summary: sometimes love can only be felt from afar.
warnings: angst, one-sided pining, minor invasion of privacy, voyeurism, smut, possessive Michael.
pairing: Michael Corleone x poc!reader
a/n: For @melis-writes for inspiring me to write for the Godfather, this is for you babes! <3 the reader is half-poc, half Silcian, this is a little ooc from canon because I’m a woman of color, please let me just live my Michael Corleone dreams in peace. The word g*psy is mentioned, I don’t condone the slur, it’s used from an actual quote from The Godfather.
do not repost my works.
The pitter patters of little feet dash.
Small giggles echo throughout the Tahoe home, accompanied by heavier steps following behind.
maya weug posting about the difficulties of not driving a lot this year and saying leaving ferrari made it even tougher, abbi pulling being dropped by alpine and now has to ask her fans to help fund her career, both quabsi sisters leaving the redbull family, tina hausmann no longer supported by AM, all of this feels like just a box every team needed to fill, to be "woke" as many call it now when infact its supposed to help woman get into formula one but the teams don't even take it seriously. we are watching time and time again how so many talents like maya, like abbi, like other young girls on the F1A grid be left because they have served their purpose.
Summary : Haytham Kenway publicly fraternizes with his subordinate inside of a stagecoach. Or, Haytham catches reader staring and sets her straight before a mission.
Characters : Haytham Kenway, Reader (Ambassador/Envoy), Charles Lee (mentioned), Thomas Hickey (mentioned)
Pairings : Haytham x F!Reader
Rated : E
Word Count : 2.5k
Warnings : Implied age gap, established relationship, no foreplay, mild BDSM dynamics, mild dub-con elements, teasing, public sex, mild exhibitionist elements, no aftercare, no beta we die like kanen'to:kon
Assassin's Creed Masterlist / Masterlist
A/N : holy fucking shit we are thawing my babes; here's a WIP i've been sitting on for a few months now, i can't wait to write more asscreed when ac4: resynced comes out !!! totally named this after a machines of loving grace song btw >:3
Smut Prompt-list "If we get caught, I'm blaming you." / "You look so good with my hand wrapped around your neck.'
Upon accepting this tour, she hadn't quite anticipated the Grand Master himself would be the one in her company. That sod Hickey would've been preferable, even that wet blanket Charles Lee would've sufficed -- Grand Master Kenway wasn't all bad company, but his presence was rather suffocating.
Which, wasn't a difficult admission when she'd been saddled with him in a cramped stage going across the Virginian Frontier. He wasn't a small man by any means, and hardly even average, the Grand Master damn-near as broad as he was tall -- a few inches past two meters, if she had to infer -- and his layers certainly managed to fill up the empty spaces beside him. Knees parted and hunched over on h8s elbow and the heel of his palm, he made no idle conversation as the stagecoach traipsed along the uneven road, shrieking wheels knocking the cabin to-and-fro with each stone and root they rolled over.
Grand Master Kenway didn't seem to pay her lack of personal space much mind as his own seemed to wander past the half-drawn curtains of the stage windows. Thighs pressed tightly together between his own, ankles crossed, and her back straight as a ramrod against the bulkhead. Even as the cabin made her sway, careful as to not bump into Master Kenway and rein him out of that dissociative, thoughtful look on his weathered face.
He was much older than herself, perhaps twice over, but he wasn't shabby to look at, either. His temples had grayed, a ripened age bleeding silver strands into his brows and the edges of his hairline, leaving permanent scores on his face -- entirely unmarked, save for a few scratches that she could see beneath the brim of his tricorn hat.
It was an impressive feat in itself, to have lived this long in the Order without too many scars to show for it. Or perhaps not. She knew better than to question Haytham's abilities, as lumbering and docile as he may appear at times. Lee's boisterous exaggerations regarding the man's ability kept her on-guard in the meantime, even if he was the Grand Master of the Order.
"Find something worth gawking at, ambassador?"
The smooth tenor of his voice brought her back from her idle wanderings with a dry cough to adjust.
"Nothing worth speaking aloud, Grand Master," the ambassador replied curtly, allowing herself to lean back into her shoulder blades as Haytham straightened his posture across from her with pursed lips. The stubble on his jaw glittered as he set his teeth and moved back into the undulating lantern-light as it rattled on the hook outside the coach door.
He only hummed, and swallowed loud enough for her to hear -- her eyes cut to the way the apple of Haytham's throat bobbed over his collar before finding his steel-gray eyes again. The minor theft of his profile wasn't something he was likely to miss.
"Is that so?"
As simple as the statement was, Haytham kept it ambiguous with his lackadaisical tone. Couple that with a quirked brow, and she might as well have been throwing her Grand Master a euphemism.
"I didn't intend it like that, sir," the Templar ambassador waved a gloved hand, brows pinched at the implication despite the mild warmth in her cheeks. It was cold enough in this landscape to mistaken the flush in her face and ears for a chill from outside.
"Pity," Haytham would say flatly.
Christ, he was impossible to read.
Another pregnant gap of silence yawned between the pair of them, all while they cast their eyes elsewhere, or occasionally fiddled with their adornments. The team nickered and chuffed outside with the chorus of their shoed hooves over dirt and dirts over the stage's abhorrent creaking. God-willing, they'd reach this bloody estate soon enough.
Instead of addressing him, she'd sooner swallow down her confusion with his statement, if only to save herself some exertion.
"You seem troubled," Haytham piped up for the pair of them. "Have I offended you, ambassador?"
Right away, she didn't trust his tone of voice. He didn't sound doteful or worried, he spoke like a poacher that had just recently laid a carefully hidden snare in tall seeded grass. At first, she'd pondered giving him a verbal response as she glanced between Haytham's gray eyes. They revealed no motive, but she knew better.
They've been through this dance before, she didn't want to believe that was why the Grand Master insisted upon joining her.
So she shook her head.
As the coach jerked to one side, she planted her feet flat once again to keep herself upright in the seat, bracing the best she could with her hands stiffly folded in her lap. Once the cabin rocked to the opposite side however, Haytham took his narrow opportunity to swipe her planted boots off the floor of the stage, a hand darting out to snatch the lapels of her frock coat toward himself as she fell forward.
Before the ambassador could part her mouth to gasp, let alone exclaim her surprise, Haytham clapped a gloved hand over her mouth as he wrangled her back into his chest, squeezing her legs between his knees before she could kick and writhe. Instantaneously, her heart rate spiked with adrenaline as her face flushed all the way around to her nape. Haytham locked her in place in his lap with his arms and legs, pressing the ambassador's head back against his shoulder as she jerked and fought to free herself, boot-heels slamming on the floor, fists pounding at Haytham's thighs and the seats.
"He won't hear you," Haytham growled abrasively against the shell of her ear, the twitching bulge of his cock pressing insistently against the buttons of his trousers. The Grand Master hisses caustically, "Did you really think I wouldn't notice you staring the whole trip?"
Despite the panic and abrupt blench of adrenaline, her loins stirred with a warmth nonetheless. It wouldn't be the first time she'd fraternized with the Grand Master, but she'd hoped the last time had been just that; The last time. A throaty moan pressed against the leather of Haytham's palm all-the-same.
"I don't like it when you avoid me," Haytham remarked, his vice on her legs loosening just slightly in order to fit his other ungloved hand between her thighs and cup her thrumming sex. "You've been avoiding me," he said again, driving his point like a stake into the earth, "Oh, but you've kept me on the hook from afar... always just staring."
The Templar ambassador's attempts to wriggle free were fruitless, and only served to make Haytham stiffer at the small of her back. The moment she gave in just the slightest, Haytham was cramming his hand further between her legs to find where the inseam of her trousers met the line of her sex, fitting his hand there while the other tested its grip around her jugular.
"Master Kenway, it is inappropriate to mingle this way," she wavered unconvincingly, throat bobbing against his hand as she gulped. "I don't wish to -- not here --"
Haytham sounded as if he'd snarled, kneading his gloved fingers almost painfully against her beating sex before replacing it between her navel and waistband, greedily delving to her already sopping wet cunt, feeling it slip against his glove.
A guttural groan pried itself from Haytham's throat as he growled, "You approached me first, young lady." His middle finger twirled around the swelling bud of her clitoris, breath humid on her neck, "You've no right to play coy and tease me when I had you bent over my lap at that filthy inn hardly a fortnight ago."
The mere mention of that evening had the Templar's envoy reeling with an adulterated moan, her hands now wrapped around Haytham's left forearm and elbow as he drew tight, tantalizing rings around her slick bud. That hadn't been their first time, either. She'd slipped into Haytham's room with her nightshift and naught a single innocent notion on her mind, Haytham had beheld that immediately, and though he reciprocated, he hadn't let her bold and foolish move go unpunished.
Haytham mused that, had he not, he'd be setting a poor example for the other Templars.
"I felt that, my dear," Kenway murmured as her clitoris pulsed against the pad of his finger, nosing behind her ear to mouth at her pulse. "You missed my fingers so much?"
Her cheeks burned with a new shame, eyes darting out to the window past the half-drawn curtains to watch the lantern swing in favor of answering him. Christ, she could feel herself clench when she'd remembered how Haytham had pummeled her pussy with his fingers from behind after spanking her ass raw. The Grand Master let out a fervid groan as he felt her sex pulse through her breeches, dragging his incisors over his ambassador's pulse with a guttural noise before he began to work on shucking her waistband down over her hips.
"If we get caught, I'm blaming you," Haytham drawled in a lecherous octave, eliciting a shiver from the younger lady as she writhed once more, this time to abet Haytham as opposed to hindering him.
"Oh, sod it. I don't care anymore, for Christ's sake!" The ambassador would seethe, already mourning the meager stimulation Haytham had proffered as he rolled her breeches past her ass and practically tore the buttons of his own open to access her. As of now, she could only hope the road would be enough to disguise what was happening just meters away from their coachman.
Haytham wasted no time shoving his cockhead past the ring of muscle and into the snug warmth of her sex, chafing her outer labia as he pressed insistently to the hilt. Already choking on the filling sensation, she fully yelped when the stagecoach buckled and jerked upwards, sending her further down onto Haytham's thick cock with a brash cry that he didn't bother to silence.
Part of him dared the coachman to mention it, she was bloody sure of it.
Instead of preserving the vestiges of her dignity, he kept his arm wrapped around her front, her throat fitting perfectly in his palm, allowing him to wring all of the weak, stunted noises from her straining throat as he planted his feet and slammed into his envoy's cunt with a slow, ferocious pace. His head would either cant backwards against the bulkhead or roll forward into the crook of her neck to gnaw and nip at her sinewy flesh to quiet himself. Haytham kept his rhythm in-tempo with the pace of the chuffing and snorting team at the front of the coach, thrusting up into her fluttering cunt relentlessly each time the carriage jerked, stealing its momentum to fuck his little mistress as thoroughly as he could manage fully-clothed in a moving vehicle.
Which was hardly a feat for a man of his caliber, Haytham was screwing her as easily as he might've in a bed. Never once did his pace falter or stammer, and he knew exactly where to angle himself as he assaulted the tender front wall of her sex. Using his index, Haytham steered her cock-dumb face to turn and lock eyes him as he kept that firm hold on her neck, "You look so good with my hand wrapped around your neck, darling... ohnn~ Hell, you're drooling, love."
Jaw slack and eyes pricking with tears as her knife, her lover, drove into her tender guts relentlessly, Haytham didn't let up. She only wound-up tighter and tighter, feeling her summit lash white-hot against the from of her navel almost painfully so as Haytham intentionally neglected her swollen, clitoris. He didn't care about what she wanted at this moment, his almost unimpressed, pitied expression emanated that before Haytham delved back into her, lapping the drool on her chin back into her gaping mouth with a low groan as he devoured her lethargic tongue, sending his tricorn hat tumbling off his head, shoulder, and to the floor beside his boot.
His grip hadn't shifted from her throat, and his other hand had began groping her breasts through the men's clothes she donned for the evening's task, finding her nipples past the top edge of her bodice to twist them unyieldingly between his fingers while he ground his hips up into her weeping cunt. Feeling her seize and squirm as she tried to relieve the dull pain of his fill, his gloved finger would return to her sex, worming past her slick folds to incessantly strum his digits across her oversensitive sex as he used the stagecoach's momentum to fuck deeper into his envoy if it were even possible. Any further and he might become a permanent fixture.
There was no air in her lungs to expend for him anymore, her noises choked and muted, and she could already feel her tears burning down her cheeks as they escaped her eyelids, chest burning as she struggled to reciprocate Haytham's voracious kisses, fisting whatever part of his trenchcoat she could reach -- the coat-tail crumpled beside him, the epaulet behind her head, around to grapple Haytham's ponytail at his nape.
"I can't~ I c-can't anymore --" Haytham's blade stammered into his panting mouth, connected by a web of saliva as he withdrew almost drunkenly, lapping her taste from his lips before his efforts became more precise. Haytham sweetly drew her earlobe past his teeth to hear her breathing elevate as his fingers danced across her engorged clitoris, rolling his hips up into that beloved spot without even a slight shift in his angle or pace.
"Say it for me," Haytham rumbled like an encroaching tempest, kissing the shell of her ear and temple chastely as if he hadn't been publicly fucking his subordinate shamelessly in a rented stage. "I'm not milking this snatch around me until you goddamn say it, girl."
"Hah~ Haytham --"
Haytham almost stopped entirely, and his little spy almost lurched up out of his arms to keep his left hand on her sex, stammering to remedy her mistake, of which she quickly blurted out, "Master Kenway! Master Kenw~ Master, please, I'm -- hhnnfg~!"
With a weak and depleted voice, the Templar Grand Master's envoy cried-put silently, mouth agape as she seized and stiffened in Haytham's lap, spine arced and chin tilted to the heavens as her devastating summit split her abdomen in half with a debilitating heat as the incantation 'Kenway, Kenway, Kenway, Kenway,' spilled forth from her torpid tongue. Haytham followed suit, spilling forth into his subordinate's inviting warmth with full-body shivers, and a ruinous, throaty growl into her shoulder as their exerted sexes palpitated in tandem. Their hearts probably followed suit.
It would be a spell before their reservations caught up to their shame, but in their humid, sex-ridden haze, the pair of them basked for as long as they could've afforded before rearranging themselves. Haytham assisted her in getting her trousers back up over her hips before sending her back to the opposite side of the stage. She only managed a brief glance at Haytham's sodden, half-flaccid cock before he was stuffing himself back into his breeches, feeling her mouth water considerably as her eyes raked over Haytham's broad, consuming visage.
"Get that face sorted out," Haytham sighed breathily as he gestured vaguely to the lingering eyes of his Order's ambassador. "Otherwise, I'll have the coachman pull over," he panted sharply, a coy smile playing in the Templar's eyes despite his stern reprimand, "and I'll have my fill of you in a less chivalrous manner against a cedar tree."
Footnotes : it feels like ages since i've posted but i was so determined to get something out this evening, even though it's currently uhhhh 7am the next day >:3 i hope you enjoyed if you made it this far, i plan on christening my latter two masterlists before i lock in on some of the star wars prompts i want to finish. anyway, love ya !! comments and feedback are encouraged and appreciated !! ♡♡♡
Thank you for this, I am so grateful that the AC fandom is still out there. I have some quality reads because of you. Thank you again for this - genuinely makes me excited to look for more to read. ❤️
cw: cheating, rough sex, sex (piv), anal, fingering, married!user, neglected!wife, spitting, choking, making out, flirting, spanking, degrading, petnames, links.
18+ MINORS DNI
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You looked at yourself in the mirror, fixing the little white lingerie you put on yourself, the matching thong riding up between your cheeks to frame your ass perfectly. You turned slowly, arching your back a little and already imagining his hands on you.
Rafe.
The handyman who’d started coming around weeks ago to “fix” things around the house… but ended up fixing your aching, neglected pussy instead.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⋆˚꩜｡ —
You kissed your husband to work this morning, making sure he got into his car and drove away before ringing his truck’s number on the telephone, as expected… he picked up.
“Cameron speaking.”
You smiled to yourself. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He immediately replied back, you could see the smirk in his voice. “Faucet need fixing again, baby?”
“Yeah…” You said seductively through the phone. God—you clenched your thighs together, his voice doesn’t fail to get you super wet.
“I’ll be there in twenty then.” He said before turning off the line. You turned back to the kitchen table where your twin daughters sat in their matching pink pajamas, little legs swinging as they munched on waffles and scribbled with crayons. “Do my babies want outside time? daddy bought you a big trampoline.” you smiled.
Both girls lit up immediately, nodding with excited little squeals. You moved quickly but gently, helping them slip on their little sneakers, packing a small basket with snacks, crayons, paper, and the bubble solution.
Once they ran outside and settled happily at the shaded trampoline in the backyard, you locked the door and hurried upstairs.
you locked the back door and hurried upstairs. You barely had time to freshen up and swap the robe for the white lace lingerie set you knew he loved.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, fixing the little white lingerie you put on yourself, the matching thong riding up between your cheeks to frame your ass perfectly. You turned slowly, arching your back a little and already imagining his hands on you.
You turned your head to the window when you heard his truck pulling into the driveway. You practically ran downstairs and opened the door.
“Hey.” You bit your lip, looking up at him while you wore your skimpy little lingerie. He didn’t even say hello. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut and lifted you up so your legs wrapped around him. Mouth crashing against yours in a rough kiss, tongue sliding deep as he carried you straight to the living room.
He dropped you onto the couch and climbing over you. “such a little slut for me, hm?” He shoved your silky lingerie up and leaned down to suck on one of your nipples while his hand pushed between your thighs.
You moaned into him, back arching. He moved your thong aside before two thick fingers plunged into your pussy without warning, curling hard as his thumb circled your clit, curling them up hard against that spongy spot inside you. His other hand pressed down firmly on your lower belly, pinning you in place.
“Rafe—fuck—the girls are right outside…”
“Yeah? then you better keep quiet, sweetheart.” he taunted, spitting on his fingers to make the glide even filthier. Embarrassingly fast. Your hips bucked, thighs trembling as you tried to close them, but Rafe forced them wider with his body. “mmh, fuck—rafey!” you moaned as your pussy clenched and then gushed hard around his fingers. Clear fluid sprayed out around his hand, soaking his wrist, your thighs, and the couch beneath you in pulsing waves.
“Fuuuck, that’s it,” Rafe groaned, eyes dark with lust as he kept fingering you through the orgasm, drawing out every last drop. He finally slowed his fingers, pulling them out with a wet pop and bringing them to your lips. You sucked them clean obediently.
He fumbled with his belt and yanked his cock out, you were already basically drooling at the sight of it. He was long, girthy and hard. He rubbed it agains your folds before slamming in deep in one thrust. A moan tore from your throat as he filled you completely, hips snapping forward.
His hands wrapped around your throat, squeezing just right as he railed you into the couch, thumb circling your tight little puckered hole. “Your pussy is mine, hm?”
You nodded before he suddenly pulled out, making you whine at the empty feeling. Before you could protest, Rafe dropped down behind you, sat on the couch with his back against it, and dragged you backward into his lap. He hooked his strong arms under your armpits, locking his hands together behind your head in a tight Full Nelson. You were completely trapped—back arched hard against his chest, He spat generously onto his cock and your hole, rubbing the head in circles to spread it. He pushed forward slowly but relentlessly, forcing the fat head past your tight ring. You moaned loudly, the stretch intense and burning as he sank deeper into your ass legs spread wide and dangling helplessly as he lowered you straight down onto his thick cock.
“Fuuuck, so tight,” Rafe groaned, voice strained with pleasure. Once he bottomed out, he started bouncing you on his cock again, using the Full Nelson hold to fuck your ass with deep, controlled thrusts. Your arms stayed trapped, legs spread obscenely as he used you. “fuck—rafe.” you babbled, completely overwhelmed.
“All you wanna do is take my cock.” he taunted, thrusting up into you. Every upward snap of his hips drove his thick cock into your ass, the filthy sensation making your head spin. Your pussy clenched and dripped onto his balls with every thrust, still sensitive from squirting earlier.
The position left you utterly immobilized as he railed your ass harder, the wet, dirty sounds getting louder. One of his hands shifted just enough to reach around and rub your clit roughly, pushing you toward the edge again.
You came hard with a broken cry, ass clenching tight around his cock as another smaller squirt leaked from your pussy onto the floor. The spasms pushed Rafe over the edge right after you. He buried himself to the hilt in your ass and unloaded, pumping thick ropes of cum deep inside you with a low, guttural moan.
He held you there in the Full Nelson for a long moment, cock twitching in your stretched hole, both of you panting.
“Fuck… good girl,” he finally murmured, pressing a messy kiss to your neck before slowly releasing the hold. Cum leaked from your used ass as he eased you forward onto your hands and knees. “now i see where the leaky faucet is.” he slapped your ass, cum dripping down your ass to your pussy.
A little something while you guys wait for chapter 3!
He crushes the rock between his teeth first, right in front of you, jaw flexing, then spits the damp, half-melted powder directly onto your open cunt. It lands in a messy, uneven smear across your clit and the soft inner folds, already starting to dissolve in the heat and slick that’s been dripping out of you since he ordered you onto your back and spread your thighs with both hands.
“Look at that,” he mutters, voice low and almost fond. “Pretty little hole all dressed up for me.”
He doesn’t use his tongue right away. He uses the flat of two fingers first—rubbing the wet powder in hard, working it into every crease, pushing some of it inside you with short, filthy thrusts. The burn hits almost immediately: sharp, chemical, electric. Your hips jerk. He just presses his palm down on your lower stomach and keeps going, smearing, scooping, forcing more of it deeper until your cunt is glossy and pink and faintly frosted with what’s left.
Only then does he lean in.
The first lick is slow and deliberate, broad and flat, from the bottom of your hole all the way up over your clit. He collects everything—coke, cum, the thin string of spit he left earlier—and swallows it like it’s nothing. Then he does it again, harder, tongue pointed this time, fucking into you with it, chasing every last grain that’s tried to hide inside. The sound is wet and obscene. He’s breathing through his nose like an animal.
When he finally seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, it’s not gentle. It’s greedy. He sucks like he’s trying to pull the powder back out of your bloodstream, tongue lashing, teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs jump. Two fingers slam back into you mid-suck, curling hard against that swollen spot that makes your vision white out, and he keeps sucking through the whole thing—loud, messy, spit running down his chin and onto the sheets.
You’re shaking. He’s not done.
He pulls off just long enough to spit a thick string of coke-laced saliva directly onto your clit, then smacks it lightly with two fingers so it splatters. The sting mixes with the chemical heat and the ache of how empty you suddenly feel. He watches your face the entire time, dark eyes half-lidded, mouth shiny.
“Again,” he says simply.
He doesn’t wait for permission. He just ducks back down, spreads you wider with both thumbs, and starts licking like he’s trying to clean you out completely—long, filthy strokes that drag from your hole to your clit and back, occasionally stopping to suck hard enough that the wet sound echoes. Every time you try to close your legs he forces them open again. Every time you moan too loud he bites the soft inside of your thigh hard enough to leave a mark, then goes right back to eating you like he’s starving.
By the time he finally lets you come, your cunt is swollen and twitching and still faintly tingling from the coke, and Rafe’s face is a mess—lips red, chin dripping, pupils blown. He doesn’t wipe it off. He just crawls up your body, presses his wet mouth to yours so you can taste yourself and the chemical burn, and murmurs against your lips.
“Next time I’m packing it in deeper. See how long you can keep it in while I fuck you.”
i like to think he... reaches back for your hand when you've fallen behind him whilst walking somewhere.
i like to think he... twists your hair around his finger without realizing. it's just something he does whenever you're cuddling or standing chest to chest with him.
i like to think he... always (eventually) walks on the outside of the pavement, nearest the road. you used to joke about how 'it's the right thing to do' with your girlfriend when he didn't understand why you'd always move to the inside early in the relationship but now he always does it without realizing.
i like to think he... mimics what you do. whether it's copying your laugh intentionally or subconsciously mirroring your actions a few seconds later. you lean your hip against the counter mid conversation? so does he.
i like to think he... definitely likes to have his hand on your thigh or your hands interlinked and he presses kisses to yours every so often while driving.
i like to think he... always gives you the window seat on the train because you love looking out the window.
i like to think he... rolls his eyes (lovingly) when you want to take a picture of him but gives in anyway, begrudgingly posing how you tell him to.
i like to think he... perks up and smiles when someone asks him about you or brings you up in a conversation.
When you joke with a Texas man who pays all the bills 🤠 1.6k
I asked chat to create a tiktok comment section for me with my input but he added names and pictures too I love him 🤣 This is my most recent obsession so here it is Travis Wheatley as a dad.
As always please go into this knowing that these stories are mostly built from my maladaptive daydreams, knowing that most points that aren't described in detail are indications I didn’t fascinate on it enough and others over explained because I hyper fixated on that certain point, but most importantly please know I do use AI as my unpaid employee to fix things and act as my co reader. Enjoy!
Mornings on the Wheatley ranch didn’t start.
They happened.
They hit the house like a weather system, boots on wood floors, the low rumble of trucks in the drive, the sound of horses shifting in their stalls like they had opinions about the day ahead. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee that had been reheated too many times and toast that had been abandoned halfway through buttering.
Travis Wheatley was late.
Not “running behind” late.
Late late.
He stood at the island pulling on his watch, jaw tight, shirt half tucked, hat sitting on the counter like an accusation.
“Where is my other boot,” he muttered.
She didn’t look up.
She was seated at the table with Levin tucked against her chest, two weeks old and warm and heavy in that newborn way that made everything else feel secondary. Noah sat sideways on her lap, one year old, sticky, determined, chewing on the corner of a board book like it had personally offended him.
“By the door,” She said calmly.
Travis turned. “No, that’s the left one.”
“That’s because you put the right one on first,” she replied.
He paused. Looked down.
Sure enough.
“…Son of a—” he stopped himself, glanced at the babies. “Never mind.”
She smiled to herself.
She had been awake since before sunrise. Levin had eaten twice, cried once, and stared at the ceiling fan like it owed him money. Noah had demanded a banana, rejected it, demanded toast, rejected that too, and then screamed until she let him hold the measuring spoons.
She had not brushed her hair.
She had, however, positioned her phone very carefully on the bookshelf by the entryway.
Facing the kitchen.
Travis, oblivious, finally shoved his boot on and reached for his keys.
“Where’s my keys.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Counter. Next to the sink.”
Travis grabbed them, already moving. “I’m gonna be late.”
She hummed. “You already are.”
He shot her a look. “I was on time before this house attacked me.”
“This house gave you children,” she replied.
“That’s different.”
Noah slapped the table with a spoon like punctuation.
She shifted him slightly, keeping Levin snug. Her voice stayed light, casual, dangerously so.
“Hey, Trav?”
“Mm.”
He reached for his hat, paused, checked the time again. Muttered something about men not respecting schedules.
She waited until he turned back toward her.
“Hey,” she said again.
“What.”
She tilted her head, expression perfectly innocent.
“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to afford the mortgage this month.”
Silence.
Not panic.
Not freezing.
Just… confusion.
Travis stopped mid step.
Slowly turned around.
“…What.”
She kept her tone even. “The mortgage.”
He stared at her like she’d just spoken French.
“You,” he said carefully, “are not supposed to be able to afford the mortgage.”
She blinked. “Why not.”
Travis squinted. “Because you don’t pay it.”
She shrugged. “Still.”
“Still what.”
She smiled faintly. “Still can’t afford it.”
Travis laughed once, sharp, disbelieving.
“Woman,” he said, pointing at her gently like he was correcting a child, “you don’t afford anything.”
She gasped. “Excuse you.”
“I mean that lovingly,” he clarified. “You have never once in your life paid a bill.”
She shifted Noah on her hip. “I’ve bought groceries.”
“With my card.”
“That still counts.”
“No it does not.”
She tried again. “I’ve ordered diapers.”
“With my money.”
“That’s joint money.”
“That’s my money we agreed was joint.”
She smiled wider.
Travis stared at her, hands on his hips now. “What are you on about.”
She shrugged again. “I’m just saying. Mortgage is expensive.”
He stared. “You don’t even know how much the mortgage is.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“…It’s… a lot.”
Travis barked a laugh. “Oh, that clears it right up.”
Noah chose that moment to throw his spoon.
It clattered across the floor.
Travis looked down at it, then back at her.
“Is this postpartum brain,” he asked gently, “or are you messin’ with me.”
She widened her eyes. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m hurt.”
Travis stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was trying to reason with a skittish animal.
“Baby,” he said slowly, “you do not pay the mortgage.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“So how,” he continued, “can you not afford somethin’ you do not pay.”
She smiled sweetly. “That’s what I’m saying.”
He exhaled through his nose, pinching it briefly.
“This is what happens,” he muttered, “when I leave you alone with the internet.”
She laughed. “Hey.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I leave for five minutes, you start talkin’ nonsense.”
She bounced Noah lightly. “I’m just thinking about our financial future.”
“Our financial future,” he repeated flatly, “is fine.”
“Well I’m stressed.”
“You are not stressed about the mortgage.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said, pointing. “Because every time the bank calls, you hand me the phone like it’s poisonous.”
“That’s delegation.”
“That’s avoidance.”
She laughed, biting her lip.
Travis stared at her for another second, then realisation dawned.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Oh, I see what this is.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What.”
“This is a joke.”
She shrugged.
“This is one of them internet things.”
She smiled.
Travis shook his head, disbelief curling into a grin despite himself.
“You’re jokin’.”
“I might be.”
He looked at the babies, then back at her. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”
She laughed fully now. “You should’ve seen your face.”
“My face,” he said, offended, “was tryin’ to understand how my wife suddenly learned what a mortgage is.”
She reached for his shirt, stopping him.
He leaned down instinctively.
She kissed him, soft, lingering, affectionate.
Travis sighed into it, irritation melting away.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmured.
“You married me.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I tolerate this nonsense.”
She grinned. “You love me.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “Unfortunately.”
She laughed, resting into him for a second.
Then she reached behind him, grabbed her phone, and stopped recording.
Travis noticed.
“…Were you filming.”
She nodded, unapologetic.
He groaned. “Lord help me.”
She laughed. “TikTok’s gonna love this.”
“They don’t get a vote.”
She smiled wider. “They already do.”
Travis kissed her one more time, deeper this time, then straightened, grabbed his hat, and headed for the door.
As he walked out, he muttered loudly enough for her to hear—
“Mortgage… she don’t even know where the bank is…”
She laughed, heart full, babies warm against her.
Perfect.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
The truck was barely out of the drive before she burst out laughing.
Not the polite kind.
The bend forward, shoulders shaking, trying not to wake the newborn kind.
She leaned her forehead against the doorframe, Noah still perched on her hip, Levin warm and tucked close, and replayed the last thirty seconds in her head, Travis’s face, that offended squint, the way he’d said you don’t even know where the bank is like it was a personal insult.
“Oh my God,” she whispered to herself. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”
Noah babbled happily, slapping her collarbone.
“Yes,” she told him. “Daddy is very dramatic.”
Levin shifted, tiny mouth opening in a sleepy stretch, and she rocked gently until he settled again.
She walked back into the kitchen, phone still warm in her hand, and replayed the video once.
Just once.
Travis stopping mid stride.
The pause.
The disbelief.
Woman, you don’t afford anything.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing again.
Perfect.
She saved it to drafts, because she wasn’t that reckless, and went about the rest of the morning. Bottles. Diapers. Noah demanding to wear Travis’s boots and then immediately falling over in them.
The house settled into its usual rhythm.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
Travis, meanwhile, drove halfway down the long gravel road before the absurdity of it really hit him.
“She can’t afford the mortgage,” he muttered to himself, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting his hat. “She don’t even know the due date.”
He shook his head, a smile tugging at his mouth no matter how much he tried to keep it stern.
“She don’t pay a bill,” he went on, like the empty cab needed convincing. “Her job is babies. She’s excellent at it. But bills? No.”
He snorted. “Mortgage.”
By the time he hit the main road, the irritation had fully turned into fond amusement.
That was her, though.
Sleep deprived, postpartum, holding two kids like she’d been born doing it, and still finding the energy to mess with him before breakfast.
“She’s lucky,” he said aloud, “I adore her.”
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
It wasn’t until lunchtime that everything went sideways.
Travis was leaning against the fence with two of his hands, talking business, when one of the younger guys, barely mid twenties, always on his phone, snorted suddenly.
“Sir,” the guy said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
Travis glanced over. “What.”
The guy hesitated. “Is… is your wife named MrsWheatleysRanch on Tiktok?”
Travis frowned. “Why.”
Another guy nearby coughed, shoulders shaking.
Travis straightened slowly. “Why.”
The first one turned the phone around.
Travis leaned in, squinted—
—and there he was.
On screen.
Hat off. Half tucked shirt. Confused as hell.
Woman, you don’t afford anything.
Travis stared.
Once.
Twice.
Then he exhaled, long and slow, and rubbed his face.
“She posted it,” he said flatly.
The guy nodded. “Ma’am’s got about half a million views already.”
(nsfw) Cowboy!Clark who calls you his ‘little honeysuckle’ as a sweet, filthy nickname because the taste of your pussy reminds him of the delicate honeysuckle flowers that used to grow along the fence back home on the farm.
Every spring he’d lean over that fence and spend long, lazy minutes sipping the tiny droplets of nectar from the blooms, savoring their light, sugary sweetness on his tongue. Now he spends those same long, lazy minutes between your thighs, burying his face in your soaked cunt and pulling that same sweet nectar from you with slow, hungry licks and deep, greedy sucks—groaning like he’s found something even better than the flowers ever gave him.
He whispers it low and rough while he’s got your legs draped over his broad shoulders, voice muffled against your dripping folds: “Fuck, little honeysuckle… you’re drippin’ so sweet for me tonight.”
He growls it against your clit when he’s teasing you right to the edge, flicking his tongue just how you like it: “C’mon, honeysuckle, give me more of that sugar. Let me drink you up.”
And he rasps it like a prayer when he finally sinks his thick cock into you, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling deep and steady: “That’s it, my little honeysuckle… soak my dick just like those pretty flowers soaked my tongue.”
He never lets you forget it—every time he eats your pussy, he’s chasing that same addictive, sun-warmed sweetness he remembers from home.
Heyy could I request something ? I got this idea from a video I saw where the guy said he didn’t want to wear the wedding ring because it felt uncomfortable. Maybe Max tells reader this and the reader gets upset and kinda does the same to provoke him ?
Thank you 🌷
A Matter of Principle
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Max says his wedding ring doesn’t matter in order to symbolise your love, but when yours disappears too Max learns that jealousy has a way of making symbols feel very real.
5.2k words / Masterlist
Max stopped wearing his wedding ring so casually that at first you thought he'd simply forgotten it.
You noticed it over breakfast, his left hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through something on his phone, his thumb moving absently across the screen. The pale band of skin around his finger was still there, a faint outline where the ring usually sat, but the gold itself was missing.
“Where’s your ring?” you asked.
He glanced down at his hand as though he hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.
“Upstairs I think.”
“You think?”
“On the bedside table.” Max took another drink, entirely unconcerned. “I took it off last night.”
You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.
This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.
It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.
“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.
Max looked at the ring, then at you.
“I didn’t forget.”
Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.
“Why not?”
Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.
“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.
“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”
“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”
You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”
“It never seemed to bother you before.”
“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
“I’m not taking it personally.”
“You are.”
“Well you never said anything.”
“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.
“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”
His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s very close.”
“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”
“It represents it.”
“To other people maybe.”
“To me.”
His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.
The fact was that he loved you.
The fact was that he came home to you.
The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.
He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.
“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”
Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.
“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”
“It should help. I love you.”
“I know.” you repeated
“Then trust that.”
You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.
It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.
Still, it hurt.
Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.
It had meant something then.
You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.
“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.
Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve hurt you.”
You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”
He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.
Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.
He simply did it without looking like one.
Other people noticed.
His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.
Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.
He didn’t like jewellery.
The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.
It did not mean anything.
You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.
The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.
Her smile changed.
She stepped closer.
You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.
Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.
“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.
The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”
Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.
In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re annoyed.”
“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”
“She knew I was married.”
“After you told her.”
Max frowned.
“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”
“And then I told her you were my wife.”
You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”
“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.
The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.
The following morning you removed your wedding ring.
You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.
For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.
He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.
“Who sent these?”
“The foundation.”
“For what?”
“The charity dinner next week.”
He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.
His entire body went still.
You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.
“Where’s your ring?”
The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.
“In my jewellery box.”
“Why?”
“It was uncomfortable.”
He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.
“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”
“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”
“No you aren’t.”
“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”
“Because you like wearing yours.”
“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”
“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”
You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”
Max stared at you in silence.
Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.
“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.
You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”
“It is personal.”
“Interesting.”
“Put it back on.”
You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”
“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”
“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”
Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.
“You’re my wife.”
“And you’re my husband.”
“I know.”
“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.
“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your eyebrows rose. “No?”
Max closed his eyes briefly.
He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.
You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.
“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The following days became a quiet war.
Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.
At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.
“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”
The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”
You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.
Max did not find any of it amusing.
Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.
It made him restless.
It also made him clingy.
His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.
You knew precisely what he was doing.
He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.
The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.
Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.
The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.
A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.
The speculation began almost immediately.
Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.
Max’s face hardened instantly.
“My marriage is fine,” he answered.
The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.
“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”
When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.
“They’re saying we separated.”
“I saw.”
“We could’ve released something.”
“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”
Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”
“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”
“They don’t know that.”
You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”
The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.
“I did tell them.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”
“Why do you care what they think?”
“I don’t care about them.”
“Then who?”
Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.
“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”
There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.
“You know I’m not.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”
“I know what I said.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”
“But you hate other people not knowing.”
Max didn’t answer.
“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”
“Obviously.”
The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.
“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”
“It’s not the same.”
Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”
“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”
Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.
“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”
“I never said you were shallow.”
“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”
Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.
“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”
He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.
“I need some air,” you murmured.
“It’s late.”
“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I’d like to go alone.”
Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.
You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.
The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.
You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.
“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”
The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.
“I’m married.”
His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.
“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”
“There isn’t.”
The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”
“We both are.”
“Does he know you’re down here alone?”
You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.
“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”
Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.
The man rose. “We were only talking.”
“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.
“Max,” you warned.
His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.
“She told you she was married.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Then leaving should be easy.”
The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.
“What were you thinking?”
Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”
“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”
“I told him I was married.”
“He didn’t care.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you angry about?”
“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”
His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.
For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.
“We’re not doing this here,” he said.
You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.
So you walked past him towards the lifts.
Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.
The lift ride was silent.
The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.
“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.
Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”
“You are.”
“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”
“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”
“I know.”
“You dismissed it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we still having this argument?”
Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.
“Because I was wrong.”
The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.
“You could have said that days ago.”
“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”
“And now?”
Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”
You waited.
“But I hate that they can’t see it.”
There it was, not quite an apology, but close.
You leaned back against the table. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Because you’re mine.”
You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.
“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”
You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You made me feel ridiculous.”
“I’m really sorry.”
He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”
“And?”
“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”
“A little.”
He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.
“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”
You gave him a flat look.
“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”
“Then we can find one that isn’t.”
He looked at you. “What?”
“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”
Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”
“A cereal box?”
“Perhaps not that.”
He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”
“That sounds fair.”
“But you have to put yours back on.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”
“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”
He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.
“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”
“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”
“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”
You smiled. “Growth.”
His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.
When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.
“Will you wear it tomorrow?”
“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.
“It’s here.”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I put it in the hotel safe.”
“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“And you brought it with us?”
His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”
The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.
“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”
“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”
“Will you wear yours?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”
Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”
You pretended to consider it.
“Then yes.”
The relief on his face was almost comical.
Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.
He held out his hand.
You took his ring first.
For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.
He picked up yours next.
“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.
“I know.”
“And you don’t need mine.”
“No.”
“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”
You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”
“None of them were innocent.” He growled.
“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.
His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.
The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.
pairings: joel miller x curly hair fem! reader
synopsis: you can’t stand your curly hair. joel loves it.
word count: 2.1k
warnings/content: fluff, age gap (early 20s, mid 40s), reader has curly hair, joel spoils you :)
pae speaks ~ as a girlie with curls that i have a love hate relationship with, i’m writing this for the other people who have the same experience <3
“Close your eyes.” You said as soon as you heard the door to the bedroom creak open on its rusty hinges.
Joel instantly paused in the doorway, watching as you ducked down, back hunched from where you sat on your vanity bench. “Why would I close my eyes?”
“Because you can’t see me like this.”
“And now just why can’t I see you like this? You seem clothed and even if you weren’t—”
“Close them!” You shouted, still trying to hide your head from him by keeping it tucked between your knees.
With a reluctant sigh, Joel closed his eyes, the lines around them drawing tight. He’d been with you long enough to have a relative idea of what this was about. It was one of two things—your makeup wasn’t finished or you were going through another hair war.
And by the way you flipped it over to hide it, he had a good feeling it was the latter.
Joel knew his girl better than he knew himself and he was very proud of that fact.
You sat up just a little bit, glancing over at him to see one of his big hands covering his eyes. For a moment you waited to see if he’d lift one of his fingers, nothing but Lana Del Rey’s voice occupying the air between you two in her high, breathy tone.
“Sweetheart, you’re awfully quiet.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Are you gonna peek?”
His lips twitched in a suppressed grin. “I will if ya take any longer.”
A huff escaped your glossy lips as you turned back to look in the vanity mirror. Reflecting back at you was your face—glassy with skin care, a frustrated furrow between your brows—and the unruly mass of your curls. They were still damp from your shower, cool against your lotioned skin. For the last ten minutes you’d been trying to twist them around your finger, working styling product through it, scrunching it with a towel then your hands.
But the more it dried, the more you grew frustrated.
While the curls were there, they were frizzy. They were more defined on top, more wavy underneath. No matter what you did, the strands just wouldn’t turn into ringlets like the top portion would.
You felt stuck.
“Fine,” you sighed, resting your elbows on the white painted wood and covering your face with your hands. “You can look.”
Joel let his hand drop, eyes opening as he found you still sitting at the vanity he built you. He’d done it from scratch—had measured out the proportions of each wood panel, cut it, sanded it, made sure each drawer was deep enough for all the makeup and skincare he bought you. The large oval mirror had a white rim, attached to the table part. It was his most beloved piece he’d ever done.
Mostly because it had brought you so much joy.
But now, you looked like you were seconds away from crying.
His wide gait brought him over to you until he was standing behind you, looking at both of your reflections in the mirror. He looked out of place in his flannel and worn jeans compared to the softness of your nightie. While sometimes it scared him, he didn’t want it any other way.
He tilted his head down so that he was staring at the top of your head.
“What’s wrong, sweet girl?” He asked lowly in his rough timbre as his hands landed on your shoulders.
You dramatically dropped your hands to your lap, eyeing him through the glass. “Everything.”
He raised his brows. “Everything, huh?”
“Yes!” You exclaimed, exasperated. “Look at my hair, Joel! It’s not cooperating and I keep trying to work with it like you’re supposed to but it’s working against me!”
Instead of laughing, Joel moved his gaze to your curls. To him, they looked beautiful. Some ringlets were more defined than others, some strands holding a loose curl instead. He was obsessed with your hair. He loved playing with it, pulling at a strand just to watch it spring back.
Every time this happened, it hurt him a little bit. There was nothing he hated more than listening to you talk bad about yourself.
He spotted the beige bottle on the vanity. “You try that new product?”
“Yes,” you huffed, knocking the bottle over like it personally wronged you. “It did nothing but make it crunchy. The lady said that wouldn’t happen.”
“Can I feel it?”
You slumped back against him, a pout forming on your lips. “I don’t even care anymore.”
Knowing you were frustrated and annoyed, he didn’t get mad at your tone. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen you get discouraged over your curl pattern. You’d spent a lot of money on trying to find the right products and every time, they failed you.
Carefully, he pressed a curl between his fingers. It wasn’t soft like he was expecting.
It was, well… crunchy.
Since being with you, he had been taught many things about your hair type. Things like you didn’t brush it unless wet, don’t fight the curls, don’t touch it while drying. He’d quickly learned that last one in one of the first few weeks of dating you with how you had slapped his hand away.
While Joel had never really cared about his own appearance, he respected that you cared about yours.
And if it was causing you this much trouble, he would do anything he could to help.
Your bottom lip began to tremble and your eyes got glassy with the beginnings of tears. Not because you were sad. You were upset. For as long as you could remember, crying because you were frustrated had always been a part of you.
You didn’t want to and it just made you even more upset but you couldn’t help it.
It made his heart squeeze tight.
“Hey,” he said gently, carefully turning you on the bench so you’d stop staring at your hair. His joints popped and cracked as he crouched down in front of you, bringing a soothing hand to your cheek.
You sniffled, picking at a loose lace thread on the hem of your nightie.
“Hate seein’ my girl so upset over this,” he said gently. Not accusingly, just factual. “But we’ll fix it, okay? We’ll find somethin’ that works even if we have to go through a million bottles to get there.”
You shook your head slightly. “You’ve already spent so much money on that. It’s not fair. It’s not even for you.”
Joel cupped your face, making you look at the unwavering certainty in his eyes. “None’a that talk. I’m gonna spend my money on you and you’re gonna let me.”
Before you could argue, he stood back up and kissed your forehead. “For tonight I’ll help ya braid it. Will that make ya feel a bit better?”
Surprisingly, his offer actually did make you feel better. He wasn’t the best at braiding hair even though he’d braided his daughter’s all the time when she was younger. But it was the effort that he put into it that made up for it.
You gave a nod, wiping at your tears.
He pressed another kiss on the crown of your head. “Okay. Good. We’ll find somethin’, baby, I promise.”
On the weekend, Joel took you to Ulta. You held his hand the entire time, thinking about how grateful you were to have a boyfriend who cared this much about your satisfaction with your hair.
Even though, deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about your hair. He was doing this because he cared about your happiness.
There was nothing he wouldn’t do to make sure his girl was happy.
After talking with an associate and finding what was hopefully the right product, you went back home to try it out.
Joel was sitting on the bed when you got out of the shower, steam curling from the bathroom behind you. His full undivided attention turned to you, leaning forward on his elbows.
Soft music played from your phone as you lathered your body in lotion and dressed in a light pink nightie.
He was in awe. You, all soft looking and adorable, standing in your shared bedroom was a sight that made Joel feel like he was in a dream. One of dainty feminine touches that smelled of vanilla and sweet perfume decorated with soft pinks, lace, and bows.
One he hoped he’d never wake from.
After you sat at the vanity and rubbed moisturizer into your face, you grabbed the dusty rose colored bottle—the new curl product.
With a tired sigh and no expectations, you began to apply it to the wet curls.
Joel watched intently, almost like he half expected them to just bounce into place. But he knew that no matter the outcome, he’d still find you and your stubborn curls the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.
When you were finished and reached for your lip moisturizer, he finally spoke.
“Well… did it work?”
You glanced over at him, coating your lips in a layer of gloss. His interest in this made your heart warm. He cared so much about you and it was obvious in every little thing he did to make sure you were loved and cared for.
It made you break out into a smile.
“It has to dry first,” you replied, standing up and going over to him.
Joel’s legs instinctively parted for you to stand between, his hands automatically finding your waist. You tilted your head down, his tipping up.
He gave a gentle squeeze. “Remember, if it doesn’t work—”
“We can always try another one,” you finished for him, brushing your fingers through his salt and pepper hair.
Some of the tension melted instantly from his shoulders at your soft touch. “I just hate seein’ you so sad. Your hair could be a tangled mess and I’d still think you’re gorgeous.”
Despite the absurdity of his words, you smiled anyway, heat rising to your cheeks. “Yeah, right. As if I’d ever let you see me like that.”
Joel just shook his head, pulling you into his lap so abruptly it made a yelp escape your mouth.
He nuzzled his face in your neck, careful to not touch your drying curls. “You’re a pain in my ass, baby girl.”
You laughed softly, holding the back of his head. “You love me.”
“Yeah. I really do.” He mumbled, pressing a soft kiss against your throat. “Got me wrapped ‘round your little finger, baby.”
The two of you settled in, deciding on one of Joel’s old western movies to watch while you waited for your hair to dry.
And once it did, you finally felt satisfied.
You stared in the mirror, gently touching your curls as they lay in pretty ringlets over your shoulders. They were still a little frizzy but the definition was definitely there now.
Joel instantly saw the sparkle in your eye. The way you finally seemed pleased with the result.
And in his book, he’d succeeded.
At the store, he’d drilled it into the associates head of exactly what you were looking for.
Your happiness always came before his and he’d spend thousands just to see a smile on those pretty lips of yours.
You practically jumped on top of him, making him groan before you started to attack his face in kisses. Joel barely had time to react, his hands flying to your hips to steady you.
“Thank you thank you thank you,” you repeated between kisses before sealing it with a real kiss on his lips.
Joel instantly sighed into your mouth, one hand moving to cradle your jaw. He kissed you for a long moment before pulling back.
His thumb swept over your cheek. “For what, pretty girl?”
“For being so patient with me. For spending all that money on products that failed,” you listed, running your eyes all over his weathered face.
“Don’t gotta thank me.” Joel leaned forward to press a kiss on your nose. “Anything to see you smile.”
His hand slid into your curls, careful not to disturb them. They were soft, incredibly pretty and delicate. You were so precious to him, every inch of you.
“They look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said in a lower tone—his most sincere one and usually reserved only for you.
Your stomach fluttered with butterflies and you smiled, unable to resist kissing him again. “Thank you, Joel. Really. I love you so much.”
The rarest of smiles made his lips curve up, brushing a curl out of your face. “I love you more, sweet girl.”
warnings ,, none; maybe some suggestive comments, established relationship, use of uma jammeh for the faceclaim & pics ( feel free to imagine whoever you want as reader!), as well as the use of pet name “babe” ♡
( mina talks! ) based off on this request! also i know “wag” is more commonly used for footballers and athletes but for the sake of this smau, we’re just gonna pretend it applies to youtubers as well! anyways, hope you like this one nonnie and everyone else reading this ♡
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