𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕.

The eyes chico, they never lie (also his back should be illegal)

𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛.

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : months after ghosting your sugar daddy, lee know, he gives you a call. you answer. 

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: lee know x fem!reader

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 12.3k

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, fluff, and angst || sugar daddy!au 

𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠:  reunion sex, soft dom!minho, (a lot of) teasing and sexual tension, edging, oral (female and male receiving), dirty talk, choking, praising, grinding, marking, hair pulling, (some) spanking, unprotected sex (always remember to stay safe!!!), creampie

a/n: oml ! i didn’t think it’ll be this long, but here we are! i tried to make the plot as coherent as possible. oh and, oh my god! this is my first time writing a blowjob scene heheh the whole fic is inspired by bruno mars’s new song of the same title! 

feedback is most definitely welcome!! i hope you enjoy, dear reader!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷masterlist 

based on this request and @/lilixeu’s request (sorry this took so long!)

taglist: @lilixeu @moonlit-lixie @meow-minho @etherealeeknow @iwanttobangchan @bobateastay @kpopssuregi @twnklbb @cuokka @bxngchxn @jisungsplatforms​

please don’t interact with this post if you are under the age of 18! 

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☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ status ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

-> request; open

-> ask box; open

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ about me ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

-> hello !! my name is Jax !

-> they/them

-> 18

-> i write for Genshin, Haikyuu!, Levi, Erwin, Bakugou, Aizawa, Shinsou, and a few more!

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ Genshin Impact ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Diluc

Late Nights Diluc x gn reader

↳ fluff; how the evening ends after a long day

Injury Diluc x gn reader

↳ fluff, slight angst(?); finding you with an injury and helping you

Ayato

A Good Night’s Rest Ayato x gn! reader

↳ fluff, slice of life; finding your husband awake when he’s supposed to be sleeping

The 90's Hot Topic Goth Kid Movie Starter Pack™

if i could tell you

synopsis. you sometimes wonder why out of all people, your best friend with such charming looks and personality has been single all his life: why no one ever tries to go for him or why he never seems to be interested in any romantic relationships — it’s strange. but never has it occurred to you that maybe why ushijima isn’t so keen with dating others is only because he already has his hindsights on someone. and that someone? hint, hint. it’s you. 

pairing. ushijima wakatoshi x female reader word count. 10.1k genre. childhood friends to lovers au, slow burn, fluff, a liddol bit of angst, jock x cheerleader trope, college au, hopeless pining authors note. as you can see, the reason why i haven’t been publicly simping over ushijima for the past few weeks is because ive been doing it here in this fic. pretty self indulgent i should say, anyways ill keep this note short and further explain my thoughts in the end notes. enjoy!

There are certain moments in life that Ushijima sentiments among all others, either it be the smallest actions he can’t help but to remember or the ones that made him grow to be the person he is now, a common factor they all have revolving around you. No matter the circumstance, either it be from the simplicity or extravagance of actions, it’s a feeling he still struggles to get accustomed to. To him, loving you is placing his entire heart in your bare hands, trusting you that you won’t break it and waiting for the exact moment you’ll realize it’s a gift worth treasuring. 

He’s pretty sure he felt such emotions for you because he loved you platonically. After all, a person like you who wears her heart on her sleeve, willing to give it to anybody, it’s no doubt people will harbor a soft spot for you. Just like Ushijima, other people find comfort from your acts of kindness, something they no doubt can cause a smile in their day. 

But much to his dismay, Ushijima felt something more. It’s the carefree, lovely demeanor that keeps him up his toes and a particular feeling well up his chest. Those feelings ended up blooming faster than his mind could catch up to and now he’s terrified.

He’s terrified of the fact that he might be in love with you.

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Helloo, do you write for Max? I really love your writing. Your stories feel so intimate and warm. If you do write for max, can you write domesticmax. Like him and the reader are expecting and he admits that he is afraid of not being a good father. The baby arrives and he turns to be an amazing dad to his baby boy. Showing him off to other drivers and being look at my son he's amazing (can you tell that i just listened to dear theodosia)🥹 Thank you!

—blonde hair, lemonade tea dad!max verstappen x mom!female reader (established relationship) love, mackie... what up party people! so so sorry to tell you that max is in fact a girl dad in this fic. i came back to read carefully but it was too late. I am sorry. please forgive me. also let me know if you can spot the dear theodosia references because there is a couple warnings for: pregnancy and labor and birth and such. language and angst but only if you really really squint. christian horner. 4.4k words.

June 18th, 2023

It was poetic, almost. Disgustingly so, considering you were searching for anything but poetry in that chilly bathroom late Sunday afternoon. Max isn’t even around. He’s in Montreal, getting ready to race and blissfully unaware of your current reality–of his current reality. 

You were just trying to clean the apartment, had been digging through the depths of the hall closet when the box–along with the first aid kit you were attempting to reach–fell down onto your head. After cussing out the plastic tote and feeling the lines of your face to be sure they hadn’t been injured, you started to clean up the mess. The Clearblue box and all its royal blues and bright pinks glare at you. 

You took it for fun, planned on sending a picture of it to Max to give him a little scare before revealing the negative result. It was so far in the back of your mind, in fact, that after you left it on the bathroom counter, you resumed your cleaning. It wasn’t until hours later, when the idea of the joke didn’t feel so funny anymore, that you tossed the plastic test into the bin. 

As it clattered to the bottom of the now empty metal trash can, you realized that–just to be safe–you should check the results. 

It was then that the walls of the apartment sunk into the ground with your stomach, when the little life-defining stick defined your life. In the commercials for pregnancy tests, every woman always gets the result she was hoping for. You weren’t even hoping, and still, it managed to give you the wrong one. 

A thick blue plus sign stares back at you through the tiny indicator window and your life will literally never be the same as it was thirty seconds earlier. No matter what you do, no matter how it goes, you will always be pregnant at this moment. Forever and ever, you are pregnant on Father’s Day 2023, and you will live with that knowledge until you don’t live any longer. 

Your first thought is Max–well. Your third thought is Max. Your first thought is does plus mean it’s negative, and your second thought it what the fuck. Max is your third thought, and he’s the only one that really matters, you suppose. 

You should call him. No, no. You can’t tell him that you're pregnant a few hours before he gets into a race car. He’ll kill himself out there and your baby will grow up without a father. Your baby. You have the sudden urge to throw up every meal you’ve eaten in the last week all at once. To heave and heave until there is nothing left in your system and then heave a little bit more. 

June 20th, 2023

He comes home to you on Tuesday night. You’ve got eleven pregnancy tests sitting on the tank of the toilet in the master bath and a knot in your chest the size of North America. You’re waiting for him, sweaty armpits and thumping heartbeat as you pace from one end of the bedroom to the other, Find My Friends open on your phone and sat face up on the dresser. 

He calls out your name before he’s even shut the door behind him and you don’t know where you find the voice to call back to him, “in the bedroom.”

“You okay?” He asks, perhaps your voice is nowhere near as secretive as you’d originally thought. 

“No,” you say. “Can you come here?” 

He’s never been particularly heavy footed, but today the sound of his socked feet creaking down the long hall echoes throughout the entire apartment with every squeal of the floorboards below him. He knocks on the unlatched door with a single knuckle before pushing it open. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m pregnant,” you blurt. There’s nothing sweet about the delivery, but then again, there was nothing sweet about pulling a plastic stick out of the trash either. There’s nothing sweet about any of this. 

He stares at you blankly. “Okay.”

And, as if there was any other option, you feel the need to clarify the obvious for him. “It’s yours.”

“I… yeah,” he nods. You know he’s swallowing a no fucking shit, Sherlock, and you’re grateful for it.  “How… when did you find out?”

“Sunday.” You croak, sit on the end of the bed because you don’t know that you can stand here facing him like this for a moment longer. “I wanted to tell you in person, I guess.”

You can literally see his thoughts processing, his mind catching up to his reality. The silence of brainwork is deafening and you almost wish he would get upset. At least then, you’d have a clue as to his own introspection. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Fuck.”

It’s almost like he forgot you were even there, the way he repeats himself with so much more intention. “Fuck, are you okay?”

You offer up a strained laugh, your eyes fixed on a single cat hair at the corner of the area rug, sitting on your sweaty palms. “Are you?”

“I mean,” you see him run a hand through his hair in your peripheral. The image of four year old him flickers through your mind, all blonde and blushed and sweet. You wonder if yours will look like him. “You’re the one who’s…”

“Pregnant,” you affirm, because it’s the only word you’ve been able to think about for three days now. 

He nods, looks like he might throw up. The thought of it gurgles your insides. “Pregnant,” he whispers, almost entirely to himself. “You’re the one who’s pregnant.”

July 15th, 2023

It’s been three days since you last shit and today is your first ultrasound. You read on Google over breakfast that it is the size of a blueberry and you wonder if by the end of this you’ll ever be able to look at a fruit salad the same again. You and Max struggle to refer to the baby as anything but it, the blueberry-sized monster that has begun to wreak havoc on your body. 

You can’t feed the cats without dry-heaving, and Max handles it when he’s around but when he’s not… it isn’t like you can not feed them. You had to invest in a robotic litter box that self-cleans so you can avoid handling the kitty litter that is apparently one of many things that have become incredibly toxic to you in the past several weeks. 

Max drives to the appointment, and you’re starting to think he’s become a slower driver. You’re nauseous that he’s already changing. “Do you think we’ll hear its heartbeat?” You ponder aloud, twisting the cap of the Ginger Ale bottle in the cupholder. 

“I dunno,” he says, eyes fixed on the winding road. “Does it have one yet?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, muttering against the plastic lip of the bottle. 

There’s a goosebump inducing silence that falls over the two of you when, almost an hour after your conversation about the heartbeat, the lub-dubs are filling the room around you. Nice and strong, your tech had commented with a beaming smile on her face. “Holy shit,” Max breathes. 

“Maxie,” you squeaked out, reaching for his hand without looking away from the pattern on the bottom of the screen, the pattern of our baby’s heart. You feel suddenly like a child yourself, your hand enveloped in his. He kisses your temple hastily and everything is so fucking real. 

August 20th, 2023

Max spends summer break with his hands in your hair, acting as a makeshift hair tie while you’re hunched over the toilet bowl. You’re almost a third of the way there, you try to remind yourself at every opportunity, but particularly on the days where the only thing you can keep down is a large cherry slushie from the petrol station at the end of your block. 

The two of you leave for Zandvoort a week early, make a stop in Maaseik with the intent of making exactly one thing known. Sophie is going to be a grandmother again, and Vic is going to be an aunt. 

“Soph,” you started, Max’s mom making her way across the back patio deck, a bowl of something unidentifiable in her hand. You’re lounging beside Max, who just gave you the go-ahead nudge when Sophie appeared, and Victoria is sat on the wooden floor, a fork clinking against a ceramic plate of fruit on the coffee table. Tom chases the boys around the back grass and continues to warn them of dog poop piles. Life feels exactly like it should. “What do you think about coming to Monaco in March?” You ask. “Vic, you too.”

“March?” Sofie laughs. “Why so far?”

“We thought you might like to meet the baby,” Max says, and even though you aren’t looking at him, you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“The baby?” She questions, visibly confused. 

Victoria’s head shoots in your direction, wide eyes finding yours, squealing around a mouthful of fruit. “No!” You smile hard, biting down onto your bottom lip as you nod. “Oh my God!” She yelps, stumbling around the table to her feet, lunging on you with a giggly bear hug. 

“Oh my God, are you pregnant?” Sophie finally asks. You nod along with Max’s verbal confirmation, watch a suddenly teary-eyed Sophie envelop her baby in her arms. 

Her tears bring your own, when you and Max trade places, when Sophie has your cheeks cupped in her hands. She says your name so softly, whispers her kind words so they stay only for the two of you. “You are made for motherhood,” she tells you. “You already glow, darling.”

August 27th, 2023

He tells his father sometime that weekend when you aren’t around. It’s how you asked him to do it, had no interest in sharing that moment with Jos. The two of you have maintained a cordial relationship all these years, but if it was up to just you, Jos could find out when you show up with a six-month-old on your hip next year. He is important to Max, but he is no father to you. 

Max tells you that it goes well, that Jos told him to give you a hug and a kiss and his best wishes. You smile and kiss him and wish he could understand how much better he deserved, how much better he has earned. 

September 12, 2023

Max has been referring to the baby exclusively as Poopy for two weeks now. You’d told him one morning that your bump was quote-en-quote, fucking huge, and he’d replied that it just looked like you needed to have a shit. 

“Are you calling our baby poop?” You’d quipped, running your hand along your bare stomach in the full-length mirror. 

“No,” he replied around his toothbrush. “Poop-y, because it’s cute.”

He’s objectively right, your bump isn’t nearly as large as it feels. All of your clothes–even your shape hugging jeans–still fit and not even the sixteen-year-old triple zeroes on TikTok have commented about you gaining weight. 

In fact, you’ve kept it all under wraps pretty well, considering you’ve been at almost half the races this season. Max has become stupidly protective of you; he complains when you’re at home and there is nobody to feed the cats for you, and when you do show up, he doesn’t let you out of sight. 

He’s lucky that he’s always been touchy, or he would’ve given it away, the way his hand slots comfortably over your stomach every chance he gets. There’s nothing to feel, you would know, but he’s always there

On the way to your doctor’s appointment that afternoon, his hand is in its new favorite spot. He definitely drives slower now, there isn’t a question about it. You’ll find out the sex at today’s ultrasound, start speaking names into the world and hopefully something will stick before you’re signing Poopy Verstappen’s birth certificate. 

October 20th, 2023

Max read online that her ears are fully developed now, and that it’s more than important to talk to her as much as possible. He talks and talks to his baby girl for hours on end, sometimes to the point that you feel like you’re interrupting something between the two of them. 

Tonight, in a hotel room in Austin, Texas, you’re reading a gossip magazine. It’s the only thing you’ve been able to focus on for weeks now; any writing that requires your brain to think critically is a no-go. Max is propped up on a pillow halfway down the bed, talking to her about a whole lot of nothing. 

You haven’t been able to agree on a name yet. Your heart is set on Elle, on long blonde braids tied with green ribbons and his baby blues and sparkly pink jelly sandals. Max makes an argument for Nora, with pink cheeks and your nose and a belly laugh that people couldn’t help but smile at. Neither of you wants to budge, so Poopy continues her reign. 

He’s silent for some time, and if it weren’t for the aimless path his finger traces over your stomach, you’d think that he’d fallen asleep. “You know, Poops,” he starts again, and you smile softly. “You scare the hell out of me.” You don’t comment, but a hand finds his hair, your fingers running mindlessly through the blonde locks. “Your Mum is going to be perfect, but you’re getting the short end of the stick with me.” Another pause. You wonder if you should speak. 

You don’t. He isn’t talking to his girlfriend right now. 

“I don’t know how to be a dad, Poopy, but I know how much I love you.”

The tears burn in your eyes and blur the pages of the magazine. You want to tell him he’s a fool, that nobody will be a better dad than him. You want to scream–Max, Max, Max! Your Max. Her Max. You want to tell him that even though none of this was in the plan, there is not another person, not another soul in any other million universes and alternate lives that you would rather stray from the plan with. No one else could make a hard veer left into uncharted territory feel like a scenic drive around your family’s hometown. 

“I’m going to try harder than I’ve ever tried, though,” he continues. “And, just do you know, I have a pretty good record when it comes to the things I want, isn’t that right, Mummy?” He shifts his head on the pillow to look at you. You’re met with his smile, almost certainly expecting you to have not been paying attention, to meet him with an equally please smile and a curious hum. 

Instead, he’s faced with your red, teary eyes and your pursed smile. “Yeah,” you croak through a laugh. “Your daddy’s a winner, Poopy. The fucking best.”

Max’s hand moves from your stomach to reach up to your cheek. He wipes the single tear that breaks through the damn, eyes laced horribly with concern, thumb softly circling the skin in the wake of the salty tear. You frown, silently affirm your convictions to him with a quick I love you. 

I love you, he mouths back. So much.

You nod in agreement.

 Someday, you’re going to be able to tell your daughter without bursting into sobs that Dad doesn’t understand his worry is proof enough he’s the best father. For now, you’ll just have to settle for the hope that your thoughts can transfer to her the way her hunger transfers to you. 

October 21st, 2023

GP and Christian find out you’re pregnant in the hours between FP3 and Qualifying. It’s getting harder and harder to hide your bump, even with the incoming autumn weather. A sweatshirt that you’d bought just to conceal your stomach and Max’s RedBull team jacket and you’re still paranoid that everyone around you can tell. 

You’re mid conversation with the three of them in hospitality while eating lunch. You’re picking at your plate because Christian is eating a pasta salad of some kind. You can smell the cherry tomatoes and it makes you green. 

You keep repeating the same thing to yourself, a silent mantra while you completely ignore their conversation. You will not be sick. You will not be sick. You will not be sick. Max can tell something is bothering you, his hand finding the space between your body and the back of the chair, rubbing comforting paths along your spine. His leg bounces anxiously under the table. It’s truly a miracle you’ve kept it a fucking secret for this long. 

It’s not the nausea that gives you away, surprisingly. Nor is it the baby bump hidden by layers of fabric. What gives the pregnancy away is the baby herself. 

Max moves to collect the plates from the table and you thank whatever God might be watching over you that the cherry tomatoes are leaving your nose’s smell radius. It’s when he’s on his way back, weaving his way through the tables and chairs with ease, a glass of a familiar carbonated beverage in his hand, that you feel it–her–that you feel her. 

Max’s presence still gives you butterflies, but this. This is something different. This is a kick or a punch or a headbutt, this is your little girl getting comfortable, this is you feeling her getting comfortable. Max is sitting into the seat next to you with a sigh, setting the glass on the tabletop in front of you and you’re not even thinking about where you are—much less who your company is—when you grab his wrist and move his hand to your stomach. It’s just you and him and her. 

“What?” He asks, visibly worried at the grip you have on him.

“Feel,” you say, push his hand flat against the fabric. She moves again. “Do you feel that?”

He nods, “yeah.”

“That’s her,” you smile, eyes fixed on him, on his reaction. 

“That’s her?” He laughs, eyes darting between yours and his hand. “Shit.”

When the moment is broken, when she’s comfortable and ready to go back to sleeping or whatever she does in her infinite free time, the two of you are met with GP and Christian’s matching expressions. It’s a sight to behold, the two men and their raised brows and wide eyes and confused smile as they lean forward in their seats. 

“Uh, are you…?” Christian asks you quietly. 

You nod, “it’s a secret,” and both of them nod. 

Christian reaches across the table for you, gives your arm a weighted squeeze. “Congratulations, both of you,” he says, barely above a whisper. GP follows suit, in his own GP way. 

“Scary world where there are two of either of you,” he quips. “You guys will handle it, though.”

When they excuse themselves, they both give Max’s shoulder a heavy smack and a squeeze, their own shared, silent congratulations.

 “Well,” you say when it’s just the two of you left at the table, drawing shapes in the condensation on the glass of ginger ale. “I guess now we don’t have to find a way to tell them.”

November 17th, 2023

You’re MIA for Mexico and Brazil, and show up to the paddock in Vegas on Friday with Max, a form-fitted midi-dress and sandals for the desert heat. There’s no room for interpretation or guesses or assumptions, no gray area where they can feel entitled to commenting on your weight. It’s black and white, from the bump to the waddle to the placement of your hand when you walk. 

The World Champion is going to be a dad, hear the little lion roar. 

December 13th, 2023

Things are starting to feel very, very real. Like, you’re two and a half months from having a baby in your arms and she still doesn’t have a name, real. Nesting is in full force, and it feels like every single corner of the apartment is filled with baby toys and furniture and outfits and books. 

Max has been working in the nursery since the two of you got home from Abu Dhabi. He won’t let you anywhere near it, and makes you wear a mask when you even walk down the hall past the freshly painted bedroom. Each night you think he couldn’t become more protective over you, and each morning you’re surprised to find that somehow, he is. 

The paint is finally dry, the room fully aired out, and your guest room is no longer a guest room. The bikes and the extra rack of clothes and the spare sleeping space have all been replaced by a rocking chair and throw blankets and an insanely expensive crib, with the world’s tiniest socks and sweet little mittens because when you finally meet her she'll be helpless against even her own finger nails. 

Pictures fill the shelves and the walls and the table next to the rocking chair, of you and of Max and of you and Max. Of your friends and your family and all the people who will love your baby girl almost as much as the two of you do. 

It’s a bedroom fit for only the world’s finest. 

“You have the world’s best daddy,” you say, standing in the middle of the nursery with Max’s arm around your shoulder, your hand carefully cradling your stomach. “He outdid himself, Poops. Wait until you see this.”

He presses his lips against your temple. “We have to find her a name.”

“We have names,” you say, admiring the mobile hung over the crib, the different farm animals swaying in the breeze pouring in from the open window. 

Max laughs. You hope she has his laugh. You hope she has his everything, even his unrelenting competitiveness and his roll of the dice temperament and his sweet, sweet lisp. “We have to agree on one of the names.”

February 27th, 2024

Max Verstappen to Miss Pre-Season Testing. The headline is everywhere, Max’s phone blowing up with texts and calls and emails since Red Bull made the announcement some days prior. Some days, you say, because you’ve been in the hospital for almost three now and they’re beginning to blend together. 

Testing is the last thing on either of your minds, literally couldn’t be further from the forefront at this moment. 

“I think,” you whisper through gritted teeth, cut off by your own contraction. You squeeze his hand like your life depends on it, like he’d challenged you to break every last metacarpal. The hand that survives mutilation is brushing sweat stucken hair from your forehead. He learned to stop attempting to talk you through them hours ago. 

This is a whole new level of exhaustion, a different kind of pain. The look in your eyes will haunt his nightmares, he thinks. 

“I think we should name her Nora,” you finally find the space to speak. 

He laughs, but it’s not the laugh you hope she has. It’s nervous, anxious, scared fucking shitless. “We don’t need to worry about that right now,” he tells you.

“She doesn’t have a name, Max,” you say, voice laced with exhaustion and frustration and desperation. “She needs a name and Nora is a name.”

“Nora isn’t her name,” he insists, and you know he's right. She isn’t Nora. She isn’t Elle, either. She sure as fuck isn’t Poopy, that dumb fucking nickname. He’s never nicknaming anything, ever again. 

“Eleanor. Her name is Eleanor,” you grit, squeezing his hand and groaning through another contraction.

Max nods. “Eleanor,” he smiles. Eleanor. “She has your eyes and my nose and beautiful blonde hair and she’s perfect in all of the ways.”

February 28th, 2024. Sometime after 3:17 am.

Max is wrong about half of it. She has your nose and his soft blue eyes. Her hair is soft and barely more than fuzz and is white as white can be. She has ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes and a smile that at least two people would kill to keep on her itty bitty lips. 

She looks so small in his arms, like a real-life baby doll, like a sight that you could never tire of seeing. 

“Now, you’re not so scary,” he whispers to her, and everything about him is quiet: his voice, his breathing, his lips kissing her head and his smile to you. “I bet you can’t even fight. You’re just a little thing, Poopy.”

“Uh-uh,” you hum. “No more Poopy.”

He laughs, dead silent. It’s impressive, almost. “Don’t listen to her, Poops.” There is something so incredibly human about this moment, about seeing your person speak to the person you created together. She is you and she is him and you don’t know why this wasn’t always the plan. “Mum is as crazy as she is beautiful.”

September 1st, 2024

“It’s a shame,” Daniel speaks to Max, bouncing Eleanor on his hip, giddy smile on both of their faces. “Everytime I see her she looks more like you and less like her mother.”

“Ay, Daniel!” Charles laughs, squeezing Eleanor’s foot. She follows the voices with her big blue eyes.  “Be nice, mate,” now that he has her attention, he speaks only in a baby-voice. “Yes,” he says, “tell Uncle Daniel to be nice to Papa.”

There have been a lot of moments in the past six months that have left you in awe of your partner, but none strike you quite the way that watching him introduce your daughter to the grid does. He’s so in his element, his two world’s colliding as he gets to show off his girl. 

His girl, who, like Daniel teases, looks more and more like him every day. Pride is not what you feel watching them together, your guy and your world. It isn’t a strong enough word for what you’re faced with. You would die for her, you would kill for her. There is a certain solace in knowing he might be the only person in the world who feels exactly the same way. 

“This is our daughter,” he begins every introduction, even though he could just as easily say my daughter. No, he could never, not when he falls more in love with you everytime he looks at her, not when he picks up on every minuscule thing she does that reminds him of you. 

Never could it be his daughter. Not when you’ve created the best thing to ever come of him, when even here, in Monza and the sea of red and prancing horses and tifosi pride he knows that nobody on planet Earth has the supporters that he does. 

blog nav

writing

of royalty, pointe shoes, and country boys (MC)°

WIP, kita shinsuke x fem!reader SMAU

CRUSH culture (OS)*

2-3k words, shirabu kenjirou x fem! reader

how to tell you’re in love (OS)°%

WIP, sakusa kiyoomi x fem! reader

tags

#blues internal monologue —> thoughts n musings

#blues music rec otd —> daily music recs

#multifandom blue —> multifandom posts

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key

(OS) = oneshot

(MC) = multichapter

(HC) = headcannons

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happy black history month and friendly reminder that trump is trying to erase MLK jr. day

No Place He’d Rather Be

Pairing: Daycare Teachers!Sope 

Genre: The Fluffiest of Fluff| Domestic Vibes

Word Count: 5.3k

Prompt: Chocolate Covered Faces

Rating: G

Summary:  Yoongi gets called to help out at Jin’s daycare and the following is a small, fluffy oneshot of him realizing Hoseok’s wonderful at childcare and that he’s fallen head over heels for the man.

A/N: @apotatomashedbybts I’m so sorry it took me so long ; w ; this was changed and revised so many times but I hope the end result is still enjoyable. This was almost a Taekook easter bunny thing but i missed the window oops. Please enjoy and feedback is always welcome~

AO3 Link

Yoongi sighed as he nervously ran his hands down his pants leg. Today was his first day as a helper for a daycare owned by his close friend. He normally wasn’t much of a people person, and high-energy kids would surely take a lot out of him, but Jin, the owner and his friend, had all but begged him to help out for at least a month while he tried to find someone to fill in.

Worldwide Smiles was the product of all of Jin’s love and hard work, having invested all of his time and money to open a large daycare in Seoul that took in elementary school-aged kids. Jin had hired several close friends to take care of the kids with Namjoon and himself as the caretakers for the children from the fourth and fifth grade. Taehyung and Jimin for the first through third grades, while Jungkook and Hoseok had taken over the children in both pre-k and kindergarten.

Jungkook was going off to college, and since he had signed up for morning and afternoon classes, he wouldn’t be able to assist Hoseok anymore until he graduated.

That’s where Yoongi came in, as per Jin’s request. The older man had asked his long time friend to step in until he could find someone to permanently take up the position.

Yoongi stopped outside of the room with the sun painted on the door, lips pursed as he heard the chaos unfolding inside spilling out into the brightly colored hall. He inhaled deeply and twisted the door handle, taking a step inside.

Almost immediately, a hand shot out in front of his face and he flinched, letting out a startled scream.

Keep reading

intro: her m.list | knj

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 you enter namjoon’s life in the most unexpected of ways, but will you be able to stay, especially when he comes with three adorable but chaotic children, even more chaotic best friends and a bitch of an ex-wife? not to mention your own emotional baggage. 〞singe dad au.

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: single dad!namjoon x marine vet!reader

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: angst ⋆ fluff ⋆ smut

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 93k (current)

❥ 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑠: on-going

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: see each chapter 

⇥ find the playlist here

➾ Main Storyline: 

⊛ Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

⊛ Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

⊛ Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 

⊛ Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

⊛ Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 

➾ Minis:

❥ Mini #1 - in which Jimin wants his ‘sea doctor’ noona to save his friend’s goldfish

❥ Mini #2 - in which YN and Jungkook go on an ice cream date

❥ Mini #3 - in which YN is sick, and Namjoon and the boys take care of her

❥ Mini #4 - in which YN and Taehyung go to the stationery store and then paint together

❥ Mini #5 - in which YN is completely exhausted from work and Namjoon takes care of her

❥ Mini #6 - in which everyone celebrates Hoseok’s birthday

❥ Mini #7 - in which YN, Namjoon and the boys go to a petting zoo

❥ Mini #8 - in which YN and Namjoon go on a date

❥ Mini #9 - in which YN, Namjoon and the boys celebrate mother’s day

❥ Mini #10 - in which YN, Namjoon and the boys celebrate father’s day