. you accepted that.

accepting a love (if you could even call it one) like that?

it was consuming. such love painted vibrant hues of ecstasy, only to wield the darkest shade of anguish.

and yet again, we really do accept the love we think we deserve.

you spent two years of your life believing love came with thorns. you gave him all of your best, your endless empathy. gave him so much, but it wasn’t enough.

no, it was never enough.

it wasn’t all rain and storms. you had your better days. and when it was good, it was good.

but a few fleeting highs couldn't erase the moments when he tore you down, belittled your dreams, ridiculed your love like you’d always be around.

so, you ran.

was it the bravest thing you've ever done? these days, it's harder to convince yourself that you made the right choice.

to say you miss him is an underwhelming elucidation of what you feel. michael kaiser is written all over you. you feel him everywhere of you. his presence lingers within, haunting you.

and there are nights, that fuck, all you want to do is pick up the phone and have him near, even if that means risking another goodbye.

but leaving… you know it was for the best.

when you think of those destructive nights of 4 am, standing before a mirror seeing the permanent damage of loving a man who didn’t know what he had when he had it, you know it was for the best.

i did the right thing.

you can’t take him back. you can’t do that to yourself again, not anymore. you can’t go through another night of stifling your sobs, grieving for your partner when he’s right beside you.

grieving for what could have been if he were a better man. if he loved you the way he loved his fame and glory. if he loved you like how your heart ached to be held.

but as they say, one should wait for the right man, but never should one wait for one man to be the right one.

and you refuse to be the casualty of a love that was never meant to be, the collateral damage in his pursuit of self-glory.

1:03 AM [xxx-xxx-810]: i have a game tomorrow. would you come? [xxx-xxx-810]: please come. 3:35 AM you: i hope you win, kaiser.

so, you hold on to your pride, because these days, it’s all you had left.

#☁️ my ode to you #this is shit pls look away #btw anon why do i feel lyk i know u hmpppp #blue lock x reader #blue lock imagines #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser imagines #kaiser x reader #kaiser imagines #michael kaiser x y/n #michael kaiser x you #bllk x y/n #bllk x you #bllk x reader #blue lock x y/n #blue lock x you #blue lock headcanons #michael kaiser #blue lock angst

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botanybulbasaur · 6 months

Text

Schneider's family ; The significance of Marian

REVERSE 1999 SPOILERS AHEAD : FOR CHAPTERS 1 AND 2 ! Please tread carefully and make sure you only read about what you're willing to know.

I know we're all still completely in shambles from Chap. 2, but I wanted to make a speculation about Schneider-- and a comment about how well she's written !

Let me start with this: In many pieces of media, viewers, listeners and readers alike are told that a character has people they care for. They're told a character has a lover, a wife, kids, a family, a sister. We're told the same about Schneider: that she has 11 older siblings, and that she works in the mafia to support them.

However, it's very rarely that we're given a name and a face for these supposed loved ones. And even rarer is it that they're written well, not just as a ploy for empathy, but as their own character: Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed guests: I present to you, Marian.

Marian is one of my favorite characters just as a stand-alone: she's realistic, she's anxious, she clings to Schneider like a lifeline-- but she's brave, too. I'd love to do an in-depth analysis on her another time, but we're here for another reason.

Marian, first of all, shows us what Schneider's family is like. How they were raised, what they believe in, who they depend on. Soft topic, I know, but as someone of Italian lineage, it's very important to me that I point this out: Marian is extremely religious.

Immigrants of every kind tend to be religious. It gives them much more faith than they ever could have: a new lifeline. They managed to make it across such a winding sea? Oh, thank the lord. They haven't been kicked out of the Americas for emigration? Thank you, holy one. There's so many more reasons for this than "they need something they don't have"- maybe the fact that the rendition of god in every religion is said to love everybody, not just those who were born into wealthy families with the bluest eyes and the blondest hair.

When in a moment with no reason, and all different kinds of desperate measures being needed.. Schneider does what her family coaxes her to. She prays.

(I can't find a screenshot, but please refer to the iconic "I didn't know you prayed" scene, and the screenshot directly below this sentence.)

I also want to point out a large difference between Schneider and her family: Schneider's perspective on a 'god' differs so, so much from her family's.

She looks to whoever may be above, in her world, scornfully-- at least, in the present day. In her past, there is a particularly impactful line I want to debunk.

"The god there ... loves the world." Schnider's family seems to believe that god was the one guiding them, the one who will forgive them-- Schneider believed that it was a whole different entity. This kid believes that the god in Sicily, whoever they may be, does not love the world-- and mio dio, if that's not fucked up, I don't know what is.

And, when Schneider comes to America and sees that shit isn't as it's cut off to be, she's resentful of whoever this god may be. She gives a pray as her last bet-- what her family wants.

And it's not that she doesn't believe in this god-- no. She just doesn't believe they love her.

"Finally forgive me" -- Finally being the key word here. She's lived all her life never being treated to mercy or being 'forgiven for her sins' -- and at her most fragile, exposed moment, she relents to what her family has taught her. To what she truly believes-- to Sicily, to Marian, her sorella. Maybe even all 11 sorelle and her parents.

And, again, they're different at face value. Marian is calm, kind. She dresses modest and has her hair grown out: she's timid, too, not befitting of a mafia boss. She's different from her younger sister.. but she's still important. She shows us another side of Schneider: and, more importantly, she shows us what-- no, who Schneider is fighting for.

Marian provides us with extremely beneficial background context of where Schneider comes from-- and, in that process, gives many of us someone to empathize with. Yes, I too know somebody at least a little like her. You do too, likely.

Maybe, you're even like Schneider-- maybe she's someone you'd aim to protect.

,,aaand that's the little lore rant. Whew! Now to study for my math finals. I hope you have a good day :)

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starrylothcat · 9 months

Note

Hello there! I absolutely love your writing, I often feel bad I’m constantly littering your notifications 👉🏼👈🏼

I’m not sure if you’ve done this but I would love a hunter x f!Jedi reader with spicy prompt “make me forget today” with either side being angsty.

In my mind the dynamic between the two is similar to codywan- really close but duty comes first. Could take place during clone wars or bad batch show, whichever you think would work best! Can definitely be NSFW, whatever you’re comfortable with.

And of course, feel free to pass if this ask isn’t for you. I completely understand! All the love! 💕💕

Conquest of Spaces

Pairing: Hunter x Fem!Jedi Reader

Summary: You and Hunter give in to one another, your hidden feelings set free. It’s something that you both know can’t continue, but when you meet again after Order 66, are you finally allowed to have what you’ve always wanted?

WC: 3600

Warnings: NSFW, 18+. PiV sex, angst, happy ending and Soft Hunter Bad Batch. Reader is a fem Jedi, looks not described and no pronouns used. Takes place before and after Order 66.

A/N: Never feel bad for spamming my notifications! Oh do I love me clone and Jedi angst. Thank you so much for the amazing prompt, I hope you enjoy it. It’s fluffy and angsty and hopefully kind of romantic? Lol 🥹👉👈

“Please make me forget today.” Those five words, spoken in broken desperation, sealed your fate. “Please.

You didn’t mean for this to happen, to allow feelings to bloom between the cracks. You tried plucking out the weeds, clearing those aggressively growing sentiments from your subconscious but they resurfaced stronger every time.

Your voice shook as you whispered those words in his ear, grasping onto his armor like it was a lifeline, you knew it wasn’t fair.

It was unjust to both him and yourself.

He could have said no, pushed you away.

You could have attempted to hold yourself together, to put on the in-control, strong Jedi facade one more time, though that mask was beginning to fracture.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold it up before it would shatter completely into dust.

You were assigned to work with him and his brothers often, building trust with the team that few others had.

You and Hunter shared a strong camaraderie, a fellowship forged by mutual respect and dedication to your roles in the Republic. Your ability to understand one another with just a glance, how perfectly you fit together, could not be denied.

You tried to disregard the growing lingering glances, the way his tone would soften when he addressed you, or how he frequently invaded your dreams.

You could tell he was restraining himself, too. He knew the risks, the dangers of letting emotions divert you from your defined roles in this war.

Maybe in a different life, you could have more, but not in this one.

You locked those feelings away, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore them.

It wasn’t until you returned to Kamino after a disastrous mission that you left that hidden chest of feelings unlocked, whether you did it purposefully or not.

You had lost most of your squad. It wasn’t your fault, but you were bearing the burden.

You had known Hunter was on Kamino for a short leave, and comm’d him to meet you. He was the only one you could talk to.

Hunter met you, knowing immediately something was wrong. Hunter listened to you speak, your words quickly coming out as quiet sobs, feeling lost. You were supposed to be a protector, a peacekeeper. You felt as if you were failing. You told him of all your uncertainties about the war, and how you didn’t feel like a protector when all you did was fight for something that seemingly had no purpose or end.

You don’t remember the exact timeline of events, but after you breathed those words, his arms were around you, pulling you into a firm embrace as you leaned against his armor.

He murmured that he understood, and the burdens of being a leader weighed heavy on him, too.

You had looked up at him, locking on to his honeyed eyes you often found yourself lost in, almost too gentle to belong to a born and bred warrior such as him.

Hunter’s face was so close to yours, that you could see the speckles in his cornea and edges of his tattoo where the ink had bled into his skin.

His musky, spicy scent overtook your senses right before his lips met yours.

Hunter’s lips were warm, his stubble lightly scratching your face as his tongue slid against your own, your previous tears now long dried.

He pulled away, giving you the chance to say something.

“If I’ve gone too far-“ He started, but was cut off as you pulled him back in, your body buzzed with a craving you didn’t realize was possible.

This kiss was more fervid, and desperate as he wrapped his gloved hand in your hair. You were weightless in his arms, your mind spun with excitement, guilt, desire, and regret.

You shouldn't be indulging in this, letting him whisk you off your feet as he carries you into a nearby weapons closet, his mouth nipping and licking at every pressure and pleasure point on your neck.

The door slid shut, mouths crashing together again, tugging off armor and robes alike as everything that had been built between the two of you was finally set free. The thin, fraying tether that was keeping your professional relationship and what you truly desired apart had finally snapped.

It was a moment of weakness for you both.

But neither of you stopped.

You didn’t know where either of you began or ended, bodies burning with need as he slid into you, his mouth leaving marks along your collarbone.

Hunter’s pace was rigorous, knowing you didn’t have much time. Even as he desperately pounded into you, his touches were generous and worshipful, almost like you’ve done this a million times before.

He knew exactly where to feel you, he knew exactly what you wanted and when you wanted it. He rasped between strained groans about how beautiful you were, and how long he’s been wanting this.

You didn’t respond, knowing if you did, it would make this situation even more complicated than it currently was.

All you could do was gasp his name, pulling him closer and closer to you, wishing that you could stay in this weapons closet for the rest of time, just you and him.

Afterward, as you lay sweaty and messy, awkwardly perched on a weapons locker, there was so much you wanted to say.

Instead, the words hung in the air with your heavy breaths as you quickly dressed.

You could feel Hunter’s eyes boring into your soul, not knowing exactly what to do next. Hunter broke the silence, speaking the words he knew he shouldn’t say, the utterance like blades piercing your heart.

“I love you.”

You bit your lip which was now trembling, tearing your eyes from his, unable to look at him.

“Hunter…”

Why did he have to say it out loud?

Guilt weighed in your gut, as heavy as durasteel, knowing you shouldn’t have given in.

You wanted to cradle his face, kiss him, run your fingers through his locks, and tell him you loved him too.

Of course you loved him. You’ve always loved him.

You wanted nothing more than to just be with him, but you both knew that was a fantasy.

The war was only becoming more devastating, more clones and Jedi were needed by the day to keep the peace.

Hunter was the one his brothers looked to for leadership. He couldn’t leave his squad, his family.

For you to be the perfect Jedi the Council wanted, you needed a clear conscience and a pure heart. That meant no selfish attachments to cloud your mind.

Hunter placed his thumb and forefinger under your chin, seeing your face darken at his words. He tilted your head toward him.

“I know you can’t say it back. But I want you to know.”

His lips met yours once more, chaste and restrained, before exiting the closet without looking back.

You almost called out to him, to return the forbidden words. Instead, you let him walk away.

It was the last time you saw him before the galaxy erupted into chaos a few short weeks later.

Everything you once understood, once thought to be true, was burned and spread with the ash of the Jedi Temple.

You narrowly escaped, losing contact with everyone and anyone, hiding on remote planet after remote planet, not staying in one place too long.

You thought of Hunter, nausea wrenching your gut. Was he alive? How many Jedi has he killed? Was he with the Empire now?

The thought of him pointing his blaster at you, his viroblade at your throat, the tender glint in his deep, brown eyes replaced with bloodlust made your stomach lurch.

It made you sick, wishing so desperately you would have told him you loved him, said it out loud. You wished you had not been afraid, tethered to the Jedi Code that now meant nothing.

As you wandered and hid, you found yourself holding your comm, wanting to contact Hunter.

You knew you couldn’t, but not knowing whether he was alive, dead, or worse, ate at your soul.

Whether it was The Force, cosmic fate, divine intervention, or pure coincidence, you would see Hunter again.

You caught wind of a smuggler offering credits for jobs on Ord Mantell, in desperate need of work.

When you saw Hunter and his brothers sitting at the bar in Cid’s seedy establishment, you thought you were dreaming, or stepping into a trap.

They just stared, just as shocked to see you.

You whipped out your blaster, memories of clones pulling their own blasters on you, firing without mercy as you begged them to stop as you barely made it alive out of the Temple.

“I-I don’t want to hurt you!” You stood your ground, trying to hide the fear in your voice.

No, no, no, no, this can’t be happening!

Hunter was the first to stand up slowly, your name leaving his lips in quiet surprise.

You gripped your blaster, waiting for the moment he drew his.

Tech stood up slowly next, raising his arms.

“We won’t hurt you.” Tech said. “The chips did not activate in us.”

“Chips? What chips? What are you talking about?”

Your blood was ice, stepping backward toward the exit.

“Please I don’t want to…“

Your finger hovered on the trigger, not knowing if you’d have to fight those who you once called friends, the man who you once loved, and still did.

Hunter examined you, as if not believing what he was seeing was real. Maybe you were a ghost. You sure felt like one.

Your eyes darted between them all, none of them reaching for their weapons.

Your body shook, tears in your eyes, never expecting to see anyone you knew ever again, especially not them. You slowly lowered your blaster as Hunter approached you, placing his hand on your wrist as your legs almost gave out from the adrenaline coursing through your body.

“Is it really you…?” You choked out, your blaster clattering to the ground. Hunter nodded, pulling you in close for an embrace, saying your name with such profound relief you could have fainted.

Hunter pulled away, his eyes swimming with emotion, as were yours. Before you could say any more, the rest of the squad were surrounding you.

You hugged them all, too, happy to see them alive, and not trying to murder you.

It was a bittersweet reunion, catching up on all that had happened once they convinced you they weren’t dangerous.

They explained everything.

The chips, the conspiracy, Crosshair, Omega.

Your mind spun, trying to process it all.

All the while, Hunter’s eyes never left yours in all the hours you sat at the bar.

There was so much you wanted to say, but it had to wait.

They invited you on their next mission with Cid, even offering a small cut of the credits when the job was completed.

You agreed, having no other option than to say yes, though it made you nervous to join them, especially since the Empire was already on their tail.

Adding an (ex) Jedi to the mix could make things messy.

They didn’t seem too concerned, as long as you didn’t make yourself obvious.

Hunter gave you a small smile, a knowing look in his eyes flashing momentarily, his hand coming to your shoulder as you stood up from the bar to head to The Marauder.

“I’m happy you’re coming with. We’ve…I’ve missed you.” Hunter spoke quietly.

“I’ve missed you too, Hunter.” He nodded, wanting to say more, but Echo was gesturing to him to go over the mission details.

He squeezed your shoulder. “See you on the ship.”

You stepped onto The Marauder, and not much had changed, besides Crosshair’s absence and Omega’s new corner of the ship that she proudly gave you a tour of.

As you took off from Ord Mantell, watching the planet get smaller as you ascended into the atmosphere, it felt like before, when things were more simple.

Eager for your next assignment, ready to serve the Republic and make the Council proud.

You sat in a blast chair, watching the boys talk and Omega peering over Hunter’s shoulder as he set the hyperspace coordinates.

It felt like old times. Almost.

The job was simple, at least that’s how Cid described it. You were to retrieve a package from an arms dealer who was expecting you in a small village of the heavily forested planet you were heading for.

You weren’t to meet him until the next day, so you had downtime the evening before.

Tech landed the ship in a small clearing on top of a hill, most of the planet thick with old-growth trees. A lake was nestled amongst the trees down the sloping hill a few klicks away.

The water reflected the sun that was almost set as two moons drifted into the sky to replace the star in the sky.

Tech and Echo were busy looking at the map, deciding the best way to get to the village the next day while Wrecker and Omega played a game of Dejarik. Hunter was quietly and diligently cleaning his blaster, sneaking glances at you as he did so.

Hunter was respecting your boundaries, not wanting to push you into anything too quickly. He wanted nothing more than to kick everyone off the ship, wrap himself around you, feel you against him, proving that you were indeed real. He assumed you were still weary of clones, which he didn’t blame you for. He was just happy you were alive, and safe. That was enough for him, if nothing else.

You knew he was looking at you while you were organizing your things. You desperately wanted to talk to him alone, about the last time you saw one another.

Did he still love you? Did he mean what he said? Could you even pick up where you left off, after all that’s happened?

You peered at the clones you shared the ship with, tears filling the sides of your eyes, memories flooding back to you of your time with them. It seemed so simple back then. But now…what were you? They were still clones but now untethered by what they were bred for.

You were free as well, though the Jedi Code still burned into your skull, finding it hard to forget. If you weren’t a Jedi anymore, then what were you?

“Are you okay?” Omega noticed you, your hands trembling.

You sniffed, quickly wiping your eyes. You could feel everyone’s eyes on you, especially Hunter’s.

“I…just need some air.” You stood up, shoving your pack under a blast chair. “I’ll be at the lake if you need me.”

You smashed the button to lower the ramp and headed out before it even touched the ground, before anyone could say anything to you.

Intense emotions swirled in your chest, briskly walking toward the serene water. The cool air of the evening calmed the ache in your being slightly, your hands still trembling.

The man you loved was in the ship behind you, and yet your footsteps led you further away from him. It was almost too much, suddenly being back with them, with him.

You roamed silently to the lake, sitting down near the edge of the water.

You closed your eyes, trying to meditate, focusing on your emotions. You honed in on the water lapping at the shore, the breeze rustling through the leaves, and the distant call of a nocturnal predatory bird.

You knew Hunter was there before he spoke.

“Everything is different now.” His voice was low. “It’s…still hard for me, too.”

You nodded, biting your lip, your eyes still closed.

“I tried to find you, to see if you were alive. But I didn’t want to risk endangering you.”

You slowly opened your eyes, focusing on him. He was looking right at you, his form illuminated by the glow of the moons.

“I didn’t know…I was afraid…” You stammered. “I wanted nothing more than to know if you were alive…I’m sorry that I never…” Your next words were caught in your throat as Hunter’s lips met yours, soft and loving. You were transported to your first kiss, all that time ago.

That ache in your chest was suddenly gone, replaced with a weightlessness only he could make you feel.

He pulled away almost as quickly as he leaned in.

He silently gazed at you, a hand coming to caress the side of your face.

You leaned into his touch, bringing your hand over his. “I never stopped thinking about you.” He whispered, his thumb tracing your cheek.

“Can I kiss you again?” He murmured.

“Yes.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Soon, you laid out underneath him, your clothes a makeshift blanket under you on the shore of the lake.

Instead of in a cramped weapons closet, you were free in the evening air, the endless sky above you.

You took your time re-exploring each other’s bodies, relishing in languid pleasure as the moons hung heavy in the night sky.

Hunter did not leave an inch of your body untouched, bringing you to your peak over and over again with his hands and mouth, making up for the lost time.

When he was satisfied you were ready for him, he positioned himself on top of you, his hair hanging from his headband, haloing his face above you.

He slowly entered you, moans leaving both of your lips, your hands coming around his shoulders, welcoming the stretch as he sank into you. It was mind-melting pleasure, feeling him so close and real.

Hunter stopped once he was fully seated in you, dropping his head to your side.

“I still love you.” His lips were right at your ear, deep inside you, but not moving. Not yet.

You cradled his face, just as you wished you did all that time ago as he searched your eyes for an answer.

Part of him worried you had just made the same mistake as before, giving into your carnal desires when there was still so much uncertainty.

Was this something you should be doing, was it selfish to want one another when others were still suffering?

You kissed him gently, tears catching on your eyelashes, his worried thoughts evaporating with your touch.

“I’m sorry I never said it back.” You traced his tattoo with your fingertip, his eyes closing, relishing your touch.

“You couldn’t. I knew you couldn’t.” He muttered, his brows furrowed. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position…”

“We can now. We can say it.”

Hunter’s eyes opened, a gentle smile on his face. “Then say it.” He pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you, Hunter. I always have.”

He smiled as he nuzzled the side of your face, the world melting away as he began to move, bodies entwined as one.

You were boneless and safe in his embrace as his fingers and lips molded to you perfectly.

His thrusts were slow and purposeful, his eyes never leaving yours.

Hunter touched you like before, like you’ve been lovers for 100 years, mapping your body so lovingly, so exquisitely, so perfectly.

He was afraid if he didn’t intricately memorize every curve and soft swell of your body, you might slip away again, and he wouldn’t get another chance.

You locked your ankles around his waist, changing the angle. Hunter let out a low whine, his head falling to your shoulder as your pleasure grew.

You were thankful for the slight breeze coming off the water, sweat forming on your bodies as your passion intensified.

You lightly tugged at his hair, his name leaving your lips in breathy mewls, his baritone moans thick with longing, dropping an octave as you clenched around him.

Hunter brought a finger to your clit, drawing tight circles, his thrusts hitting you in such a way you couldn’t discern the stars in your vision from the ones in the sky above.

Your fingernails dug into his muscled shoulder blades as your body arched toward him.

Hunter was drunk on your smell, your body, his senses absorbing every small sound.

Your intense arousal filled his nostrils, tasting your sweet skin as he left open-mouthed kisses on your neck.

Your body was on fire, overwhelmed by his tenderness, his devout passion, wordlessly telling you how much you meant to him.

“I’m right here, I have you.” Hunter rumbled, pressing his lips to yours, feeling your body tremble as you teetered on the precipice of your final orgasm. “I’ll always have you.”

He swallowed your pleasured sobs as you came, constricting and trembling around him, sending him over the edge.

Hunter let out a shuddered groan, pressing his hips into yours one final time, filling you with his release, his lips still on yours.

Your hands delicately roamed his back, your eyes fluttering open to meet his as he rested his weight on his forearms around you.

Your bodies stilled, trying to catch your breaths, the only other sound the tranquil waves splashing on the shore behind you.

You held on to one another, not wanting this moment to end. Hunter left feather-light kisses on your jawbone, leading to your lips, sliding his mouth to yours for an immensely passionate kiss.

The future was uncertain and unmapped, just as it was back when you were Jedi and soldier. You may have to take up your old roles once again, putting duty before all else.

You made peace with that, knowing how you felt for one another would only make you stronger, having something real to hold on to as you traversed into the unknown.

Taglist: @crosshairlovebot @blueink-bluesoul @kimiheartblade @wizardofrozz @clonemedickix @din-miller @sunshinesdaydream @kashasenpai @freesia-writes @multi-fan-dom-madness @coraex @aconstructofamind @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit @starqueensthings @idontgetanysleep @secretthegriffin @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @secondaryrealm @littlemissmanga @maybethatfanfictionwriter @pb-jellybeans @wanderer-six @king-chaos-world @the-cantina @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @523rdrebel @sleepingsun501 @wings-and-beskar

Dividers by @idontgetanysleep

#Hunter x reader #Hunter x you #Hunter tbb #Hunter x jedireader #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #the clone wars #the clone wars fanfiction #Star Wars fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #tbb Hunter #Hunter tbb x reader #hunter x fem!reader #sergeant hunter #tbb #starrycatwrites

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