#Had to think about the last one for a while

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[faramirsonofgondor]

AU where some new villain made a truth serum formula and captures Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin. This villain somehow knows they’ve all been Robin at one point and decides to use the truth serum to try and drive a wedge between them all so that they stop working together. He starts with Robin, asking him who he thinks was the best Robin (Nightwing), who he thinks is the worst (Red Robin) and why he thinks that (Red Robin is annoying and arrogant). He does the same with Red Robin and Red Hood and gets varying answers that, while somewhat mean, are not enough to break the dynamic between them. Then he gets to Nightwing, who claims (truthfully) that he doesn’t have a favorite or least favorite Robin. The villain is displeased with this so they start to come up different questions to try and start an argument between the boys.

Eventually the villain asks “Which Robin is closest to the original? Closest to your Robin? Which one reminds you the most of yourself?”. Dick tries to fight the serum for a while, before finally biting out “The fourth one.” They all turn to look at Damian, and the villain scrunches up his brows, asking “Him? Really?” It was somewhat of a rhetorical question but Dick is forced to answer anyways. “No, not him. He’s the fifth Robin.” It takes a second before it clicks into place. “The girl Robin? Seriously?? I heard she didn’t even last a week!” Before anything else can be said, Batman busts into the villain’s lair and manages to take him down.

When they get back to the cave, the boys try to question Dick about it, slightly offended by the fact that he considered Stephanie’s Robin to be the most accurate to his. Dick, however, manages to evade them until the serum wears off. Dick himself isn’t quite sure how he can explain it to them. He’s not sure how to tell them that while he’s proud of all the work they’ve done as Robin, he never shared their reasoning for becoming Robin. He’s not sure how to point out the fact that the main reason they got into the vigilante game was for Bruce, not for themselves. He’s not sure how to explain that Robin might’ve been given to them for them to find light and happiness in, but that initially Robin was born from his darkness.

He’s not sure how to tell them that when Bruce told him about Steph, about Spoiler, about how she designed her own suit and went out to stop the man she has a vendetta against, he was so violently reminded of himself that he hung up immediately and didn’t speak to anyone for two days. He’s not sure how to tell them that when Bruce came calling a little while later, telling him about Steph being in-over her head, about him firing her, about her going off on her own only to end up tortured and dead, it was like staring in a mirror of his own relationship with Bruce, and that he’d punched Bruce so hard he’d nearly broken a finger. He’s not sure how to tell them about the quiet nights he stayed up talking with Steph, when Bruce was lost in time and it was just her, Damian, and Alfred around. He’s not sure how to tell them about how when Steph had told him about her relationship with Dean, he’d been reminded of his relationship with Liu so much he’d nearly thrown up. He’s not sure how to tell them that when Dick had opened up about his guilt about what happened in Blüd, Steph hadn’t given him any false placations, and talked about the guilt she felt over her role in the gang wars instead.

He’s not sure how to tell them that while all of them have felt like failures to Bruce, none of them had felt the harsh sting of Bruce ripping Robin away from them, the pain of Bruce telling them how incompetent and unworthy they were as Bruce fires them. He’s not sure how to tell them that while he may their older brother, he was only ever Bruce’s ward. Bruce never adopted him, and despite how far they’ve all come to work as a family, Dick still feels like an outsider sometimes. He knows Steph gets it. She feels like an outsider too.

[rawme-price]

more food agressive simon and reader :) how the others react lol.

gaz is the first to notice, namely because he and ghost hang around often. whenever you pass him in the halls, you give gaz a quick smile and press something into ghosts hand. ghost tucks it into his pocket before gaz can see, but hes curious.

so gaz one somewhat suspiciously lurks in the shadows and watches when you see ghost alone in the gym. you come up and pass him something again, instantly launching into a conversation. gaz cant hear it, but he +can+ see the granola bar that ghost unwraps and eats while u talk....okay. gaz has literally never seen ghost eat before, but whatever. he tucks the information away for later.

soap accidentally stumbles in on you two's lunch routine. he had ducked into a random room to avoid a particularly...interested newbie, and came face to face with ghost mid-bite, holding a small bento box in large scarred hands.

his feet were kicked up to the table, and you were in the middle of chatting about something. ghosts posture instantly changes when soaps eyes sweep over him. stiffens and closes off. you press ur lips into a thin line and give soap a look that very much communicates i want to fucking kill you.

price is the one who actually brings it up. him, soap, and gaz are all eating lunch in his office to enjoy some quiet for once. "has either of you noticed something off with ghost?" he asks bluntly, its important for the captain to know about any changes with his men. soap and gaz both share a look, before gaz shrugs and responds

"i think the new kids been feeding him, yknow the shy one?" he offers "swear to god everytime those two pass ghost gets passed a granola bar."

'"yeah," soap adds, taking a sip of his redbull "walked in on 'em sharing lunch last week. ghost seemed...relaxed. i dont think ive ever seen him kick his feet up before."

everyones silent for a moment, before price smiles to himself with a nod. "okay, good." he takes a bite of his own food. "im glad hes got someone looking out for him when we cant." and they leave it at that, silently wondering how you managed it.

(everyone say ty @disgustedwombat for reminding me to post this. angsty pt 3 is here)

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 35: October 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The first time Galahad was led out of his mother’s stall alone, Belle cried.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. The kind of tears that surprised even her — warm and sudden and absolutely uninvited.

She stood just outside the barn, arms folded over the top rail of the paddock fence, watching as the stablehand gently led Galahad toward the adjacent enclosure. The foal pranced a little, all long legs and indignation, ears flicking in every direction as he let out a confused, reedy whinny.

“God,” Belle whispered, swiping at her cheek. “This is awful.”

Behind her, Max paused with two bottles of water hand and the unmistakable look of a man deeply unsure how to proceed.

“…You okay?” he asked, cautiously.

Belle sniffled. “He’s so small.”

“He’s the size of a sofa.”

“Emotionally, Max.”

Max came to lean beside her, handing her the water. “They said it’s a gentle wean. He’s already eating hay. It’s time.”

“I know it’s time,” she said, taking a sip. “I’m not arguing with biology. I just—he’s confused. Look at him. He doesn’t know where his mum went.”

Max squinted. “He looks like he’s trying to eat his own lead rope.”

“That’s a trauma response.”

“Belle.”

She wiped at her face again. “It’s just… she was so gentle with him. Fleur nudged him whenever he got stuck. She waited for him. And now she’s just back in her stall like—like nothing’s changed.”

Fleur, from her stall, let out a soft exhale and proceeded to dunk her hay in her water bucket like a seasoned professional who had zero emotional attachment to this conversation.

Max followed Belle’s line of sight. “You think she’s heartbroken too?”

“I think she has to be.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you want me to go in there and ask her?”

Belle gave him a flat look. “You’re not funny.”

Max grinned and bumped his shoulder against hers. “A little funny.”

They stood in silence a while longer. Galahad, still pouting, eventually flopped himself dramatically into the sunniest patch of the paddock. Belle sniffled again.

“It’s stupid,” she muttered. “I know it’s normal. I know it’s healthy. I’m just—”

“Wired for attachment,” Max said gently. “And watching someone you love grow up is hard. Even if they’re a four-legged menace who tried to eat your ponytail last week.”

Belle gave a watery laugh.

Max wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “He’ll be okay.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I think part of me just keeps waiting to be sold too.”

Max froze for a second, then held her tighter. No teasing now. Just warmth.

“You won’t be,” he said. “Not ever.”

Belle leaned her head against him, watching as Galahad stretched out and blinked lazily at the sky.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But I’m still going to check on him every hour.”

Max pressed a kiss to her hair. “Of course you are.”

And when they turned to go back inside, Galahad lifted his head and let out the tiniest, most indignant whinny — like he knew.

Belle looked back, teary again.

Max sighed. “He’s manipulating you already.”

“I’m not even mad about it.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: just so you know your best friend cried today like. actual tears.

Emilie: omg what happened?? is she okay??

Max: she’s fine Galahad got weaned he got moved out of fleur’s stall apparently this is emotionally devastating

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 OH MY GOD

Emilie: she loves that horse he’s like her softest secret

Max: he tried to eat a fence she said he was “processing loss”

Emilie: he IS have you ever been weaned?? it’s betrayal with extra hay

Max: please stop i can’t have two of you

Emilie: don’t lie you’d die without us

Max: also she looked me dead in the eye and said “i think she has to be heartbroken too” about fleur the mare who was dunking hay in her water bucket like nothing happened

Emilie: she projects, max. let her project.

Max: i think she meant herself

Emilie: oh.

Emilie: okay. gentle reminder: your wife still has a lot of little versions of herself inside. some of them are scared. some of them remember what it felt like to be left behind.

Max: i know. i told her she’d never be sold.

Emilie: you did good she trusts you even the small versions of her

Max: she’s going to check on the horse every hour

Emilie: duh have you MET her

***

Max had been up before sunrise.

Not for training. Not for the simulator. 

No.

Max had woken early for one reason: to beat every Monaco tabac owner to the punch and buy every copy of the October issue of Architectural Digest that he could find.

By 7:43 a.m., he had five.

He wanted more, but the man behind the counter at the third shop had blinked at the stack in Max’s arms and said, “Monsieur Verstappen, surely… five is enough?” Max had mumbled something about resale value and legacy and fled.

By 8:15, he had also acquired croissants (three kinds), pain au chocolat, two fresh baguettes, and a little paper-wrapped wedge of Belle’s favorite cheese from the bakery that always sold out early.

He walked into the kitchen like he was presenting her with the spoils of a victory parade.

Belle, still in her robe, blinked sleepily over her mug of tea. “What’s all this?”

Max placed the magazines on the counter like precious artifacts. "You're in Architectural Digest, schatje. That’s not a normal Tuesday."

Belle stared. “You bought five copies?”

Max shrugged, unrepentant. “One for us. One for the baby’s memory box. One for my mother. One for the factory. One just to frame. I would’ve bought more but they started asking questions. So I just ordered them online.”

She laughed—soft and stunned and already a little emotional. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m so proud.”

And then, gentler: “You don’t just make houses beautiful. You make them live.”

Belle bit her lip and looked down, suddenly shy. “You read the article?”

Max smiled, already pulling out the jam. “Twice.”

And just like that, the kitchen felt a little fuller—with joy, with pride, with quiet, croissant-scented love.

***

ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST | October 2024 Edition

A Villa That Breathes: Inside the Thoughtful Transformation of Daniel Moreau and Jules Girault’s Provençal Refuge By Laurent Brousset | Photography by Sylvie Hohmann

Nestled on a winding hillside just beyond the edge of Monaco’s old town is a villa that feels like a held breath — slow, serene, and completely alive.

From the outside, the property gives little away: stone shutters, terracotta roof tiles, a fig tree bowing gently toward the sun. But inside, a story unfolds — of time, of tenderness, of architecture that doesn’t erase history, but cradles it.

And at the heart of that story is Belle Verstappen, interior architect and founder of Studio_B.

The Soul of a House

“When we bought it, the bones were beautiful — but tired,” says Jules Girault, who owns the home with his husband, creative executive Daniel Moreau. “We didn’t want to gut it. We wanted someone who could see what it had been and help us understand what it could be.”

Enter Belle Verstappen.

Known for her ability to design with emotional resonance rather than trends, Verstappen took on the project as her first full commission under her own name.

“I walked through the house once and knew,” she says. “This wasn’t a place that needed reinventing. It needed remembering.”

Quiet Luxury, Lived In

From the original tiled floors to the weathered beams overhead, every decision in the villa feels like it came from conversation — not just between client and designer, but between designer and space.

“I don’t like interrupting a house’s rhythm,” Verstappen explains. “I try to listen first. The textures, the light, the way a door creaks when it opens — it tells you what the house wants.”

That listening resulted in a home that whispers instead of shouts.

The plaster walls, finished in mineral-washed hues, shift color with the light. Custom shelves in the living room curve around the restored fireplace, filled with books and hand-thrown ceramics sourced from local artisans. The kitchen retains its original footprint but now hums with intentional design: a deep farmhouse sink set into hand-crafted cabinetry, limewashed walls, antique fixtures with softened patina.

Daniel, ever the aesthete, calls it “a masterclass in restraint.”

“There’s a version of this house that could’ve ended up looking like every other ‘minimalist Mediterranean’ villa,” he says. “But Belle didn’t impose a vision. She revealed one.”

The Courtyard, Reimagined

One of the home’s most striking spaces is the internal courtyard — once neglected, now transformed into what Jules calls “the soft heart of the house.”

“It’s quiet here,” he says. “Lavender, jasmine, the fig tree… it smells like memory.”

Verstappen kept the original stonework and introduced subtle landscaping: rosemary, thyme, and climbing vines that will age as gracefully as the walls themselves.

“It wasn’t about making it new,” she says. “It was about letting it grow.”

A Designer Coming Into Her Own

The villa marks a turning point for Verstappen — not just professionally, but personally.

“This was the first project I signed under my name,” she shares. “No firm. No studio initials. Just me.”

That transition wasn’t without weight.

“There’s a vulnerability in that,” she admits. “But this house gave me the courage. Jules and Daniel gave me the trust. And I think that’s what made the work stronger. It was personal — not just for them, but for me too.”

Designing for Emotion, Not Aesthetic

Verstappen’s work has been described as “emotional architecture” — a term she’s hesitant to claim, but doesn’t reject.

“I think we forget sometimes that homes aren’t just spaces. They hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays,” she says. “My job is to make room for all of that — not just to make it pretty.”

Jules echoes the sentiment. “She didn’t just give us a home. She gave us a future. And somehow, it still feels like it’s always been ours.”

What’s Next?

With her studio growing and a child on the way (“I’ve learned more about fabric durability in the last six months than I thought possible,” she jokes), Verstappen’s approach remains the same: quiet, collaborative, deeply rooted in the human experience.

“Beauty is easy,” she says. “But meaning? That takes work. And it’s the kind of work I love.”

As she walks through the finished villa one last time — running her hand along the smooth curve of an old beam, checking the shadows that dance across a plastered wall — it’s clear:

This isn’t just a space someone lives in.

It’s a space that lives with them.

Photography by Sylvie Hohmann | Styling by Eloise Dervaux To see more from Belle Verstappen and Studio_B, follow @/belleverstappen and  @/studio_b on Instagram or visit studiobdesign.com

***

Instagram Stories: @/maxverstappen1

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1wivesunite I just read the Belle Verstappen AD piece and now I want her to design my house, my life, my nervous system.

@/archiluxe “Not reinventing, but remembering” — I would tattoo this quote from Belle Verstappen’s AD profile if I wasn’t afraid of commitment.

@/softmaxv Belle Verstappen being like “I listen to how a door creaks” and then making a whole home feel like a hug??? she’s not an interior designer she’s a poet

@/formulawags this woman said “homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays” and I have not known peace since. (also Max is 100% her Tuesday.)

@/tinygp can we talk about how Max Verstappen’s WIFE is out here dropping AD-level wisdom while pregnant and making rustic beams look emotionally resonant??? how is this fair

@/verstappenupdates AD: “This was the first project I signed under my name.” Me, sobbing: it’s HER name. HER name. HER studio. HER work. HER life. she really said ✨liberation✨

@/archdigestgirl i am OBSESSED with belle verstappen’s design philosophy like… “it didn’t need reinventing, it needed remembering”??? i’m crying over plaster walls. over limewash. over a giraffe lamp. help.

@/monacoliving when daniel moreau said the house “smells like memory”??? belle made a COURTYARD smell like a backstory. i want to live in her mind.

@/softf1defender Max: aggressive overtakes at 300km/h Belle: emotional architecture that holds grief and joy them: married me: sobbing

@/emotionalwallpaper if belle ever opens a retreat i will walk there barefoot and sleep on a reclaimed linen pouf

@/formulaicon the fact that she signs her projects Belle Verstappen and not Isabelle Leclerc… that’s not just a name. that’s a choice. and it’s saying something loud.

@/thegridwhispers it’s Belle Verstappen in Architectural Digest, not Isabelle Leclerc, and somewhere in Monaco a family group chat is vibrating with unspoken tension

@/gridgossipqueen MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST POSTED: “She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses.” SIR??????? ARE YOU A WORLD CHAMPION OR A POET????

@/chaoticgridwives the way he tagged her work account AND her personal one the way he said “very proud of my wife” like he’s been waiting his whole life to write that the way he wrote “she never misses” and MEANT IT 😭😭😭

@/tiregirlie MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED HIS WIFE’S AD FEATURE AND SAID: "She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses." I AM CRYING IN IKEA

@/helmetedsoftie he said: 🏁 i win races 📐 she builds homes 🍼 we made a baby 👑 and you will deal with it

@/fernvillainera “she sees space the way I see corners” that’s not a compliment that’s a wedding vow

@/formulafloof max verstappen could’ve said “nice job babe” and kept it moving instead he gave us POETRY

@/artdigesttears she didn’t even mention the Leclercs once in the article. not even in the baby joke. not once. it’s all Belle, all Studio_B. she’s not hiding. she’s just her.

@/emiliestandclub "the first project I signed under my name." and the name she used was Belle Verstappen. we’ve left the era of being overlooked. she’s not asking for a seat at the table. she’s designing the table. and the courtyard. and the backsplash.

@/maxxxmode1 Max calling her Belle wasn’t just a pet name. it became her name. and now it’s on the cover of Architectural Digest. tell me that’s not poetry.

@/sogoodithurts her name isn’t “Isabelle Leclerc” in the byline it’s not “Studio Leclerc” it’s not “Leclerc Interiors” it’s Studio_B. Belle Verstappen. she’s no one’s shadow. she is the sun.

@/jardinarchitecture the way Architectural Digest didn’t even feel the need to footnote “née Leclerc”… it’s almost like her work introduced her, not her family. wild.

@/kartingwife calling it now: the Verstappen baby grows up and thinks his mom is more famous than his dad. and honestly? fair.

@/emotionalbabywatch i don’t care what they name the baby. i care that it’s going to be loved so deeply it won’t ever question if it’s enough. and honestly? that’s the real win.

@/turn1drama this child is going to be raised in a home that smells like jasmine, has hand-carved drawer pulls, and hears I love you more times in a day than Jos Verstappen said it in a decade evolution

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Okay. Okay. I made it to the second paragraph before crying. Not sniffling. Crying. Open-mouthed, full-body, you-did-it-you-beautiful-genius crying.

Emilie: You were always going to end up in AD. But Belle. You signed this one under your own name. You built something. You told a story. You made a house remember itself and made the whole world notice. I’m so proud I can’t even breathe.

Emilie: We are framing this article. We are putting it in the baby’s memory box. We are not normal about this. You hear me?

Belle: I’m crying now. Like. Properly.

Belle: I didn’t think anyone would actually read it, let alone feel it. I kept thinking… maybe it was too soft. Too quiet. Too much like me.

Belle: But you saw it. You always do.

Belle: Thank you for never letting me shrink. For every time you reminded me that being quiet wasn’t the same as being small. That I didn’t have to be loud to take up space.

Belle: I love you.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: UM. HELLO. EXCUSE ME.

Victoria: You absolute sneak. You’re just out here being the interior design oracle of Monaco and didn’t bother to mention that you’re in ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??? Do you know what I was doing this morning?? Folding laundry. In sweatpants. Meanwhile, you’re making villas cry with emotion.

Victoria: That courtyard?? I nearly sobbed. That kitchen?? I want to move in and raise goats.

Victoria: You’re a masterpiece. I love you. Also I’m stealing that mineral-wash plaster idea. You can’t stop me.

Belle: I— You’re making me laugh and cry at the same time. Please stop being good at this.

Belle: I wasn’t trying to keep it secret. I just… I didn’t know if it would be worth making a fuss over.

Belle: But then I saw it. And it felt like me. Really me. And now you saying all this— It means more than I can explain.

Belle: Please steal the plaster. I’ll mix it for you myself. Love you too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner

Max: Did you see the AD article?

Christian: The what?

Max: Architectural Digest. Belle’s feature. It came out today. I’ll send you the link. Actually, I’ll send you the PDF. Also a printed copy. What’s your home address?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

 Max: [sends picture of the courtyard from the article] Is this not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?

Daniel: That’s definitely the most serene lavender I’ve seen this week, yes. Max, are you okay?

Max: I married an artist.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Did you read the part about the courtyard?

Lando: Yes. You’ve sent it to me four times. I don’t even have a courtyard. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Belle is in Architectural Digest. Front feature. They called her work a “masterclass in restraint.”

Jos: You’re very lucky.

Max: I know.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: have you seen belle’s AD article?

GP: Max. I read it at 7:05am. You literally sent me a copy. Physically. To my house.

Max: okay good just making sure

***

Group Chat: RBR STRATEGY & OPERATIONS

(members: Max, GP, Christian Horner, Gemma from PR, Helmut Marko, various engineers)

Max: i’m just saying if we need a new hospitality suite design i know someone. page 42. AD October. you’re welcome.

GP: Max.

Gemma: …Did you just send a PDF of your wife’s Architectural Digest spread to the team comms group?

Max: that’s her on page 42. the kitchen is beautiful. don’t say i never contribute.

Christian: She’s very talented.

Helmut: What is Architectural Digest.

Max: It’s like the Monaco Grand Prix for interior designers.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Oscar: I know absolutely nothing about interior design. Like, genuinely. I can barely hang a picture frame. (Which you know, because you rescued my apartment) But even I know that Architectural Digest is a huge deal. And I just wanted to say — I’m really, really proud of you. That house looked like something out of a movie, but it still felt like someone lived in it. Which is… I guess that’s the whole point. Anyway. You’re amazing. That’s all.

Oscar: (Also, the kitchen made me want to learn how to cook properly. Lily said that was the most unhinged thing I’ve ever said.)

Belle: Oscar Piastri. If you keep being this nice to me I’m going to have to name a backsplash after you.

Belle: “Piastri Grey.” Unassuming, unexpectedly elegant, slightly smug when the light hits it right.

Oscar: You joke, but if you ever name anything after me, I’ll brag about it in every driver briefing until they kick me out.

Belle: Duly noted. Also, just so you know — if you and Lily ever want help redoing your kitchen, I’m one unsolicited Pinterest board away from getting involved.

Belle: You’d have to promise not to burn water though.

Oscar: Deal. But only if I get to hang one (1) badly framed motivational quote in return.

Belle: Oscar. No.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

​​Lando: OKAY WAIT Just read the AD feature. BELLE. HELLO???

Lando: That courtyard?? That kitchen??? That quote about doors creaking??? I didn’t know houses could be poetic. You’re a menace and I love you.

Lando: Also. Serious question. How do we feel about redoing my streaming room?

Lando: I’ll pay. I’ll bribe. I’ll cry. Name your price. Make it less “goblin tech dungeon” and more “mildly functional adult.” I deserve better lighting.

Belle: Lando. You have a racing simulator, multiple ikea bookcases filled with helmets and an apartment literally covered in fanart of yourself. Also a wall entirely dedicated to memorabilia that glows in the dark in your bedroom, according to Emilie. 

Belle: Your apartment actively resists adulthood.

Belle: But yes. I accept your bribe. I’ve already got a mood board titled “cozy chaos with HDMI ports.”

Lando: YES. That’s all I needed. Do you think I could have a drawer that hides snacks?

Belle: Already planned it. Drawer under the desk. Cooled. Lined with felt. Accommodates two cans of Monster Energy Drinks, one packet of Haribo, and your shame.

Lando: You’re a genius.

***

Pascale Leclerc hadn’t planned to read it.

She had clicked the link out of idle curiosity, the way one might glance through someone else’s holiday photos—detached, polite, with low expectations. Maybe she had expected color palettes. Fabric swatches. A few nice sentences about Belle’s “eye for detail.” Something charming and delicate and softly insignificant.

What she hadn’t expected was prose that read like poetry. Or her daughter’s name—her married name—printed in serif font beneath the words “Interior Architect and Founder.”

She hadn’t expected paragraphs that quoted Belle with a kind of reverence. Clients speaking about trust. About transformation. About homes that held memory and meaning.

She hadn’t expected that her daughter—quiet, overlooked, always fading behind the noise of her brothers—could command the shape of a space so profoundly that the world would take notice.

By the second paragraph, Pascale had sat down. By the third, she had put her glasses on properly. By the fourth, her hand was over her mouth.

"She didn’t want to reinvent it. She wanted to remember it."

"The house gave me the courage."

"Homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays."

It was all so Belle—soft, sharp, careful. A kind of invisible mastery woven between sentences and ceiling beams.

Pascale thought back to every time she had asked, "So what do you actually do?" and winced.

Because the answer had been there all along. And Pascale had never truly listened.

She hadn't realized this was more than a job. That Belle had a signature. A philosophy. A reputation. That people sought her out not because she was Max Verstappen’s wife or Charles Leclerc’s sister—but because she was herself.

Because she could walk into a tired old house and see the soul of it. Because she could make things feel like they remembered you.

Pascale read the last paragraph three times. This isn’t just a space someone lives in. It’s a space that lives with them.

She closed the tab slowly, the image of Belle’s hand skimming along an old beam still hovering in her mind.

For the first time in years, Pascale felt like she had to relearn her daughter. Not as an extension of the family. But as a woman with her own name, her own work, and a world she had built with her bare hands.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: ok wait what is architectural digest?? is it like a newsletter for… architecture?

Charles: …it’s not a newsletter. it’s Architectural Digest, Arthur. It’s a huge deal. 

Arthur: yeah i gathered that now everyone on twitter is freaking out CONGRATS belle!! even if I don’t understand what “mineral-washed hues” are 🫡

Lorenzo: Hold on. You’re in Architectural Digest?

Charles: Wait wait wait YOU’RE IN ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??

Belle: …yes?

Charles: As in THE Architectural Digest? As in like… that’s a big deal.

Belle: I know.

Charles: Why didn’t you TELL us??? We could’ve sent the link around. Or made a story. Or thrown confetti. Or—idk—prepared emotionally??

Arthur: again: still not sure what it is but belle looks great in those photos and the house looks rich so I assume it’s important

Pascale: I read the article. It was… It was beautiful.

Belle:  

Thanks, Maman. That means a lot.

Arthur: so you’re like…a fancy architect now?? do you have a business card?? I want one

Belle: Arthur. I’ve had a business card for 4 years.

Charles: You designed an entire villa and never mentioned it?? You were just… going to let us find out online??? I just read the article. Belle. It’s stunning. I’m so proud of you.

Lorenzo: Same. I’m reading it now. The courtyard?? The fireplace?? The patina on the fixtures?? You made this house feel like a memory.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Max: i might have emailed the AD article to toto wolff. with no context.

Belle: MAX.

Max: what if he wants to hire you for the new Mercedes motorhome wouldn’t that be hilarious

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Liam Lawson, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda

Max: Guys. My wife is in Architectural Digest. As in THE Architectural Digest.

Lando: Oh we’re starting early today.

Max: PAGE 42. Go look. Read it. Appreciate it. You’ll learn something about restraint and plaster finishes.

Franco: what is architectural digestion

Oscar: Digest. It’s like Vogue for rich houses.

Yuki: Wait so like… Belle designed a house?

Max: SHE BROUGHT A VILLA BACK TO LIFE WITH EMOTIONAL ARCHITECTURE. It’s not just design. It’s art.

Pierre: Bro he’s yelling.

George: I already read it. Very elegant. Love the limestone accents.

Zhou: I want to do a collab with her. My Shanghai apartment needs help.

Esteban: I’ve never cared about tiles before but now I have opinions??

Lance: Can she do race trailers?

Liam: I still don’t get it but I support whatever is happening.

Nico H.: This is the softest I’ve ever seen Max. I’m scared.

Oscar: Update: Lily now wants Belle to design our house. We don’t have a house yet. This is your fault, Verstappen.

Max: You will all learn to appreciate plaster texture and reclaimed beams. Mark my words.

Alex: I liked the old Max better. The one who just said "understeer" and threw a wheel.

Carlos: The man is gone. We have husband era Max now.

Lando: And I, for one, welcome him.

Yuki: Can we all go live in the Provence house

Max: Get in line.

Fernando: It was great. I also liked the lavender courtyard. That woman understands serenity.

Valtteri: Does Belle do Finnish saunas? Asking for a friend.

Max: YES. AND SHE’LL SOURCE YOU THE PERFECT STONES.

Charles: I didn’t even know she did that villa. She never said a word.

Max: Because she’s not an attention seeker like the rest of us. (She also said she didn’t want to be annoying about it… so I’m being annoying for her.)

Valtteri: You’re dangerously close to mailing us print subscriptions.

Max: Funny you mention that. Check your mail.

George: OH MY GOD MAX WHY DID YOU SEND ME THREE COPIES

Lewis: Honestly? She deserves all the noise. That piece was stunning. Tell her I said the kitchen design was sublime.

Franco: am I supposed to know what any of this means

Oscar: Just say “quiet luxury” and nod a lot.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda)

Lando Norris: 📸 screenshot attached So this happened in the grid group chat.

Daniel: holy shit this is so much text is this about the house again

George: It’s not just a house, Daniel. It’s an emotionally restored Provencal villa.

Sebastian: Belle made limestone flooring feel like poetry. I respect it.

Yuki: You said that with your chest

Carlos: Max has officially entered his soft husband era and I’m 70% sure he’s about to start bringing copies to media day

David: I have never seen Max this sentimental. Ever. It’s unnerving.

Mark: Honestly? Good for him. Good for her. That article was great.

Nico R.: Belle made stone walls existential. I had a crisis halfway through page 44.

Alex:Max sent everybody copies Which is wild But also… I’m halfway through the article and now I want Belle to redesign my brain.

Oscar: Lily said it changed the texture of her soul

Pierre: I’m not going to lie I googled “mineral-washed plaster” at 2AM last night I think I blacked out on Etsy

Kimi: what are you all talking about

Zhou: Architecture But like. Feelings.

Esteban: Is it normal that I’m emotional about a kitchen sink

Sergio:She said “homes hold grief and joy and ordinary Tuesdays” and I started pacing

Nico H.: I read one sentence and now I want to throw out all my furniture

Yuki: You should.

Valtteri: I have never been more inspired to paint something beige in my life.

Lewis: I told her the kitchen design was sublime. I meant it. She’s a storyteller.

Sebastian: I think I want her to redesign my garden. And possibly my emotional landscape.

Daniel: so… none of you are gonna help me hang the IKEA shelves I just bought?

Oscar: Sorry mate we’re on a different level now. We only accept reclaimed oak.

Mark: I have never seen Max more smug. He sent me the article and a Google Maps link of the villa.

George: We are witnessing a man in love And honestly? It’s terrifying.

***

“You’ve had quite a big month,” Camille said softly, looking at Belle. “Would you like to talk about what it felt like, having your work recognized like that?”

Belle hesitated. Then she shrugged, arms loosely folded. “It was… good.”

Camille smiled. “You don’t sound sure.”

“It was,” Belle repeated, quieter. “It meant something.”

Charles was the one who broke the silence.

“I didn’t even know you were in Architectural Digest,” he said, not accusing — just confused. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Belle’s eyes flicked over to him. Then to Pascale, who was watching her carefully.

She inhaled slowly.

“Because,” she said, “you never took my work seriously.”

The words landed like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

“Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive,” Belle said calmly, almost too calmly. “When I got my first real job offer, Arthur asked me if I was going to be installing throw pillows for a living.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lorenzo went very still.

“I studied Architecture at Sorbonne,” Belle continues, her voice still steady. “I studied for years. I interned, I worked for one of the best interior architecture firms Monaco has to offer. I built a studio from scratch. I made a name for myself. Quietly. Without any of you ever noticing.”

She looked at them then — really looked.

“And it was never as important as racing. Never as exciting. Never something you asked about unless it was to make fun of me for choosing beige.”

Charles looked gutted. Pascale was blinking quickly.

Lorenzo’s voice was low. “I don’t think I ever realized how much that hurt you.”

“I know,” Belle said. Not cruel — just tired. “Because I stopped trying to explain it a long time ago.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Camille gently said, “It sounds like you protected something really important to you by keeping it private. Does that feel true?”

Belle nodded.

“I didn’t tell you about the article,” she said, “because I wanted to enjoy it without wondering if anyone would roll their eyes.”

Pascale finally spoke. “I’m sorry.”

It was soft. Raw. No justification. Just the words.

Belle didn’t reply right away.

But she didn’t look away either.

“I’m sorry,” Pascale said again, voice catching just slightly. “I didn’t know it made you feel that way.”

Belle didn’t flinch, but she also didn’t soften. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.

“You didn’t ask,” she said.

That was the part that always hurt the most.

Camille let the silence linger for a moment. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—just full of everything unspoken.

Then she looked at the others.

“Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo,” she said gently. “How does it feel to hear Belle say that?”

Arthur’s shoulders hunched slightly. “I think we just… thought you liked being in the background. You never made a big deal of your work.”

“I didn’t,” Belle said. “Because when I did, no one cared. So I stopped.”

Charles looked pale.

“I think I was waiting for you to prove it was real,” he admitted. “That you were serious about it.”

“I was serious about it,” Belle said, sharper now. “From the start. You just didn’t see it because it wasn’t your definition of ambition.”

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I didn’t think it was nothing,” Lorenzo said finally, voice low. “I just… didn’t know how big it was. And I never asked, and I should have. That’s on me.”

Pascale looked stricken. “I don’t even remember saying those things,” she murmured. “But I believe you. And I’m sorry. You deserved better from me.”

Belle swallowed hard. Her voice was quieter now.

“It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. No one asked about my first job. Or my first client. Or when I started my studio. You didn’t come to my graduation. You forgot my birthday.” Her voice cracked. “And now I’m in Architectural Digest, and it still doesn’t feel real because I keep expecting someone to say it’s not a big deal.”

Belle inhaled slowly. The air felt thick in her chest.

She glanced down at her hands, resting in her lap. Her engagement ring glinted against her skin. Her wedding band. Quiet things. Not loud like podiums or race wins or trophies. But real.

“Max and I met in a bar. We talked about one of my colleagues frothing at the mouth at the thought of designing an apartment for him, because they had heard that he was touring a penthouse. One of those ridiculous ones with views over the harbour.”

“A few weeks later, I got the call. Max bought that penthouse. He hired the firm I worked at and he demanded that I be the only architect allowed to work on it.”

She smiled faintly at the memory.

“He said he trusted me. He only wanted me working on it. Because I was brillant.”

Her eyes lifted, landing on Charles first, then Pascale.

“He didn’t mean, like, picking throw pillows. He meant everything. Design it. Build it. Choose the floors, the fixtures. Max could have hired any firm in the world. But he gave it to me—because he saw me. He trusted me. No credentials flashed. No résumé sent. I told him I had a vision, and he believed me.”

A long pause.

“No one in this room has ever believed in me like that.”

Pascale flinched like the words hit her square in the chest.

“I’m not saying that to be cruel,” Belle said gently. “But you should know it. I studied at Sorbonne. I interned in Paris. I worked twenty-hour days for years. I built a studio from scratch. But to you, it was always—Pinterest boards. Throw pillows. Expensive taste.”

She looked toward the window now, blinking fast. “Meanwhile, I built Max and me a home. A real one. I built a studio from scratch. And now my work is on the cover of Architectural Digest. And you’re all surprised.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“You say you love me. But you’ve never asked what I love. What I do. Who I’ve become.”

Camille didn’t interrupt. No one did.

Pascale was crying now. Arthur stared at the carpet. Lorenzo looked hollowed out. Charles was stock still.

“Max saw me the moment I walked into that restaurant on our first date,” Belle whispered. “Not because I was his girlfriend. Not because I was a Leclerc. Just… me. He gave me a home to build. And he moved into it. Do you know what that meant to me?”

“It is a big deal,” Camille said softly. “And Belle, your pain is valid. And you’ve carried a lot of it alone.”

There were tears in Belle’s eyes now, but she didn’t let them fall.

“I wanted you to be proud of me,” she whispered. “And you weren’t. Not until everyone else was.”

Pascale reached for a tissue. “I’m sorry.”

She’s said it before — for missed birthdays, for things that slipped through the cracks. But this time, there’s something heavier underneath it. Not just regret, but realization.

Belle didn’t speak. Not yet.

But she didn’t look away either.

Camille waited a beat, then gently shifts the focus.

“Charles,” she said, “you look like you’re holding something. Would you like to say it?”

Charles exhales like he’s been underwater.

“I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know. I think I… assumed you were happy doing your little projects, and I didn’t ask more because—”

He stopped himself. Winced.

“Because you assumed they weren’t serious,” Belle finished for him, voice still quiet.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Belle echoed, “but you did.”

Charles flinched. “I know.”

Arthur, sitting beside him, suddenly said, “I always thought you were brilliant at it.”

Everyone turned.

Arthur shrugged, like it’s obvious. “I just didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t want to sound stupid.”

Belle blinked. “What?”

“You redesigned your entire apartment in Paris with like… two chairs and a string of lights. I remember visiting and thinking it felt like magic. Like it wasn’t just pretty — it fit you. I didn’t know how to say that.”

There’s a long silence.

Belle’s expression softened — just a little.

“I didn’t need you to say I was brilliant,” she said, “I just needed you to act like it mattered. That I mattered.”

Lorenzo finally spoke.

“You do.”

Belle gave him a long, tired look. “I’m just starting to believe that.”

Camille gently stepped in.

“I think what Belle’s saying is really important,” she said. “This isn’t about punishment or blame. It’s about being seen. About building a relationship where she doesn’t feel like she has to shrink herself just to be accepted.”

Pascale pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes glassy.

Charles swallowed. “We want that,” he says. “I want that. I want to do better.”

Arthur nodded. “Me too.”

Lorenzo, steady as ever, added, “Me too.”

Camille offered Belle a soft, anchoring look. “Would you like to start with something small? Something they could do that might feel meaningful?”

“…Ask me about my work,” Belle said. “Not to be polite. Ask because you actually want to know.”

The others nodded. Pascale quietly murmured, “We will.”

Belle exhales, slow and shaky. But she nodded.

***

It was late.

The kind of late where the world felt like it had tipped sideways, quiet and slow. Rain tapped lightly against the windows of their bedroom, and Belle was curled into the pregnancy pillow that had taken over Max’s half of the bed. Her back ached, her ankles were swollen, and their son had been practicing karate for the last half hour — but somehow, the room still felt peaceful.

Max was beside her, propped up on one elbow, reading something on his iPad that he clearly wasn’t retaining.

Belle shifted slightly. “Max?”

He glanced down immediately, setting the iPad aside. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Just… thinking.”

Max didn’t say anything, just reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, waiting. He was good at that — at knowing when she needed silence instead of answers.

Belle exhaled. “There’s a name I keep coming back to.”

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I haven’t said it out loud yet. Not even to myself, really. But it’s been stuck in my head for weeks.”

Max tilted his head, gently curious. “What is it?”

She hesitated, heart thudding a little faster. “Emilian.”

There was a pause — a quiet, weighted pause — and then Max smiled. Not the bright, media-trained one. Not even the cheeky one she knew too well. Just soft. Surprised. Touched.

“My middle name,” he said.

“And Emilie,” Belle murmured. “Not on purpose. It just… happened that way. I didn’t mean to do that, I swear.”

Max’s smile grew. “You don’t have to justify it.��

“I thought I’d change my mind,” she admitted. “I kept thinking, ‘it’s too sentimental’ or ‘what if it’s weird’ or ‘what if he doesn’t like it’… but I keep circling back to it. Like orbiting. I don’t know why.”

Max leaned in and kissed the side of her forehead. “Belle. It’s a beautiful name.”

“I wasn’t trying to name him after you,” she said softly. “Or Emilie. Or anyone. I think I just… like the way it feels.”

Max ran a hand gently over the swell of her belly, feeling a fluttering kick beneath his palm. “Then maybe that’s why it’s right.”

Belle looked up at him, eyes shining. “You really don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “No. I think… I love it, actually.”

She blinked fast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Max smiled again, then leaned down to press a kiss just above her belly button. “Hi, Emilian,” he whispered. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Belle’s breath caught. Her hand found his, resting over their son, and she nodded slowly. “Then that’s his name.”

Max looked up at her with something close to awe. “We have a name.”

“We have a baby with a name,” Belle whispered, half in disbelief.

And in the quiet, with the rain still falling and their son kicking lightly in response, Belle finally let herself feel it fully — that he was coming. That she was ready. That Emilian was already loved.

[redrage71890]

Backing Voice (Yan! KPDH x Fem! MC) Part 1

Synopsis: The end of their tour is just around the corner, one more show. Too bad some demons decide to ruin their party.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn (?), Yandere (?)

CW: None

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2

A/N: I’m desperately trying to push these out while the hype is real.

————————————————————

”La, la, la, la, la, la, la~”

”La, La, La, La, La, La, Laa~~”

”LA, LA, LA, LA, LA, LA, LAAA~~~”

Locked in an airplane bathroom, a slowly rising voice echos about that can barely be heard from the outside. The tone ranging from fierce to soft in seconds between each line of words or sounds from her mouth.

Shocking to think this came from a girl who hasn’t performed in front of an audience since she as a child.

“I’ve always felt like a monster”

”Long before I was bit~”

”Only seen as a monster~ Let’s just say I’m used to it~”

”And I grew tired cause loving had only hurt me bad”

“But loving you is a good problem to have”

”And I’m used to that, but I could get used to this~”

*Knock*

*Knock*

”Hey (Y/N), you gonna join us for our carb load? Don’t worry we have plenty enough for you! If you want to that is. You don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.” Zoey asks from the other side with clear excitement yet nervousness in her tone.

Only in recent times has (Y/N) grew comfortable enough to eat with the girls. For the first few days of meeting each other, she didn’t exactly talk that much. Or even made eye contact.

One on one conversations didn’t last very long in some cases, devolving into awkward silence usually with Rumi and Mira. Zoey on the other hand tended to continue her fun topics of discussion and even unintentionally rant about little things that have ticked her off or grabbed her interest.

Ended up dragging (Y/N) into watching all her turtle videos at one point. And to think (Y/N) ended up watching the entirety without a break along with Zoey.

That’s when the girls figured out something.

Just when they thought (Y/N) wasn’t listening or even uninterested in their talks, she always took everything in.

Simply listening to what they say with small gestures and hums that indicate her awareness.

Overtime, they met eyes as one talks.

And the next, she was beginning to speak and respond.

Though even at the beginnings they noticed her slight tremor and shivering as one would approach and or initiated conversations.

But time has passed.

Progress was made.

The social barrier was breaking down steadily.

And their unknowing hunger for that softness and comfort grew

“U-Um, sure. I’ll be out in a second.”

”(Gasp) Really?! Okay! I’ll tell the girls!”

Hearing Zoey speed off made (Y/N) chuckle at the cartoonish footsteps and visual in her head. (She looked like sanic)

Before she unlocked the door, she took one final look in the mirror. Something she did often enough to become habit. It wasn’t the kind of admiring like being in awe of yourself or even picking out flaws in your appearance or self.

No.

Her eyes always just stared ahead.

No blinking.

No words.

No thoughts.

All besides one…

Despite everything in the world…

It’s still you.

Turning her head away and unlocking the door. She was met again with the prestigious white walls and cushioned seats of the plane, with the compartments of materials for the plane attendants to use and serve for them in their areas.

Just outside at a small table filled to the brim with carb heavy foods scattered about. The three hunters already decked out in their performance attires and faces of makeup, eagerly awaiting to bring joy to their fans.

She didn’t exactly match the dress code.

Just a simple yet sophisticated attire of black and purple with hints of gold about. A purple buttoned cropped top, black flared pants with the ends a shire grey with patterned webs, expected black boots, a black and gold blazer jacket and a black tie loosely done.

Complimenting her further with dangling gold earrings with thin tassels. Hanging from her waist is a small lavender blue charm with two flower stones of the centre with loose strands of material. A small thin string of a mix of gold and silver instruments strung about, ranging from an electric and acoustic guitar, to a violin and piano.

Despite the similar golds and charms on their attires, hers felt out of place.

Their faces lighting up upon meeting her own (f/c) and gold rimmed eyes.

“(Y/N)! We were just about to start! Come huddle with us!” Zoey eagerly pulls the usually anxious girl along with them, placing herself between the maknae and their dancer.

“Okay, this is our biggest show yet.”

“The most songs.”

“The most notes.”

”The most moves.”

”Which means the most carb loading.”

”For the fans!”

Hastily grabbing a couple of kimbap for herself, seeing as the three stuffs whatever they grab on the table. (Y/N) felt a bit envious that they eat and talk so comfortably with each other with food splattering out at time. Preferring to savour her food and not choke out of pure embarrassment.

Not that the girls would ever judge.

But that did allow her to send the plane attendants apologetic smiles and bows, for they have to clean up the mess.

’Apologies, I know how you feel.’

Though that didn’t stop the lady attendant to back away from them.

”Okay, time for our pre-game ramyeon!”

“Here you go (N/N), hope you don’t mind this flavour.” Mira hands her a ramyeon cup with her face and flavour on it. Feeling grateful for not being left out again she sends the tall girl a thankful thumbs up and smile.

”Happy fans, happy Honmoon!”

“Wait, there’s no water in these.”

As Rumi was asking the attendant for water, her ringtone began to go off. Seeing the caller ID she hastily answered.

“Hi, Bobby!”

"Yeah, hi! Um, what are you doing?"

"About to eat our pre-show ramyeon."

"Pre-show? What about the show-show?"

Finishing off her kimbap with a nervous gulp, (Y/N) smacked her own face out of pure shame.

'I should've known!'

Considering her position in HUNTR/X set by her mother and Celine, they pulled some strings and made her part of staff as strange mix of a producer, co-writer and manager along with Bobby. Difference was that she lived with them and had a hand in their music.

When it comes to music, she's the one to go to.

Whether it be making samples and demos, to finalising a few songs in their instrumentals and fixing up little details.

But for demons?

Its a different story...

As the girls were talking to Bobby (and greeting the fans that stole his phone for a few seconds), (Y/N) just stared at the staff with them. Looking closer now, it was obvious they were demons.

I mean...

Pouring coffee in a plant, randomly observing a spoon like it was an art piece and not to mention spinning hotteok like a wheel instead of eating it? Need she say more?

The girls seemed to fully realise what was up as they disappointedly glared at them. Groaning about not finishing their food.

"I didn't even get to finish my ramyeon!"

"Why do they always interrupt our snacking?"

"(Garbled) They will face my wrath!"

"(Whispered) Zoey, make sure not to choke, please."

Rumi confronted the demons with a board expression, obviously pointing out their strange behaviours and spotting patterns along their arms. Stepping on ones foot fully revealed their colourful and abnormal real forms.

"Oh, you got the patterns. Now you gotta die."

Taking a step behind the girls to let them deal with the demons verbally, (Y/N) took all of their cups and skidded past everyone making sure to avoid the confrontation.

"Not our fans."

"When you mess with our fans..."

"We need to make it hurt."

"Ugh, you came at a bad time"

"But you just crossed the line"

"You wanna get wild?"

"Okay, I'll show you wild!"

Twirling around and holding down the demons while beating them hand-to-hand, unphased as they begun to sing their song. Heating up the kettle and passing it to Mira to further beat down a demon into a seat.

The large demons shadow towered over (Y/N), planning to strike the fourth down without hesitation. But her (f/c) and gold eyes saw it him first. Ducking underneath his arm and quickly pouring the hot water in her and Mira's cups before throwing the kettle and the hamburger flavoured cup for Zoey.

Beating down the leaping demons while pouring for herself and Rumi with no sweat.

Manoeuvring through the thrown around demons with her cup in hand, (Y/N) avoided the touch of any demon.

Its not like she could do much anyway.

Though before digging into to their ramyeon, they had something to finish off.

"Knocking you out like a lullaby~"

"Hear that sound ringing in your mind~"

Threads of blues and whites swerve around each of the girls, forming into unique shined weapons in hand. Daggers for Zoey, a spear for Mira and a sword of Rumi.

But the threads around (Y/N) came around and formed into a glowing blue and purple parasol. Emitting rays of light that make the demons freeze when touched.

"Better sit down for the show"

"'Cause I'm gonna show you how it's done, done, done"

Slicing and dicing the demons that dare to come their way. Eagerness writhing on their faces as they slice down the demons. All the while, (Y/N) hums and adlibs through the song. Each line and twist of the parasol emitted a ray of light.

Glancing around at the girls, adoration and fun filled their expressions. Moving like lightning speed and the highlighting colours of their blades faster than usual and bodies consumed by calmness and beauty.

"Run, run, we run the town"

"Whole world playin' our sound"

"Turnin' up, it's goin' down"

"Huntrix show this, how it's done, done, done"

Interrupting their little beating, the aircraft shook as the lights flickered off. Quickly making sure their ramyeon wasn't ruined and in hand, they looked outside to see flying pieces of the plane with the demons on them.

"Yeah, this plane's trashed."

Slurping up their noodles and downing the soup with a sigh of relief-with no hesitation, the four of them dropped out of the plane at lighting speed. (Parasol still in hand but closed)

”Won either way, we're one in a million“

“We killin', we bring it, you want it? Okay”

Catching up with the escaped demons, landing on them as they fixed up some makeup and appearances. Pulling out of her pocket gulped down a pill of sorts with a bottle of water she somehow managed to down while falling.

“Heels, nails, blade, mascara”

“Fit check for my napalm era”

“Need to beat my face, make it cute and savage”

“Mirror, mirror on my phone, who's the baddest? (Us, hello?)“

Approaching closer to the stadium, the three hunters rocket towards the centre stage in glowing blue light. (Y/N) diverges from their path and opens her parasol, encasing her body with a mix of blue and lavender petals. Finding herself backstage with many stage crew members and staff running about.

A spare microphone lazily placed on a spare speaker, she takes it away and runs to the sound guys by the controls.

“It’s showtime! Run it from 1:57 but make sure to keep the backing track. We need blue lights pointing in from the back of the roof top the stage coming from the sky.”

Nodding along with her instructions as they swiftly get to work. One worker handing her three other microphones as she runs towards the edge of the stage.

Spotting the three demons in the centre and the large shadows of the girls in the smoke screen,

”Knocking you out Iike a lullaby”

”Hear that sound ringing in your mind”

”Better sit down for the show”

”Cause I’m gonna show you (I’m gonna show you~)”

”(I’m gonna show you~) How it’s done-done-done”

Striking down the demons (Y/N) hastily threw the mics to the girls that they caught effortlessly. Mira even smirking at her as they continue their song.

”I don’t talk, but I bite, full of venom (Uh)”

”Spittin’ facts, you know that’s”

”Okay, like, I know I ramble”

”But when shootin’ my words, I go Rambo”

”Took blood, sweat, and tears, to look natural (Uh)”

”That’s how its done-done-done”

Hiding behind near the supposed makeup room, (Y/N) tightly holds the mic and listeners carefully to the backing track and counts the time until its just her and Rumi.

“Hear our voice unwavering”

”Til our song defeats the night”

”Makin’ fear afraid to breathe”

”Til the dark meets the light~ (how its done-done-done)”

Pushing her vocals to its highest as she meets with Rumi’s high note. Continuing to belt and echo the chorus through towards the end.

“HUNTR/X don’t miss, how its done-done-done~”

‘One down, many others to go…’

————————————————————

Edit: WHERE R U PEOPLE COMING FRKM? Genuinely curious, but thank you so much for loving this idea I had! Also first time trying a tag list

Tags: @kitsune-05, @the-bookish-artist, @apelepikozume, @shoopershtar, @ravvilicious, @valeriele3, @vikc, @lasa27, @chipster-321, @greensunflowerjuna

[anonf1writer]

the reaction after he stands up for his family — single parent universe

second part to this.

text au. ig post. 2k words. drivers: max, charles, oscar and lando.

note: i promised there would be a second part, and here it is. i tried something different, so i hope i didn’t disappoint (although i have the feeling already this wont be everyones cup of tea, so im sorry in advance!).

thank you to everyone who sent requests that led me to create this cute universe. ive had the greatest time with it, and i know it wouldnt have happened without your ideas. so thank you ❤️

──────────────────

MAX

First, came the soft click of Oliver’s bedroom door, and then the lazy thump of Max’s feet making his way back to you. 

Leaning your side against the kitchen counter, you knew a conversation was coming. From the moment you heard the question and turned the TV off, to the moment Max arrived home with a smile on his face, you knew it wouldn’t be something either of you could ignore. 

“Fucking hell,” he murmured as soon as he stepped into view, both hands running up and down his face. “I can’t remember the last time I wanted to punch someone’s stupid face this fucking much.”

You pressed your lips together and shifted on your feet, stepping away from the counter. This was the first moment alone the two of you had gotten after the race, the first moment without a little boy demanding attention, and the first moment Max was finally letting it all out. The anger, the frustration, the disappointment. So you didn’t want to shush him. You didn’t want to tell him he shouldn’t be cursing and swearing right now, that he should be careful, that he should think before he spoke. It didn’t seem fair to him, especially after he had clearly tried his best to put on a fantastic show in front of your son. 

“Did you watch it?” he asked, voice closer than before.

You nodded, removing the whistling kettle from the hob and stepping towards the empty mugs. “Just saw the video. We were watching it live on TV, but I turned it off as soon as I noticed what was happening.”

“Shit.”

“Oli didn’t hear a thing tho, don’t worry about it.”

You took your time filling the first mug, watching how the tea bag floated and swayed in the water, then eventually sank into the bottom. 

“They were so out of line,” Max said, his voice a quiet whisper in the bright kitchen. “I can’t believe that question even crossed their minds.” 

“I know…” 

“But I caught his name,” Max added. “And I had a meeting with the team as soon as I called the interview off. I’ll make sure that guy doesn’t get a fucking word from me anymore.”

You nodded again, and poured boiling water into the other mug. His mug. 

A moment went by before you felt him. Before he wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, and pressed his chest against your back. 

“You ok?” he asked, voice low and too close to your ear. 

You placed the kettle back in place and nodded, one hand resting on his forearm and the other reaching to touch his face. 

“Yeah…” you said, your body instantly leaning into him. “I’m just… I hate that you had to go through that.”

Max nodded, his facial hair brushing your skin as he moved to kiss your palm. Once, and twice. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “For putting you two in this position.”

At that, you frowned. You dropped your hand and shifted on your feet, turning to properly face him. 

Max’s exhaustion was written all over him. But there was also worry there. Maybe a little bit of fear, too. 

“Hey,” you said, hands cradling his cheeks, eyes firm inside his gaze. “Don’t be silly. What you did for us was amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The way you stood up for us… The fact that you won’t let anyone speak about our son like that… That’s what I care about.” 

He sighed, then leaned in. Forehead resting against yours while he closed his eyes. 

“Our son,” he repeated, like he was savouring the words. 

“Mhmm…” You nodded, slightly. Just for him to feel the movement face to face, skin to skin. “It was really hot, y’know? To see you like that…”

Max smirked. Eyes staying close while he listened to you.

“The way you talked about us… How you got all worked up… When you said ‘that kid is mine’?” You sighed. Loudly than you normally would. Your hands moving down to his neck, shoulders, then back to cradle his face. “And then when you stormed off… Damn you, Max.”

A low, amused chuckle escaped from his chest, his whole body shaking lightly against you. “I should’ve figured you’d like that.”

“You should, yeah…”

You leaned in, then. Your lips barely meeting his before you pulled back again.

Max reacted instantly, taking a step forward and fully pressing you onto the counter, his feet slotting between your legs. “Hate teasing,” he murmured, already crashing your mouths together for a much needier kiss. 

You smiled, his lips barely giving you any time before he was capturing them again. 

And again. 

And again. 

──────────────────

CHARLES

──────────────────

OSCAR

──────────────────

LANDO

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Lando said, leaning against the handrail and watching Olivia run around the synthetic grass of the paddock. Just like you had been doing for the past ten minutes or so. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said. “They were the ones who crossed the line.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts,” you said, curling your lips into a smile just in case someone was watching you. “Like I said, it wasn’t your fault. That’s not up for discussion.”

Next to you, Lando sighed. Loudly. 

You heard it, you felt it. 

His unhappiness with your answer.

So you shifted on your feet, crossed your arms on your chest, and kept your eyes ahead as you said, “You stood up for her. That’s what matters to me. I wish these things didn’t happen at all, but it’s not up to us. We can’t control what others say or do, but we can control how we react to it. And the way you reacted… That’s how I want it to be. So as long as you stand up for her, just like you did today, then you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

For a moment, Lando didn’t talk. Didn’t move. Didn’t react. He just stared ahead, focusing on the little girl that had everyone’s attention as she distributed papaya-unicorn stickers all around. And then, when you thought he would finally speak up, he just coughed and looked away. As if taking a break to organize himself before returning his gaze back to her. 

To your daughter. 

Yours, and his. 

“Should we go inside?” you asked. “Talk inside?”

He shook his head. “She’s having fun… I just… I wanna watch her for a while.”

You nodded, but your heart skipped at that, and you couldn’t help but sigh and take a step closer to him. Unwillingly. Without thinking. 

Elbow almost, almost touching his arm. 

Lando’s whole body stiffened. 

He stretched his legs, straightened his back, and pulled his arms closer to his sides. 

And the tiniest gasp left his mouth. 

Once again, you couldn’t help yourself—you snorted, bringing your hand to cover your mouth and lowering your chin to look down at your feet.

“What?” he asked, quietly. But you could hear the smile in his voice. The amusement. Growing just like yours.

“Shut up,” you said, muffled behind your hand. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

Shaking your head, you held back your laughter and looked up, eyes meeting your oblivious daughter. Happy and full of energy amidst so many strangers. 

You dropped your hand back down to cross your arm around your chest, and after a beat, you murmured, “I can already imagine a video going viral…”

You caught the way he nodded. 

Neither of you ever facing each other.

But keeping the conversation for only the two of you to hear. 

“Lando Norris avoids contact with his girlfriend,” he said. 

And then, you cackled. Dropping your head back and laughing to the sky while bringing both hands to cover your mouth. 

Next to you, Lando chuckled as well, albeit not as hard. The soft sound making its way to you and adding extra warmth to your already heated cheeks. 

He waited until you had calmed down before speaking again, the playfulness hinted in each syllable of each word. “Little do they know… All along, I’m the one who’s been deprived of love.”

“Oh my God,” you grunted and laughed. A mix between disbelief, but also joy. “You’re so dramatic.” 

“Dramatic? Please. I’m just a boy… Standing next to a—”

You gasped and turned your body, leaning onto your side so you could face him. 

“—a girl… Asking her to hold my hand.”

“Lando…”

“Or give me a hug.”

“You do not get to quote my favorite movie back at me.”

He shook his head, eyes still fixed ahead of him. “Just anything,  really.” 

You pressed your lips together and turned back to Olivia, a sigh leaving your chest while you watched her engage in a conversation with some other kids she had met earlier that day. 

“You know that’s not how it works.”

Lando, on the other hand, simply smirked to himself.

“What I know is that you won’t love me in public.” 

“Because you get way too handsy!” you reminded him. “And you don’t know how to kiss me in public. You always end up going for a full make out session. Why is it so hard to keep it simple?”

“Because it’s you!” he laughed. “Can’t help it if you’re irresistible!”

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “If you can’t help it, then we stick to my rules.” 

“Fine.” 

“No PDA.”

“I know.”

“That’s all.”

“Yep.”

You sighed. 

He sighed. 

Max and Pietra stepped out of hospitality, both of them stopping to chat with Olivia before she pointed straight at where you were. Lando’s best friend looked at you and nodded with understanding, meanwhile his girlfriend waved and lowered her weight to get Livie’s attention. 

You knew, from that on, that Max and Pietra would keep an eye on her. That they would stay around and give you two a chance to take a little break, like they usually did. 

“I never thought I could get so mad at someone,” Lando blurted out. So out of nowhere that you needed to blink a couple times to make sense of it. “I’m watching her right now and it’s just… Look at her… She’s the cutest child around here… She’s kind to everyone… Makes everyone laugh… Always has the funniest, most random comments… And she’s so sassy and bold in such an adorable way… She’s just perfect. How can they… I mean how can they even ask something like that? I don’t get it.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you found yourself unable to reply.

“I meant what I said, y’know? About being proud of being her dad… I know it’s not on the paper… But I don’t mind that… Like it won’t make me love her any differently… What we have now it’s something I’ve earned, y’know? We’ve built it from scratch… I know you wouldn’t have allowed me to be here if you didn’t mean it… So I just… I can’t imagine my life without you anymore… Both of you. And I hate that they tried to use that against me… Because they knew what they were doing when they asked that… They knew they would touch a nerve…”

The emotions in his voice touched your nerves, your instincts, your need to protect him and stand up for him. And before you knew it, you were already walking. Already stepping away from the handrail, turning to him and closing the distance. Until you were standing in front of him and then close enough to crush your body to his. Wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek against his chest. 

“Whoa…” Lando stumbled the slightest, the handrail keeping him in place as he placed both arms around your shoulders and kept you close. Close. Close. Close. “Hold on with the PDA, love.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled. “Just take it.”

At that, he chuckled. Chin pressed on your temple and arms squeezing you tightly. 

“Your favorite words.”

“Lando!”

“What?!”

You pinched his hip, and he flinched.

“Heyyy!” he laughed.

You smiled, cheek all nuzzled onto him while the world kept moving around you. While the public walked up and down the paddock. While curious eyes and intruding cameras watched you. 

“I love you,” you said. “And I’m so proud of you. Really. Thank you, for everything you do. For who you are. I can’t imagine our lives without you anymore, too. I don’t want to know what it would be like to go back to a life without you. So again, thank you.”

“Who are you and what—”

“Lando!” 

“Ok, ok,” he laughed. “I’m shy, I get nervous…” 

“I know, but I had to say it.”

He shifted his arms, his hug getting both gentler and tighter at the same time. 

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear. “And I can’t wait to show you how much. But Livie is running up to us right now, so I’ll keep it to myself for now… Just for now.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

──────────────────

[inkskinned]

i'm still trying to piece together the truth of it. when you left, you said: feel free to spin this narrative however you want. i have no idea if you were being cruel or if you just genuinely don't remember what you've done to me.

it's hard because i'd done so much of the work for you. i had seen the parts that flaked off, the rust underneath. i started separating you into two people - the one i loved, and the one who hurt me. i had this fantasy version of you - my partner - and then i had this stranger, a third person who would show up randomly to shatter me. i am deliriously glad i'm no longer with "the stranger". i miss the gentle (unreal?) "other" you terribly.

at first, i was so strict about my boundaries. i remember telling you to get the fuck out of my house if you were going to talk to me like that. by the end: i would justify your behavior for you, accepting even your mistreatment as "my fault" in the grand scheme. i look back on the person i was before you - smart, independent, confident - and i feel a strange sense of detachment. i don't even recognize me.

even in one of our last conversations, you said: if you want a partner that always talks warmly to you, find someone else. there was a time that a comment like that would have made me leave. and instead, somehow, i just placidly accepted that kind of thing. you were literally telling me that i wasn't allowed to have a reaction to your cruelty - and i just took it, because you'd so fully turned things around on me.

when people are faced with irrationality, a rational brain tries to make sense of it. this is the trap. they're lovely in the morning, gentle and blue-eyed and sweet. like nothing even happened, they breeze around the house and kiss you on the mouth. but at night; who is that? they snap almost randomly; flying into an impotent rage about just-about-anything. it just doesn't make sense. so the problem must be me, and my brain, and how i think.

the traumatized brain just wants peace. so maybe i'm misremembering. maybe you were just having a bad day. maybe it's actually me.

you eventually would fully turn on me and start implying that i am the bad actor in our relationship. that's what happens, right? that's literally in the playbook. you went to therapy for all of a month, told her a half-truth, co-opted therapyspeak. you figured out how to reframe your actions as "seeking peace." any time i stood my ground, i was "gaslighting." when i asked you to be more gentle, you said i was "tone policing." you said, randomly, i had emotionally manipulated you - i still have no idea what that's even specifically referring to. maybe my consistent requests for calmness and empathy?

and while i literally know better, and i'm sitting here, trained by you, thinking: wait, fuck. was i actually the person you made me out to be?

and the thing that scares me is that i literally do not know if you ever actually saw what you were doing to me. when you'd tell me how you remember arguments, you'd always summarize them in a way where you come off as gentle and easy: "i was trying to set an important boundary." what had actually happened was 15 minutes of you shouting at me i know you did something shady, just admit it already. eventually you'd say my reaction to your shouting (when i finally reacted, which usually happened around hour three) was inevitably "disappointing" and "another way i'm silencing your feelings."

how many times did i ask you - beg you - to just take accountability? looking back, i don't think i ever heard you say: you're right. the way i talked to you was wrong of me.

i am trying to tie together the two people into a full version of you in my head. yes, you made my coffee and made me laugh and spent hours on the phone with me. and yes - you would scream at me until i had to run away and hide behind something.

i wish i did have a narrative i could pull out and shape to my whim. i wish i did have some semblance of reality. instead i just stand here, strange and vibrating, wondering: what the fuck just happened?

[valentinedrifter]

Days with Yuri: Packages

male reader x Jo Yuri

~12k words

A/N: A friend said "yuri fic when" so, here you go I guess? Also a lot of yapping involved, so apologies for that.

Enjoy.

You should’ve expected this to happen.

Jjoyul: Sharing Live Location. HELP NOW ASAP PLS

You blink. You squint.

What the fuck?

You read it again.

What the fuck, that’s not her address.

You: whats going on

Jjoyul: I NEED HELP I SWEAR ILL O U 1

You: with what where are you even are you safe

You sit up from your bed, rubbing a hand on your face in annoyance. Out of all the days, it had to be the day you slept in late for her to fuck about and make you find out instead.

Jjoyul: SAFEST PLACE IN D WORLD RN WILL XPLAIN LATR CAN U PLS COME T_T

You were halfway into typing the word “no” and go back to cuddling your comforter and enjoying some more well deserved sleep until your phone buzzed two more times.

Jjoyul: Image attached. PLSSSSSSS

You groan. Half tempted to throw your phone on the nightstand and forget all about the messages. Half tempted to open the image and hope that you can have an idea on what’s actually going on.

You let the angel on your shoulder win this round and open your phone.

Yuri’s face takes up your screen, sitting down on a couch with an all-familiar pout on her lips, finger pressing her chin, wide innocent eyes, and an adorable little head tilt. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen this type of picture so many times that you feel like she’s recycling old pictures.

You wonder how this brat can be this cute yet so annoying at times because you’re falling for her endearingly irritating tactic of cuteness to get you to help her with whatever it is she needs help with. You were about to press the location text she sent to see where she actually is when she sent one last message.

Jjoyul: ILL EVEN COOK U LUNCH AND DINNER NEXT TIME

Now while free food is nice, Yuri’s cooking is something else. Not that you’d ever tell her that because, well, her ego would skyrocket, but she could cook an egg and you’d think a sous chef made it.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and all that. Your sleep-deprived brain isn’t helping much in that regard to stop it. Besides, it’s free food on call.

What’s the worst that could happen?

You: fine, be there in 30

Jjoyul: U DA BESTTTTTTT IM AT 221 BTW TELL THE LADY THAT UR HERE 4 ME TYTYTY <3

And so began your quick shower, a salmon riceball for brunch, and you’re walking out the door heading to her location. Said place is an apartment complex that looks similar to yours—tall, muted colors, minimalistic design—and you start to wonder what she’s doing in a place so far away from where she lives.

She was surprisingly close to your place too—a good ten minute walk to wake the legs up—and you’re stepping into the lobby to be greeted by the receptionist.

You tell her that you’re here for a “Jo Yuri” and all she does is raise an eyebrow.

“No packages?” Her head tilts in confusion.

“...No?” You respond. “Am I supposed to have one?”

“Oh, no, no!” The lady chuckles. “She’s been getting a lot lately, I thought you would be dropping off some more.”

She points you to where you can get to 221, and after thanking her, your mind stops to think:

What the fuck is she doing here?

You take the stairs, faster that way since she’s just a floor up, and you’re standing in front of apartment 221.

You take a deep breath, curl your fingers, prep yourself to call the cops if you need to, and knock.

Tap-tap-tap.

Silence greets you. You wait. Then try again.

Tap-tap-tap.

Still, no answer. You air out a ‘huh’ and decide to just–

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-

“Just a second!” Yuri’s muffled voice comes out of the door, and you hear her padded footsteps rushing.

The lock clicks, the handle turns, and you’re greeted to the sight of a disheveled looking Yuri grinning up to you.

“Hey–” She huffs, grabbing your arm and tugging you inside. Her hand is warm against yours, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You got here pretty fast.”

“It’s a few blocks away from mine.” You turn around to see her already closing the door before leaning back to it, arms behind her back to face you, giving you a chance to properly look at her.

Hair framing that lovable face, smile that radiates trouble, crescents that screams innocent excitement all wrapped in a baggy shirt hanging off one shoulder and some shorts that hides her figure.

Not that you’d know anything about it, you just…saw it a couple of times. Like when you two attended Minju’s wedding as friends. 

Totally not as each other’s wedding date.

You definitely didn’t give her that wide-eyed stare when you picked her up. Or notice how beautiful she looked in the white dress which showed off a bit too much cleavage that definitely didn’t do things to both your heads. Or stand a little too close when one of the groomsmen complimented her on her looks.

And you really didn’t hold her hips when she dragged you to the dance floor because her favorite slow dance started playing. Didn’t like how your hands felt perfect on her. Didn’t feel your heart skip a beat when she gave you that smile when it ended.

You swear it wasn’t awkward the next few weeks after.

Nope. You’re absolutely sure that you and her were totally okay for that period of time.

You focus back on Yuri, who’s gotten close enough to lean into your personal space, face almost touching your chest, shirt swinging low enough for you to see a hint of her generous chest. You can even smell the jasmine radiating off her.

She’s too close.

You blink. She chuckles. 

You take a step back. She straightens.

Speaking of personal spaces–“Where are we, exactly?”

“This, exactly, is–” She stretches it out, making drum roll gestures, dancing around you. “–drumroll please–”

She stops, expecting eyes and a beaming set of lips looking up to you.

She wags her eyebrows. You sigh.

“Seriously?” You ask. Her smile widens.

You roll your eyes. She grins.

You make drum roll sounds. She makes drum roll hands as she continues to step backward into the middle of the living room before stretching her arms wide and giving a tiny hop.

“Jo Yuri’s brand new, very own home!” She declares, posing like a little kid who won the lottery. “Ta–da!”

The place was semi-furnished, all the heavier things already out and ready to be used like the couch on one end and the flat screen mounted on the wall. But what’s really getting to you are the amount of boxes in the room.

All the colors you can think of, all the different sizes, labeled, unlabeled, packed, unpacked; They were everywhere, from the floor to the kitchen counter. You don’t even want to know what was inside. God forbid she hands you one of them and it just so happens to be her underwear.

She wouldn’t do that anyway. You trust her enough to know what’s inside all the boxes.

It’s still a mess overall though, and as you’re taking it in, you realize:

You’re here to help her unpack all her shit.

“Pretty nice ain’t it?” Everything about her screams pride of what she’s accomplished—she should  be—like the hands on her hips and the way she says it.

“Don’t know about pretty, but it is nice.” You look behind her, eyeing the amount of boxes that were basically mocking you at this point. “How much shit do you even have? And when did you move in here?”

“This is like, eighty percent of it, give or take.” Jesus Christ. “I tried doing it on my own but there’s too many and I didn’t wanna bother the movers because they already helped with all the big appliances and I thought–”

Yuri’s making that thinking pose then a lightbulb gesture like she’s in a sitcom. “–Why do it alone when I can do it with my favorite person in the whole wide world!”

“I thought that was Yena?” You deadpan. 

She opens her mouth to answer, then closes it. Her eyes look to the side. Her lips make a thinking face. She looks too damn adorable. 

She opens her mouth to answer. “My second! Favorite person in the whole wide world!”

“That’s not how that works, Yuri.” Your head shakes. “Not at all.”

“It is to me.” She giggles, picking up one of the smaller boxes. “Besides, this is a lot more fun than getting this done all alone.”

“Don’t I have a say in this?” She pushes said box to your chest. “This is gonna take us all day.”

“You said yes the moment you agreed to my cooking.” She patters back to the couch, sitting on the small empty space it still has. “No take backs.”

Well, she’s got you there. Her cooking’s worth a day of unpacking all her stuff anywho.

“Can I renegotiate to have that lunch and dinner for two days?” You ask, cross legging down on the floor, opening up the box that contained kitchen utensils.

Fitting, considering the conversation.

“If we manage to get this done before–” She pauses, a box in her lap as she picks up a boxcutter. “Before dinner, I’ll make you food for the next week.”

“Say no more.” You let out a chuckle, the prospect of having Yuri cook for you till the next week already makes you salivate as you stand up to head into the kitchen. 

As soon as you see the counter, you freeze.

The kitchen’s chock full of boxes.

Fuck.

—

They seemed never ending, but you two managed to settle into a rhythm. You handled everything that was for the kitchen and the living room, she took care of the bathroom and the bedroom.

She didn’t bother with the labels anymore, just ripped the box open and handed it to you if it was different things for her shelves. You open them with care and precision so as not to make an even bigger mess of the already boxed up fuckery mess that is her apartment.

You can hear her in the bedroom, the rustling of the boxes coming out of the doorway when you came back from putting some of the cartons away and into the front door, so you take the chance to pick out something easy to unpack since you’ve been given all the big ones—definitely didn’t feel like you were setup.

So you pick up one of the smallest boxes you could see, sit down on the couch and lay it down on your lap.

The box itself was small, jet-black and discreet, not unlike all the other bright and colorful ones that preceded it. It was tightly wrapped as well, red tape all over the carton in a criss-crossy pattern. 

Nothing the cutter couldn’t handle.

You open it up, thinking that it was another-some-set of something that you feel like you can convince her to sell off because she seriously has too much stuff for one girl so you part the flaps and—

Dick.

Surprisingly detailed, with all the veins and contours and curls shaping it, the smooth head at the top staring back at you. Although the color ruined any form of realism, somewhere between vermillion or coquelicot or sienna—fucking red—that was practically screaming out what it is.

You blink. Two, three, four times.

You close the flaps. Your eyes follow, nose inhaling deep, mouth exhaling slowly,  mind counting to ten.

And then you open it again.

Dicks.

Multiple, plural, a lot. Some were small, others looked like a lightstick—that’s a vibrator—and there was even something metallic tucked in the bottom, underneath all the bubble wrap. 

You squint, hands frozen on the black carton, not trusting them to touch anything inside and holy shit is that a pair of handcuffs?

You don’t even want to know why she has so many because your mind is already being sidetracked to what she’s doing with them. How often she uses them, which one was her favorite— 

“Hey, how’s it going with the rest?” Yuri calls out, casually walking back into the living room.

You’re stuck, heat creeping up your ears, brain short circuiting, doing its damnedest to hot wire it back into thinking, acting, anything as you’re left frozen in time staring into the deep abyss of the box.

“What’s up with you?” Her chin rests on your shoulder, a grin on her features, chest pushing against your back and the smell of citrus invading your nostrils. 

It wasn’t until she saw what was in the box that made her lose all emotion, utter the Lord’s name in vain and straight up dive bomb into your arms.

“Gimme that!” She screams, her chest flattening against you sending even more thoughts into your head, her hands already snatching the hellish thing from your grasp, one hand closing the flaps and the other wrapping around the carton.

“You weren’t supposed to see that yet.” She mutters, holding it close to her chest, protecting it from you, or vice versa. It didn’t really matter to you. 

What matters was whatever the hell ‘yet’ meant.

“Well, I mean, I can-uh-fuck-” You’re stumbling, sputtering. Because what the fuck do you even say when you find a box full of sextoys that weren’t yours? “I can forget this ever happened?”

“Can you?” She asks, glares really. Raised eyebrow, doubtful eyes, the complete package of disbelief written on her. “Can you really?”

No, you really couldn’t. But you don’t even get the chance to tell her before she stands up.

“Just–don’t bring it up.” She sighs, walking away from you and back into her bedroom.

And it wasn’t. Nobody brought it up for a while, the both of you focusing on unpacking, folding, cleaning. It was all you two did, not even bothering to make conversation. Not without bringing up the box again.

Until she started to do something extremely simple.

Be a mess. 

And she’s dragging you into becoming one when she keeps brushing past you even if she didn’t have to. You could be sitting down on the couch and she’d walk past you to get the box that was right next to you instead of the ones that were stacked up right next to her bedroom door.

It wasn’t like there was a lack of them, if anything there were too many. And she kept doing it anyway.

Yuri didn’t even do anything that you’d consider odd or anything and she’s already distracting you. Every pass, brush of your hands, glances that were a bit too long. 

You were trying to pretend that you didn’t notice anything and gaslit yourself into thinking it wasn’t intentional. To leave her to do whatever she wants because it is her house but this, this was like scratching an itch.

If an itch were to ask her why she had so many dildos, that is.

You were rinsing up a few of her mugs when she plops down the couch, halfway empty of the cartons that were seated a few hours ago.

It was a mistake glancing because–

“Why do I keep so much stuff.” She moans out, the first words uttered after the box. Her arms stretched upward, her shirt riding up just a bit to show that bellybutton of hers. 

You tell yourself you weren’t staring. She’s just casually seducing you with an arm stretch and the temptation to ask her about the damn box grows higher.

“That sounds like a you problem than anything else.” You snap back down, focusing back on the cups. “Why’d you even bother moving out? I thought you shared the old place with Nako.”

“I did, I just…” Yuri goes silent for a moment, before she crosses her legs and gives you these adorable little puppy eyes that make you wanna squish her cheeks. “Promise you won’t tell her? Or anyone else?”

“You don’t need to tell me if it’s too personal, Yuls.” You shake the glass you’re holding. “We can always leave it at that.”

“It’s not really for me, it’s more for her than anything else.” She shakes her head, grabbing a nearby plushie of a bear she left on the couch because she needs one for ‘couch cuddles’. You remember getting that one for her birthday along with a new set of guitar strings.

And she wonders why she keeps so much extra shit like her toys—

“Just please promise me you won’t tell anyone?” She hugs said bear, keeping it close to her chest. “Pretty please?”

“Alright, alright, I promise.” You place the mug down on the dishwasher.

“Swear it.”

“I just said I promised.” You give her a look, as if she’s seriously asking you to double down on an agreement made just seconds ago.

“I need your utmost trust on this.” Yuri glares. It wasn’t scary at all, not with the bear looking at you with a permanent smile on its face. You wonder what that bear’s seen. Or felt.

“Wha-Fine.” You sigh, leaning back onto the counter. “I swear on my need for an eight-hour-sleep that I won’t tell anybody about what you will say.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not enough.”

“You know how much I need my eight hours.” 

“Everyone needs eight hours, idiot.” She shakes her head, an arm gesturing upwards. She wasn’t exactly wrong. You just thought you needed it more than everyone else because you have the tendency to stay up a lot.

“On my rank in League.” You state. “Happy now?”

That seemed to do the trick when Yuri hums for a moment to think, then nods. She knows how much you play that game to a near unhealthy degree back then before you were convinced—forcefully, you may add—to take a step back from it. Looking back, you’re a bit thankful that happened.

Lord knows what you would be doing if you kept that up.

But it doesn’t mean you stopped though. Maybe a long break or two, but you always come back to playing it like a drug. You were simply volun-told how to take the proper dosages.

“Now, what’s the big deal about you moving out?” You move to sit on the couch, facing Yuri who’s now hiding her face behind the bear.

“Uhm,” She stalls. Eyes darting from you to the bear she’s holding, gripping it tighter. “So you know how Nako’s been seeing Hitomi for a while now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“They may or may not be doing things when theythinkI'msleepingnextdoor.” She rushes, cheeks reddening at the words that came out as she hides further into her bear.

Silence precipitates the room, giving you the chance to soak in whatever Yuri just said.

“Hold on.” You start, lips unconsciously curving upwards. “You moved out because you couldn’t stand them fucking?”

“It’s more than that!” She shouts, slapping you with the bear in such a weak manner it makes you laugh.

“They’ve been wanting to move in together so I thought I’d move out instead.” She explains, grabbing a small yellow box on the table. “They wouldn’t have to worry about looking for another place if I did.”

“Pretty selfless of you.” You comment, leaning back and watching her rip the carton apart. “What made you wanna do that?”

She bites her lip, hesitating, hands stopping from unfurling the bubble wrap covering something.

“Too much?” You ask again, knowing that this wasn’t about her roommate anymore.

“No, I’ve just…” She replies, before she turns to look at you. “I’ve been wanting to move out for a while now, you know? Nako’s been my roomie ever since uni, and before that I shared my room with my sister.”

“Ah. You have that dilemma.” You remember the decision to do it yourself. Your parents were fifty-fifty on it till you had to convince them it was better than hour long commutes to and from work. 

“Yeah.” She nods, going back to focus on the wrap. “You must’ve went through that when you moved out.”

“I mean, sure.” Solo living had its perks. Made you appreciate doing chores yourself, you didn’t have to worry about anyone else’s dishes being left in the sink. You could walk around doing whatever with complete privacy, and no one would bat an eye for it.

“It gets lonely at times but you learn to do things for yourself every once in a while.” You add, leaning back to enjoy the soft cushion, watching her open up a box of books.

“And that’s why you got me, dummy.” She teases, picking up one of the books and giving it a once over. You can see a very familiar tie as the book cover and decide to keep that away for safekeeping.

Because a box full of sextoys isn’t enough for her, you guess.

“You do live pretty close by now.” You nod, standing up to pick up another blue container. “We can meet up more if you want.”

“You just like free food.” She bites, stacking up a few books of varying sizes. 

“And you like my company.” You bite back, cutting the tape with the boxcutter, the ripping sound following each stroke. You won’t lie and say that you didn’t like the idea of seeing Yuri more often. Maybe even get a peak of what she’d be doing with one of those toys—

You immediately stop that line of thought and glance back at her after and notice one of the stacks she made was close to toppling. “Might want to put the biggest one on the bottom.”

“Shut up.” She looks down, biting her lip to stop the smiling forming on her face as she starts to fix up her makeshift jenga structure. “Anyway, it took me a while to find this apartment, and the movers were a pain in the ass to talk to.”

“What, they didn’t like that you had so much shit for a single person?” You grin, placing the cutter down. “You can always sell these things online.”

“What am I even gonna sell?” She mutters, arms up in the air as she stops re-arranging her novels on the table. She pauses, stares at the books, then looks up to you staring right back at her.

“Don’t say it.” She warns, shaking her head, eyes widening a tiny bit. “I swear to god, don’t you fucking say it.”

All you do is give her a smirk, extremely tempted to say exactly what you were both thinking. Her hands were already moving to hold onto a small novel, and while it may seem idiotic to tempt physical danger, it also sounds very fun to piss her off.

“The bo–” A thump resonates. A pained shout erupts. A groan follows.

“I told you not to say it.” She repeats, hands on her hips. 

“Worth it though.” You grumble, hand rubbing your chest where the book hit you. “You’ll get money on the side anyway, what’s the big deal?”

“Getting to know what to sell is a big deal, duh.”

“You’re unpacking. This is like, the best time to.” You place her novel book on top of one of her stacks.

She slouches, looking like she’s considering the idea when she starts glancing around her towers of books and the rest of the taped up boxes. “Promise you’ll help?”

“If you tell me why you have a box full of sextoys, sure.” You smile, sitting down next to her. Externally, you looked cool as a cucumber. Internally, you were dying.

Why the fuck did that come out of your mouth, you wonder. You should’ve just agreed and be done with it but now the awkward silence was eating you alive.

“...Oh my god.” She groans, leaning back onto the couch. “I thought we already went past that!”

“Did we?” You shrug, taking another glance at her stack of books, pretending that you were completely okay with what you just blurted out. “I never agreed to that.”

“I hate you.” She smacks you with her plushie. “I seriously do.”

You laugh, flailing your arms to protect yourself from a bear. “No–you–don’t–”

She hits you a couple more times before she eventually stops—from exhaustion or from being lazy, you don’t know—and glares. Eyes narrowing, lips flattening, mind deliberating. All the while the bear is just staring at you.

The bear’s got a pretty cool hat you have to admit—

“Fine.” She states, lips slowly transforming into a grin. “If we still finish before dinner.”

“Yeah, I still get food though right–wait.” You stop, jaw dropping slowly. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” She answers, crossing her arms around the bear. “I’ll even give you a live demo if you want.”

“I think I’m good with the story, thanks.” You chuckle bashfully, hands raising in surrender. Not that watching her fuck a dildo wasn’t hot as fuck, it’s simply very bad for your mental and physical health to be given a clear view to that show.

“You sure?” She draws the words out, smirking and teasing. She leans in, her hair falling, getting closer and closer till you can feel her breath on your face. “You don’t wanna see me suck on a strap like it’s your di–”

“Yes I’m fucking sure!” You answer—scream, really—as you stand up, away from any more of her teasing because your hands are starting to get that itch instead of your mouth. You scratch that itch by going back to the mundane job of grabbing boxes.

You don’t notice the grin on Yuri’s face become absolutely feral.

The next few hours were spent unpacking everything else that was still trapped in their boxes, and anything that she thought she could sell she’d leave in the living room. A bunch of books, extra cables, some plushies she has.

You’re sitting down on one of her chairs for a short break when you let your eyes wander the room. Aside from the large cartons that you both decided to leave for later, the place was halfway there to becoming a home.

It inevitably lands back towards her—it always does—where she’s pulling her shirt up to wipe the sweat off her brow. It also lets you have another peek at her waist, the same pair that you held with your own two hands on that wedding.

There’s always that lingering thought in your head on what her bare hips would feel like, caressing them, tracing every inch of skin with your fingers and wondering what her moans would sound like.

Your mind strays, imagining her face when you trail them upwards, moving closer and closer towards her chest, watching her features morph into something filthy. Begging for you to do more. Touch her, kiss her, tame her.

It’s a good thing they’re just thoughts and not actions cause you don’t know if you’d be able to stop yourself from doing all of that given the chance.

Her offer to give a live performance is enough to make your cock twitch. Add your thoughts into the mix and you’re becoming a horny teenager again.

You exhale through your nose, quietly, hiding it through a tilt of your cup and a sip of cold liquid.

“You never answered me earlier.” You let out, getting your mind out of the gutter for once. 

It’s been happening too many times today.

“About what?” She peeks over the rim of her glass.

“About when you moved here.” You reiterate, elbows on your knees, placing the cup down on her coffee table. “What’s up with that?”

“Technically I started yesterday.” She scoffs. “But I had this place for a few weeks now when–”

She goes on about how she found out about the apartment through Yena and went with her mother to get an initial view. She got a deal to own it after a few years with a down payment and had the movers prep all her items throughout the weeks and have it all delivered in one go.

“I remember one of the assholes tried peeking down my top when they were moving the couch.” She gripes. “Wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it cause he kept sticking close, the creep.”

“...Do I need to talk to the guy?” 

“Mom already handled it.” She answers, standing up to pick up a few leftover cartons, giving you a grin. “But I’ll keep the offer in mind in case I need to move again.”

“Open up one of the big ones while I put these away?” She says, already walking out to her front hall. You could’ve been seeing things but she might’ve been putting a bit more sway in her hips.

“Sure.” Your feet are already moving towards one of them. “Offers always up when you need it!”

And you’re back to the grind. Open, unpack, store.

Except she’s ramped everything up to eleven. 

Intentionally bending over in front of you to show off her ass in those short shorts—you’re totally overthinking it when you thought you saw a small indent in her shorts—or giving you another look underneath her top; Her bra’s this dark blue that’s almost black—it’s a bra for fuck’s sake.

The small touches become more apparent. Less boxes, more space, no reason to take the long way and keep walking in front of you for a touch of your forearm instead of anywhere else.

And the looks she’s giving. The winks she’d send your way when she catches you glancing. The bite of her lip when she’s trying to force her way inside a box. 

Now this isn’t just mere coincidence anymore.

It’s bothering you a lot; You feel like the air conditioner isn’t cold enough, you’ve been drinking a lot more water in between breaks alongside the snacks that Yuri’s kept feeding you with. 

If this wasn’t paranoia, you don’t know what it is.

Then again, you agreed to this the moment she convinced you to help.

You walk back from her bathroom after placing down some medical supplies in one of the cabinets—You really need to have her sell some of her things—where you find her laying down on the floor, now clear of all the rainbow colored cartons save for one last box. 

“Want some more water?” You ask, already heading to the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from her cupboard.

“Please.” She lazily throws an arm up towards you.

“Sit up.” You hold out her cup. “Or else I dunk you in it.”

You honestly could. Just shower her in water and soak that baggy shirt of hers, giving you an excuse to ogle her tits–

“Alright, alright.” She gets up to lean onto the sofa seats, grabbing the cup from your hands to take a sip. “Thanks.”

“It’s your house, I’m here to enjoy the free drink.” You sit down on a chair across from her.

“Always food with you.” She smiles underneath the cup. “Too bad you’re getting that story.”

“Speaking of which,” She continues, “Can you get the box from my bedroom? It should be by my desk.”

“Is it that box?” You put the cup down. “It’s that box isn’t it?”

“Are you actually scared of a box?” She giggles. “Yes, you dummy, it’s that box. Now go get it already. It’s important for the tea.”

“Do we really need it?” 

“Of course we need it dummy.”

“Just–making sure.” You cough, clearing your throat before doing as she asks, nervous anticipation consuming your thoughts.

You shake your head. You really need to stop with these things. 

She wouldn’t actually use them in front of you anyways.

So you distract yourself, focus on getting what you need, and get back to Yuri. It also gave you a chance to look around the place.

Her apartment started to look lived in, her shelves and cupboards full of items, the boxes all folded up and placed near her front door for recycling.

It looked a lot better than it was when you came in, that’s for sure.

You spot it immediately after coming inside her room. It was very her for the plushies to be used as a guitar stand alongside her many, many novels and right next to her keyboard standing near the desk.

Not even a day into living here and she’s already managed to make it into her own. Gotta give her props for that one.

Well, maybe not for some of her clothes still strewn about in her bed.

You can’t stare at it. You won’t. It’ll make you start thinking about what she’d look like in them. What she’d look like without them.

You booked it straight to the box—still black, still closed—your head staring at it, damn near putting holes in it as you walk out of the bedroom to avoid anything else except for the piece of carton in your hands.

Right into even more trouble.

The very first thing you noticed when you came back into her living room was her shorts on the floor.

The sounds registered after. The squelches, the moans, the gasps. All so low, so lewd, so incredibly fucking fucked hearing it all come from her.

You’re almost tempted to go back to her room and leave her be. Pretend you never saw anything, play the dummy that she always call you by.

But you look up, because what you’ve been imagining for so long is right in front of you and the devil in your shoulder is whispering all the dirty things that you’ve been wanting to do with Yuri. Do unto Yuri.

Everything.

And boy, was it a sight.

Yuri made herself comfortable on the couch, legs spread with a hand between her legs, blue-ish black panties that matched her bra pulled to the side with a small silvery object playing in her fingers rocking back and forth into her tight ass. Her other hand’s busy pinching a nipple, her shirt ridden up to her chest along with her bra.

She’s easing into the plug, teasing herself, the tip all wet and shiny from what you think is lube. You can see her tense up every time she pushes it in, mouth trying to bite a piece of her shirt to stifle her moans.

Didn’t really work, but the view.

Hips rocking with every thrust, the plug slowly disappearing into her, thighs shaking, muscles rippling. The hand on her tits hasn’t stopped pinching and squeezing. Everything about her looks so fuckable in all the ways you’ve thought extremely hard not to.

It almost made you drop the box, with the sound of saving it alerting Yuri to your presence.

“He-Hey.” She moans, pushing the entire thing deep, taking all of it into her ass before fixing up her panties. “You were taking too long.”

“I–” You start. Your mouth stays open for a good while, trying to think of something to say. You can’t.

Because you don’t exactly know what to say when someone’s fucking herself on a butt plug in front of you.

“You want-wanted to know about the toys right?” She says, letting the plug settle, hand pulling away from it to cup her tits. “C’mere and give me one.”

You follow, mouth still stuck in that perpetual curse of being unable to move as you sit down right next to her, box in hand. 

The box moves from one pair to another. Yours to hers, where the flaps open once more to show her very bright collection of dildos, vibrators, and handcuffs.

Yuri’s planning something devious, or ambitious. Could be one, could be both. She hums, eyes looking through her box, tongue slipping out of her mouth to lick at her lips. 

Definitely both.

“Pick a toy.” She asks you, face full of perverse mischief, hand roaming over her wares. “We can take turns choosing.”

You were completely still, stuck from earlier, mind processing; Embedding the image of Yuri playing with her ass into your head like a core memory of hers that you would never delete from your brain.

“Yuri–” You exhale, making her hum—purr, really, but who gives a shit at this point. “Are you seriously asking me to pick a fucking toy?”

“Duh. They’re all clean by the way, so touch all you want.” She answers, rolling her eyes, leaning back into the couch’s arm. Her shirt’s still ridden up, her breasts out in front of you, nipples hard from her earlier teasing. “Or do you want me to go first?”

She’s already reaching out to the black carton, decision made on what she’d be showing you—or using on herself—before you cut her off with yours.

“The dildo.” You say, one of your arms picking it up. It was the same one you first found when you opened it earlier. Red, large, and girthy, something that looked like it would fill her up all the way. “This one.”

You hand it over to her. It looked comically large in her hands, yet she’s all grins and giggles when she brings it closer to her mouth, tongue already lapping at the tip of it.

“Would you believe me when I say that this is the first one I bought?” She’s slobbering all over it, sucking on the first few inches of the toy, tongue flicking and licking to get it all wet and ready for her.

Her eyes are closing, moaning as she takes it deep, likely imagining that she’s throating a real cock. Yours is twitching at the thought of it being yours that she’s fucking her mouth with.

“This became one of my faves too.” She lets out, biting her lip as she lowers it down to her clothed pussy, rubbing it over herself. Her panties are stained from earlier, a wet darker patch of it in the middle. “Other than the vibrator, but I use both anyway–”

She cuts herself off with a strangled moan, her hips raising, arching as she presses the toy into that spot, rubbing it in, wetting it even more with the saliva that stuck to it.

Jesus Christ, is all you can manage to conjure up in your brain as you watch her edge herself with her favorite fucking strap. The thought of pulling her panties aside never seemed to cross her mind because she’s pushing it inside her to no avail.

“God, the things I did with this fucking thing–” She’s babbling, starting and stopping about how she’d always use it whenever, wherever, whoever.

“Fuck, I’d just use this to get off when I needed a good dicking–” It’s probably why she never goes out on dates even when everyone’s telling her to go on them. Who needs a boyfriend to satisfy her if she can do it herself anyway?

“Had to-god-to get the smaller ones cause I couldn’t walk in public with this.” That gets you thinking, pacing, recollecting every moment you’ve been with her if she had one stuffed inside of her pussy.

“Yena even borrowed one of them–” Now the vivid picture of Yuri and Yena sharing the red toy with each other, fucking each other with it, wondering how’d be on top, is painted inside of your mind.  “And she still hasn’t given it back, the bitch–” 

You might never look at Yena the same again with that.

All the while Yuri’s kept on going, hands never quite stopping with her metaphorical blue balling. Her underwear is completely soaked with her juices, even marking the couch with the damp spots underneath her.

“Fuck, Yuls–” Your cock’s been straining against your pants since she’s started, in dire need of relief from the confines of your clothes. One of your hands comes to undo the draws of your sweatpants to relieve the tension but you’d think the air can get you off at this point.

“Fuck me, huh?” Her tongue paints her lips before a question—a very dangerous one, you might add—comes out of her mouth. “Is that what you want?”

“God yes,” You confess, eyes roaming all over her. From her delectable thighs, her perky tits, her adorably sinful face; It’s all so ruinable. “Wanted you ever since–”

“The wedding?” She cuts you off.

“Even before that.” 

“Tell me.” 

So you do.

Tell her that it happened at that university reunion party you all attended. It was pretty memorable, considering that’s when Minju was officially announced ‘out of the market’.

Yuri was blonde then, wore this green dress that hugged her curves and showed her off in all the right places. That was the first time you ever saw her outside of baggy clothing or the tamer casual wear she has on.

It didn’t help that she stuck to you like glue for the majority of it all. You and her were making sure Yena didn’t do something stupid when she had a bit too much to drink.

You tell her how much you wanted to pull her into the bathroom and rail her against one of the stalls; You would hike her dress up and pull her underwear down and go to town on her pussy, not caring if anyone walked in and found out about it. 

Watch her face morph into a state of euphoria as you give her a nice, thick load at the end of it. Steal her panties so she’s forced to go back out there glowing from the aftermath and dripping with your cum.

Her eyes are closed all throughout, hand lazily circling the dildo over her, clinging to every single word, and all the dirty things you wanted to do to her that day. It gets her even more riled up hearing you talk like that, judging from the way she’s pushing the toy harder through the cloth.

Then she grins, pulling at the fabric covering her cunt at the same time she pushes. Whether it’s to tease you or to pleasure herself, you can say both and you’d be rewarded, just like she’s doing to herself when she stops for a moment to hike up her legs and take off her panties.

It’s left dangling on one of her legs when she brings it back down and spreads them once more, wet pussy out in the open. You wet your own lips at the sight of it, wanting to put your cock in between her legs and feel how hot she would feel.

Even the butt plug is mocking you, the shine of it inside of her ass barely visible because of the grip that she has on it. 

“You-you wanna know something funny?” Her eyes are locked into yours while her hands are back to playing with herself, grinding back on her toy. The lack of ruined underwear makes it even better for the both of you. “I had this plug on my ass that day. Fuck, I even had this on ever since we talked about moving in.”

You two were fucking hopeless.

She slides just the tip in, relieving all the built up tension she’s had for the past few whatever long time has passed and the moan she lets out sounded heavenly, the relief of everything crashing down on her.

“It was my first time too,” She continues, slouching down further into the couch to give you a better view of her ass, holes filled up with her toys. “Having it in me in public. I was so fucking horny that day that I probably would’ve let you fuck me in that bathroom–”

The red toy goes deeper inside of her, shutting herself up with her own actions. A whimper rings out, her thighs trembling with each thrust of the dildo into her drenched cunt.

“Wish th-this could be your cock–” She squeals, biting her lip to stop the perverse giggles that were trying to sing out of her. “You’d stretch me out so well–”

You couldn’t take it anymore. All the stories, the teasing, the view of Yuri fucking herself to the thought of you. You’re bursting at the seams, needing to chase your own pleasure this time.

So you stand up, a visible tent in your pants—she’s already eye-fucking it—and grab something different from her collection; A vibrator, all white with teal highlights because of course she has the classic one.

You turn it on, watch it whir for a moment before turning it off. You turn your head back towards her, still fixated on your pants, your cock, before you take a step. Her breath hitches.

Take another, and you stop to take your pants off. Quick, crass, it did the job to relieve your own stress as your length is freed from its confines. Yuri visibly shivers in excitement.

One more, and you’re cock-to-face with Yuri, her gaze finally looking up from one head to another. 

“Holy shit.” It’s only two words, but those alone speak volumes. She reaches out, gripping you at the base, before she starts to lazily pump away at your shaft. “You’d ruin me for all my toys with this.”

“Would I?” You ask, moving to grope one of her tits. She felt so soft against your hand, so perfect. You needed to feel every inch of her, squeezing, pinching, tugging. Move from one breast to another, and you’re addicted. “All those toys, and I’d ruin you?”

“You fucking would.” She arches, hand between her legs moving faster, no rhyme or rhythm to it. Only a need to cum, and she didn’t care how she’d achieve that high. She pulls you closer, your cock resting on her face, the tip of her tongue having a small taste of you. “Because a real cock would feel so much more better.”

She starts kissing your cock, making out with the head, lips glued to you. Her tongue’s twirling and flicking and dousing you in her spit. She moans, the vibrations thrumming over you, making you clench your legs.

“Yuri, what the fuck–” You steady yourself by leaving her tits to grip her head, the other still holding onto her vibrator, waiting, begging to be used on her. 

“This already beats out sucking on Glassy.” She even has a name for the damn thing, and it’s not even made of glass. “I can feel you throbbing.”

And you were, when she presses you back to her face. You are when she giggles, giving you pecks all over your length. And you still will be when she inevitably goes back to sucking your cock.

Her hands pump what she can’t put inside of her, wetting your shaft, surrounded by the hot feeling of her mouth that shakes you to your knees. She has the perfect grip on you, stroking you just fast enough to keep you aching for more.

You don’t know if she’s practiced on a dildo to suck somebody’s—your—dick. Not that it mattered if she did it for anyone else.

Because it’s Jo fucking Yuri that’s loving your cock right now, and that is a dream come true.

Her cheeks hollow, tightening her lips around you, just like yours hands are around her hair. It might’ve hurt her scalp. In reality it turned her on even more, bobbing her head quicker, taking more of you inside her mouth.

Then you remember: You’re holding onto one of her toys too.

A finger is pressed on a button, and it begins humming low, drowned out by her filthy fucking slurps. She’s too entranced with your cock to notice that you’ve brought it down to her chest, letting it massage one of her tits.

She hums, eyes closing, enjoying all the sensations she’s feeling. It’s all a fucking mess; From her sucking you off to fucking herself on Glassy. And she’s enjoying every single minute of it.

She mutters something; Too hard to understand with your cock in her mouth, too obsessed with your cock to let go of it. Girl can’t even bother to let her lips go off your head. So she speaks with her actions instead.

Her hand leaves the base of your shaft in favor of your forearm, resting there while you move the vibrator from one nub to another. Still set low, massaging her breasts slowly, pressing it into her. 

Yuri even incentivizes it. She starts going at you faster, getting messier and messier with spit starting to drool down her chin. She keeps uttering indescribable things while she’s at it, and you can’t understand a single fucking thing.

“You know I can’t understand what you’re saying.” You pull at her hair, popping your cock out of her lips, now pouting at the loss of her new favorite toy.

“I was enjoying that.” She whines, trying to push herself back onto you, pulling your arm, anything to get you back. “You taste so good, I could just suck on you all day.”

“I’m not exactly part of your collection, Yuls.”

“Yeah you are.” She retorts, shaking her head at another attempt to escape your grasp. “I have Glassy, and you are Dummy.”

“Fucking–Seriously?” You’re in disbelief. Known each other for who knows how long and she suddenly treats you like an object. “I’m a toy to you now?”

“Of course not!” She grins, hand finally coming up from her legs with the sex toy. She’s waving it around, drenched in her juices, glistening in it. “I love each and every single one of them.”

The implications are damning, yet your lust-addled brain is too horny to comprehend that fact.

“So who’s this?” You ask, pressing the vibrator into her chest, watching her tits sink in. You so badly want to suck on them, make her cry out when you bite one of her nipples. But you save that for later. 

Right now you have other priorities.

“Oh, Cherry?” She has a name for everything. “A friend got it for me when she went to Japan.”

The only one you knew that went to Japan recently was—

“You wouldn’t believe the stuff she has.” She grins, the hand on your arm pulling you downwards, to the dip of her breasts, to her midriff, and stopping just above her clit. “She’s crazier than me.”

“Having toys isn’t enough?” You push the vibrator, making sure to up the setting and make her thighs quiver. “Nothing’s crazier than that.”

“You-You’d be surprised.” She admits in the middle of her moans. “Cherry’s the real reason why I moved out.”

“Yeah?” You bring it lower, the head of it moving directly on top of her clit, and you repeat the same words she told you minutes prior. 

“Tell me.”

So she does.

Tells you all about that time when she overheard Nako and Hitomi over the walls of her old bedroom. All the moans they were letting out. They were trying to hide it for Yuri too, when she says that they were a lot more muffled than usual.

She just got the toy you’re holding; ”All the way from Japan.” She comments, and was wanting—dying—to try it out. 

“The hearing aid helped out a lot.”

She continues with how she used it in tandem with her other toys. Had it go in the same places you had it while she bounced on top of a dildo while she had another smaller one up her ass.

“I’ve always wanted to have this in my ass but it’s too fucking big–”

Her breathy moans sing out of her lips every few words, drawing her story out even more. Yet the pressure on her clit never really goes away, only being released for a short moment when she gets too lost in the pleasure to keep on talking.

She knows what you’re doing because she’s done the exact same thing to herself. All the words, the actions. It’s gotten to a point where the both of you are getting so close to losing all composure, yet you still want to carry on with this game.

So she carries on, giving you a play-by-play of what she did that night. It’s so detailed it makes your cock harder if that was even possible, made you leak pre-cum right there in front of her. 

She’s eyeing it of course, has been since she’s started talking, still deprived of your cock in her mouth. She brings her hand back to your shaft, gripping you, jerking you slow. Another comes back to her pussy, her toy pushing back inside of her.

Her eyes meet yours, and the face she makes for you is extremely tempting; Tongue pushing into her cheek, eyebrows wagging, eyes full of perverse ideas.

A pull of her hair stops her, and with a whine or a whimper, she keeps on going.

She admits how she got a bit too noisy after a while, louder than the couple at the other side of her room. She didn’t stop even when they did, if anything it got her hornier at the thought that they knew about what she was doing.

All her thoughts about that night was how much she wanted to get in on the action between the two. Yuri’s heard them so many times and the one time they took her into consideration her libido was at an all time high.

“It wasn’t the first time, either.” Yuri giggles, confessing that she’s gotten off to the both of them so many times at this point. The realization that she got caught that night made her cum all over her bedsheets.

The morning after was awkward for the both of them, she says. How Nako had to sit her down and tell her to stop being so loud with what she was doing. But that only spurred Yuri on, knowing that Nako was listening in on her masturbating to said girl.

Her hands haven’t been idle; Stroking you faster, fucking herself deeper. Her clit’s being abused by the vibrator that you’ve constantly held there, and you can tell that she’s close to cumming her brains out.

Her hands haven’t been idle; Stroking you faster, fucking herself deeper. Her clit’s being abused by the vibrator that you’ve constantly held there, and you can tell that she’s close to cumming her brains out.

She’s all twitchy, legs and arms and mouth just begging for you to turn it up to the max.

“You are just…” You pause, trying to find a single word in your limited dictionary of horny thoughts. A lot of words spring up to mind, but only one really fits the description of Jo Yuri in this very instance. “Such a slut.”

“Yeah?” She cackles, depraved, debauched, deafening. Her entire being is screaming it, and you are loving every second of it. “Cute innocent Yuri being such a closet perv, who would’ve known.”

“Be-Bet you didn’t think of that when you wanted to-to dick me down at that party.” She’s abandoned Glassy in favor of bracing herself to your arm, the shaking in her thighs intensifying as you turn the vibrator up a notch. “Like–Fuck, like you wanna do me right here on this couch.”

You want to confirm something. It’s been gnawing at you ever since she’s decided to ‘obtain’ you as part of her collection. And just as she was about to cum, you slow down.

“One more.” You press a button, and the humming dims.

“One-one what?” She can’t focus anymore, so you turn the toy down to low and watch her exhale in annoyance. “What the fu–I was so close!”

“One last toy you gotta tell me about.” You answer her, tugging her hair back and making her fall back down into the sofa. “Swear on my rank I’ll make you cum right after.”

She’s taking deep breaths, her entire body having these micro spasms, angry and disappointed at her orgasm being halted as well as urging her to finish the job herself. But she decides to indulge you.

“Fi-Fine.” She accepts, “Which toy?”

You reach down, yanking the toy out of her pussy, a guttural mewl spilling out of her followed by a  yelp as you throw the vibrator away and pick her up by the waist. You take her place on the couch, ignoring the fact that there’s a giant damp spot where she sat—you’ll help her clean it up after—and manhandle her into your lap.

“This toy.” Your cock is pressed to her lips, dripping with need. You can feel the heat in her legs. “Tell me everything you want to do to me.”

Yuri takes a moment to regain her bearings. It doesn’t take long for those words to register in her head, and when it does, she looks you dead in the eye, and grins.

“Fucking perv.” She comments, grinding onto your lap, shirt up and thrown out of her frame somewhere into her apartment, her bra following soon after. You can feel the heat radiating off her legs and the cold plug in her ass. “Wanna hear me say how much I’ve wanted your dick?”

“I told you mine.” You slide a hand up to one of her tits. “Tell me yours.”

Her grin’s turned into this lewd smirk. Combine that with a bite of her lower lip, and you might as well forget about what you asked at this point.

“Remember that bachelorette party,” She’s edging herself with your cock now, toys all but forgotten. ”When you came to pick me up after we got in trouble with the club. That’s how long I’ve wanted you.”

She’s on a roll, going over all the times she’s gotten wet to the thought of you. The wedding, the after party, every night, to right fucking now. She hasn’t stopped rubbing her folds—like you haven’t been groping her tits—cock in between as she starts to lose herself one more time to the pleasure.

“Watching me fuck myself, having me suck your cock–” Her eyes are fluttering shut, the utter perversion of her words taking over the both of you, pouring gasoline into the already raging inferno of your libidos. “You could dick me down right fucking now and I’d thank you for it.”

Fuck it, you’ve heard, seen, and felt enough.

You grab her by the waist and lift her like she’s another damn box to unpack, and push into her in one smooth thrust. You’re both gasping at the sensation, her arms wrapping around your neck, yours around her hips.

“So much better than my toys.” She sighs out, finally getting what she wants. What you both want. “You’re fucking throbbing.”

“And you’re so fucking tight.” It’s unbelievable how true those words are, gripping you so snug every movement makes her squeeze you oh so harder. She’s had that dildo inside her for so long that it made fucking her all the more easier, and all the more better. You slither a hand down to have a feel of her ass, giving it a little pinch before you start to lift her up and down your length.

Her moans ring out in your ear alongside the kisses down your neck as you bounce her on your cock as if she’s your sex toy now. She’s not idle at all however, hands tugging your hair, her hips rolling in your palms, tits pressing up against your chest. 

“S-Shit, you’re the best.” She gasps, needy pants airing out straight into your eardrums. “Don’t think I’ll ever go back to my toys after having this dick all to myself.”

“What makes you think I’m yours, Yuls–”

“Shut up, you fucking dummy.” She cuts you off, straightening up before bottoming herself down, taking your entire length. “Thought about this for weeks. Got myself off at the thought of riding you.”

“I know you’ve thought about it too.” You can barely understand a word, her pussy almost suffocating you. “Fucking told me all about it, you dummy. And now you’re mine.”

She starts doing the repetitively damning motion of lifting herself up and slamming herself down on your cock. She was slow, enjoying the way you fill her up, taking every single inch of you before she rides back up again.

Her hands are still on your shoulders, staring right into the face that’s enjoying every small bit of Yuri’s doing. Every hip roll, every squeeze, every bounce; It is everything and more that you’ve thought about with her, and you are craving to have more of it.

You snap your hips up just as she comes back down, giving her ass a squeeze. The gasp she lets out when you do add a slap to the same cheek is like getting hooked up on drugs.

“And what does that make you, huh–” You’re grabbing onto both ass cheeks, keeping her steady as you take back control, setting a rough pace that makes her leave scratch marks on your shoulders. You catch glimpses of the cool metal of her butt plug on your fingers, still fitted so snugly inside of her ass. 

“Wh-What do you think?” She retorts amidst the cries of bliss that you’ve caused. 

“Say it.” A hand creeps down to the metal, giving it a tug before placing it back in. The guttural moan that comes echoing into the room makes your cock throb harder inside her, as if it wasn’t already throbbing enough for her.

“N-No–” She’s lost all control of her body, surrendering it to the pleasure she’s feeling yet she’s still putting up a front to you. Pretending that she hasn’t when you both know she already has.

“Say it, you brat.” Another slap to her ass before the both of you pause.

Yuri stares. Gives you that look you’ve seen a million times by now. Her entire body’s sweating, hair matted to her face, even with the cool blow of the AC. The playful glint in her eyes that never seems to leave, and you can’t help but be lost in them for just a moment.

And utters two words. Two words that caused you to come right down to reality, and snap.

“Make me.”

Your grip moves to her waist, hard, enough to leave marks on them as you start to pound into her needy cunt, as if you want her to regret ever saying those words. 

She won’t, and she never will. Doesn’t mean you won’t try.

“Oh my god–” Her hand braces itself onto her couch, absolutely ruined by what you two have done to it. “Give me more, fucking wreck me–”

You don’t stop. Make her perverse moans turn into desperate gasps in the air. Turn her body into mush in your hands as you do in fact, wreck her pussy for anything and anyone else.

Fuck her till she has tears in her eyes from how good she’s taking you. Until her toes go numb from all the curling.  Until she can’t take it anymore. Until she begs.

“Say it.” It’s a mantra you’ve repeated all throughout. Everytime you fuck her so close to cumming before you stop, slow down, whatever it took to keep her from reaching that high.

And she’ll keep denying it. Keep saying all these different ways to tell you no and you’ll keep forcing it out of her. Keep fucking it out of her.

It’s a game. Some fucked up, depraved version of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Neither of you want to lose, but the both of you oh so want to win.

So you start cheating.

Your mouth moves to her chest, taking in one of her nipples, twirling the nub over and under your tongue and giving it a messy suck. You can taste the sweat off of her, that surprised gasp ringing in your ear when you give her a bite.

“Yes, fuck–” She moans, hands wrapping around your neck, mixing through your hair as she leans further into your mouth, keeping you locked in her entire frame. You’re hammering into her harder, the couch protesting in silence at the stress it’s received today. “I’m so close, please, please–”

You murmur those two words, the repetition breaking her down, sending the vibrations straight into her chest with a swipe of your tongue over a bud before clamping back down to suck on her tit.

Your other hand isn’t idle, dipping down low between her legs, your hand getting a coating of her juices before you bring it back to her plug, using it against her. Pushing, pulling, teasing her tight, delectable ass.

You repeat those two words one last time, reveling in the fact that you’re ruining her for everything else, just like she said you would. Feel her legs start to tremble, waist start to shake, face start to get a rosy hue from all the teasing. All the fucking.

“Please, please keep going, I-I’ll say it, just–” She’s pleading, demanding, begging, for you to finish what you’ve started. “Just make me cum!”

“Swear it.” You’re making her work for it, pushing that plug all the way in to her ass, making her take every inch of the plug as you fuck her into her much needed orgasm. 

You only need her to speak the words you’ve been wanting, no, needing to hear into existence, and you’ll give her what she wants. What her body is naturally telling her to do.

Yet she’s lost all manner of speaking, syllables coming out as broken moans because you’re not giving her a chance to rest. The heat of her pants brushes your face when she brings you up from her chest to meet her gaze. Yuri lets out this silly drunk chuckle, before her lips crash into yours.

It’s needy, it’s soft, it’s messy, it’s her. It’s a way of agreement, and you respond with fervor. Tongues meld, grips tighten around each other’s bodies, an urge to take everything this brat of a woman in your lap is giving you rising deep within your chest.

You accept it, all of it, and you return it in earnest by finally giving her what she wants.

You all but rip the buttplug out of her ass at the same time you bottom into her, and she’s reached that high she’s been denied for so long.

Yuri seizes up, abruptly pulling away from your lips as her jaw slackens, back arching as a silent scream is frozen on her features before she starts to shake, jerk, convulse everywhere. Her thighs, her chest, her pussy. She’s gushing, spilling herself all over your cock, the couch, the floor, and you’re left close to your own end.

Yet you pepper her neck with kisses, holding her as she trashes about on your lap. Give your entire focus on her, one of the most beautiful things you’ve seen, and the moans and whimpers that followed were so…fuck.

In that moment all you know is her, completely enraptured by the view of her being undone. Let her break, and watch her be remade. Her teary eyes return back to you, and she regains her bearings with a cup of your cheeks.

“Yeah,” She lets out a weak laugh, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “Definitely the best.”

She leans in, pecking your lips. Then another, and another, until she’s showering you with them.  She’s following it up with these giggles that sounded suspicious.

“Give you my spare key if you give me yours.” She whispers after leaving a kiss on your cheek. It’s a sign of an unspoken promise between you two. One you wholeheartedly agree to.

“If it’s an excuse to spend more time with you,” You reply, thumbs circling her hips. “Then it’s a deal.”

“Like you would say no after this.” Yuri laughs, before a flicker of realization crosses her face, followed by a short roll of her hip that makes your cock jump inside her. “You haven’t cum yet.”

“Close.” You groan, fingers tightening around her hips, head lolling to the sofa back. “Really close.”

“You gonna cum inside me?” You can see the perverted amusement twinkling in her eyes, lips turning into a smirk. “Make me swallow your thick cum? Maybe cum in my ass. You would, wouldn’t you, perv.”

“Christ, Yuri–”

“You’d cum on my face though, right?” She’s given you all these options but the brat’s already decided where you would cum. “Shut me up with that cock, make me choke on it, fuck my face till you burst–”

You’re not going to fall for it. Not gonna pull her off of you and get her down on her knees and cum all over her—the thought makes your cock twitch—when her pussy’s pulsing around your length, trying to milk you of your cum. You feel like you’d cum when you pull out anyway, and she would probably consider that a waste.

So you grab her hips and flip her on her back, pull her legs up to her chest, and give her another sloppy kiss. She moans into it, even as you shove your tongue down her throat just to get her to stop talking. You didn’t even realize that you'd placed your hand on her neck when you pull away.

“Just shut up and get fucked, Yuls.”

You give her throat a squeeze, firm enough to make her gasp, make her eyes blow out and this shit-eating grin forms as you slam into her, fast and rough, with no regard for her at all this time.

“That’s it.” She’s hooked her arms around her legs, keeping them upright for you, giving you all the leverage in the world to fuck her into the sofa. “Use me as your toy, make yourself cum. Fuck it all inside me, I’ll take it, I promise I’ll take all of it for you–”

“I said shut up.” You clamp down harder on her neck, feeling the vibrations of her gullet as she moans into every harsh thrust. Her walls are clenching around you, drowning you in her juices, making it so much easier to drive your hips down harder, urging you to flood her with your cum.

Yuri’s fucking you up with your eyes too. Her eyes are starting to roll back, jaw gaping in struggling sobs, perky tits swaying at every movement, a desire to slap the flesh stirring deep within you.

But you can’t. Not when you’re so close to filling her up with your cum. Your hips get punchier, unfocused. Keep hitting that spot that gets you dizzy from how tight and wet and amazing she feels, taking the hand out of her neck in favor of pressing down on her legs.

She’s almost folded in half, but she’s taking your cock so well, her wails burrowing the slaps of wet flesh against each other as she experiences another orgasm, and the last few thrusts makes your entire body tense up and you finally let go.

Every spurt felt larger than the last; Each rope of cum being unloaded deep inside her. The pleasure was immense, the feeling of filling her up seemed endless, giving her deep thrusts as if you wanted to fuck the cum deeper.

You don’t think you can ever go back to your hands after this.

You’ve collapsed on top of her, completely spent as you move your arms to rest on each side of her face, brushing a stray strand.

“So much…” She mutters, glassy eyes looking up at you, wrapping her arms around your nape. “It feels so good.”

Ditto, is all you can muster up, too tired to move a muscle. You can’t help but stare at her. The matted hair, the drool on her chin, the sweat of her skin, and she’s positively glowing after being wrecked.

She presses a kiss on your forehead, before dropping back down on the couch. “You’re helping me clean this up.”

“Anything for you, Yuls.” You blurt it out without thinking, and the giggle you hear makes you smile.

“Dummy.” She utters, giving you a small peck on the lips before pushing you up. “Come on, get up. I need to make dinner.”

“I thought I wouldn’t be getting free food anymore.” You chuckle, sliding yourself free from her. The both of you let out differing versions of disappointment in your mouths—hums, moans, whines, groans. 

“I’m hungry.” Is all she needs to say. “But we both need a shower first.”

“Is that an invitation?” 

“No.” She denies, pouts, thinks, then smiles. “Maybe after dinner.”

[angrythingstarlight]

On TikTok I saw a comment where a woman said that she told her husband to pretend to be unconscious so he was dead weight to see if she could drag him out of the house in case of fire or emergency, she couldn’t even pull him off the bed and she cried so he had comfort her while dying laughing😭😭😂 reminded me of something biker Bucky and Gorgeous would do

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

A/N: Written on my phone, unbetad.

Bucky groans dramatically. "You might as well just leave me here and save yourself Gorgeous."

You keep pulling him with all your strength but he barely budges an inch. You might be able to move him if he'd stop talking.

He doesn't.

"Bury me with my bike." Bucky cracks open an eye, his lips twitching. "And a pair of your panties."

"I'm not doing that." A laugh spills past your lips before you can stop it.

You can't concentrate with him cracking jokes like this. Yeah that's the reason you're struggling to move this six foot something man. It's all his fault.

You keep laughing but the more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. "Matter fact, line my casket with your panties and toss in a few of those pics I have on my phone."

"Oh my god."

"I'll know if you disregarded my last wishes," he casually warns, like his massive body isn't splayed on the bedroom floor. Like he's still not budging despite the fact that you're putting your all into this.

"Shut. Up."

"Mourn me for the rest of your life," he sighs sadly, head lolling to the side. Bucky hasn't broken character once, he's fully committed to this bit. "Keep a shrine of me in our bedroom."

"Bucky I'm trying to focus," your breathless giggle lost under a grunt when you try to shove him to the side. Nothing. Damn it.

Eyeing his shirtless, tattooed body, you try new a new approach. Adjusting your grip, you hook your fingers under his upper arms. You can barely get your hands around half of his large, warm biceps. Bracing your feet on the floor, you pull so hard you feel your muscles tremble and ache. He slides up a centimeter.

"Don't even think about moving on."

"Be quiet," you start. Releasing his arms, you wince when they hit the floor with a thud. You'd have better luck moving a pile of bricks than your man. "What would you do if I did?"

You're teasing but Bucky takes you very seriously.

He doesn't play when it comes to you. Or his burial requests.

He slowly opens his eyes, his darkening gaze captures yours. "I will haunt you for the rest of your life," he states confidently. "No guy will even breathe in your direction by time I'm done with them. You're going to have a rep because of me."

There's no time to process that because his hands suddenly reach out, grabbing your ankles. You're tugged forward, turned and twisted—somehow he manages to squeeze your ass a couple of times—until you're flat on his chest, his pecs under your palms.

Bucky smiles, his hand cups the back of your head and he brings your face close to his. "If you think I'm a menace now, imagine what my ghost will be like. Just imagine what ghost me would do to you. I'd get rid of your little replacement and then you'd get all my attention. Remember ghost me isn't going to get tired."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

Well maybe that could be fun. Wait.

Your eyes widen at the images his words are creating. He chuckles under his breath. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Resting your chin on his chest, you have to admit, no man would ever measure up to your bike. And if anyone could find a way to come back and haunt someone, it would be the handsome, incorrigible man under you.

"So you want all my panties or just your favorites?"

"Gorgeous. How many times do we have to go over this? All your panties are my favorite."

"Fine," you concede, failing to hold back a smile. "But you promised me a lifetime together and I'm holding you to that."

Bucky brushes his lips across yours in one sweet, sure motion. His deep voice rolls over your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I have no intention of leaving you anytime soon. I got too many plans for you, Gorgeous."

All of his plans revolve around loving you, protecting you, being with you, caring for you any way you'll let him.

And he's going take his time getting through every last one of them.

[sillygoose067]

hi!! is it possible for you to write one for lewis pullman in general or bob floyd inspired by this

Hi! Yes of COURSE it’s possible, I’m so glad you asked :) I chose to do Lewis for this one, but maybe in the future I’ll do a Bob Floyd version… 🤔💭

Also the tweet itself is so funny I swear I’ve seen it like 50 other times and still laughed at it. Thanks for bringing it back!

———————————————————————————-

Plus One, Minus Me

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You were halfway through another spreadsheet, fingers stiff from typing, when your phone started to buzz across the desk. The screen lit up with a name that made the corners of your mouth soften—Lew💞.

You tucked the phone between your shoulder and ear, already grateful for the break. “Hey, you,” you said, brushing a crumb from your lap. “What’s up?”

His voice came through, winded. “Quick question—where are you?”

You frowned faintly, clicking away from the screen. “Um. At work? Still chained to the desk. Why?”

There was a shuffle on the other end. Distant laughter. A thud, like someone had dropped something nearby. And then—faintly—a child's voice calling for someone named "Captain Lewis."

“…Wait,” you said, straightening up. “Where are you?”

“I’m at your family’s place?” he replied, like it was obvious. “The cookout. The one you told me about last week?”

Your brain did a somersault. You yanked open your calendar. June 25th — Family cookout, 3 PM — backyard, bring something sweet?

Oh god. You had told him.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “I completely forgot.”

“I thought you were just running late,” he said, unbothered. “Your mom texted me the address this morning, so I just showed up. Figured it'd be polite to shake some hands and make a quiet exit.”

You groaned, already burying your face in one hand. “I had back-to-back reports this morning. I didn’t even think—I’m so sorry—wait, how are you even surviving out there? My family’s like, full-contact socializing.”

There was a brief silence, and then a huff of laughter.

“Yeah, I didn’t really get a choice. Your aunt handed me a pair of tongs before I even finished saying hello. I’ve grilled, stacked chairs, lost a round of trivia, and now I’m being roped into a scavenger hunt by your cousin? I think I’m her team captain now?”

You could almost see him: sleeves rolled up, awkwardly trying to blend in, probably blushing his way through small talk while balancing a paper plate.

“Lewis,” you sighed, equal parts charmed and horrified.

But he didn’t hear it. His voice had shifted, distracted again. “Wait—someone’s calling me—uh, hey, sorry, I can’t really talk right now, I’m being drafted into backyard dodgeball. Your dad’s on the opposing team and he’s been warming up for ten minutes—I think he’s taking this personally—okay, gotta go—bye!”

Click.

You blinked.

He hung up.

He actually hung up on you.

To play dodgeball.

At your family’s cookout.

That you forgot about.

A scoff caught in your throat—half disbelieving, half amazed. You shook your head and stared at the phone like it had betrayed you. Moments later, a message came in.

A photo. Blurry but full of motion. Lewis in the foreground, red-cheeked and triumphant, clutching a foam ball like a prize. Behind him: your dad mid-sprint, your cousin ducking for cover. Someone had stuck a makeshift nametag on Lewis’s shirt. It read: “TEAM MVP.”

Then came the text:

Lew💞: “Tell me this counts as cardio. Also tell your mom I’m winning? Sort of.”

You felt a smile start somewhere deep and involuntary. A quiet warmth that spread beneath your ribs.

You: “I can’t believe you’re just out there bonding with my entire family without me:(”

Lew💞: “Yeah, well. Someone had to represent you. I’m doing my best. Now if you’ll excuse me, your uncle just pulled out the water balloons.”

Pause.

Lew💞(follow-up): “P.S. Tell your boss you’re missing a great pasta salad.”

———

You managed to finish up your shift a little after sunset, eyes heavy and brain gelatinous from too many hours of spreadsheets and fluorescent lights. But as soon as you clocked out, your feet moved on instinct. You barely thought about it—just turned the wheel and pointed your car in the direction of home. Or at least, the temporary version of it: your parents’ house, backyard still glowing with string lights and the leftover echo of laughter.

By the time you pulled up, most of the chaos had thinned. The crowd had quieted to clusters of folding chairs and flickering citronella candles. A few cousins darted around with glow sticks; someone had put on an old playlist, the kind that lived in your family’s blood more than memory.

You stepped into the yard with a breath held like a confession.

Your parents were at the patio table, sipping something warm, plates scraped mostly clean. Your mom saw you first. Her eyes lit up, though she didn’t rise—just waved you over with a small smile.

“I’m so sorry,” you said as soon as you reached them. “I completely spaced. Work swallowed me whole.”

Your dad waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. We figured you’d show up when you could.”

“Besides,” your mom said, patting your arm. “Lewis made up for both of you.”

You blinked. “He did?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, grinning. “He’s been playing referee, grill assistant, magician, babysitter, and apparently—”

Your dad cut in. “—the reigning water balloon dodge champion.”

You laughed, cheeks warming. “Where is he now?”

Your mom stood, nodding for you to follow her through the side of the yard. “He wore himself out. The little ones ran him into the ground.”

You passed the garden hose, a collapsed beach ball, and a pair of soaked sneakers—evidence of earlier warfare—and then turned the corner into the screened-in sunroom.

There he was. Sprawled on the old futon like a crime scene outline, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes. His shirt was damp, hair tousled, and someone had draped a beach towel over him like a blanket. Your youngest cousin had left a juice box balanced precariously on his chest.

You stood in the doorway and just stared for a second. He looked so comfortable. Like he belonged there. Like your family had absorbed him fully, and he’d let it happen.

“He kept saying he wasn’t tired,” your mom said quietly behind you. “Then he sat down for one second and passed out like a light.”

You glanced at her, grateful.

“Thanks for looking after him.”

She touched your back, light as a whisper. “He fits, sweetheart. Good one, that boy.”

You smiled, then stepped forward to kneel by the futon. You gently moved the juice box, then brushed a hand along his arm. “Hey,” you murmured. “Ready to head home?”

He stirred, blinking slowly, smile groggy and crooked. “Did we win?”

“You definitely lost consciousness, so… sort of.”

He laughed under his breath, voice husky with sleep. “Your cousin is terrifying. I think I work for her now.”

“Come on,” you said, nudging him upright. “Let’s get you out of here before she demands overtime.”

You guided him to the car, waving your goodbyes over your shoulder as he leaned sleepily against you, still radiating warmth from all the attention and adrenaline. And as you drove, his head tipped gently against the window, you couldn’t help but marvel at it all.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, the stars were out and the air had that summer hush to it—cool against your skin, the kind of quiet that only arrives after a long, noisy day.

Lewis was half-asleep again in the passenger seat, arms folded, head resting against the window like he might be dreaming something sweet. You hated to wake him, but the porch light flickered on as the car door opened, and he stirred on his own, rubbing at his eyes.

“Home?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Just about.”

Inside, you helped him kick off his shoes while he yawned like a cartoon character. He dropped his keys twice, then muttered something about how your cousins had “the combined energy of a nuclear plant.” You snorted as you tossed the spare blanket from the couch over his shoulders and went to fetch a glass of water.

When you came back, he was standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes soft and half-lidded, just watching you.

“You’re staring,” you said, offering him the glass.

He took it with both hands, sipped, then said, “Your mom likes me.”

“She does.”

“Your dad said I throw like a ‘real man,’ which I think was a compliment.”

You laughed and leaned your hip against the counter. “You made quite the impression.”

He gave a sleepy smile. “I just didn’t want them to miss you too much.”

That made you pause. Then step forward.

And tuck a hand into the curve of his elbow.

“I think you distracted them just fine.”

You guided him to the couch and sat down beside him, legs curled under you, shoulder brushing his. He exhaled, deep and slow, like he was finally letting go of the day.

After a moment, you reached over, gently pulling a stray blade of grass from his hair.

He watched you with that look of his—soft, a little amused, all affection.

“Thanks for showing up,” you said quietly.

He blinked. “Of course.”

“No, I mean… not just for me. For them. For being there, even when I wasn’t. You didn’t have to.”

He leaned back, head tilted, eyes studying you in that unassuming way of his. Then: “Yeah, but you love them. And I love you. It’s not that complicated.”

Your breath caught a little. Because of how easy, how logical he made it sound.

And how right it felt, hearing it here, in this quiet pocket of the night, after everything.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his.

Outside, a cricket chirped somewhere in the dark. The kind of sound that only made silence feel more full, not less.

Eventually, he sank sideways into the cushions and pulled you gently with him.

And there, tangled together on the couch, your fingers still warm in his, you revelled in this love you'd found.

[buckysleftbicep]

private gallery 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, sexting, phone/video sex, masturbation (m & f), oral sex (f rec), rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie

summary: sexting while he’s on a mission seemed like a good idea, until bucky comes home early and fucks you like he’s been counting the days.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: hi loves! i love the idea of phone sex / sexting, i think it's pretty hot, and here's my take on bucky doing just that! i hope you enjoy it! love you guys and please stay safe out there!

It started with Bucky's shirt.

One of his old ones, soft from too many washes, black faded to charcoal, sleeves loose enough to slip past your elbows. It hung just a little too long on you, clinging in places and bagging in others, but it still made you feel close to him.

Safe.

Like he was there in the room with you, instead of halfway across the world on some mission that wasn’t quite classified but still distant enough to keep him mostly off the grid.

You hadn’t meant to send anything. You really hadn’t. You were just curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath a throw blanket, nursing a mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

The lights were low, the silence thick, and your phone screen glowed faintly in the dark as you scrolled thumb dragging slow over your camera roll until you landed on the last photo the two of you had taken before he left.

It was a simple one. His chin tucked over your shoulder, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, his arm slung lazily around your waist like he always had to be touching you, which was true.

Your smile was soft. Lazy. Your eyes half-lidded, hair messy from bed. It had been two weeks since that photo. Two long, aching weeks.

He still texted you, when he could.

Little things.

A quick “miss you” before lights out. A blurry image of the skyline, always from strange places. A half-joking voice note once where he said, “They’ve got me living off protein bars. Save me leftovers,” like he wasn’t out there risking his life for something you weren’t even allowed to ask about.

But the replies came slowly, and they were always short—just enough to let you breathe, but never enough to fill the space he left behind.

And it was that space—the hollow of it, the need—that made you do it.

You lifted your phone again, shifted your weight where you sat, and tugged the hem of his shirt just far enough down your thighs to frame the shot.

Your knees were drawn up, one bare shoulder exposed, your smile caught halfway between innocent and deliberate. It wasn’t explicit. Not even close. But it felt like something—a tease, a thread you knew he’d pull if you gave him the chance.

You didn’t overthink it. Just typed:

“Still smells like you.”

And hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

Then you tossed your phone aside like it burned.

Your heart was pounding. You weren’t even sure why.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you in less. Hell, he’d kissed every inch of your skin. Touched you in ways that still made your legs tremble if you thought about it long enough.

But this was different. The distance made everything charged. Every word, every image. And something about that photo—about the softness of it, the suggestion felt like more than just missing him. It felt like wanting him.

You tried not to think about it as you got ready for bed. You left your phone face-down on the nightstand, buried your face in his pillow, and told yourself not to obsess.

But in the morning, the reply was waiting for you.

Two words.

“Fuck. Baby.”

You sat up too fast, stomach flipping, and opened the photo he’d attached.

His boots were kicked up against a wall of stacked sandbags. The sun was low, desert light bleeding gold across the sky, casting long shadows across the terrain.

You could only see the lower half of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble on his throat, the faint tension in his parted lips. It was so him, and so not him, like a snapshot of something private, pulled from a world you didn’t belong to.

Beneath it:

“I miss you like hell.”

You stared at the screen for a long moment, then tucked the phone against your chest and exhaled.

It didn’t stop there.

A few days later, you sent a shot from bed. Nothing scandalous—just the soft tangle of your legs under half-kicked sheets, one bare thigh caught in golden morning light. The caption was short. Flippant, almost:

“Too much space without you here.”

Another from the bathroom—mirror fogged, droplets still clinging to your skin. Only your collarbone and the curve of your neck visible, hair wet, mouth parted like you’d been mid-sigh. You typed:

“Shower’s not the same without you.”

And hit send before your brain could stop your fingers.

Then you panicked. Tossed your phone across the bed, buried your face in your hands and groaned into the quiet.

What the hell were you doing?

He didn’t reply for hours.

But when he did?

“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You swallowed. Your pulse throbbed low and slow in your belly.

A few hours later, just three more words:

“Show me more.”

And that was when it shifted.

The line between playful and needy started to blur—not all at once, but gradually. Incrementally. Like dipping your toes into warm water and not realising how deep you’ve gone until you’re sinking.

You found yourself leaning into it. Subtle provocations. A bite of fruit caught on camera, lips parted just enough. A sleepy video of you stretching in bed, the hem of your shorts sliding higher than necessary.

You weren’t posing, exactly. But you knew what you were doing.

You left him a voice memo once, late at night—soft laughter curling at the edges, his name whispered like a secret. Breathless. Wanting. He replied with a single line.

“Play that again. Slower.”

The escalation was inevitable.

One night, you propped your phone against a pillow and hit record. Ten seconds. That’s all. Just your hand, sliding low across your stomach, dipping below the band of your sleep shorts.

You didn’t touch yourself. Not really. But the implication was there—the slow exhale, the tension in your muscles, the camera cutting out just before anything too much.

You didn’t write a caption.

You didn’t need to.

He left you on read for an entire day.

When he finally replied, it was a photo—his hand, gloved, twisted tight in a white bedsheet. You stared at it for longer than you should’ve, pulse hammering behind your ribs, and saw the words beneath it.

“I don’t have the words for what you’re doing to me princess”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You laid in the center of your bed, one hand between your thighs, too wound up to find relief. It wasn’t about the tension—not really.

It was him. Or rather, the absence of him.

You didn’t want the release if it wasn’t his hands, his voice in your ear. You wanted the weight of his body pinning yours to the mattress, the rasp of his breath when he lost control. The look he gave you when he was so far gone in you, he forgot how to be quiet.

By the third week, it wasn’t even teasing anymore.

You were in a tank top and soft shorts, sprawled across your bed. The cotton rode low on your hips, one hand resting just beneath the waistband, fingers grazing bare skin. You took the photo slow. Deliberate. Soft lighting. Warm shadows.

You looked at the camera like you knew what it would do to him.

The caption?

“Can’t stop thinking about you.”

You didn’t expect a response right away, but it came quicker than anything before.

A voice note.

You hesitated—thumb hovering over the play button.

Bucky’s voice was rough. Lower than usual. Just a little frayed at the edges.

“Don’t send that kind of shit unless you want me jerking off to it in the middle of a barrack full of mercs.”

You froze. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then, after a beat—quieter, deeper:

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you either.”

You didn’t send anything else that night.

You couldn’t.

You were already curled around the pillow he used to sleep on, heart pounding, thighs pressed tight, your body wound up with no place to go. You didn’t come—not properly—but you hovered close. Just enough to feel it ache in your bones.

The next morning, your phone lit up.

Call me tonight, when you’re alone

You stared at the message for a full minute, thumbs poised. Then, without thinking, you typed:

“Been waiting for you to ask.”

You hovered over the message, thought about deleting it. But you didn’t. You let it fly.

No reply came.

But just before midnight, your phone buzzed. The screen lit up with his name, and the words:

Incoming Video Call.

Your heart stuttered. Your breath hitched.

And you answered.

The screen lit your face with soft, flickering blue, catching on the curve of your cheekbone, the hollow of your throat. You hadn’t moved since the call came in.

The phone vibrated once in your hand and you stared at his name on the screen like it might vanish if you blinked too hard. And then you picked up—not thinking, not breathing—just hitting accept because you couldn’t not.

And suddenly, he was there.

The image was a little grainy. The lighting was bad—shadows cutting across his face in places, harsh fluorescents glowing behind him. But none of it mattered.

Because even through that poor connection and a scratched front camera, Bucky still looked devastating. Like he’d walked straight out of your memories and into your bedroom. His hair was pushed back, his jaw dusted in scruff, a faint glisten of sweat still clinging to the side of his neck.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

Just those two words. But they wrapped around your spine and tugged hard.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You’d prepared for this—half-expected it after the last few days—but somehow you still felt caught off guard.

Because this version of him, this present Bucky, this heavy-lidded, shirt-stretching, arm-tensing Bucky was a living weapon, and you were entirely unarmed.

His gaze dropped slowly. His mouth curled just a little.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You glanced down, smoothing your palm over the fabric like you’d forgotten. The neckline hung off your shoulder. The hem brushed the tops of your thighs. “I just missed you.”

He chuckled softly, but it was breathless. “Fuck, you look good in it.”

You didn’t respond. Not verbally. You just shifted your legs slightly, enough to show the bare stretch of skin where the shirt stopped and your thighs began. His eyes tracked it instantly.

“You’ve been torturing me,” he muttered, voice pitched low now, almost reverent. “All those pictures. All those fucking videos. And now this.”

You tilted your head, letting the shirt slip just a little further down your arm. “Thought you could use a reminder of what you're missing.”

His eyes burned. “Take it off.”

Your chest rose sharply.

He didn’t growl it, he didn’t snap. He just said it—low, intent, like he needed it more than breath.

You peeled it off slowly, fingers curling into the hem, lifting the worn cotton inch by inch until your bare skin caught the light. You pulled it over your head and let it fall behind you, leaving you in nothing but your panties—soft and thin and dark with the heat that had been building through the day.

His breath hitched audibly through the mic.

“Fuck. You’re even prettier than I remember.”

You smiled. “Your turn.”

He didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up to reveal that perfect stretch of hard stomach and the dark trail leading below his waistband.

His abs flexed as he pulled the fabric over his head, tossing it off-camera. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly as it dropped back to his thigh, and your thighs squeezed together instinctively.

“You wet already?” he asked, eyes dragging over you like he was memorising it.

You bit your lip. “You wanna see?”

He groaned. “Show me, baby. Please.”

You shifted onto your back, propping the phone just right so he could see your whole body. Your hand drifted down, fingers hooking the edge of your underwear, dragging it slowly to the side until your pussy was bare and glistening in the soft glow of your bedside lamp.

His breath caught. You watched him exhale like he’d just been punched in the gut.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he muttered. “Look at that mess.”

“I made it thinking about you,” you said softly. “Thinking about your fingers. Your mouth. The way you fuck me when you’re too worked up to talk.”

His hand was moving already. Just slow strokes at first, under the waistband of his sweats, but you could see the outline of him—thick and heavy and aching—and when he tugged them down, your mouth actually parted.

“No boxers?” you asked, a breathy tease.

“Didn’t need ‘em,” he said, eyes glued to the screen. “Knew I wouldn’t last long.”

Your fingers moved to your clit, slow circles at first, dragging slick over swollen nerves. You moaned quietly, hips tilting into your own touch as you kept your eyes locked on his face. He was jerking himself now—long, firm strokes, the head flushed and leaking as he tightened his grip.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice shaking. “All fucking mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed. “Always.”

He swore again, his free hand bracing against his thigh as he fucked into his fist, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether to slow down or come apart.

“Spread wider for me,” he demanded, breath hitching. “Let me see how wet you are.”

You obeyed—lifting one knee, baring yourself fully for him. He made a sound then, dark and ragged.

“Fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I want you to cum with me.”

Your fingers moved faster now, circling, pressing. You were soaked—obscene sounds rising between your thighs as your pleasure climbed. Your hips rolled helplessly into the motion, breath coming in short gasps.

You couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. You were close — embarrassingly close—the pressure in your core wound tight, ready to snap.

“Say my name when you come,” he gritted out. “I want it in your mouth when you fall apart.”

“Bucky,” you moaned. “Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck—”

He was right behind you.

You cried out his name as your orgasm tore through you—sharp and fast and deep—your body arching, thighs trembling, pleasure blinding and raw.

You barely had time to breathe before you heard it—the low grunt, the curse, the slick sound of him spilling over his hand as his eyes fluttered and jaw locked.

“Shit. Fuck. You’re perfect,” he gasped. “Perfect.”

When it faded, you lay there panting, spent, legs still twitching. He mirrored you—head tipped back, chest heaving, hand slick where it rested on his stomach.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

And then he looked at you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “I miss you James."

“I know,” he said softly. “I miss you too.”

You pulled his shirt back on, the fabric warm from your skin. Bucky smiled, eyes soft now.

“Keep wearing it,” he murmured. “Until I can pull it off you for real.”

“You better hurry home, Barnes.”

“I will,” he said. “First chance I get.”

It was close to 2 am when you heard a knock on your bedroom door, you opened the door without thinking, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

You hadn’t expected him this early, hadn’t dared to believe he could really be home. And yet, Bucky stood there in the dim hallway light, silent and eyes dark, his chest rising like he’d sprinted the last block just to get to you.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He just stepped inside, slammed the door with one hand, and grabbed you like a man starved.

His mouth was on yours before the lock clicked. Hot, hungry, no prelude. Just teeth and breath and weeks of desperation, his tongue claimed yours, kissing you like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a snarl of lust and longing wrapped in salt and spit and the sound of you gasping his name.

You tugged at his jacket, fumbling the sleeves as he walked you backwards. His hands slid down your spine, possessive and certain, gripping like he needed to confirm you were real.

When the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, he broke the kiss long enough to lift you. Your back thudded against the wall as his hands slipped under your shirt, dragging it up and off like he was tearing away the weeks that had kept him from you.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

You managed a shaky breath. “Didn’t bother.”

His groan was low, a dark rumble in his chest. “Fucking perfect.”

He didn’t waste time. He dropped you on the mattress, eyes drinking in every inch of your bare skin as you lay sprawled across the sheets.

You reached for his belt, fingers eager, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head. His grip wasn’t tight, just firm enough to hold.

“Don’t,” he said, his gaze sharp, locked to yours. “Let me look at you.”

And he did.

His eyes moved slowly, reverently. Taking in every line, every shadow. Your nipples peaked under the weight of his stare, your thighs shifting restlessly where they parted for him. He stepped back, stripped off his shirt with one pull, then dropped his pants and boxers in a single motion.

He was already hard, thick and flushed and heavy against his stomach, and you reached again without thinking.

“No,” he growled, batting your hand away. “Spread your legs.”

You obeyed, legs falling open, your skin flushed and aching. He dropped to his knees between them, hands gripping your thighs, and dragged you closer to the edge of the bed.

His mouth was on you before you could take a breath. One long, hot lick that made your back arch off the mattress.

He moaned into your pussy, the sound guttural and needy. “Jesus, baby. You taste like a fucking dream.”

You fisted the sheets, thighs trembling as his tongue circled your clit, slow and unrelenting. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you pinned as he devoured you. No teasing, just his mouth working you open like he could undo the time you’d spent apart with every stroke of his tongue.

You cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth, sharp and tight and perfect. Your thighs shook, your breath stuttered, your entire body burning from the inside out.

“Thought about this every night,” he muttered, dragging his tongue down, slipping it into you with obscene ease. “Thought about how wet you’d be. How you’d taste after driving me crazy for weeks.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, already so close it hurt. “I’m gonna—”

He pulled back. Just like that. Leaving you throbbing, breathless.

You whimpered, hips chasing him. “Why—?”

He stood. His cock glistened with precum, flushed dark and twitching. He grabbed himself and stroked once, eyes still on you.

“Turn over.”

You rolled onto your stomach and pushed up onto your hands, arching your back as you felt him behind you. His hands gripped your hips, spread you wider. He dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick, then slid inside with one deep, brutal thrust.

You cried out, nails clawing at the sheets.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just started fucking you like he owned you. The slap of his hips echoed in the room, his grunts raw and low, breath punching out of him with every thrust.

“This what you wanted?” he snarled. “Sending me those fucking videos? Making me jerk off in some goddamn bunker?”

You moaned, the sound wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back so your spine arched for him. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, Bucky.”

“That’s right,” he gritted out. “Fucking mine.”

His flesh hand landed hard on your ass, the slap stinging and sharp, making your whole body jolt. You cried out, and it sent you over the edge. You came with a scream, muscles clenching tight around him, body shaking as pleasure ripped through you.

He fucked you through it, rhythm breaking, hips stuttering. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and deep, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself with your name on his lips.

He collapsed over you, breath hot against your neck, arms caging you in. Sweat cooled on your skin, and your heart raced in time with his.

Slowly, he pulled out, hands gentle now, dragging over your waist, your thighs, like he didn’t want to stop touching. You turned onto your side and he followed, pulling you into him, arms wrapped tight around your body like he was afraid you might disappear.

He kissed your shoulder, softer now. “If I knew I’d be coming back to this,” he murmured against your skin, “I’d tell Val to put me on more missions.”

You turned your head with a tired glare, swatting his chest. “Don’t you dare.”

He grinned, “Kidding princess,"

But his arm only tightened around you, and your fingers stayed tangled with his as the quiet settled between you—soft, spent, and just enough.

a/n: have a great day my darlings! ❤️ please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoyed it!

[pomegranate-eater]

cw: yandere, forced relationship, reader is pressured into kissing Phainon’s cheek to erase another person’s lips from his skin.

“I demand one more,” Phainon says with his hand on your hip, tapping his foot with agitation. You squirm as he readjusts you on his lap so the side of his head rests against yours, before his reverent yet shaky hands move to trace circles on your lower back.

“… One more?” You don’t want to have your echo confirmed if the bits of exhaustion are tearing their way into your voice.

The late evening is begging you to rest and yet this is still not the moment for the end of your torment. You’ve given him a bountiful of affectionate cheek smothering by now — if you can call the lip jabs you forced yourself to muster as such — and now he wants one more kiss… predicted by you to not be the actual postlude yet.

Your predicament is because of one, more vivacious woman that kissed his right cheek in the gratitude for his help with something in the earlier hour. The gesture had no romantic affiliations, only conveyed a polite affection for his kindness.

However, when Phainon has returned home after managing his duties in the unreachable for you outside, his agitated state painted the illusion of the event being much more tragic. You were subjected to watching him wipe his face with the sleeve to the point it was red from from the friction, next washing his face, until he dragged you to the chair to sit down with him and began urging you to smooch his face over and over, self-aware you wouldn’t want to watch him lose his mind whole night.

When he hastily explained the situation to you and asked for your forgiveness as if he cheated, sprinkled with some anger at the woman, you understood just one thing really — he believes you to be the only one who could kiss him, as only you are his devotion’s beloved. You’ve been finding him quite irrational, if he is panicking over something out of his control, and definitely not something you’re mad about.

Now in the present, he remains being clearly more offended and worried than you, the unwilling (and currently annoyed) participant in this relationship, are. “Yes. I can still feel her lips on my skin, and I don’t want you to think that I—” he self-deprecates to the point his arms over you squeeze.

You immediately cut off his frantic train of thought. “Phainon, her mouth has been eradicated at this point, I’m sure. All you can do is wait for your skin to begin a new cycle if you think she sunk deeper,” you say dryly, accidentally mocking him a little. Since you're sitting sideways on his lap, you peel your head away from his and straighten your left side, swallowed by his chest, so you can properly peer at him while continuing to talk. “Not to mention, that kiss wasn’t to steal your heart.”

You don’t care about this one stupid event, thinking he’s overreacting — that’s the singular reason why you could say you’re disappointed. Not only you’d gladly give him away to that woman, you also are sure he’s only going to hype himself with even more paranoia if you let it roll.

He seemingly doesn’t appreciate your lack of sympathy or understanding, not with the way his brows scrunch together and his lips purse, almost hurt by your frigid insight. He wanted you to be more possessive too so you could prove you recognize him as your lover; however, your apparent lack of being shaken by this ‘disloyalty’ is soothing in itself.

“I understand how counterproductive this is, and I’m glad you’re not feeling threatened by her, yet… could you please grant me this last one erasure? I promise, no more kisses after, and if I lie, you can slap me,” he pleads with desperation, gliding his hands over from your hips level to your waist. You click your tongue when you feel his leg impatiently jump from below your bottom.

You huff at his rather maniacal theatrics and look at his face that’s red from both blush and irritation. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think a slap would have stopped you.” He’d take more kisses even if he’d have to be slapped each time, you’re pretty sure about that — he would take anything from the person who refuses to touch him willingly.

“Oh, I beseech you to not be so pessimistic. I promise, I swear, I’ll let you be afterwards,” he smiles and speaks softly, but with his anxiety, the smile is crooked into an uncanny illusion. His face inches closer to yours and you shiver with disgust at his hot breath and clear excitement.

You foresee you won’t be getting any sleep if you won’t choose to cooperate — he’ll just keep nagging you until he wears you down into submission completely. Begrudgingly, you finally land your lips on his right cheek, and he doesn’t break his promise, as it’s really only one more…

…Except, his palms crush your side and head against him, forcing your plushiness to linger in the awful action of it marking him on his stained skin, as he soaks in your lips’ size, warmth, and texture. The labored exhale of contentment lands on your neck and grazes it unpleasantly.

Naturally, you struggle; you try to push him away with muffled screams against his cheek, your legs dangling off of his left side kicking. Yet, the man dazed by your closeness, only uses his mind to paint the image of some nasty and oozing scar slowly disappearing under your kiss.

This unfortunate incident lasts good fifteen seconds and ends only when he realizes he might have overdone his fixing, based upon the wetness on his face manifesting the beginning of your tears. He lets his arms leave you and wipes the moistness staining the softness of his precious birdie.

“Please, forgive me. I went ahead of myself,” while gentle, he doesn’t sound apologetic much. He senses his mind is cleared now, and it is his turn to kiss your cheek in poor attempt of soothing you, shushing and rocking you at that. The flinch you give him when you feel the intrusive lips is something he’s used by now, so once he’s done, he doesn’t question it.

“Fine,” you acquiesce. As his chest shrinks from the relieved breath and he looks pretty again with a happy smile, he helps you up on your feet and guides you to your shared room for rest.

Phainon simply couldn’t have helped himself. The idea of someone else touching him so intimately feels forbidden, because even if you didn’t ask for it, he is inclined to be yours only.

That’s just devotion, isn’t it?

It’s only a matter of time and opening your eyes until he gains your approval, even if the latter has to come forcefully.

[aervera]

Only Yours Today

synopsis. when nanami unexpectedly calls in sick just to spend the day with you contents. sfw, tooth-rotting fluff, nanami being a gentleman and a sweetheart. notes. i want a day-off from college. but i can't since last semester and everything is hectic

MASTERLIST

you wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of your favorite kettle whistling.

your first instinct is to panic—because nanami never leaves for work without waking you first. he’s religious about routine, almost obnoxiously so. 7:00 a.m. sharp, every weekday. a kiss on your forehead, a brush of his knuckles down your jaw, then the sound of the front door closing softly behind him.

except he’s… here?

you sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. the sun is barely peeking through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in soft gold. there’s the familiar creak of floorboards, then the quiet click of your bedroom door opening.

nanami steps in with a tray balanced in one hand and that subtle smile that always manages to wreck you.

“good morning, y/n,” he says, voice warm, deep, and freshly brewed like the mug in his hand.

you blink at him, confused but already melting. “…are you working from home?”

he sets the tray on your lap—coffee, lightly sweetened just how you like it, and toast with the edges cut off.

“i called in sick,” he says casually, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. “so i’m all yours today.”

you stare at him.

then blink.

“wait, what?”

“i said—”

“you called in sick?”

he nods once, then takes off his glasses to wipe them with the edge of your blanket like he does when he’s pretending to be nonchalant.

“you never call in sick,” you say, still stunned. “you went to work the day you had the flu. you showed up to a meeting after a night mission with three broken ribs.”

“that was reckless,” he agrees simply.

“exactly—so why now?”

nanami finally meets your gaze, his expression gentling as he walks over to your side of the bed.

“because you looked tired last night,” he murmurs, “and i wanted to give you something soft to wake up to today. so… me.”

your breath catches.

because he says it without fanfare, without performance. just a truth he’s already accepted.

you shake your head slowly, dazed. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’m aware,” he replies smoothly. “but you’re the one who keeps me.”

breakfast happens slowly, in the warmth of rumpled sheets and half-lidded smiles. nanami sips his coffee while reading the news off his phone, one hand casually resting on your thigh under the blanket like it belongs there. (it does.)

afterward, you get up to brush your teeth, but he follows you into the bathroom like a shadow. you arch a brow when he wordlessly picks up your toothbrush, dabs on paste, and hands it to you.

“you’re hovering,” you mumble, toothpaste foaming slightly.

“i’m staying,” he corrects. “different.”

you snort.

but you don’t ask him to leave.

by 10 a.m., the two of you are on the couch, feet tangled, a fuzzy blanket over both your legs. there’s an old documentary playing—nanami’s choice, something about 19th-century trade policies—and you’re pretending to watch, but you’re really just watching him.

his hand rests on your ankle, thumb lazily drawing circles.

there’s no urgency in his touch. no demand. just quiet affection, like he has nowhere else to be—and more importantly, no one else he’d rather be with.

you sigh, nuzzling your cheek against the pillow. “i still can’t believe you called in sick. they’ll riot at the office.”

“they’ll survive.”

“you’re the backbone of the entire team.”

“i am.” he glances over at you. “but you are the backbone of me. and i happen to think today, i need my spine more than they do.”

you blink slowly.

“you’re weirdly poetic when you’re not sleep-deprived.”

“i am always poetic. you just don’t listen before your morning coffee.”

you both laugh.

it’s light and easy, the kind of laughter that only happens when the rest of the world is far away.

around noon, you both go for a walk. nanami holds your hand like it’s a habit, not a choice—thumb brushing over your knuckles as he listens to you ramble about the weird dream you had last night (something about a baby panda that spoke fluent french and asked you for tax advice).

he listens, fully and attentively, nodding like it’s the most important topic in the world.

at one point, he pauses near a small corner café. “would you like to go in?”

you grin. “only if we sit by the window and pretend we’re strangers falling in love for the first time.”

he hums, amused. “you want a day off and a meet-cute?”

“i want it all.”

nanami chuckles. “you always have.”

and you always will—especially when he looks at you like this, like your world is the one he’s happiest orbiting.

you return home in the early afternoon with croissants and coffee and a single tiny flower he plucked from the hedge when he thought you weren’t looking.

you catch him slipping it into your cup holder and he just shrugs, all deadpan. “i didn’t have a vase.”

you press your face into his coat, laughing.

back inside, he rolls up his sleeves again—domestic deity style—and makes you both lunch. it’s something warm and simple, but he plates it like a michelin-star chef because that’s who he is: always composed, always precise, even in love.

“i’ve noticed,” he says quietly as you eat beside him at the dining table, “that when i’m home with you, i feel less like a man dragging his feet through obligation. and more like someone who’s… content.”

you tilt your head. “you’re never obligated to stay.”

he looks at you, serious. “no. but i want to. which is rarer.”

later, you nap in his lap.

he’s seated on the armchair, legs stretched out, a book in one hand and you curled against his chest like you were carved to fit there. his free hand strokes through your hair in slow, absent motions.

he doesn’t say a word.

but you feel it in every quiet sigh, in every slight shift of his fingers against your scalp.

he chose this day. he chose you.

you wake up just as the sun begins to dip behind the skyline, golden-orange light painting his features.

“hey,” you whisper, voice still hoarse with sleep. “still here?”

his hand rests on your back, palm warm and grounding. “always.”

as evening settles in, you both lie on the bed, tangled beneath soft sheets, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady in your ear.

you whisper, “do you ever regret days like this?”

“never,” he says instantly.

“even when you’re falling behind on emails and half your company probably hates me right now?”

nanami shifts slightly so he can look at you fully. “no one hates you.”

“i might’ve stolen their favorite employee.”

“they’ll manage.” his thumb brushes your cheek. “you need to understand, y/n—i didn’t call in sick because i was burnt out. i called in because i wanted to be here. with you. no spreadsheets. no deadlines. just… this.”

you don’t respond with words.

instead, you tilt your chin up and press your lips to his—softly, slowly, the kind of kiss that speaks of deep affection, quiet promises, and something warm blooming in the silence between breaths.

he kisses you back just as gently.

no rush.

no need to ask for more.

this is enough.

by nightfall, you’re brushing your teeth side by side again, and nanami’s reflection catches yours in the mirror. he watches you like you’re the sunrise at midnight—like you’re something rare and real that he never wants to miss.

you spit out your toothpaste. “you’re staring.”

“i’m allowed.”

“because you’re sick?”

“because i’m in love.”

you freeze, toothbrush halfway to the sink.

then slowly, you glance at him. “you love me?”

nanami places his hand on the small of your back, guiding you gently toward him until you’re standing face-to-face.

“i think i’ve loved you since the first time you made fun of my tie pattern,” he says softly. “but yes—i do.”

your chest tightens in the best way.

you whisper, “i love you too.”

he leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “good. because i plan to call in sick a little more often.”

you grin. “scandalous.”

“i prefer the term intentional.”

that night, he holds you close beneath the blankets, one arm wrapped around your waist, his breath slow and even against your neck.

and just before you fall asleep, you hear him murmur:

“being yours is the only thing that ever made me feel like i wasn’t wasting time.”

you smile into the dark, your heart full.

because today, time didn’t feel wasted.

it felt like love.

[minutelyfreaked]

simon riley x fem!reader smut blurb. nsfw below. mdni.

so, simon is a big guy.

like hugeeeeee in every sense of the word.

he takes a huge pride in towering over you, finding the way you peer up at him endearing. he loves to grip your chin and guide your lips to his for a deep kiss. his large hands are almost always on you, traveling long paths across your figure. his hand engulfs yours as he threads your fingers together. he always finds a way to press his large stature against your back, reminding you of how big he is.

something about how much bigger he is than you just really gets him going.

even as he presses your bare front into the mattress, cock pressing lightly at the entrance of your cervix, the position put an emphasis on the size difference between the two of you. his legs trapped yours as he looped his arms under your body. his head was tucked next to your ear as he pressed deeper.

he's been at it for hours, manhandling you into several different positions as he collect numerous orgasms from your overwhelmed cunt. he abused your clit with his tongue as he prepped your vice like hole for his girthy dick. once he fully stuffed his cock in your pussy, he was a goner. he just held you down and memorized the feeling of your warm, soft, cunt wrapped around him.

"is here 'bout right, lovie?" simon muttered into your ear, groping at your bare skin. he was pressed against the spot that caused your toes to curl and eyes to roll back. one of your hands was wrapped around his wrist as you weakly tried to escape the deepness of his thrust.

"simon-simon, i can't..." you tried, but couldn't quite get out the full sentence because of his depth.

"can't what, hm? gotta be a little more specific," he responded, palming over the slight bulge in your stomach. this called you to cry out his name as tears welled in your eyes.

"you're so big, si. 's almost too big," you slurred out as his cock stirred in your guts. he all but moans at your words, lips marking the side of your neck.

"'s neva' too big," he mumbled with a gruff snort, one of his hands slowly slid down your front, making its way to your overstimulated bundle of nerves. his slow circles had your back arching deeper into the mattress, his front pressing further into your back.

he was everywhere. he was all you could smell, hear, think of, and feel. his touch set your nerves into a frenzy, causing your senses to go haywire. you couldn't move away even if you wanted to as he held you firmly in his grip.

his thrusts began to turn brutal as he pressed most of his weight onto you, properly fucking you. his pace was nothing if not consistent, each thrust as quick and deep as the last. your thighs shook as another shattering orgasm ripped through you, juices coating both of your lower halves as simon finally chased his high. he nearly sent you into overstimulation before he came, painting your velvet walls white.

he allowed the two of you a few moments to calm down. he moved to massage your hips and lower back as you laid there, exhausted from his thorough fucking. you could feel his release dripping out of your worn pussy, painting your folds a milky white. simon hums at the sight, overly pleased with himself as he moved to massaging your thighs.

he sat between them, kneading the supple flesh of your thighs while watching his drip from your center. one of his hands left your thigh in favor of scooping his cum on to his fingers and pushing them deep into your cunt. he scissored his fingers a couple of times before pulling his fingers away, stuffing them into his awaiting mouth. the flavor brought a lustful spark to simon's eye as he gripped your thighs and dragged you to the edge of the bed.

"what'd ya say to one more round, love? just one and i'll leave you be," he said, already kneeling to be eye level with your core.

and who were you to say no?

— writing smut is a lot harder than i thought it would be omg.

( sincerely, gwen. )

© minutelyfreaked 2025 —do not repost, plagiarized, or falsely claim my work. likes, comments, and reblogs are welcome!

[skintydelight]

Things you can do to avoid e@ting:

•take a shower!

Idk why this works but your shower/bathroom is not normally associated with food or eating in general. No one ever eats a meal in the shower, so just hop in and let the water do its thang. You’ll feel less hungry after.

•go on a walk

Ok hear me out I never thought this would work bc I thought it would just make me hungrier but when you walk you’re inducing a brand new response from your body. It is cardio at the end of the day, even tho it’s light cardio. The walking kind of switches gears in your body and brain, and your brain will focus its energy and thoughts on walking since that’s the stimulus you’re giving it. Your brain is not smarter than you, it’s just a machine. It doesn’t know why you’re doing things. So it changes according to what you’re doing.

•electrolytes

Find a good brand of electrolytes that are sugar free and low in calorie so you stay within ur calorie limit and fill ur stomach up w water and nutrients! When we don’t eat we also need the hydration from electrolytes. Your body legit can’t function without it

•tea

Trust me. Just drink the damn tea

•rub ur stomach

The growling sometimes gets soothed for me if I rub my stomach. Idk why it just does, I also don’t know if this works for everyone but try it

•gum

Duh! Find a good sugar free gum you like <5 cals pls and just chew those religiously

•don’t watch a show/movie

Ik everyone says to put on a show or movie u like but to me I find it makes me feel my hunger more and think about food more. May be bc I normally used to eat while I watched something so I guess I associate that with food. No bueno

•spoil the food

Hot sauce, trash, perfume, whatever you can do to mess the food up where u legit can’t eat it do it.

•try to last until late (when places close)

I had a bad habit with fast food so I would just stay hungry until later at night so even if I wanted fast food I couldn’t order bc it wasn’t open. Not many 24 hr joints by me. So either I’d have to eat whatever I have at home which is barely anything or just wait until morning when I wasn’t even craving it anymore

•diet drinks

Idc what u mfs say I will drink my zero sugar and diet drinks till I die. Try zero cal sparkling water if u don’t like soda. The carbonation fills ur stomach up

•mukbangs

It honestly helps me not feel as hungry tbh

•food menus

Sometimes just browsing through the menus of places I like to eat at makes me feel good. Idk I don’t order it but it’s nice to see what’s there when I just can’t stop thinking about food

•smell something gross/minty

This one’s bad and hard to do but if there’s anything that smells gross or sometimes a minty smell does it , smell it. Your scent receptors will send a message to ur brain that whatever is there isn’t appetizing and you’ll feel less hungry

Lmk if u guys want more <3

[teaboot]

Question that I suspect is autism related

I have, on more than one occasion over multiple decades, been told that I “need to have the last word” and that I “have a response for everything”.

Additionally and in a similar vein, I’ve been told that “everything is an argument with you” and I “always have to say something”.

When I was a little kid I was bad at conversations. People said stuff I had no opinion on or didn’t need follow-up and so I wouldn’t answer and they’d get bored. And eventually through trial and error I figured out that if someone said something to me, all I had to do was say something related back, and the interaction could go on as long as it needed to.

But then as a teen- and now as an adult- a number of people (mostly people I’ve found to be very delicate and particular about things in a sort of need-to-be-in-control authoritarian way) have expressed the identical observation about how I naturally try to converse, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

And the thing is, I have a sibling that talks like this too. We bicker all the time. He changes his own opinions seemingly at a whim for the purpose of being contrary, and it’s impossible to make a statement or observation out loud without him contradicting it, and even when he is demonstrably, factually wrong about something, he will dig his heels into the dirt and defend his stance to the grave.

And like. I hear myself responding, or adding on to people’s comments, but I don’t hear the ‘arguing’ they describe, or the contrarian habits of my sibling. Even when I’m paying attention and being bery careful not to follow up too much or speak too often or disagree or correct something that isn’t important, I get called out for “picking a fight”. They say something, I answer, they reply, I continue, then seemingly out of nowhere they snap. I think everything’s fine until suddenly it isn’t.

And so I guess my question is, how can you tell if you’re a contrary sort of person? How can you tell when to respond or follow up on a person’s statement and how do you know when to leave it in silence? Does everybody see me this way, and is it only people who are already short-tempered who are willing to say it?

I honestly don’t really have that much to say, and half the time I don’t even really want to talk at all, but I’ve been told countless times that I “just seem to like the sound of your own voice” and have to just be “tuned out after a while”. So if it isn’t necessary and I don’t even want to, why am I doing it?

Is there a reason I’m like this? Why is my sibling like this? How do I stop talking when there’s nothing to say, and how can I tell the difference between a conversation and an argument before the other person visibly snaps?

I’m a full grown adult