Mr Long Legs And Ms Pocket Size

Mr Long Legs and Ms Pocket Size

Summary: Toto loves that his girlfriend has to cling to him like a koala whenever she wants to kiss him. OR how Y/n has to constantly pull off the highest heels just to stand next to her “giant” boyfriend.

A/N: I will add a small smau right below so stay tuned u guys!

Toto and his girlfriend, who he lovingly calls his 'short stack,' wake up every day with a smile on their faces. They start their day with a kiss, normally she would have to hold onto him just to give him a peck on the lip. As they go about their morning routine, Toto can't help but grin as he watches her attempt to reach things on high shelves, which is often caused by him because he often teases her by placing things on the top shelf that are out of her reach, knowing she would have to call him for the help. 

“Damn you and your heights, who would put their everyday mugs on the highest place on the cupboard!”

“It’s not that high, Schatz. Look! It’s very much reachable. Well, compared to my size of course. Here you go.”

“New information, in case you don’t know… I am not your size”

“I’m pretty much aware of that, you are rather pocket-size, Liebe.”

His girlfriend playfully rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You know very well I'm not as tall as you, you oversized giant," she said with a hint of amusement. 

"But I guess being so towering has its downside. You're constantly losing things behind the cabinets and on top of the fridge. I suppose height isn't everything." Toto chuckled, wrapping his arm around her waist. 

"Height has its benefits, especially when it comes to pulling pranks on my short stack girl," he said while kissing her neck.

“Have you grown? Liebe.”

“Just for today, so pretty much yes.” Y/n grins then lifts her shoe high enough to reveal heels that make Toto’s jaw drop a little before he begins laughing hysterically. 

“Gotta pull off these bad bitches right here so that the press can take a picture with both of us without cutting your legs out of the frame.”

“There’s no way you’re gonna survive the whole day with those on.”

“Watch me! Toto.”

“Please! For the sake of me, just wear something flatter, like trainers, or your flats.”

“Nope.” She said with the sound pop “p”. 

Y/n is well aware that Toto enjoys the benefits of such a height gap, but it's enjoyable to tease him about being able to close the space on occasion.

"Shall we go?" Y/n asks making Toto sigh looking down at her feet again before nodding.

“If you ever feel any sort of discomfort please come to me right away. Yes? Liebe”

“Alright, Mr Long Legs”

Y/n confidently struts towards the door with Toto trailing behind her. As they step inside the paddock, they are immediately greeted by a swarm of press and fans clamouring to catch a glimpse of the famous couple. Toto watches in amazement as Y/n effortlessly strikes a series of poses, her confidence and poise perfectly fitting the larger-than-life persona she had adopted for the day. Despite her high heels, she didn't falter and instead embraced the spotlight with grace, leaving Toto in awe of her confidence and charisma. He also couldn't help but feel a little nervous at the idea of her wearing such high shoes all day, but his girlfriend was determined to make a statement. 

“Someone is a bit taller today?” Lewis said chuckling.

“Yes, Lewis. I’m even at your head level today. Still not quite George’s height but one step at a time, right?”

“Impressive… But I prefer the tiny boss to be tiny. Because those heels can break your toes or something.”

“It’s quite hurtful now but don’t you dare tell Toto. I’m trying to stay above a little longer today. Maybe till the race ends, then I will take it off.”

“Promise?”

“Swear on my toes, Lewis. Now get in the car. “

As Toto listened to Y/n's exchange with Lewis, he couldn't help but feel a pang of worry deep in his chest, with a little pang of jealousy as he heard Lewis make the comment about preferring her to be tiny, but he quickly pushed it aside. In his eyes, his girlfriend was perfect no matter her height. He knew how determined and fierce she could be, but the thought of her hurting herself in those towering shoes left him feeling uneasy. As Lewis walked away, Toto approached Y/n with a small frown, as he gently lifted her foot and carefully removed her heeled shoes, he couldn't help but notice the slight tension in her expression. He could tell she was disappointed that her attempt to be "taller" had come to an abrupt end. But he knew that her safety and well-being were his top priority, and he wasn't willing to risk her getting injured just for the sake of appearing taller. As he lowered her feet back to the ground, Toto looked up at her with a mixture of concern and affection "You know," he began, his tone tender, "you're perfect just the way you are, Liebe. Whether you're towering in those shoes or not." He gently ran a hand up her slender leg, his touch affectionate. "I don't care one bit about your height. I just want you to be safe and comfortable. That's all that matters to me."

Y/n couldn't help but soften at Toto's words, her disappointment at having to remove the heels fading in the warm glow of his affection. "I know," she replied, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She reached down to brush a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, her touch gentle. "I just wanted to stand a bit taller for a change, you know? But I understand where you're coming from." She gave him a grin. "Next time, perhaps I will try on some wedges platform?”

liked by mercedesamgf1, lewishamilton, georgerussell63 and others

y/n_user: Can someone tell him to give me some of his height?

mercedesamgf1 we will try tiny boss

y/n_user Thanks admin! I appreciate ur help lewishamilton Can u tell him to save some for me also! Much needed it y/n_user Go find ur own! This is mine already

user_1 Mrs Long Legs now

user_2 Those shoes could kill

user_3 Can u save some for Yuki too

y/n_user Noted user_4 Tell Yuki to take it from his bf gasly

lilymhe Pretty heels for ma wifey

y/n_user Stop it wifey they're killlinggg meee lilymhe U can always sit on my lap wifey mercedesamgf1 Please stop calling my missus your wifey - toto user_1 the boss has joined the chat mic drop

user_5 Not toto using the company acc

liked by mercedesamgf1, lewishamilton, georgerussell63 and others

y/n_user photo dump and date night with my Mr Long Legs and he calls me his Ms Pocket Size so screw the heels

user_2 She looks so good!

user_3 THEY ARE THE POWER COUPLE!!

user_1 Dear mr future husband pls take note

lilymhe love you beautiful!

user_6 ATE and left NO CRUMBS

lewishamilton gorgeous - toto wolff

lewishamilton i don’t have instagram - toto wolff

y/n_user pls give lewis his ig acc back old man!

user: nOt the sign off by toto himself 😭😭

mercedesamgf1: finest couple ever! 😮‍💨

user admin— you’re so real for this omg user admin knows what’s up user can toto fight? user can’t fight for a championship that’s for sure

mercedesamgf1 the boss says you’re gorgeous

user GIVE THIS PERSON A RAISE FOR THEIR HARD WORK mercedesamgf1 so true

Warnings: mentions of political marriages, strangers > friends > lovers, kissing near towards the end, mentat at mind, lover boy at heart

The ordeal is simple — at-least on paper. You and Paul are meant to be wed on the single promise of a shared goal between the two of your houses, which come down to one thing and one thing only: security. Wealth, power and standing do not surmount to what, in Leto’s words, the Emperor has planned for the futility of house Atreides. He knows, Thufir knows, everyone knows, that Arrakis wasn’t branded to be some sweetly wrapped gift that fell into his lap when the time came to reward the duke. No - matters of this sort were much too systematic, especially at a scale such as this. Something must be done, to solidify the house of Atreides upon the rain-swept expanse of Caladan. Something to bind the Atreides to their mother planet long enough, so there might not be strife or conflict that sharpens whatever blade is held against them. So, wed Paul you must.

Simple doesn’t translate so easily against the obscurity that is the real world.

In the real world, the two of you are mere strangers. The only thing that binds the two of you is the responsibility bourne from the insignias that you wear, that are soon to culminate as two adjoining houses; whilst his happen to be two thick lines of silver against his collar, yours take on a different shape, a strange alterity between curves and striking lines, and shot through with gold against the sleeve of your garments. There is it — the mere tellings of your differences, as pure as day. He wonders how the symbols will look like, meshed together and serving as one. He wonders how he will appear next to you - frail boy or able man?

Half of the time, you catch his eye simply because you are there, sitting duly next to your father and ascertaining the weight of such a marriage past paper, when all is said and done. Other times, you are a blurring fragment in the hallways, swathed in your house’s colours and too fleeting to get a hold on, sometimes even flanked by your house’s livery. Mere strangers, he reminds the indiscernible feeling in his chest.

-

“Where is your head at? Focus!” Gurney growls out, more harsh tempered than his usual mood, as he crouches and takes Paul’s fair strike for what it was - a clean swipe that was meant for his chest, which now deflects smoothly off of the older, more haggard man’s shield, and sets the room abuzz with vibrations. And so the smell of ozone worsens, Paul calculates in his head, as he shakes his head thoroughly and shifts his grip on his weapon. Gurney isn’t impressed — not in the way he usually is. Paul knows he must answer.

“This is me focusing,” Paul offers, and doesn’t grit his teeth or possess a sudden candour with his strikes because he respects Gurney. But he cannot help the mood that has blanched him - voids, how he wishes he could confess those words, verbatim, to the older man who currently encircles his passes like a seasoned ring-fighter. But the word ‘mood’ had gotten him in line last week, when Gurney had simply upped his antics with the mere mention of it, “I’m just out of breath.”

“No, you’re not.” Gurney smiles, clenching his palm around the ragged hilt of the Kindjal. He knows, Paul thinks bitterly.

“No, I’m not.” Paul confesses. He tests a low swoop of his dagger - ill-advised - and reigns his laugh in when it catches Gurney off his feet, his back staggering against the training table.

Let’s see how you like this, lad, Gurney formalises in his mind, as he presses his defence like a bull and keeps his attacks slow and pulsing through the air, blinding all of Paul’s spots, “Is it the marriage?”

Cornered for tactics, and focusing mostly on not getting cleaved to pieces during training, Paul scoffs, “Of course it’s the marriage.”

“You’re scared.”

At this, Paul counters metal with metal, bounding back when it rings against his ears, rings against the room, “I’m not scared. I’m prepared to fulfil my duty, even if I am given options,” a dull parry, which still creates momentum, and thus space, between the two men, “I’m only uneasy because I’ve never actually met her.”

“You have. Several times. Or have you been asleep throughout your father’s meetings?”

Paul stresses a firm strike against Gurney, which repels off of his own shield by how close the dagger strikes the space between them. But he’s good at catching himself. Gurney, unused to Paul’s strange and newly learnt manoeuvres, falls short. He tries to counter, but cannot, but he is most impressed for it.

“Concede.” Paul breathes, low and attempting a threatening veil, as Gurney’s back meets the floor. The old man grunts, before nodding deftly as Paul hauls him to his feet with one palm alone. They settle in different corners of the room, silence beseeching both of them suddenly - they’re not two men for silence, but in Gurney’s head, Paul is undergoing a strange part of his life. He wonders if Paul fears it in the night.

Paul interjects Gurney’s thoughts.

“Do you - have you… met her?” his voice is meek. Uncharacteristic. Gurney smirks.

“Once or twice, in the hallways.”

“And? How is she?”

Gurney laughs. The boy is eager today.

-

The next time I see her, I will speak, he promises.

Better said than done. With no similar companions his age - a course of action being the very result of his heritage, his mother reminds him - he truly doesn’t know how to properly seek you out. You are more shadow than friend, more idea than person, and the more he sees you, the more he forgets.

“Something on your mind?” Duncan nudges him with the edge of some Fremen equipment, that bothers him well enough to dredge out Paul’s concerns. Not that he needs to. It is written on his face.

“Yes,” Paul confesses, readjusting for comfort, “It’s about my marriage.”

“You speak as though you will marry tomorrow. It is not set it stone. Not yet.”

Paul scoffs, “I know that. I just haven’t met her yet. And I want to.”

Duncan, in the midst of polishing some hardware and solar devices, that smell quite faintly of hot sand and the sun, pauses to glance away from Paul’s face. When his gaze returns, it is almost teasing, a smirk ripping across his face, “You’re in luck today.”

“What?” Paul swivels and —

Oh. Oh.

You’re standing there. Hands clasped behind your back, yes. Stoic, assessing expression, yes. Clothed in rich colours of your house, as you always are in his passing vision - only this time, it is a green so deep that it comes across as black. Suddenly, realising that you have been found out by not only Duncan Idaho, but by the Duke’s son himself, you uncharacteristically let slip your own embarrassment through wide eyes.

“Oh. My apologies — I, uh, didn’t mean to intrude. I was just curious by the - er - gadgets.” you fumble for words at a rate that would be comical if not for the morbid embarrassment seizing you by the seconds. You’re shaking your head politely, smile strained and legs rooted where they are and ready to melt into the various corridors - back to your own duties, you assume. Away from company. Paul, however, stands linearly and full of purpose, face constructed of hard lines that all smile at you.

“No, please. Join us,” his voice is smooth - you’ve never heard him talk, even around those board room meetings - and his hand is extended to gesture within the space, “I insist.”

Duncan raises a brow in amusement and Paul wants to tamp his feet down with a neat blow. That pulls a chortle out of the man, which only further startles you. Paul invites you cordially to take a seat, where you fit awkwardly, like you were truly imposing. However, in a manner of minutes, that is all erased when Duncan lets the two of you weigh the objects in your hand – sand compactor, weapons, stinted devices that were far too aged to be still of use but gathering attention nonetheless. When Paul passes it to you, he feels your soft fingers pass underneath his own, where a warm feeling curdles as an afterthought.

“This—is a sand compactor?” you ask warily, tilting the device as though it would spring up on you and dissolve to bits. Duncan barks out a laugh.

“For sand compacting, yes.” he humours you. You, however, are too lost on the object, still swirling it around in your palms; eyes peeled downwards.

“Yes. I see.” you reply.

The two men dissolve into a fit of laughter. You look up, eyes helplessly trailing from one to the next. The day is easy.

-

Paul is thankful for the event, and so are you. It doesn’t solve all his problems, and his head is always probing with inquiries and worries, but he can count on the off chance of seeing you in the hallways. He can count on the fact that you will pause, meet his eyes and smile.

You’re walking the countless hallways of the estate - Caladan had so much water to offer, but no one on your native planet ever mentioned the striking architecture, the hollowed out walls and think-pieces painted across rooms. High domed ceilings, with absolutely nothing to offer but soft light. Some rooms contained scintillating glass, chairs of different shapes and mediums, tables too big for just a few affairs. Others were bound shut, but that didn’t discourage nor intimidate you, nor your entourage.

On one such day, you’re caught in your explorations by none other than the Atreides heir.

In actuality, it is you who catches him first, stood perfectly still at the end of the corridor and holding a terse expression. When he spots you, his shoulders relax and he manages to blink once, before his mouth opens underneath the realisation that you were really here.

“Hello.” his voice is strong, and carries well.

That was awkward. This is always awkward. He curses himself.

You smile, and it swipes at the ground beneath his feet, “I didn’t expect to see you here.

“This is my residence, yes?” more jest than anything else. You snort.

“I am aware. Your residence is quite beautiful. I like to wander,” you say, finding yourself fixing a meandering pace beside him, and he smiles softly when he realises that he, too, steps beside you at a similar speed, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Never.”

It is quick work after that – by pure coincidence, that you joke to Paul that is it is methodical instincts and ground-work as a mentat that he is able to summon himself almost anywhere you are present from that point onwards, you two bump into each other more and more in the corridors, and from there, it extends to the rather large library, the training space with Gurney skirting its edges, the ever-blossoming gardens even, which held more water than shrubbery in retrospect. Meetings pertaining to your marriage held an element of amusement now, as Paul actually tries to catch your eye this time, drumming his lithe and smooth fingers against the table in a way that could’ve passed off as a wandering of his mind as his father droned on about security measures and fuel caps, but you notice.

You hadn’t, not before, but you did now. To his pleasure, you even respond in a tiny flickering of fingers against the age-old meeting table, the vibrations a blur against his obvious contentment.

-

“You look glad.” Gurney comments and Paul realises how uninvolved his attention had been on the room before him. He quickly assesses it and whatever lays within it; table, check. Light source, check. Scratchy walls, check. Gurney’s ever-gracing height, check.

When had his habits, trained and chained to duty, begun to sweep towards you?

“Do I?” Paul asks, keeping his voice as still as he can manage. He had swiped at his face to rid the itch off his brow, but he unwittingly catches how warm he is. Not uncomfortable, no. But enough to leave a mark on his consciousness. It was like he was simply losing grip on his own composure when he thought of… something. It was still fleeting in his own mind.

He is too afraid to retrace his steps and find a familiar pair of eyes staring at him in the recesses of it.

Gurney slaps a hand on Paul’s shoulder, seemingly articulate with the latter’s feelings. Old man, Paul would curse out in jest, but he merely smiles. It is strained, and strange. Paul never puts an effort into his smiles, Gurney notes.

“Something is on your mind.” Gurney clicks his tongue.

Paul blinks, swallows, “Something is on my mind.”

“Out with it.”

Paul hesitates, which is strange, because in all his fights he is the first to stoke the flame. He isn’t vengeful – at-least, he doesn’t think he is – that’s why his strikes lack a hunger for blood and instead, settle for calculation. Briefness. No means to an end just yet. Or ever, he thinks.

But with you, it’s different. That’s what he spits out, what he lets Gurney work with. How you were a supposed intrusion into his life – something he had assumed would be awkward, like a stab wound that had scabbed over and began to weakly throb in pain, always to remind itself of its own compromise to work around demise. He thought you would be that; but upon meeting you, you were anything but that. You were curious and brilliant in your own way – similar to him, yet miles apart so that you were the form of a friend he had always wished for in his youth. You talked about your interests and spent double your time inquiring about his. When your hands brushed, his own grew clammy – that’s the strangest one of them all, Gurney – And something was blossoming – was it friendship? Was it trust? Was it fear?

What was this spattering and gooey mess slipping over the swell of his heart whenever you appeared? What was it?

He talks and talks and talks until Gurney squeezes his palm over Paul’s shoulder in a way an uncle would do to his nephew who he might want to reassure. Or a brother would to his youngest companion, as if to say: I see you. I hear what you say.

“Sounds to me like there’s an awful lot of trust between the two of you,” Gurney clicks his tongue again, only this time, Paul scoffs. Ah, there he is – there is the Paul Atreides I know, Gurney smiles, “And something else too.”

“What is it?” Paul asks. His eyes are curious, brows furrowed. Gurney holds down the laugh building in his chest, and the emboldened words in red: you’re falling in love with this friend of yours, boy, and instead, pats him on the shoulder.

“Piece of advice, if you’ll heed to anything I say,” Paul straightens with attention, “Let the truth flow. Do not stop it. Do not push it back. To live with the truth, you must learn its ways and be one with it.”

That night, Paul walks back to his room with the truth beneath his skin, and listens to his own heartbeat against his pillow. The rest of him warms with the realisation of, oh, oh, oh.

-

The next time you see Paul, you think you’d done something to offend him. Or bore him. Or something other.

It had become a pleasant habit; meeting him at the Caladan gardens, opting for a spot and sitting with your backs to the grass, counting the stars as you talked. Before, conversation had tipped forth whenever. Now, there was something in the air – tension. And it is him that brings it.

Paul avoids your eyes, settling instead for the vast colouring of grey across the hallway walls whenever he caught you in it. He had stopped sending you the familiar drumming of his fingertips across the meeting table, and instead always froze up when you met his gaze, whereby he turned red with anger – or was it anger? What was it?

He’d always be staring at your face, and you would wonder if there was a piece of parchment stuck to it, or if he was merely bored around you; most days, you allowed it. It stung, yes, but you had nothing ill to hold against him. But it accumulated, unbeknownst to you, and for him to miss your question yet again made you sigh in defeat – disappointment?

“You seem distracted,” you say, not bothering to shield the hurt in your words, though you couldn’t begin to understand why and when you had ever begun to crave expect the attention of his earthen-dusted eyes, “Am I boring you?”

He straightens up, his eyes wide, which in turn surprises you, “Bored? Seven hells, no. ‘Course not.”

“What did I just ask then?”

He cringes, “I promise I’m not bored. Just…”

His fingers flex in his lap, before curling into themselves, and his cheeks warm slightly. Is it happening now? Is he doing it now? The weather was right; a typical Caladan breeze, heavy with the wetting of the sky from the day, and now shrouded with clouds and a darkness that was impenetrable. Even as the two of you laid against the bare grass, no one outside could tell either of you apart from the ground itself. In the moonlight, you were almost one with it.

“Just?” you ask. You were curious of this now, “Just what?”

“Just!” he sucks in a harsh breath, his sharp face now boyishly soft and pliant in a way you hadn’t seen it before, “I… Just promise you won’t take offence to this.”

How ironic.

“I promise, Paul,” you smile, shoulder bumping against his as you glance at the side of his face, the way his nose shapes perfectly against the dampness of the Calandan wind, “Tell me.”

Be one with it. Be one with it. It is a mantra in his head.

“I realise that I have begun to grow a certain, uh, affection for you. Yes, I like you. I don’t know how it had begun. And I know it’s foolish of me to even act this way when we are set to marry. But I know, in my heart, that—“ a breath, as he nervously glances at your now surprised face and oh, he shuts his mouth. He opens it again, panicked, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—let me—”

“Paul.” you stop him, hands against his one arm that seems to be quivering ever so slightly – how much of it can he hold?

He waits. Bated breath.

You smile, shy and sweet and it whips against him in a way that the wind of his mother planet had never managed to. Here is my dear friend, he thinks, my dear friend who was but a stranger a long time ago and is set to marry me once talks have been concluded. Here is my friend who I have poured my stupid, ill heart to and who still looks at me with kindness.

“I like you too.”

He blinks. He looks at you when you speak and watches, really watches, how your mouth forms against the words. I like you too.

“As a companion? Or friend, at best? Is that what your ‘like’ refers to?” he asks, nervous in the face of your admission. It makes you smile, as he rambles slightly, and though his countenance is that of poise and grace, beneath he is a a boy of tender heart. Smiling, you grab the front of his thick coat lapel and watch his words die on his tongue as you place a feathery, warm and soft kiss against his mouth. It was so unbelievable, he thought he’d conjured it all up – that you weren’t here, timidly kissing him with a sheepish smile on your face, and the stars of his home glinting against your skin. He lets his finger brush your cheek, still dumb-struck.

“Again.” he whispers. His heart hammers at the sound of your breathy laugh, as you repeat the action, conviction in your palms as they lay upon his cheek, “Again, please.”

“Again?” you ask, voice soft and muted as he hoists you atop of his front, chest to chest, and gazing at him like he was everything. Within the action, your golden insignia brushes his own, silver ones so briefly that he can make out a shape bourne from the contact of either two, before they separate. You wanted him, as he wanted you. And soon, you would wed, and the image of gold upon silver won’t be so unclear anymore. Maybe, somewhere warmer and less unbelievable, he could let himself grow familiar with the reality of you. But for now, he could settle for this to be a mere dream he had grown to relish so very much. Even now, he could almost believe none of this to be real, just a trick of the mind. Maybe fatigue or delusion.

He says your name so quietly, a plea, and it has never sounded sweeter, “Please.”

And yet, the soft press of your mouth upon his convinces him that it is so much more.

-

i wanted to incorporate some inferences of paul’s character from the early novel (mentat, solitude in terms of companions, great fighter), as well as the film, whilst wanting to stray away from the destruction of house atreides after the gifting of arrakis, which would explain why the marriage needs to take place. sooo no one dies! HURRAH!!!!!!!!! enjoy :]

© 2023 qvrcll. Do not repost any of my works on any platform.

Just One More. | 2

Lewis Hamilton x BLACK!FEM!Reader

WARNINGS: short, no smut! (surprisingly), just fluffy shit for father’s day <44 😘

SUMMARY: Congratulations! You had the twins! time to deal with lewis and his new dad antics (again), but first, here’s two cute moments.

(1)

✮✮✮✮

“You happy now?”

You stare at your husband through tired and teary eyes, watching him cradle your daughter in his arms. You had just gone through twenty hours of labor, spending half of those hours at home and in pain and the other half in the hospital. When you got there you could barely walk, every contraction you felt striking your belly and back which made your knees weak. You swore hours earlier it was just braxton hicks, but your twins soon proved you wrong. Very, very wrong.

When you heard both their cries erupt in the room, you smiled in victory as you were finally done with the most crucial part.

“You did so good, love”

Lewis praised you with stray tears he could no longer hold in trailing down his cheeks, a sweet kiss being placed on your forehead before he did the same to the twins. The boy who was born first, with no surprise, looked exactly like Lewis. He was a spitting imagine of your other set of twins when they were babies, but that daughter of yours? All you. Exactly three minutes apart, when she arrived the nurses were starting to wonder if Lewis was in the room at all when she was conceived.

You looked at the two newborns, just as proud of your work as god himself was.

“You know, I was gonna lose it if she was a boy” You spoke while gently brushing your fingers through your son’s soft hair. Lewis chuckles and lays besides you in the hospital bed, his eyes switching attention from baby to baby, but never letting go of his babygirl. You smile and let him have his moment. You knew the hogging was mostly because of him being in shock that he actually got his girl, He’d be all over your son also come morning time.

“I’m in awe how much she looks like you. Usually they don’t look like anyone right away but wow…she’s all you, Y/N” Lewis expresses, a finger caressing her blushed cheek. You just nod in agreement, laughing at how her hair stuck up in the front like spikes while everything else laid down. Lewis was too busy gushing over both of them to point out how silly either of them looked.

✮✮✮✮

When you two took the babies home, it was hard to keep the twins away from them. Your boys were there peeking over your shoulder at every feeding, every burping, every changing, even every bath. They had started to ask when they’d be big enough to play with, a toy in both of their hands as they waited for your answer. Before you could speak, Lewis was already speaking, serving them with the facts while simultaneously burping the baby in his arms.

“They won’t be able to play with you two for a while. They’re too small right now and they don’t do much but sleep and eat”

Your boys pouted, one rolling his eyes back dramatically. “Well, that’s boring! They’re boring!” Silas, the older one huffed, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. Both you and Lewis cackled, but the boys found nothing funny. “Yes, babies are boring for the first few months”

“Why’d you go and get two more then?” Silas’s face scrunched as he asked and you tried helplessly not to laugh so loud at the poor baby that the infant in your arms would jump out of her sleep.

“Yeah, Lewis…Why did we ‘get’ two more?” Egging it on, you look back at your husband for another answer, your face riddled with amusement as he completely curves the question. “Any questions other than that? Saint?”

“So they can’t throw a ball? or catch it?” Saint inquired as he went back to the previous topic, sitting next to his brother. You shake your head ‘no’ and they both sigh.

“And they can’t talk either?” Silas asks, earning another laugh from you and Lewis. You two thought the constant questions would stop at three, but your boys were a curious pair. You’d only hope the next set were a bit more tame but with how the universe humbled you the last time...

“If you hear them talking before they hit nine months then please inform daddy so he can call Guinness world records”

✮✮✮✮

💌: again, superior trope, dad!lewis for the win, muah!💋

PAUL ATREIDES MASTERLIST

REGULUS BLACK MASTERLIST

WILLY WONKA MASTERLIST

max verstappen

he’s best friends with someone who plays rugby. she never thought max would like her due to her midsize and short height, but he gets to go to one of her games finally. they have secret crushes on each other

Lucky Charm

Max Verstappen x RugbyPlayer!Reader

a/n: there isn’t a official face claim for this reader these are just female rugby images I found on Pinterest! Thank you so much for your request! I absolutely loved this idea, i’m a rugby league girl through and through!!✨

Send your submissions<3

You always felt a bit out of place in the grand scheme of things. With your midsize frame and short height, you were far from the conventional idea of an athlete, especially in a sport like rugby. But here you were, defying expectations and proving your worth on the field. The Women's Rugby World Cup was the pinnacle of your career, and you were determined to give it your all.

Your best friend, Max Verstappen, had been with you through thick and thin. Despite his fame as a Formula 1 driver, he had always made time for you. Max was your rock, the one who believed in you when you doubted yourself. There had always been an undercurrent of something more between you two, a spark that neither of you had dared to acknowledge—until now.

The final match of the Women's Rugby World Cup had arrived, and the atmosphere was electric. The stadium buzzed with anticipation, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you. You tied your boots, adjusting your gear one last time, and took a deep breath. This was it.

Jamie, one of your teammates, walked over, a confident grin on her face. “Guess who’s here to watch you play today?”

“Let me guess, another scout?” You chuckled, trying to mask the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

“Close. Better, actually.” Jamie’s grin widened. “Max is here.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Max Verstappen, here to watch you play? It seemed surreal. Max had always supported you, but his busy schedule often kept him away from your games. The idea of him being in the stands for the most important game of your life filled you with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

“Why would Max be here? He told me he couldn't make it, he's meant to be preparing for his race.” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Jamie shrugged, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe he decided you were more important, you know you've always come first with him.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, and you quickly looked away, focusing on tying your laces. The idea that Max could be interested in you seemed far-fetched, but the thought was enough to send a thrill through your veins.

The game started with a roar from the crowd, and you pushed all thoughts of Max to the back of your mind. You needed to focus, to play your best. The first half was intense, with both teams fighting tooth and nail for dominance. You could feel the pressure mounting, but you thrived under it, making plays and tackles that had the crowd on their feet.

During a brief pause, you glanced towards the stands, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And there he was, Max, leaning forward, his eyes glued to the field. When your eyes met, he gave you a thumbs-up and a smile that made your heart race. You quickly looked away, your focus snapping back to the game, but the warmth from his smile lingered.

The second half was even tougher. The score was tied, and the tension was palpable. With seconds left on the clock, your team managed to push forward. The ball was passed to you, and you saw a gap in the defense. You sprinted, dodging defenders, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You crossed the try line, scoring the winning try just as the final whistle blew.

The stadium erupted in cheers. Your teammates mobbed you, their excitement infectious. Amidst the celebration, you caught sight of Max making his way down from the stands. Without thinking, you broke free from the crowd and ran towards him.

“Max!” you shouted, your voice barely audible over the noise.

He opened his arms, and you leaped into them, your momentum nearly knocking him over. He held you tightly, lifting you off the ground as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “You were incredible!” he shouted, his voice filled with pride and excitement.

“Thank you,” you said, breathless and exhilarated. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Max replied, his eyes shining with pride. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Before you could respond, Max grabbed your face, his hands warm and firm against your skin. He looked into your eyes, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Then, without another word, he pulled your face towards him and kissed you. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if both of you were testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, filled with all the emotions and unspoken words that had been building up between you for so long.

The cheers of your teammates, the noise of the crowd, all melted into the background as you lost yourself in the moment, not bothering who saw the two of you. When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, both of you breathless and smiling.

“I guess this means you’re my good luck charm now,” he murmured, making you laugh.

“I think you were mine.” you replied, feeling happier than you ever thought possible.

∙🅂🄻🄰🅅🄴 🄶🄸🅁🄻∙

𝘗𝘢𝘶𝘭 𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

When a Fremen warrior shows up to Paul’s throne room, with a slave. But his reaction was unexpected to say the least..

More here

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“My lord!” Paul heard a voice yell from the doors in front of him, he was sat on his throne. He rolled his eyes, wanting to be left alone.

“What” he snapped, wanting to be rid of this man already.

“I was passing by the temple, and I-I thought you might like a gift. In return, you award me some land” he said.

Paul’s curiosity got the better of him. “What do you offer me?” He asked in a dark tone.

The man said nothing as he roughly shoved you in front of him. You looked tired, your clothes were ripped, revealing your beautiful tanned skin. There were tears in your eyes, you felt sick.

Paul thought you looked beautiful, majestic even. “Bring her to me” He demanded.

The man grabbed your forearm roughly, dragging you at an unnecessary speed, before shoving you onto your knees, in front of Paul’s throne.

Paul admired you for a moment, placing his hand on your chin gently, your heart was pacing.

Paul stood up swiftly, making his way towards the man that offered you. Moving his smiling face away from your own, a glare coming onto his face looking at the man.

“My lord I would like this piece of land her-“ the man started.

Paul didn’t let him finish though, as he swiftly slit the man’s throat, blood flicking onto his face.

He walked back to you, putting his hands on either side of your waist helping you get up, you were shaking.

“Are you going to kill me” you cried shaking in his arms.

“No sweetheart. What is your name?” he said, cupping your cheek, then kissing your forehead.

“(Y/N) my lord.” Your shaking voice replied. Usually you would back away from a total stranger kissing your head. But there was something about him that made you feel safe and comfortable.

“Why are you not going to kill me?” You whispered with confusion written on your face.

“You shall be my wife” he told you, playing with some of your lose hair.

“W-What?” You asked, now completely confused. You found yourself leaning into his touch, unsure why.

“You will rule beside me, bear my children, and keep the bloodline strong” he said pulling you a little closer to him.

You nodded after a moment. It was completely out of fear, I mean he was the emperor and you were just a slave girl.

“Come” he said, taking your hand, and bringing you over to his throne. He sat down before pulling you onto his lap.

“Tell me, who has anyone ever treated you badly?” He said his finger tracing your cheek.

“Many, my owner died last week, I thought I was free. But then that man took me” You said, tears beginning to fall as you looked towards the man’s dead body.

Paul took your chin gently in his hands. “You must look at things that aren’t worth your view. You are to be empress.” He said looking into your eyes intensely.

After an hour or so of talking with Paul on the throne, you had eventually fallen asleep against his chest. Paul smiled down at you.

He stood, lifting you up bridal style and then walking into a room full of expensive clothes. Once placing you on a chair, you woke, and as soon as you did your eyes widened, looking at all the luxurious dresses around you.

“Wow, who owns these?” You asked looking at all the silks.

“You” Paul smirked.

“What?” You gasped smiling and running up to them happily.

Paul walked up to you as you admired the dresses and turned your head. He placed a gentle kiss onto your lips. You smiled. You actually smiled. Being a slave, smiling is not something you do often.

A man walked in, making the two of you break apart. The man looked at you with disgust, looking you up and down.

He spoke Fremen to Paul, you placed a hand on Paul’s arm making him smile at you. You knew a few languages similar to Fremen so you believed the man was asking who you were.

Paul knew that you wouldn’t know the language, most slaves were brought in from other countries.

“She needs dresses. One will be a wedding dress” Paul spoke in English.

“Who would marry such a slave” the man said laughing.

Paul visibly tensed, you looked at him as he walked over to the man. You now know why people spoke of him with fear. As soon as he reached the man he grabbed him by the throat.

“She’s is marrying me. If you 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 disrespect her again I will kill you, slowly and painfully.” He said before letting go and dragging you out of the room.

“You must never let anyone treat you like that, do you understand?” He said cupping your cheeks.

You swallowed thickly and nodded at him.

“Good. You rule over all these people, don’t ever forget it my love” he said kissing you again.

Fair to say you were treated not as a slave girl, but as a queen.