#I need something to watch while working out

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

What's Left of Me is Yours

Bucky Barnes x Reader (Established Relationship)

Warnings: stalking (non-graphic but escalating), emotional distress, possessiveness, dark Bucky, reference to past Winter Soldier conditioning, implied violence, breakdowns, morally gray themes, reader called baby and is referred as his girl once

Summary: You didn’t want Bucky to know about the stalking. Not just because you were scared but because you knew what it could cost him. What it would pull out of him. But the second he finds out someone’s been watching you… he gives you a truth that chills you deeper than the fear ever could.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. You knew what it would do to him.

You’d worked so hard to hide the anxiety--the notes left under your door; the photos sent from an untraceable number. The feeling of being watched even while brushing your teeth. You didn’t want to be a burden. Didn’t want him to slip.

Because Bucky doesn’t just protect.

Bucky destroys.

So you lied.

For weeks, you lied.

Until tonight.

Until you stepped into your apartment and found the photo on your bed. A picture of you walking to the corner store. Alone. Vulnerable.

Scrawled across the bottom in smudged ink:

“You're even prettier up close.”

Your knees gave out. You don’t remember calling him. But you must’ve, because when you look up, Bucky is crouched in front of you, hands shaking, eyes like ice cracked wide open.

Now Bucky’s been hunted before. He knows the look of prey. And from the way your shoulders twitch. The way your head turns just a bit too often on crowded streets. The phone gripped like a weapon you’ll never use. He knows you’re being someone's prey because he’s seen it in the mirror. That quiet fear. The dread that stalks you even when you’re not being followed.

“Baby,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your lip trembles. “I-I didn’t want it to be serious, didn't want you to worry. I didn’t want you to go back to… that...that place.” That place. The part of him you never name. But he’s already there. He rises to his feet. Paces once. Twice. Then stops, fists clenched at his sides.

“I need you to understand something,” he says. Voice low. Controlled. Terrifying. “If someone’s watching you, if someone thinks they can follow you, threaten you, touch you. I will find them. I am looking for them. And when I do—” His voice drops to a whisper. “There’s no line I won’t cross.”

Your heart pounds in your throat. “Bucky—”

He turns to you. Not frantic. Not angry. Just… honest.

“I would become him again. Happily,” he says. “I would be the Winter Soldier all over again if that’s what it takes. If that’s what keeps you safe. If that's what keeps you happy and out of harm, I would tear the trigger words out of the earth and let them take me if it meant you’d never be afraid again.”

You stare at him, stunned. Frozen.

“I’d choose it, baby,” he breathes, stepping forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’d lock away everything good left in me, every bit of peace I’ve clawed back, and become the weapon they made me if it meant you’d sleep through one night, if you could go to the store without looking over your shoulder.”

You don’t notice the tears flowing until you hear your voice crack. “You can’t say that.”

“I mean it,” he says. “And I know how fucked up that sounds. But you’re everything. You’re all the good I have. I’d do anything to keep you safe. Even if I’d have to be a monster again. You are mine; nothing can hurt you.”

You collapse into him, fists twisting in his shirt, sobbing into his chest.

And he just holds you. Quiet. Fierce.

“Whoever he is,” Bucky says darkly, “he’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He didn't sleep that night. You don’t notice, he holds you through the dark like always. But the second your breathing slows, and your body goes limp against his, he gets up. Silently, smoothly. Like he was never human to begin with. 

By morning, he has your stalker’s name.

By noon, he knows all his habits, knows where he works, where he goes after work, knows where he lives, hell Bucky now knew where his mother lives.

By evening, Bucky has stood close enough to smell his cologne and imagine how his windpipe would feel like with his metal hand wrapped around it. How it would feel between a metal thumb and forefinger.

But he doesn’t touch him. Not yet. Predators don’t just pounce. They plan. And Bucky had lots of plans for his newest prey.

You don’t notice anything right away, not until the texts stop. Then you realize there were no more gifts. No more photos. No more notes. For the first time in months, you felt your shoulders relax, and your lungs fill with air once again.

However, somewhere in the city, there was a man who was hardly breathing. A man with a bruised throat, a few broken ribs and a lot of broken fingers. That man was told two promises, his body cringed into itself hearing the eerily calm, eerily quiet tone that the soldier that just finished torturing him contained. "If I ever find out that you are scaring my girl again...I will be the last thing you ever see. Honestly if you ever breath near her let alone look in her direction again no one will be able to find what's left of you."

Bucky left the man in a random back alley; he wiped blood off of his knuckles as he walked home to you. A smile creeped onto his face knowing he is keeping you safe once again.

He walks into the apartment and finds it dark and still, the only noise coming from the air conditioner in the window. Bucky eased his way through the small home; he kept himself quiet assuming you were asleep. Once he ends up wrapping himself around you like a barrier, he kisses your head and whispers:

“I’ll never let Hydra take me again. But if it’s for you, fuck baby… I’ll go willingly.”

What he misses is the small smile you fight back from hearing his vow. You know it should terrify you...and it does but it also saves you all at once.

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

Tagging:

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[celestiaras]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ backstage bliss ]❜

━━━ .°˖✧ requested by anonymous ˚₊ ⊹

ft. mira x f! reader — kpop demon hunters

╰₊✧ mira wants to thank you for all of your hard work and make up for the stress she’s caused you before the show ┊1.2k words

contains: smut!! dom mira & sub reader┊backstage sex, receiving oral, established secret relationship

➤ author's note: she’s so hot omfg i love stone top femmes 

“come on, bobby! they’re going to show up soon, they always do, even if it’s last minute— stop stressing out so much, you’re going to start balding at this rate!”

despite your attempt at assuring him, you were starting to fear for your own hair at this rate. the fans were calling out for their idols, waving around their lightsticks, and becoming increasingly impatient by the second as the trio were late by a whopping four minutes. you would hate to disappoint them by sending them home without the wonderful experience of a huntrix concert, and you would hate even more to do all of the tedious work to ensure that everyone in the venue got their money back as well as a small piece of merch to make up for their troubles. your superior was calling them frantically to ask where the hell they were, and you were just mentally preparing yourself to step out and break the bad news to them.

just then, as if they were angels answering your prayers, they all fell from the skies like shooting stars and crashed onto the stage in an elegant manner, jumping straight into the performance seamlessly and saving the day. you would say you didn’t doubt them for a moment because you certainly did, but you felt like you were going to faint from relief. 

of course, you couldn’t just yet because you wanted to see your lovely girlfriend moving along to the music being blasted out of the speakers, dancing like it’s what she was born to do and all she ever wanted to do. you couldn’t let yourself show too much of your admiration and attract attention to your clear romantic adoration for her though, trying your best to hide the dopey smile that would overcome you whenever you stared for too long, but god, you couldn’t believe that she was all yours just as you were entirely hers. 

“i’m so sorry for worrying you, babe,” mira yelled out once the two of you were alone, running up behind you and almost knocking you over in an embrace. “i still can’t believe we fell for that, it’s like the demons are getting smarter or something…”

“you need to be more careful!” you scolded. “i don’t want anything bad to happen to you!” you remember when you used to be concerned for her when you first learned about her demon hunting secret, and while you had full faith in her skills now, the last part of her statement was starting to make you feel stressed out for her safety again.

“oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, we kicked their asses in less than five minutes,” she teased. “you really need to relax.”

“well, it’s difficult to relax when i have an idol girlfriend who’s constantly late to all of her events because she’s busy fighting creatures from the underworld!”

“hm… you’re right about that, i should probably make it up to you and help you destress…”

you felt your face get hot at the mischievous tone lacing her voice as her fingers fiddled with the hem of your skirt, “here? what if we get caught?”

“there’s no one here! come on now, i can tell you really need to blow off some steam. it’ll be fine, i promise.”

“okay… but you have to promise to be careful!”

“oh please, i’m nothing if not careful,” she snickered, pushing you to sit down on top of one of the speakers, and parting your thighs with your hands before hooking her fingers into your underwear and pulling it down to expose your lovely pussy to her awaiting brown eyes.

mira brought her face closer to your heat and wasted no time in dipping her tongue in, licking long, broad strokes against your folds and humming in delight at the taste of your sweetness. she watches you through her half-lidded lashes, drinking in your gorgeous facial expressions contorting in pleasure as she flicks the tip of her sharp tongue against your clit. “you’re so fucking pretty when you’re getting eaten out,” she cooed. she swears that the sight of you with your head thrown back and your mouth open in that adorable ‘o’ shape alone is enough to add five years to her lifespan each time, and she wants to see every single day for the rest of your lives together. 

“fuckkkk, miraa,” you whined as your fingers found their way tangled with her pink locks, subconsciously pushing her closer to your heat, something you didn’t even think was possible. 

she pressed her thumb against your weeping hole, tracing the outline and admiring how it twitched in need to be filled by her, “god, you’re so needy…”

“you were the one who wanted to do this,” you huffed, “i think that makes you the—”she cut you off by diving back in, eagerly lapping up your arousal seeping through, and turning your words into moans before you could finish. 

she loses her mind when she’s on her knees for you like this, slurping up that little piece of heaven between your thighs and worshipping like a devoted follower at an altar, sucking on your pearly little clit like it’s candy, and using her hands to keep your legs apart instead of squeezing at her head.

you felt so self-conscious, not just because of her intense passion, but also because of the location that was so recognizable yet was anything but at the same time. you felt like someone would walk in at any moment because they forgot something or someone cleaning up after hours would come across what the two of you were doing, eyes darting around nervously to keep a lookout until you felt mira’s teeth against your core in a threatening manner. 

“hey, eyes on me, baby,” she muttered, clearly displeased about your being distracted. 

“‘m sorry, i can’t help it…”

“don’t think about any of that,” she told you, although you were more focused on the sight of the trail of spit connecting her lips to your cunt, “just close your eyes and focus on me, okay?”

you nodded and did as she ordered, obedient as ever, shutting off all of your senses aside from touch, feeling her tongue thrust in and out of you before lapping at your most sensitive area in a constant motion. the push and pull made you feel that familiar knot in your stomach, growing tighter and tighter with every passing second. 

mira could feel it too, the way your nails started to dig into her scalp and your fingers tugging on her locks a little harder. she sped up her pace a little bit more as if she was possessed by raw desire, closing her lips around you and sucking hard, determined to make you finish and create a mess all over her lower face. even when you did finally orgasm, calling out her name with an arch of your back, she continued to leave little kitten licks all over as if she was trying to clean you up. 

resting the side of her head against your inner thigh, she looked up at you with the most detestably loveable look, smirking at you, “see? i told you it would be fine.”

“god, you’re so insufferable!” you pouted, “we really could have been caught!”

“yeah, but we didn’t,” she shrugged. her voice lowered to a whisper, “besides, we both know that it would have turned you on even more if someone did.” the look on your face made her burst out in laughter before getting back up, “come on, let's get you cleaned up, the others are probably wondering where we are.”

request:

M-Mira eating out assistant manager reader before a show, perhaps 🥹👉👈

[yoiisa]

Can we get a pt.3 of wbk reacting to you getting beat up by another gang, with Sugishita and Umemiya? Maybe Endo too if you feel like it?

AHHH YES OFC OFC!! I love how this is turning into a little series :)

wbk reacting to you getting beaten up by a rival gang .𖥔 ݁ ˖

w/ SUGISHITA KYOTARO, UMEMIYA HAJIME, AND ENDO YAMATO

Tags: mentions of injuries and blood (nothing to graphic), mentions of fighting/violence, angst, hurt/comfort this is part 3!! part 1 (w/ suo, kiryuu, and kaji) and part 2 (w/ sakura, togame, and uryu) are here!!

SUGISHITA KYOTARO ⋆˙⟡

Sugishita is always draped over you like a blanket and always holding your hand. He purposely orders more food than necessary so that you would never go hungry. He's always lending you his hoodies and jackets if you were out somewhere at night. After all, he would rather freeze to death than let you shiver for even a second.

All that being said, his favorite way to show you he cares is by giving you things. He doesn't give you anything overly expensive or flashy, but small items: smiskis, rings he finds in thrift stores, or tiny ceramic keychains of your favorite foods. You have a whole drawer in your dresser dedicated to the trinkets he gifts you.

One day, he was out with Umemiya and Tsubaki when his eyes zeroed in on a small poster card with artwork from your favorite anime. He froze, causing the older boys to bump into him.

"Sugishita-? Oh," Umemiya grins when he sees what Sugishita is staring at. "You should get it for her."

"Oh, that reminds me!" Tsubaki says, pulling something out of his purse. "I found this bracelet she might like as well. Here, here, take it to her as well."

Sugishita takes Tsubaki's bracelet and nods, before walking over to pick up the poster card. After checking out, he parts with his seniors, heading over to your home. He twirls the bracelet in his hands, watching the charms on the chain catch and reflect the sunlight. A tiny smile graced his face as he imagine holding you hand while it jingled on your wrist.

He gets to your front door and knocks, but he's met with no response. He tries again, but still nothing. She must not be home, he thinks, turning on his heel. However, just as he does, a giant crash sounds from inside your house. Sugishita whips around and starts pounding on your door again, calling out for you.

"[name]? [name]? Are you okay? Are you home?"

The door lock clicks and the door swings open. Sugishita's eyes widen as he takes in your appearance. You have a nasty gash on your forehead and your hands are all scraped. Your ankle is swollen as all hell, he's wondering how you're even upright.

Despite it all though, you still look up at him and with a small smile and a tiny voice you whisper, "Hi, Kyo."

"What the hell happened to you?" he asks, his voice hoarse. He walks inside and instantly picks you up, carrying you to the couch. He lays you down, then rushes into your kitchen, looking for a first aid kit.

"I was walking home," you say sleepily, "and someone . . . jumped me? I was wearing your Furin jacket and they thought maybe I was a student? I don't know. Once they realized they got a girl though they ran away."

"Where?" Sugishita asks, kneeling in front of you and working quick to bandage your hands and head. You shrug and your eyes start to droop but he shakes his head. "Hey. Stay awake. You might be concussed."

You watch him through lidded eyes as he works. When he's done, you grab his hand and lace your fingers. "I came straight home after it happened. I haven't seen a doctor. Can we go?"

He nods and you beam. "Thank you," you say as he moves you onto his back.

UMEMIYA HAJIME ⋆˙⟡

You gotta keep walking, that's all you really know. Every single muscle in your body is screaming at you to just collapse on the floor and get life over with, but no. If you did that now, you'd be done for. You need a doctor. You need a hug.

Pothos can't be too far from here now. If you could just drag your feet another few blocks you'd get there for sure.

Your side from where you got kicked in hurts and your head is pounding, but finally, the sign comes into view. It's refreshing, and gives you the last little bit of energy you need to make it into the cafe.

"I'm sorry, we're closed- [name]?!" Kotoha cries as she looks over the bar counter. "What the hell?"

"Don't tell Hajime," you say as you collapse onto the tiles, the warmth of the cafe completely draining you of any leftover energy you have.

"Don't tell me what?" a voice calls out from around the corner.

"Shit, hide me!" you whisper shout to Kotoha. She's quick to try and shove you under a table, but not fast enough.

Umemiya shows up a second later, his face bright and cheery. He looks ready to hug you, but then he opens his eyes. His face immediately falls.

"Umemiya-" Kotoha starts, holding her arms up to try and calm him.

"Hajime-" You mirror Kotoha.

"What are you doing on the floor?" he asks, his voice hard as steel. His jaw is tense and you stiffen as he approaches. He helps you up and sets you on the cushioned seats in the booths. He turns to Kotoha and says, "Get the first aid kit."

She rushes off and he turns back to you. His blue eyes are icy as he says, "So what was this about not telling me?"

You sigh and lean forward, resting your head on his shoulder. "I didn't want you to worry."

"Not worry?" he asks incredulously. "You look like someone sent you through a meat grinder!"

You whimper and you feel his frame relax a little. He's trying to become softer for you to be more comfortable and you smile. He's sweet . . .

"Kotoha's back," he whispers, reaching up to pet your head. "Lemme bandage them at least."

"In a minute," you whispers.

Kotoha sets the kit on the table next to you and says, "I'll really quickly make you some food. Y'know, to help you get your strength back."

You nod, but then your body erupts in shivers as exhaustion settles in on you. Umemiya's breath catches as tears touch his neck.

You choke out, "Hajime . . . I was so scared."

He furrows his brow and kisses your temple, where a bruise is beginning to form. "It's okay, you're here now. I'm here now."

ENDO YAMATO ⋆˙⟡

"Hey," Endo growls as he stands at the entrance of the alleyway. "What the hell is this?

The four men who were looming over your body freeze as they hear his voice. You have an arm up over your face, but drop it when you hear Endo talking. You turn your head and see him with Chika too. Oh fuck, these guys are screwed.

"What's it to you?" One of the boys ask, trying to feign bravado. "We're just having a little fun with her."

Endo smirks, but it's void of any humor. He takes a few steps forward, quickly eating up whatever distance is between him and your attackers. Without a second thought, he smashes one of their faces into the wall.

"Hmm? What's it to me?" Endo asks, before tightening his grasp in the boy's hair and punching him. "Not much, right? Only- oh wait! That's my girlfriend."

The boy Endo had a grasp on crumples to the floor, and your boyfriend fixes his gaze on the remaining three. "Now," he says. "Let's have some fun right?"

They scatter like bugs, and Endo at first doesn't seem like he'll give chase. He turns to look down at you, and his smile turns from malicious to loving. He pats your head and says, "Wait here, okay? I'll be back in just a sec~"

You watch as he darts off after the trio. Chika walks up to you and you flinch back. The boy is silent as he picks up the knocked out form of your assailant and drags him out of the alleyway. Chika dumps him on the sidewalk before coming back to your side. He slides down the wall next to you and stares at you, assessing your injuries.

"It's not bad," he says. "Didn't get much 'fun' in before we got here."

"I'm sorry," you whisper, "if it's a bother."

"Endo's the only one bothered. That's why he's off running after them," Chika explains, before opening a bottle of peach juice. He takes a sip and then holds it out to you. "Want some?"

"No thank you."

He nods.

A few minutes later, Endo's back. He's panting slightly, but he has this glint in his eyes that only ever comes out after a fight. His nose is bleeding and his knuckles are scratched, but aside from that he looks completely fine.

"They can run, the little fucks," he says, wiping his nose.

"D-did they hit you?" you ask shakily.

"Nope," he grins, crouching in front of you. "I was running after them and slipped in some trash and crashed against the wall. But I'm fine, don't worry."

Endo looks over at Chika, then back at you. "You don't want Takiishi's juice?"

You shake your head and he chuckles. "Okay, let's get some food then."

He draps his jacket over your shoulders and pulls you into a hug. You close your eyes and sigh as Endo kisses your shoulder, before pulling the jacket on tighter.

"Come on," he whispers. "There's a good bar not too far from here. I'll carry you."

a/n: idk why these got progressively shorter, but oh well lol

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Five: The Devils Tongue (Part 1)

Warnings: Smoke is horny | Stack is horny | Sera is horny | I am horny

Whispers through Mississippi started slow, the way southern rumors always did. Nothing more than a tilt of the head and a hushed breath passed between hands full of laundry or mouths full of honey butter cornbread.

“They say they bringin’ music out to the north field…”

“One of them juke joints… with dancers and shine and God knows what else…”

“Right behind the preacher’s house, Lord have mercy…”

Sera heard them all. At church. At the water pump. Through the walls when her father met with the deacons. The same words repeated like scripture passed down the wrong way.

The SmokeStack twins were opening a juke joint, and not just anywhere. Not thirty miles up the road like they said they would. Not on neutral ground with enough distance to keep peace in the state. But right there. On the north field. A heartbeat away from her father’s back porch. Like a slap in the face to Pastor Samuel.

And legally? There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Because that land… the north field… was no longer his. Smoke and Stack had drawn up papers before the battle and slipped them in the mouth of war like a knife beneath a blessing. Pastor Samuel had signed off on it, too proud or too desperate to read the fine print. It was theirs now. All of it.

Sera stood in front of the open window of her upstairs bedroom, watching the transformation unfold in the distance. She hadn’t been outside in weeks due her restricted freedom and the schedule of a housewife with no husband. She scrubbed. She stitched. She read. She prayed. She was finally being seen as good again.

She didn’t allow her hands to touch herself anymore. It was a one time occurrence even though the protective shadow stood outside her door every night waiting for more. Instead of giving in she would sit on her hands until they went numb. The only true form of relief she received was when she went to sleep. It was the only time she felt free enough to let the twins cloud her mind without judgment.

But now… the world was moving again, just beyond the edge of the tree line. Where once there was wild grass and silence, there were now men. Men building a frame out of reclaimed wood and intention. Men hammering under the sun, smoking cigarettes and singing in low voices while Stack strutted across the foundation like a carnival ringleader. His suspenders hung loose at his hips, white button-down open at the collar, gold tooth flashing every time he tossed his head back and laughed.

Sera watched as he pulled a flask from his pocket and toasted a man twice his size. He wasn’t helping, just directing. Giving out orders with a grin that suggested he was halfway drunk and still the smartest man on the field.

Smoke, on the other hand, worked in silence. Jacket off, sleeves rolled, his undershirt clinging to the hard shape of his back as he dragged barrels of supplies from their truck. No smiles. No jokes. Just labor.

Downstairs, Pastor Samuel paced the parlor like a man waiting for fire to walk through the door. “They mean to shame me,” he murmured under his breath, hands clenched behind his back. “To tempt God right on holy land!” He stopped in front of the window and scowled out toward the north field. “Liquor. Dancing. Woman’s legs flashing under red lights. Music that stirs sin up from the bones.”

“Then why sell them the land?” one of the deacons asked.

Samuel’s jaw tensed. “They didn’t say nothin’ about this when they signed. Said it was temporary. Said they just needed it for defense.”

“They defendin’ something now,” another deacon sighed. “Their right to party, I reckon.”

The room fell into a tense silence. Samuel broke it with a slam of his fist on the window frame. “They’ll burn in hell for what they’re doing!”

That night, when Sera crept out of bed and pulled back the curtain again, the bones of the juke joint had been raised. The walls stood. The dance floor was built. And a glowing sign leaned against the steps, freshly painted in blue and red:

The Devil’s Tongue

The name itself felt like a dare. A joke that clung to her skin like cigarette smoke she wished to smell again. She touched the window glass, fingers lingering. She couldn’t hear the music yet. Couldn’t smell the liquor or see the women in low-cut dresses. But she felt it somehow. A slow, wild heartbeat starting to stir beneath the soil. One that matched her own.

The heat never left Mississippi, not even when the sun gave up and the stars pulled their blanket across the sky. It clung to the ground like sweat to skin, curling into the roots and pressing against windows like a watchful ghost.

Sera stood barefoot on her back porch, fingers clutching an empty pail, her eyes fixed on the silent well pump. It had coughed and sputtered all morning and now it was nothing but a rusted hunk of metal. Dry, breathless, useless. Just like yesterday. And the day before that… And the day before that…

She shifted, looking out past the trees toward the north field. The juke joint was almost finished with lanterns that glowed in the distance like a row of watchful eyes, flickering against the frame of the new structure. She could hear hammers still ringing out in the distance and the low thrum of voices too far away to decipher.

Her stomach turned in knots. She shouldn’t go. She knew she shouldn’t. But her skin itched with the stick of the day. Sweat clung beneath her arms, behind her knees, at the curve of her back where the cotton of her dress stuck like sin. Her hair, pinned tight beneath her scarf, felt heavy with dust and oil. She needed a bath. But she needed forgiveness more. And so she made herself pure the only way she knew how before walking into the lion's den.

She layered her body in silence. First, a slip, plain and soft, yellowed with age. Then, the second dress, brown, thick muslin with sleeves that reached past her wrists and a collar that scratched against her throat. Then, a third, black, starched and long, hanging loose down to her ankles. It swallowed her whole.

She took a black scarf and wrapped her curly hair tightly, then draped another across the lower half of her face. All that was left were her eyes. A pair of tired honey orbs that flicked to the heavens one last time. “Lord, please don’t let no one see me.”

The pail creaked in her hand as she stepped off the porch and began the slow walk toward the north field. The woods whispered around her as she moved, branches brushed her shoulders while grass crunched underfoot. The trees thinned the closer she got, replaced by an open field and smoke curling upward from the juke joint chimney. She stayed to the edge where the shadows were thickest. Somehow the pail felt heavier the closer she came.

Laughter drifted across the breeze and boots scraped against wood. She saw them now, men sitting on crates and barrels, some smoking, some drinking, some talking low with the slack confidence of those who knew they owned the night. Sera kept her head bowed, steps slow and cautious, skirts rustling as they brushed her ankles.

“Now what’s this?” one man called out, voice slurred with liquor. “Ain’t that the damn preacher’s girl?”

She stopped dead in her tracks like a deer caught in headlights.

Another man leaned forward, squinting at her. “Lord have mercy, she look like she tryin’ to scare the devil himself in all that black.”

A low ripple of laughter erupted amongst the men and her eyes stayed on the ground. She moved again, feet whispering across the dirt with embarrassment latching onto her like a second skin.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouths or I’ll slit your throats and use them vocal cords for catfish bait.” That voice didn’t laugh. And it didn’t have to. Smoke was tucked off in a corner sitting on a crate and watched Sera’s every step. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t even stand from the crate he was resting on. All he had to do was turn his head towards his men, give them a look, and silence followed.

Sera reached the water pump, hands shaking like a leaf as she tried to make the water come out. Her eyes darted once towards the porch just long enough to see the slant of Smoke’s jaw under the red lantern glow and the way he watched her.

Stack appeared from inside the juke and leaned against a post, arms crossed with the glint of his gold tooth flashing beneath his smirk. “Pretty girl… my little dove… we missed you,” he drawled. “You goin’ to a funeral, or tryin’ not to tempt a soul on God’s green earth dressed in all that black?”

Like always the sound of Stacks voice caught Sera off guard and her hands jerked the handle too hard. Water splashed everywhere, soaking through all three of her dresses and the cold water clung to her now wet stomach. Her cheeks flamed. “I’m just gettin’ water Mr. Stack,” she mumbled, voice muffled by fabric.

Stack said nothing as he stepped off the porch with an unhurried and deliberate movement. He closed the distance between himself and Sera, merging their shadows together under the moonlight. His fingers came up slow, the way a wolf would approach a skittish rabbit. No rush. No threat. Just intent.

And for some reason Sera didn’t flinch when his hand touched her scarf. But she did stop breathing for a moment. Delicately, he slid his fingers beneath the scarf that covered her face and loosened the knot at the back. The cotton slipped under his touch and the damp air kissed her skin as he drew the scarf away and dropped it into her trembling hands.

“There,” he whispered, voice deep and soft. “That’s better.”

Soon as the scarf came off she diverted her eyes away from him. Everything about this was too intimate and Sera wrestled with the idea of touching herself again tonight. Her lips were red and full from biting them too much. And Stack couldn’t help himself. He lifted her chin and guided his thumb over her swollen bottom lip… just once. Her shoulders twitched at the contact, and she gasped so quietly it almost sounded like a moan.

“Too pretty to stay hidden, little dove,” he said. “It’s a sin, really. Coverin’ all this up like God didn’t take His time makin’ you.”

Behind them, Smoke stilled completely. Not a muscle moved. His eyes were locked on Stack’s hand on Sera's lips. And the way her body stiffened before quivering under the weight of attention she’d never been taught how to carry.

“I—my daddy says…” she stammered, eyes flicking toward the pump like it might save her.

“That nigga says a lotta things,” Stack chuckled, stepping just slightly to the side still holding her chin and forcing her to face him. “And I bet you ain’t ever questioned a single one.”

Sera made eye contact then, just for a second. Enough for Stack to see her eyes, all stormy and lost. Like he was driving a ship filled with her emotions and could guide her back to shore.

“You don’t gotta answer to no man out here,” he rasped. “’Cept’ maybe us.”

“Stack,” Smoke finally warned before walking near the two of them.

Stack didn’t take his eyes off Sera. His voice dropped to a murmur, almost sweet. “I’m just admirin’ her, Elijah. A man can’t enjoy lookin’ at his woman?”

Sera blinked as her mind started racing a million miles a minute. His woman? Stack was claiming her as HIS woman? And that name…. Elijah. It tangled in her thoughts like a loose thread. It felt sacred and forbidden.

“…Elijah,” she whispered, tasting it like something sweet she wasn’t supposed to have. “Is that really your name?”

Behind her, the pump creaked once in the wind. The lantern’s glow flickered on the porch and casted both twins in molten amber. Stack turned his head just slightly, watching the chaos he created unfold. He knew better than to say Smoke's real name, but seeing his older brother lose his composure around Sera was becoming entertaining.

Smoke moved without speaking before standing beside his brother—broad shoulders brushing Stack’s, both of them now a wall of muscle and firelight.

They weren’t in their suits tonight. Just white undershirts clinging to sweat-slick coca butter skin. Broad chests rising steady and deep. The cotton stretched tight across every sharp line… hard work and violence carved into the shape of two men who didn’t belong to God or the law.

And Sera… she couldn’t help it. Her eyes wandered. First to Stack’s chest… then to Smoke’s stomach. The way his shirt clung to the lines carved just above his hips. The faint dusting of dark hair there. She quickly looked away and mentally prayed to the high heavens.

“You don’t say my name like that,” Smoke said suddenly, voice sharp enough to snap her attention back to his eyes.

He stepped closer, just enough to greedily capture her full attention. And then his hand came up. The same hand that has been infiltrating her dreams for weeks. He took her chin from Stack like passing a torch, holding her face now between his own fingers. And gently his thumb dragged across her bottom lip.

A shiver rolled down her spine and Smoke’s eyes didn’t move. “That name’s dangerous in your mouth,” he warned, thumb still teasing the seam of her lips. “You say it again and I might forget I’m tryin’ to be good.”

Sera’s chest rose in a shaky breath. Her lips quaked under his thumb.

“I—I didn’t mean to tempt you,” she whispered, her voice catching like a prayer half-swallowed. “I just never heard it before. It’s a real nice name…”

“Don’t matter if it’s nice,” Stack cut in, his voice smooth and wicked like all this wasn’t his fault. “It belongs in the mouth of a woman who’s ready to own it. You ready to own our names, little dove?”

Sera didn’t answer. The air between them was heavy, like moments before a hurricane when the sky forgets how to breathe.

Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the wet fabric on her stomach. The water had splashed more than she realized drenching the front of her dresses. Now the fabric uncomfortably clung to her skin as she kept trying to pull it away.

Smoke’s eyes dropped to her twitching fingers and lingered as unholy thoughts and flashbacks filled his mind. Tonight would be another night of self-control he isn’t sure he has anymore. He exhaled through his nose before letting Sera’s face go and pinched his bridge.

“Come on,” he said roughly, voice edged with something he didn’t bother hiding. “You can’t go home like that.”

Sera blinked up at him. “What?”

“I said, come on.” His jaw worked like he was fighting with his own teeth. “You’re soaked. Ain’t decent. Come inside the barn. Dry off fore’ your daddy sees you like this.”

Stack’s grin grew. “Or don’t,” he teased, cocking his head. “Let the preacher get a good look at my woman… wet, breathin’ heavy, and wearin’ all these damn dresses like modesty might save her.”

Sera’s mocha freckled face flushed scarlet. “I didn’t… I wasn’t tryin’ to—” She stuttered over her words, eyes flicking between the twins, too flustered to run but also too nervous to stay.

“My daddy’s comin’ home soon,” she said quickly, breath tight. “He’ll notice I’m not at the house.”

Smoke leaned forward, his face unreadable in the lantern light. “Then move fast.” He turned without waiting and started toward the barn, his broad back cutting through the dark like a blade. Stack gave her a playful smile and followed behind, whistling low.

Sera hesitated while looking at the twins and the road back to her home. The walk back would be uncomfortable with a wet dress, but then it would be difficult to explain to her father how she accidentally got three dresses wet tonight.

The water sloshed in her bucket. The wet fabric clung to her skin. And every inch of her burned with bubbling rebellion. Just for tonight, she would willingly follow the lions into their den.

The barn loomed ahead, once quiet and forgotten, now pulsing with music and light. Opening night was tomorrow and the twins had turned it into something else entirely. The thrum of a distant record played on the phonograph. Dim lanterns glowed from the rafters. Tables lined the edges. The scent of tobacco, moonshine, and heat hung in the air like a warning.

Smoke held the door open. “Inside,” he ordered, voice firm and cracking with irritation. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you. We just don’t want nobody seein’ you like this.”

Stack leaned in close to Sera's ear and whispered before glancing down at her clinging skirts. “Though if you ask me, they should see you. You might convert half the sinners in town just by walkin’ past.”

Sera ducked her head and stepped in. Heat rolled through her as the door shut behind her and trapped her inside with two men who didn’t know how to pray… but sure as hell knew how to sin.

The barn’s music was a low hum in the distance now, muffled by the walls that separated the front room from the back. Smoke didn’t speak as he led her deeper into the converted juke joint, past crates of bootleg whiskey and mystery crates that smell of gunpowder and metal. Stack followed behind, quiet but not silent, his presence was felt more than heard.

Sera’s eyes adjusted slowly to the shadows until they reached the rear of the barn, an unmarked door tucked between a record shelf and an old upright piano. Smoke opened it with a worn key he kept on a chain around his neck.

The space inside was nothing like she expected.

A faint drop light flickered in the middle of the room revealing a simple iron-frame bed in the corner covered in dark sheets, thick quilts, and pillows. Lots of pillows. Too many for one man.

A steam iron hissed faintly from the far table, a white mist rising above a freshly cleaned pair of slacks. Before Stack joined his brother outside, he was back here ironing their clothes for tomorrow. Unlike the rest of the converted barn, this wasn’t a room for entertaining. This was Smoke’s room, where he would privately wind down after fighting the world.

“Sit,” Smoke ordered gently, nodding toward the edge of his bed.

Sera looked between the welcoming bed and Smoke before slightly shaking her head no. “My clothes are wet. I’ll mess ya bed up,” she whispered.

“Won’t be wet for long… or maybe you will,” Stack answered from behind, already walking towards the steam iron. “I’ll take care of the dresses. You just sit tight, little dove.”

Sera gripped onto the wet fabric of her top dress and hesitated. Her arms folded tight over her chest, and her eyes landed on the oak floor, to the bed, to the iron… to anything besides the twins. “I… I don’t know if I should.”

Stack turned halfway, glancing over his shoulder. “Ain’t no one askin’ you to strip down bare, darlin’. But sittin’ in soaked fabric don’t do nobody no good. Go on, take the top one off. I know you got fiddy’ more under it.”

She still didn’t move. Her spine was rigid with uncertainty, like a deer in a snare, not sure whether to flee or surrender.

“That dress stickin’ to your stomach like that?” Stack murmured. “You’re gonna catch cold before you get home. You want to go home to ya daddy snifflin’?”

Sera scrunched her face and quickly fixed it, “I’m fine… can’t nobody catch colds bein’ wet in the summer,” she said quickly and defensively.

“You’re not,” Smoke cut in quietly, his voice an authoritative thread of reason in the thick air. “You ain’t fine. You’re cold, and wet, and tremblin’ even though it’s a hunnid’ degrees tonight. Let us help.”

Nibbling on the inside of her cheek Sera looked over at Smoke who was sitting in a chair across his bed and taking his boots off. Like he didn’t just give her the final push she needed to comply. Hesitantly, her fingers rose slowly to the ties at the back of her neck. Her movements were stiff and nervous, but also determined… determined to show Smoke she knew how to follow directions. Why? Well, she wasn’t quite sure about that yet but it felt natural to do so. The first dress came loose with a reluctant sigh, and she peeled it off, water dripping from the hem as she folded it in her arms.

Stack moved forward to take it, but not before letting his eyes travel over the second dress now revealed. This one clung closer to the skin but not enough for his liking. He took the garment from her hands, his fingers brushing hers for a split second longer than they should’ve. No smile. No teasing. Just a pause before he turned back to the iron.

Sera swallowed and turned her back to them as she shyly lifted the second dress at the hem. Her hands shook with trepidation. The wet cotton stuck to her thighs, refusing to come off easily. The sound of it peeling from her skin was deafening in the silence. Keeping her eyes glued to the wooden floor she avoided handing Stack the second dress and instead placed it next to his work station.

“You wearin’ another under that one too?” Stack asked, quieter now.

Her voice was tight and she nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.

She didn’t respond. The third dress came off slower. For some reason she didn’t feel as shy giving him her final gown of armor. But she still wasn’t able to make eye contact as she placed this dress next to the other one. She stood there in her plain white chemise and form fitting bloomers, the thin cotton clinging to her every curve. Modest by any standard. But not to them.

Stack turned his back under the pretense of adjusting the iron’s dial, but his hands clenched tighter than they needed to. Smoke stared a moment longer before letting his eyes drift up to her frazzled face.

“You don’t gotta be nervous,” Smoke said quietly while pushing his desires down. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you unless you ask us to. You safe here.”

Sera’s eyes lifted and she bit down hard on her bottom lip almost drawing blood to conceal her shock. “I’m not askin’ for that,” she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not askin’ for nothin’,” Stack replied, in a hushed tone. “That’s the part we don’t like.”

She blinked and turned her head. “What?”

Stack sighed and shook his head, “You don’t ask for what you want. You wait for someone to give you permission. That ain’t livin’, dove. That’s just breathin’ quiet.”

The tension settled between them again. Smoke crossed to the dresser and pulled out a white button-up shirt… his. It looked soft and worn, sleeves rolled just above the elbow and a faint scent of sandalwood still clinging to it. “Put this on,” he said, offering it without looking directly at her. “Till your things dry.”

Sera reached for it carefully, fingers brushing his as she took it. The shirt hung heavy in her hands, and when she slipped it on, it swallowed her tall curvaceous frame falling to mid-thigh, the collar open, and sleeves trailing past her fingertips.

Stack watched her move from the corner of his eye while working the steam iron over her first dress. “Don’t get too comfortable in that shirt, pretty girl. You’re liable to turn a man religious walkin’ ‘round like that.”

Smoke ignored him and sat back in his assigned seat for the night and continued rolling a cigarette. Sera watched him curiously before sitting on the edge of his bed. “Why… why do you have so many pillows?” she asked softly, her voice colored with innocent confusion. “Ain’t just you in here, is it?”

Sera didn’t mean to ask an intrusive question but she genuinely was curious about the pillows. Stack burst into a laugh behind her, not cruel but full of wicked delight. “Ain’t no woman in here, if that’s what you mean,” he chuckled, pressing down on the fabric. “But them pillows sure seen their share of sins.”

Sera blinked, face heating. “I— I don’t understand—”

Smoke ran a hand down his jaw and finally looked up, his cold gaze cutting through her to glare at his twin. “I use ’em when I can’t sleep,” he said evenly, ignoring his brother’s grin. “That’s all.”

But Sera didn’t miss the tick of his jaw… or the way he refused to look at the bed when he said it.

Stack gave a low hum and chuckled to himself. “He sleep just fine when he’s got the right thing in his hands.”

Sera turned her face away, but not before the brothers saw the flush rush up her cheeks, blooming high across her cheekbones. She tucked her knees in tighter beneath the oversized white shirt, trying to disappear into the fabric but the effect only made her look more precious and touchable. Like some delicate secret wrapped in cotton and candlelight.

Smoke said nothing at first. He sat with one ankle resting on his knee, elbows on his thighs, a tin of tobacco in one hand and paper in the other. His gaze flicked toward her, completely indecipherable. “You ever rolled a cigarette before?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Sera blinked. The question seemed ridiculous considering her background but she let her sarcastic answer die on her tongue. “No, sir.”

He gave a short nod and tapped the tin open with his thumb. “C’mere,” he said, in a detached yet seductive tone. “I’ll show you.” Stack raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word. Instead he focused on his task and continued this best to dry Sera’s dresses.

She didn’t move at first. Her amber eyes searched Smoke’s face for mischief or cruelty, but found only that mysterious calm, shadowed by the golden glow of a nearby oil lamp. Her fingers clutched the shirt tighter. “I—I’m fine over here…”

“Like I said sweetheart… You’re safe,” Smoke reassured, still focused on the paper in his hands. “If you gon’ be sneaking around here with us sinners, you might as well learn new skills.”

The room went quiet and Stack stopped what he was doing to turn and glare at his brother. Smoke and Stack haven’t fought for the attention of the same woman since they were little. And right now it seemed like he was three steps behind as his brother effortlessly took all of Sera's attention. His signature grin dropped and twisted into something quieter… almost possessive.

Sera’s breath came a little quicker, heart thumping like it wanted to jump out of her chest. She shifted again, then slowly climbed off the bed. So many sins had been committed in one night and she tried to keep a mental list of everything she’d have to repent for.

1.) Being alone in a room with TWO dangerous men.

2.) Stripping down to her undergarments in front of these men.

3.) Sitting on a man’s LAP…

4.) LEARNING TO ROLL A CIGARETTE!!

The list seemed never ending, and she didn’t even include how the forbidden wetness had returned between her thighs. Her bare feet padded across the floor, the oversized shirt falling around her knees like a curtain. She stood in front of Smoke for a moment, unsure what to do next.

Smoke looked up at Sera and lowered his leg back down before spreading his thighs wide, “Sit,” he said gently, patting his thigh. “I don’t bite, sweetheart.”

She obeyed, carefully lowering herself into his lap. Even though Sera wasn’t a petite woman, her thick thighs draped over one of his and she felt so small… and protected. Her back stayed stiff as a board as she tried not to let any part of her touch more than necessary. But he was so warm and solid, and her juices were flowing through her underwear leaving little droplets on his slacks. Smoke made no mention of it but let one of his hands drape across her waist and maneuver her on his lap so she couldn’t feel his growing secret.

“Relax,” Smoke muttered near her ear, speaking more to himself than her. “Ain’t no sin in sittin’. Now watch.”

Sera nodded and leaned forward slightly, her side brushing against his chest. The scent of smoke, iron, and something faintly woodsy wrapped around her as he guided her hand gently to the tin.

“This here’s the tobacco. You pinch it like this…” His fingers brushed hers rough, but patient like he wanted to cherish this moment. “And you roll it gentle. Real slow. Gotta feel it. Not just use your hands—use your senses.”

Sera nodded, her breath catching every time his fingers touched hers again, every time the soft rasp of his voice fell too close to her ear. Her whole body was trembling and she subconsciously clenched her thighs together. Smoke noticed, just like how he noticed everything but he didn’t comment on it.

Stack watched them from across the room, no longer focused on ironing and his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re doin’ fine,” Smoke murmured again. “Just like that, baby.” The cigarette was shaped, ready to light. But Sera didn’t move. Her fingers still lingered over his, eyes still focused on what they’d made. “You’re a fast learner,” Smoke added, voice rougher now.

The sound of her soft voice, the way she shifted shyly in Smoke’s lap, the trembling curve of her thigh under the hem of that white shirt, all of it twisted something hot and mean in Stack’s gut. “Didn’t know we was givin’ private lessons tonight,” he chimed as his jealousy blatantly radiated off of him. “Tell me, ‘Lijah… how many other little doves you taught that trick to?”

Smoke’s hand stilled where it had been guiding Sera’s fingers. His jaw flexed as he looked up, not moving her and definitely not letting go. “I ain’t gotta teach anyone but her,” he said low. “Ain’t my fault you too busy flirtin’ to make things stick.”

Stack sucked his teeth and without another word, he walked to the edge of Smoke’s bed, and made himself at home. He sat down with his legs wide and posture relaxed like he wasn’t deliberately intruding. From his back pocket, he pulled a worn silver tin and cracked the lid open with a flick of his thumb.

“You know,” Stack said as he packed tobacco into his palm, “I ain’t never had trouble teachin’ a lesson when it mattered. Some folks just learn different.”

Sera looked between them, her fingers twisting shyly in her lap. She was still perched on Smoke’s knee, now with less certainty like she could foresee the chaos waiting to erupt.

Stack didn’t look at his brother when he spoke, and focused his eyes on his redhead angel. “Maybe she wanna learn from me next,” he said, voice quiet and teasing. “See how different the teacher makes the lesson.”

Smoke let out a slow breath through his nose and leaned back in the chair as he tightened his grip on Sera’s hip. He didn’t move Sera, didn’t rise to meet the provocation. Instead, he set the cigarette they made aside and looked up, his posture calm but his eyes told how he was tired of the game. “There ain’t no need to start trouble,” he said evenly. “Not in front of her.”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back as Stack and Smoke began bickering like children that didn’t know how to share their new shiny toy. Smoke was losing his patience with his brother.

“Nigga, you got some nerve sittin’ here runnin’ ya mouth like I won’t whoop your ass from here back to Chicago.”

“Ain’t nobody fuckin’ scared of you, Elijah!”

While Smoke and Stack continued to bicker and exchanged biting words between them like flint to steel, Sera sat silently in the middle, unsure where to place her hands, her thoughts and her shame. In the heat of the moment, Smoke unintentionally shifted Sera directly onto his growing erection before picking up a nearby ashtray and chucking it in the direction of Stacks head.

“THROW SUM ELSE I DARE YOU!”

“WATCH YA MOUTH YOU LYIN’ SUMMA’ BITCH!”

It was subtle at first, just a small movement, his hands still steady at her waist. He realigned her to keep her out of the crossfire and placed her soft covered heat directly over the firm ridge of his arousal. The contrast made her breath leave her body and she almost arrived at heaven’s gate. It felt good. Too good. Her thighs tightened instinctively and a dangerous warmth flooded to her lower belly. This was a level of sin she wasn’t sure a night of repentance would fix.

She hadn’t touched herself since that night. That night when Smoke’s voice had stirred something buried deep. Since then, she’d refused to look inward, way too frightened to explore what waited behind her curiosity. Too afraid of what she might become if she gave in.

But tonight… the air hung thick with desire. Like a storm rolling slow and low across the fields. It whispered to her, beckoned her. Promised that if she dared to dip a toe into darkness, she wouldn’t fall alone. Smoke would catch her and Stack would comfort her.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Their arguing faded, reduced to static on the edge of her mind as she gave in to the devilish sensation. Smoke’s arms, strong and unmoving, bracketed her body like pillars. His chest rose and fell behind her back, steady and unbothered. Too consumed with arguing with his twin. She exhaled slowly and began to move. Barely. Just a cautious shift of her hips back and forth to test the friction. The thick line of him nudged through his slacks up against her blooming flower that pulsed with each movement.

It was maddening. Up and down… an inexperienced grind… back and forth. Each motion of her hips was gentle and full of exploration. She inhaled sharply as Smoke's shirt rustled over her succulent thighs, letting both men see the wet spot forming on her panties. Her hands found Smoke’s thighs, and she gripped them lightly as she sought the pressure her body craved.

The pleasure was delicate at first, like the flutter of a moth’s wings. But it built slowly and steadily. This was different from when she touched herself. Back and forth… up and down… A warm flush crept up her chest and neck. She no longer heard their voices. She closed her eyes and just focused on her breathing and the wet heat gathering between her legs.

Back and forth… left to right… right to left… up and down… Sera gasped again, her breathing ragged and shallow. Her hips moved with more purpose now testing limits she’d never dared explore. The heat expanding between her legs was damn near unbearable, soaking through her cotton underthings and making her acutely aware of every sensitive inch pressed to the twitching hardness beneath her.

She didn’t hear the creak of the chair when Smoke leaned in closer and didn’t sense the room shifting. Not until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Whatcha doin’ sweet girl?” he whispered, voice husky. “It feel good don’t it? Keep goin’ for me… don’t stop this time… I’ll be here to guide you.”

Her body gave a soft shiver at his words. Her thighs tensed around his trying to close but he slid his hands down to them and held each one open. She didn’t speak, she couldn’t. She just moved, driven by the need curling tighter and tighter low in her belly.

Smoke’s grip on her thighs flexed, then eased, guiding her rhythm ever so slightly, like he was tuning a song only he could hear. “Don’t rush it,” he whispered again, “Just like that… Take your time…”

Then she felt another presence approach. Stack had gone quiet for too long and that was never a good sign. Sera’s eyes opened slowly and the haze of desire clouded her vision as she saw his boots come into view. She tilted her head upwards just slightly and that was all he needed.

Stack crouched down in front of her, his towering frame folding like a wolf preparing to pounce. His eyes were dark and for a split second Sera had to question if she was looking at Smoke or Stack. His firm fingers lightly gripped her chin, tilting her face toward his.

“You don’t stop now, darlin’,” he ordered in a rough tone with something more dangerous than lust. “You keep goin’.” Sera opened her mouth hoping to respond but no words came out, just another whimper and silent moan.

“You hear me?” he growled, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Ain’t no shame in takin’ what you want. Not here. Not with us.”

Smoke’s lips still lingered near her ear. “You’re doin’ so good,” he purred, his tone a complete contrast to Stack’s rough edge. “Look at you… our little church angel learnin’ how to move.”

Stack’s hand slid down her throat until it rested just above the curve of her chest. “You keep rocking’ on him ‘til we say stop.”

Sera’s heart thundered behind her ribs. Their voices tangled around her like tobacco in the lungs, addictive and dangerous. Both men were hard enough to cut diamonds. Their bodies coiled tight and strained beneath their clothes. Yet neither gave in… they just watched.

Every subtle twitch of Sera’s hips, every stuttered breath and delicate shift, each pass of friction seemed more delicious than the last. This was a show. One she wasn’t even aware she was performing. Smoke’s jaw clenched, his hands steady where they gripped her, guiding just enough, allowing her to find her pace on her own. Stack watched like a hawk pretending to be unaffected but the pulse on his neck betrayed him. He was barely breathing. And Sera? She was unraveling by the second. If this addicting sensation and dizzying pleasure was possible with her undergarments still clinging damp between them, what would happen if her bare skin touched his? Would it break her? Would she survive it?

She whined quietly. “E-Elijah… I… I ca—”

But she didn’t finish. Smoke growled, like the sound scraped up from the pit of his stomach. His hands slid to her inner thighs, thumbs spreading her open just enough to stop her motion cold. She whimpered at the loss of pressure. Then, slowly, he leaned her back against his chest, angling her hips forward and exposing the damp fabric stretched over her pulsing center. Her head lolled back on his shoulder with her eyes glossed over with lust.

Smoke’s grip was firm and controlled. His mouth brushed the crown of her head with a tenderness that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “You made such a mess, my love,” he teased, tone deceptively soft. “Bet he’s wonderin’ how you taste now.”

Stack’s eyes darkened then and Smoke’s voice dropped lower and colder. He didn’t look at Sera as he spoke, he looked at his brother, a smirk curling his lips. This was payback. “If you need help to finish,” he said, slow and condescending, “ask Elias real nice and he might help.”

The tension snapped taut like a drawn bowstring. Sera shivered hard, the sound of Stack’s real name crackling through the room like a match being struck. Her body ached, her thighs quivered and she was now wide open in Smoke’s lap with her sanctified pussy soaked and pressed forward, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Like a turkey laid bare for carving on Thanksgiving day.

And Stack—no, Elias—was starving. That cool, collected mask cracked, if only slightly. His nostrils flared. His tongue darted across his bottom lip. His fists flexed at his sides like he was fighting himself not to take. The silence grew thick between them, as if the very walls were waiting.

Sera looked between the two of them with her breath ragged, skin flushed, and her innocence in tatters. And then she turned her attention to Stack. Her voice though soft carried a weight that made the room hold still. “…Elias,” she whispered, eyes wide and vulnerable. “Please… help?”

His name, sweet and unsure on her tongue, shattered whatever restraint he had left.

And the devil in him stirred.

.

.

.

.

.

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Tag List:

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[muthic]

Realizing their crush on you with Leona, Vil, Malleus and Cater.

Female Yuu/Female reader.

In house order.

Cater

If there’s something that cater loved. It was to have fun.

It wouldn’t be a fast crush, he would only really realize it in a moment of vulnerability.

———————————————————————

“Heya, prefect! I don’t think the teachers will be very happy to see you slacking like this. What’s with the tired face?”

Cater noticed you sitting with your head wrapped around your arms in the library. Looking absolutely exhausted. He pulled out the chair besides her and sat down.

“You know, I originally came here to study, but wanna listen to music?”

He would smile wanting to cheer his dear friend up. He put on a song he’d think she’d like, and put it into her ear while plopping the other one into his.

It was a quiet moment before you put your head on his shoulder. Closing your eyes.

His eyes widen slightly, not unwelcome just surprised. He stared at her tired face, albeit more calm now.

He eventually put his head above hers. With a slight blush as he come to realize how much he loved this moment.

Leona

He’s a bit more tricky as his guards is up to the MAX. But he gives me more, wants a strong woman, type of vibe. Someone who can hold their own but also depend on him.

———————————————————————

He was in his spelldrive club. Not really putting much effort, but you dragged him alongside Ruggie to attend.

He wasn’t really into it right now so why should he put effort? So he decided to just nap nearby you on the bench.

….

That was until he heard your voice cheering on Ruggie and Epel. His ear flickered in annoyance. He opened his eyes to glare at her. But it doesn’t seem like she took notice.

Why were you cheering on them for? They weren’t even good. He begrudgingly stood up and stretched before joining in on the practice match.

“You think they are good? Watch how a real player scores.”

He said to her as he was walking into the match. He took it strangely a lot more seriously, and the others seem to take notice on it too.

When you finally cheer for him, he let out an involuntary grin that Ruggie seemed to have caught.

“Khekhe, I didn’t expect you to be the type to want to impress.”

“What are you blabbing about. Shut up before I use your body to score.”

Vil

Vil is also a hard one. He’s used to admirers and love letters. Though I do think he would appreciate someone who values self growth like he does.

———————————————————————

It was potion-making class and they got paired up because Vil’s experience with potions would help the prefect since she’s magic less.

“Fetch me the crying herb, we will need that in about a second.”

Vil has made her to be as his personal attendant.

Eventually she broke the silence annoyed.

“Vil, how will I adjust myself to this world if you don’t even allow me to make the mistakes in potion class? I thought you would teach me how to do it correctly, not just fetch everything for you.”

She voiced her frustrations.

Vil stops his movements for a moment. Seems like it didn’t cross his mind that she thought this way.

“You’re right. How can you learn if I don’t let you experience it first handed?”

He handed back the crying Herb that she fetched to him before.

“It’s a bit bothersome, but to collect the tears from the herb—“

He explained how to mix together the ingredients. Teaching her step by step on what to do.

When she tested the potion to see if she did it right, her bright smile to see it working brought out a small smile of his own.

He wanted to keep seeing her evolve and improve. He wouldn’t mind being a teacher to her.

Malleus

Unlike the others, Malleus knew pretty early on. Perhaps not that it was love, but he knew he cared deeply for her.

———————————————————————

Truth is, you just happened to be there at the right place at the right time. There was a housewarden meeting and per usual, Malleus had forgotten to be informed.

You were being tasked with helping Crowley to deliver some books to him from Crewel while the meeting was ongoing.

When you saw all the different house wardens present it was safe to assume what was happening.

She gave the books to Crowley before speaking up, noticing a lack of face.

“Isn’t this a housewarden meeting? Where’s Tsunotarou?”

An awkward silence erupted.

“Y-yes! Perfect timing prefect! You shall fetch Malleus immediately for this meeting.”

Crowley suddenly said. Shooing her out of the meeting. She just shrugs, not minding finding her friend.

She decided to visit his club, and found him reading a book about gargoyles. When he heard the door open he raised his head surprised to see a visitor.

She stood by the door and simply pointed behind her to the hallway

“There’s a housewarden meeting right now. You should probably go to catch it.”

Malleus stared at her for a moment before erupting to laughter.

“Very well. I shall tend to my duties as housewarden.”

He stood up. Staring at her with the smile that was left behind from his laughter.

“Will you stay and keep watch of the gargoyles? I’ll be back before you know it.”

Before she could say anything the firefly like light appeared as he disappeared from her sight. Glad to be remembered and reminded.

\\\———————————————————————///

First time posting! Any engagement is appreciated! Hard to formulate characters into words.

I did simple moments since usually you don’t find out you like someone with something grandiose.

I hope I got the characters personality right. Thank you for reading!! <33

[g00my-4ng3lss]

Some wl tips that I learned over the years lol

(Tw: Very disordered tips)

1. Look up what your bmi will be when you get to your desired weight (and vis versa). This way you'll be motivated to keep loseing weight

2. Don’t act like you hate your body in front of other people. This will increase suspicion

3. Use a rubber band and snap it on your wrist when you want to eat,or if you think about eating, food=pain.

4. Look at food as calories and fat, not food.

5. When your own your period, use it as an excuse to why you’re purging. (If you already purge. Don't start if you don't already)

6. Use school as a way to get out of eating. You can lie and say you ate a big lunch so your not hungry for dinner.

7. Drink as much water as you can, water DOESNT make you fat! It can also help make you feel full!!

8. Chew sugar free gum when you want to eat. And if your like me and gum makes your jaw hurt tic tacs are a good alternative.

9. Only eat if you have to, don’t eat if you don’t want to or don’t need to, the longest you can fast is most likely for 5-7 days, it depends who you are.

10. Chew your food into tiny bites, until it’s like apple sauce. And if that is gross to you (real) then eat SUPER slowly in small bites

11. Don’t eat until 7am and don’t eat past 7pm, so you’ll have a 12 hour fast everyday.

12. Have thinspiration in different places, having a gallery for it on your phone help, and you can put it on your lock screen as well.

13. Eat ice when you’re hungry, that can help as well.

14. Distractions will be your bff. Binge shows, watch movies, etc. I make little rules for myself that I can only eat when I finnish [insert movie/show here].

15. Don’t tell anyone that you’re trying to loose weight, not even your closest friend (only tell people if you’re overweight).

16. Get clothes that don’t fit you and are too small and hang them up, they should motivate you to loose weight.

17. Exercise when your bored. Honestly keeping your body moving will do wonders for weightloss. Hell even fidgeting will help some. While fidgeting won't burn cals necessarily it will get you into the habit of moving more

18. Buy smaller clothes when you go shopping. so when you loose weight you’ll have clothes to wear. It will also work as motivation!! You can try them on to see how much more progress you have to make/how much progress you have made.

19. Do things that you enjoy when you loose weight THAT ARENT EATING,such as getting your nails painted, getting your hair done, buying nice clothes, etc. Basically non food related rewards

20. Whenever you do eat, eat food 500 and under, split serving sizes in half, it helps ALOT.

21. Find a photo you think is utterly revolting, like rotting meat. Look at it while you eat and really think about it. Pretend it is what your eating.

22. A fun distraction I do is add rules to myself as that one I can remember my goals/rules and also have something to do lmao I highly recommend it's so much fun and really helpful

I also make weird ass rules for myself

1. I can only eat when I finnish x amount of tasks. Like cleaning my room, showering, brushing teeth, complete homework, study for tests, etc.

2. I can only eat after I've had a nap

3. I have to at least fasted for 12 hours between dinner and breakfast. And 6 hours between breakfast and lunch.

4. I can only eat after paceing for 3+ hours

5. I can only eat after journaling. That way I can ensure it's not emotional eating lol

6. Can only eat when there is no 0s in the time. So instead of eating at 6:09 I would have to wait until 6:11

7. Can't eat with hands. I'm not a pig so I won't eat like one.

8. Have to drink at least 1 water bottle (16oz) before/after eating

9. Stick to more healthier food. Only have fun foods once every other day.

10. With that being said don't deprive yourself of craving too exstreamly. If it's between binging and moderation PICK MODERATION!!

There's more but I'm tired rn so I'll update when I wake up (let's pray I don't wake up guyss)

Update: I added the ones I didn't add before I went to bed lol (6-10 on second list and 22 on first list lmao)

[karikitdemonrp]

Kari sniffled, looking into her papa's eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks as she just sniffled and listened. She looked down for a moment, processing what the hero said and gave a nod while her eyes narrowed a bit in thought. "I... Think I get it." She muttered, voice still slightly trembling as she spoke. She looked back at the projection and sighed. The child slowly backed away from Hawks and went back to look at the journals again, one last time.

There she read a few more journals from her mother. A few from when she was pregnant with her siblings.

"Today is September 29th, I gave birth to my little boy Kitearo a few days ago. It's been exhausting but he's worth it. Lynx has been a huge help in taking care of our son. I looked into Kite's future and I saw he was going to have a lot of siblings. Not my first choice honestly. If you asked me five years ago I would have said two or three kids would be enough, not seven. But it feels right at the same time. While I saw his whole life unravel I couldn't help but feel helpless... But a part of me knows it can't be messed with, even though I want to save my son from an early grave. I'll have to wait until all my kids are born to get the full picture."

Kari frowned, figuring out pretty quick that her mother knew the whole time, or at least had an understanding.

"It's Febuary 23rd. Flo and Fino are a few days old now. I got a bit more of the picture since seeing Kitearo's future. They meet a similar fate. It hurts, but seeing them work hard to protect their youngest sister, a little girl with white hair, something isn't adding up. I know I can't stop it but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt a whole lot."

"It's been a rough few weeks, Shade has been a bit of a handful. Always curious but always quiet which is a bit unnerving. Sure she cries and makes noises but she's more quiet than not. The doctor says she has nothing wrong with her but I still worry. I was able to see into her future. Lynx has his work cut out for him that's for sure. So far I know all my kids and my husband die on the same day, doing the same thing. I can't say for sure where I am but I can make a few guesses. Again that little girl with white hair makes a big appearance. I'll name her Kari. Kari Kana Lee Himura, long name but it looks like it suits her. When she's born I'll hopefully get all the answers and try to write them down."

"Another pair of twins. I'm not super surprised, Lynx had twin younger brothers after all so I think that runs in the family. That and I saw them while looking into their siblings' futures. These two look mirrored, it's kinda cute. I've named them Boom and Beats cuz the symbols on their cheeks are cute music notes. They are the loudest that's for sure, it's funny. I've had so many kids and all of them are so different even though they're under the same roof and have me and Lynx as their parents. I know why they look so different and why their quirks are different, it's a side effect of my quirk after all. But their behaviors and personalities aren't tied to it, I don't think. It's so fascinating to watch them grow and develop... I know I probably only have a few more years to live. I've concluded I die in child birth when giving birth to Kari. I know I'll be leaving behind my family and my friends... But I noted that my nephew is the one responsible for the deaths of everyone, under the control of my sister given his pupils... Something isn't adding up but I'm guessing Kari develops my quirk. If that's the case then she needs to exist. It strengthens our quirk and hopefully she'll be able to help others like I did, in someway. Though that's her choice and I don't want to force it onto her. I'm glad dad talked me into writing that one entry about my quirk, I hope she can read it one day so she can meet me... Well, a snap shot of me. It won't be the same I know but it's better than nothing. I just hope she doesn't hate me or get mad. It's kind of a selfish reason but there's so much going on... I just hope she understands."

Kari sniffled, rubbing her eyes. "I... I don't hate you mom." She whispered after a few moments of silence, hugging herself. "I just wish I knew you." The child gulped and moved to look back at the journal about All of the Above and began taking notes. "But yea, I'm glad grampa talked you into writing about your quirk too... It's gonna help me a lot." She muttered then looked at Hawks. "You think we can go somewhere I can train? I... I wanna try doing this thing mom talks about. I'm not sure if I can get back into that weird mind space thing but... But if I can maybe you can meet my siblings, well a snap shot of them... This is kinda confusing." Kari puffed out her cheeks then went back to writing. "But we don't have to do it today if we can't."

Hawks didn’t speak at first. He just let Kari cry. He didn’t try to hush her or pull her away. He dropped down to one knee so she could lean into him easier, wrapping his arms around her small frame like he could shield her from every painful word she had just read. His wings even curled in slightly, a quiet gesture of shelter.

He held her gently as the sobs came out in waves—her pain wasn’t small, and it didn’t deserve to be treated like it was.

After a long moment, his voice finally came—soft, steady, low enough it didn’t try to overpower her crying but just… sat with it.

“I know, kiddo. I know it hurts. It’s not fair. None of this is. You didn’t get a choice in any of it.”

He tightened the hug slightly, one hand cradling the back of her head.

“But I need you to hear me when I say this next part, okay?” He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his own golden ones steady and full of something more than just compassion—it was conviction. “She didn’t die because of you. That’s not how this works. She died for you. And that’s something only someone who loves their kid more than anything in the world would do.”

His thumbs gently wiped her tears.

“Your mom knew the risks. She was a top pro. She wasn’t someone who walked into things blind. She fought to bring you into this world anyway, Kari. That means she wanted you here. She made a choice—and that choice was you.”

[lambiconic]

simon's finally got that date with the barista

if you havent, can i interest you in reading the first six: simon , gaz , johnny , price , the aftermath , the confrontation

(18+ you being angry at simon gets him the tiniest bit excited)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

After cleaning up the coffee beans you’d spilled on the floor in anger, you finally felt calm enough to try to talk things out with the four men.

Unfortunately, while you’d been crashing out in the back room they had leaving behind just a test message:

“This is Simon. Talk later.”

Despite your previous anger you couldn’t help but smile, its really cute that he somehow texts exactly how he speaks. 

…

The men spent the better part of a week debating (honestly arguing) over how to even bring up the idea of… sharing you.

Though.. the longer they talked about it, the worse it sounded. Not because they didn’t want you. God, they did. So badly. 

But, well, asking the same woman they’d all but cornered in her place of work and interrogated like you’d been married for 20 years with 3 children if she’d be open to dating all of them?

“Feels a bit... predatory, yeah?” Price had said at one point, frowning as he paced with uncharacteristic nervousness. 

“We already ganged up on her once,” Gaz muttered. “Now we’re coming back to say ‘erm actually we’d like to take turns, thanks’? Bit dodgy.”

“We could ease her into it!” Johnny proposed, “One date each. Give her time to realize we’re all *cough* mostly me *cough* amazing.”

 “So your plan is emotional whiplash in four acts??”

Simon, of course, offered nothing besides something about how if you laughed them out of that café, not a single word would leave his lips for weeks on end. Still, none of them backed down.

They just had to figure out how to say “Would you consider going out with all of us?” without sounding like a cult.

Easy. Right?

They came to the conclusion that Johnny was right, they needed to take you out. Try to woo you! Hopefully, that would make up for their ambush as well.

But who would go first? 

Johnny concluded that because he was the only one who had actually asked you out on a date, he should be first!

But, no no, Price should go first! He was the most mature! You need a sexy, mature, older man to lead you into this.

Gaz didn’t care, he was convinced you’d fall for him the fastest no matter where he stood in line.

And Simon— wait where the hell is Simon?

Simon wasted no time slipping out of the room. He had somewhere to be. 

And, like clockwork, Simon showed up at noon on Tuesday. He didn’t say much, just leaned against the counter like always, watching you work in silence. But this time, you were silent too.

Not the calm, flirty kind that matched his silent he was used to. No. You were giving him the silent treatment.

And he definitely deserved it. And he kind of liked it.

Your narrowed eyes. The dramatic scoff when he handed you a full $50 bill for a tip instead of his usual $10. The way you didn’t even try to mask your irritation with your usual sweet smile.

It wasn’t your customer service charm… it was all you, properly pissed off.

And strangely? That made him feel closer to you. At least this meant he still mattered enough to you to be met with something real. 

And there was something about that slight look of disgust in your eyes that had heat pooling low in his stomach and him forced to drop a hand to his crotch in hopes no one could see his growing… problem.

“Can I…” he started quietly, just as you slid the cup across the counter. 

Unfortunately for him, you turned right back around. He cleared his throat, his eyes locked on your back. “Y/N..?”

You didn’t stop what you were doing., offering a dry little ‘hm?”

He swallowed hard. “Can I… can I take you out?”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, you glared at him over your shoulder. “Pardon?”

He blinked. Panic hit (and there was that warm feeling in his groin again). Then, like it was rehearsed, he reached behind his back and held something out.

A wildflower. Well, a weed. Obviously tugged from the sidewalk out front, roots still dirty. But somehow, in his trembling hands, it looked about as pretty as the large bouquets Johnny kept offering you.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

His voice was tight, and you noticed now how his fingers were shaking. Like he was expecting you to laugh in his face. “I… we can do whatever you’d like. If you’ll give me a chance.”

The weed was already wilting in his hand but he kept it cradled in his palm like it was worth his weight in gold. 

His head stayed bowed, jaw clenched, and the other hand curled into a fist behind his back, nails digging into his palm to keep from shaking.

After what felt like an eternity he saw your hand reaching out and carefully taking the small flower from his palm. “When are you free?”

His head shot up, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “I–I’ll have to check! I can text you. Just… I will text you.”

He continued to ramble, promising again and again that you'd hear from him as he stumbled backwards toward the door, his now-cold coffee clutched in hand.

He’d done it. He asked you out. He’s going on a date. With you.

Outside, he let out a breathless laugh and gave himself a small, victorious pat on the back, his thumb brushing over his name on the cup. His small personal treasure. A symbol of this joyous moment.

But then he paused.

Squinted.

“She spelled my name wrong..”

You may have an attitude problem.

…

Simon was a pretty blunt texter, you’d learned. He also started every single text message by stating it was him.

‘This is Simon. Would you like to go for dinner?’

‘This is Simon. I’ll send a list of restaurants. Pick what interests you.’

‘This is Simon. Don’t look at any prices. Leave your wallet at home.’

‘This is Simon. Eight sound good?’

‘This is Simon. Leaving out now. Excited to see you. Leave your wallet at home.’

‘This is Simon. At the entrance.’

You watched him for a couple seconds from your car, partially to feel out the situation and partially because you drove over in flip flops and needed to switch to heels.

Simon looked.. Nervous. A side of him you’d seen a lot of in the past few weeks but now it was at an all time high. It was like he didn’t know where to put his hands.

He tugged at his collar, checked his watch, ran his fingers through his slicked back blonde locks over and over. 

He seemed to perk up like a dog as he saw you approach, his jaw slack and his hands now suddenly folded in front of him. “Y/N.. you look—you look…you are—”

“Hi..” You interrupt as you come to a stop in front of him, “Were you out here long?”

“No! He said, quickly offering you a hand. “Been here for two minutes at the most..” 

He opened the door for you, his hand on the small of your back. “You’ll like it here..”

Once seated, Simon stared at the menu blankly, sneaking glances at you every few seconds.

“You good?” you asked, raising your eyes from your own menu. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, setting the menu down. “Just… tryin’ to figure out how to talk to you. I really like you. We all do.”

“We..?” You repeat, non committedly as you run your finger over the menu.

“Yknow.. Johnny, Gaz–suppose you call him Kyle, and uhh Price–John..” He stutters out. “We all really like you.”

You didn’t look up right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch just long enough for Simon to start shifting in his seat. His fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the table, like he was bracing for you to stand and walk out. He always seems prepared for the worst around you.

Finally, you looked up from menu. “You all talk about this together?”

He nodded slowly. “Not at first, per our.. ambush. But… yeah. Eventually. It wasn’t exactly avoidable.”

You let out a quiet breath, straightening in your chair. “So what is this, then? A group interview?”

He snorted, caught off guard, and the tension in his shoulders eased. “More like… an application process.”

“And you’re the first brave soul to show up?”

“Might not be the brave one. Might just be the most desperate.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to impress me?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “But I was hoping this would.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small, setting it gently in front of you on the table.

A little wildflower. This one wasn’t wilted. Still clumsy, still a little dirt clinging to the roots, but fresher. Something he clearly went out and searched for.

You stared at it for a moment before your lips stretched out into a grin so wide your cheeks started to hurt. “Oh.. you are ridiculous.”

He smiled. “Yeah. But you haven’t told me no.”

You reached out, taking the flower. “…What night are the others taking me out?”

Simon grinned. “I’ll let ‘em know you asked.”

[iamthatonefangirl]

I know your reqs are closed but i was thinking about Bucky discovering facetime and how you could call him while he’s busy at work being a congressman and not not being able to resist telling and showing you what he would do to you when you get home😩😩🤍🤍🤍

omg…

maybe you decide to facetime him for the first time while you’re out shopping for clothes or something and you want his opinion. and he’s like, what is this. what is on my screen. why can i see and hear you at the same time. he’s just a little confused. but then he is happy to be able to help you pick out clothes and maybe he encourages you to buy something you wouldn’t normally pick out or something

maybe he starts facetiming you… all the time. because he loves you and wants to see your face and hear your voice whenever he can. lunch break, walking in and out of the office, anything. he just wants to have your presence nearby.

so maybe he starts facetiming you when you’re getting ready. maybe he hides out in his office so he can just watch you get dressed and do your makeup because he wants to.

and then…

maybe he starts getting naughty ideas.

maybe he has to work late and you’re at home already. but he really doesn’t want to work late. so he needs an incentive to work faster (read: he’s not done with his work but he’s horny.)

lucky for him most of the office is empty so he can excuse locking his door and unzipping his pants and facetiming you…

and when you pick up, you’re not expecting to pick up to see him fucking jacking off in his office dear lord

“please, baby? lemme see you…” he moans into the phone

you quickly set up your phone so you can give him a little show…

and you strip sooo slowly it makes him so fucking hard

and maybe you’re wearing that lingerie set you bought when you called him the other day that he insisted on buying for you. you haven’t worn it for him yet, but you are now

“fuck, babydoll…” he’ll moan into the phone. “you look so pretty. can’t wait to come home and see you wearing it for me. wanna see if you’ve soaked your panties just watching me like this.”

“fuck, james…” you moan. you bend over a little bit, a hand on the counter in front of you, making your tits pop as he watches you through the phone. you bring your other hand between your legs

“don’t, babygirl, please? want you to wait for me.”

“you’re not waiting,” you protest without withdrawing your hand from under the lace panties

“please, pretty girl? i’ll make it worth your while… put my mouth on you for hours… then i’ll fuck you til you can’t even say a word…”

god the way he runs his mouth when he’s getting himself off is insane

“promise?”

“promise.” he moans, and so you agree to stop. and then he comes all over himself

and before his brain starts thinking properly again…

“put your fingers in your mouth, baby,” you instruct

oh and he does happily.

“see you when you get home,” you tease, and hang up the phone.

you’re both in for a long night

[sunnyuto]

It’s important to emphasize that this happened because he fucking worked for it.

Zohran has been on the street campaigning every day for months. He walked the entire length of Manhattan last week. He has tens of thousands of volunteers working with him - enough that he had 12 primary day watch parties across the city. He actually built a coalition and cross-endorsed other candidates in the race. He was one of the first people calling others to action when Brad Lander got arrested last week. His coalition-building with Lander specifically really helped his campaign among NYC’s Jewish community who were receiving nonstop smear propaganda against him. He ran the most flawless social media campaign I have ever seen. He put out ads not just in English and Spanish but in about 5+ other languages targeted at specific immigrant communities and their specific concerns. He put out an ad in Bengali just a few days ago.

And all that while facing a massive uphill battle against a heavily corporate and party backed candidate with better Name ID. All that while facing nonstop Islamophobia, xenophobia, and death threats. All that while being smeared from both sides for his position on Palestine, including by Stephen fucking Colbert two fucking days ago. All that while being constantly asked questions about his stance on Israel, something that has nothing to do with the mayoral race in NYC.

All that while never once retracting a statement or going back on his word. All that while standing for New Yorkers in Albany against Tom Homan, in the city against ICE, and in multiple confrontations against Cuomo’s campaign. All while never once compromising on his values or his policies.

Zohran’s campaign needs to be the blueprint for every Democratic campaign from here on out. Now that we’ve seen it work, there can be no going back, and honestly there will be no going back among younger factions. The party has a choice now: it can step up its game and start throwing its weight behind younger, progressive candidates, or it can crumble with the establishment and seniority politics that it has now.

MAMDANI WON THE FUCKING NY MAYOR PRIMARY

THATS RIGHT

AN OPENLY SOCIALIST

OPENLY PRO-PALESTINE

OPENLY PRO-TRANS

MUSLIM SON OF IMMIGRANTS

JUST KICKED THE ASS OF AN ESTABLISHED DEMOCRAT ENDORSED BY BILL FUCKING CLINTON WHO HAD 35 MILLION DOLLARS BACKING HIM

MAMDANI HAD LESS THAN TEN MIL, MOSTLY FROM INDIVIDUAL DONATIONS

BETTER THINGS ARE POSSIBLE. GET INVOLVED AND PRIMARY THE FUCK OUT OF ALL THESE MUSTY OLD DEMS

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 36: October 2024 - Part 3

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

Belle had always known that Lorenzo loved Charlotte.

You didn’t need to be particularly observant to catch it — not when he looked at her like she was sunlight bottled into human form. He was quieter about it than most, but in a way that only made it more obvious: the way he listened, the way he waited, the way his eyes found her even in a crowded room. Not infatuation. Not flair. Just… certainty.

So when Lorenzo asked if he could stop by for coffee, she hadn’t expected it to be anything dramatic.

But then he sat at her kitchen table — still in his work clothes, his tie half-loosened, hands wrapped too tightly around the mug she’d handed him — and didn’t speak for almost five full minutes.

That’s how she knew something was up.

She didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just waited.

Lorenzo had always been the sort of person who unfolded in his own time, like a letter written in longhand — slow, thoughtful, deliberate.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I want to propose.”

Belle blinked. Once. Twice.

Then smiled softly. “You think?”

“I know,” he said. “I do. I’ve known. For a while. I just…”

He looked down at his mug.

“I want it to be right.”

Belle rested her chin in her palm and watched her oldest brother. He looked—nervous. Earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe since they were kids, before life got complicated and painful and messy.

“And what does right look like to you?”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo said, huffing a laugh. “I don’t know. I just keep getting in my own head. She deserves something special. Not flashy. Not over the top. Just… her.”

Belle smiled wider, something warm unfolding in her chest.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s build it.”

Lorenzo looked up, surprised. “You’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” she said. “You’re my brother. She’s your person. This is literally my favorite kind of project.”

“But don’t you have enough on your plate?”

Belle gestured around the room, where baby things sat half-unpacked in calm, expectant chaos. “Max is currently on a mission to figure out how to swaddle a stuffed animal. I think I can spare a little time.”

He laughed, properly this time, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright then,” she said, reaching for a notepad. “Talk to me. What are the non-negotiables?”

Lorenzo leaned back, thinking. “Nothing public. Nothing performative. And something that includes her family, somehow — she’s close to them. But also something quiet. Intimate.”

Belle nodded. “Sentimental. Classic. Maybe something outdoors? A picnic? Or a dinner somewhere that matters to you both?”

“There’s a lake house,” he said slowly. “Her grandparents used to take her there when she was a kid. We’ve been a few times, and she always looks… peaceful there.”

Belle’s heart softened.

“There,” she said. “That’s the place. That’s the moment.”

Lorenzo looked like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that she was doing this with him — no teasing, no commentary, just belief.

“Belle,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him — her oldest brother, who had been too busy or too far removed to see her as anything other than Charles and Arthur’s quiet shadow. But right now, he was here. Asking her. Because he trusted her.

“You’re going to do this right,” she said. “Because it’s not about perfect words or some cinematic moment. It’s about her. And you already know how to love her. You just need to show her that in a way she’ll remember.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “You’d be a terrifying wedding planner.”

“I’m saving that energy for Emilian’s first birthday,” Belle said dryly. “There will be a live band and possibly jungle animals.”

He laughed again, eyes a little glassy now. “God, you’re going to be a good mum.”

Belle smiled down at the notepad, heart full.

“And you,” she said, writing down lake house, sunset, something honest, “are going to be a husband.”

****

They were on the couch, tangled together in the quiet kind of way that felt like routine now. Max’s head was resting on Belle’s belly, his hand absently tracing slow circles over the stretch of skin beneath her shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch before December came.

Belle had one hand in his hair. The other held her planner, open but forgotten on the coffee table.

“He kicked again,” Max murmured, pressing a kiss just above her navel.

Belle smiled, her heart aching in that full, quiet way that still caught her off guard sometimes. “He’s been kicking all day,” she said. “Probably hates how I folded over during that client call.”

Max snorted. “He already has opinions. Verstappen genes.”

She rolled her eyes, fond. “God help us.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, Monaco glowed—blue and gold and still.

Then Max said, softly, “We’ve got the triple header coming up.”

Belle nodded. “I know.”

“Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come.”

Belle looked down at him.

Max sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. “If you feel up to it,” he added. “If it’s safe. I just… I know it’s the last one before—before you can’t really travel anymore. And I don’t want to go three races without you if we can help it.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

Belle let her hand rest on the slope of her belly. Their son kicked again—just once, like punctuation.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to miss this part. After Brazil, I’ll stay home. Nest. Wait. After that, I won’t be able to travel long haul. Not safely, anyway. I just… I want to be there with you. One last time.”

Max’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something deeper. Something tender.

“You’d really be okay with all that travel?” he asked. “Three races in three weeks?”

She nodded. “I already talked to my OB. I’ll be 34 weeks by Brazil. She said if I’m careful, and I rest, and we don’t take risks, it’s fine. After that, no more flights. But until then…”

Max reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I’d love that,” he said softly. “I miss you when you’re not there.”

Belle smiled. “You have GP.”

Max smirked. “GP doesn’t sneak me cookies or remind me to drink water. Or kiss me before every quali.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “You want kisses before quali?”

“Obviously. It’s good luck.”

She laughed and leaned in, pressing one to his temple.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Three races. Three cities. Then we come home. And wait.”

Max smiled. It was a tired kind of smile, edged in awe. “He’ll be here so soon.”

Belle nodded. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” Max said. Then, after a beat: “Are you sure, though? It’s a lot of travel. Long flights. Weird hotel beds.”

“I’ll bring my pillow fortress,” Belle teased, nudging him with her foot. “And snacks. And compression socks. I’ll be fine.”

Max leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then her collarbone. Then her belly. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then we’ll do this together.”

Belle closed her eyes. Felt the hum of his voice against her skin. And the tiny flutter of their son, responding like he knew.

Together.

Until they weren’t two anymore.

But three.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So… I have some news. Charlotte said yes 💍😊

Arthur: WHAT?????? WAIT YOU PROPOSED????

Charles: BRO. What do you mean “said yes”??? WHEN??? HOW??? WHERE???

Arthur: Wait Belle knew didn’t she SHE TOTALLY KNEW

Belle: 👀

Charles: UNREAL. I TELL YOU EVERYTHING. AND YOU STAYED QUIET FOR THIS???

Belle: It wasn’t my news to tell! 😇 Also… I helped pick the ring. And the spot. And the picnic menu.

Arthur: I KNEW IT THE BASKET IN YOUR BACKSEAT LAST WEEK YOU SAID IT WAS FOR A “CLIENT MEETING”!!!

Lorenzo: It was a meeting. With my future wife 😌

Charles: Okay but for real—congratulations. You both deserve all the happiness. Still mad you didn’t tell us though.

Belle: 🥹 I was under strict brother-sister confidentiality. But I’m so happy for you, Enzo. Truly.

Arthur: Can we plan the bachelor party?? Please??

Charles: No. I know you. Absolutely not.

Arthur: 😤

Lorenzo: Thanks, all of you. Belle, especially. I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.

Belle: Anytime. Now go be nauseatingly in love.

***

Pascale hadn’t even set her wine glass down when Lorenzo said, “Charlotte and I are engaged.”

There was a beat of silence—sharp, almost theatrical—and then the room burst into overlapping exclamations.

Arthur stood up to hug him, nearly knocking over the bowl of olives. Charles thumped Lorenzo on the back like they were still teenagers. Even Alexandra, who was usually more reserved around the Leclerc chaos, was smiling wide, clutching Charlotte’s hands and asking a thousand questions.

Pascale pressed both hands to her heart, eyes wet. “Oh, my darling—felicitations!” She turned to Charlotte, enveloping her in a tight hug. “You are already family, but now it’s official. I am so, so happy.”

Belle watched it all unfold with a soft smile, Max’s hand resting on her knee under the table. She was genuinely happy for Lorenzo. 

But when Pascale dabbed her eyes and said, “Oh, we have to start planning,” Belle felt the old, familiar weight settle in her chest.

“Summer wedding?” Arthur asked. “Italy?”

“Too hot in July,” Charlotte said, laughing. “We were thinking September.”

“Belle should help you with everything,” Pascale added warmly. “She always has the best taste.”

Belle opened her mouth, closed it again.

“She already has,” Lorenzo said quickly, rescuing her. “She helped plan the proposal. Honestly, it was perfect.”

Charles raised his glass. “To love. And to Belle being a better event planner than all of us combined.”

They all drank. Belle sipped at her water, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile on her face when Pascale turned to her and said, with teasing affection, “Well, I expect an invite this time.”

The joke slipped out easily.

The silence that followed was harder.

Max’s fingers subtly curled around Belle’s under the table. “What do you mean?”

Pascale looked at Belle. “You know. The last wedding. The one none of us were invited to.”

“Maman,” she said quietly.

“No, I’m not trying to be rude, I just…” She trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “We found out from the press, Belle.”

Belle exhaled. “You forgot my birthday, remember? All of you,” Belle said sharply. 

“I turned 25. And you were all too busy with Charles winning Monaco.”

“Belle,” Pascale said gently, “we didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Belle interrupted, and her voice wasn’t cold. It was tired. Bone-deep tired. “You never mean it.”

The table was quiet now. Even Arthur wasn’t fidgeting.

Belle glanced down at her plate. Then back up. Her gaze flicked to each of them—her brothers, her mother, Charlotte and Alexandra.

“Max and I got married on a Tuesday morning. At Monaco City Hall. We didn’t want the press. Didn’t want a spectacle.”

Pascale’s face crumpled. “But we should’ve been there.”

“No,” Belle said, with finality. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She folded her napkin slowly, carefully, like it would help her hold back the years she hadn’t said anything.

“Because in that moment, I didn’t want to wonder if any of you thought I was enough. I didn’t want to hear one more backhanded joke about how I decorate houses for Instagram. Or how I was the ‘soft’ Leclerc. Or how I should be grateful for being in the room.”

Max stayed silent beside her, but his hand remained warm on her knee, steady, grounding.

“I wanted to be surrounded by people who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t compare me to Charles or Arthur or Lorenzo. Who didn’t make me feel like a placeholder in my own life.”

She turned toward her mother. “So no, you weren’t invited. Because it wasn’t about you. Or about what a wedding should look like. It was about what felt safe.”

“Belle,” Pascale began, reaching for her, “we didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Belle cut in. “You’ve spent years not meaning to. Not meaning to forget. Not meaning to brush me off. Not meaning to act like my work is just expensive Pinterest. Like I’m the background character in someone else’s success story.”

Pascale’s expression shifted, like someone trying to balance shame and defensiveness and failing at both.

“When Max and I got married,” Belle continued, her voice lower now, steadier, “we had everyone there who mattered. People who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t need a headline to decide I was important.”

Max’s hand tightened around hers under the table, silent but solid.

“It wasn’t a grand wedding. There was no string quartet, no designer gown. Emilie somehow managed to get my favourite flowers and cake. And it was the best day of my life.”

She looked at her mother.

“And I didn’t invite you. Not because I wanted to hurt you. But because, in that moment, I couldn’t handle the way you made me feel. Like nothing I did would ever be enough. Like even that day would be compared to someone else’s. Like I’d be asked why I didn’t wait. Or why the photos weren’t professional.”

Pascale looked stricken.

“I didn’t want to feel like an afterthought at my own wedding,” Belle finished, quietly. “So I didn’t invite the people who made me feel like one.”

Silence.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. Arthur looked like he might cry. Charles… looked wrecked.

And Pascale, for once, said nothing at all.

Belle pushed her chair back gently, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet.

“I’m going to check on dessert,” she said, standing. “Max, come with?”

He rose immediately. ***

The kitchen was warm and low-lit, all copper tones and quiet clatter. Belle moved automatically, opening drawers, checking the oven—like she hadn’t just dropped every hard, buried truth onto the dinner table like a thunderclap.

Max followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She reached for plates with trembling hands.

“Belle.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Too fast. Too flat.

He crossed the room in three steps, gently placing his hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be.”

Belle inhaled like she was bracing for another wave, but when it didn’t come, she sagged slightly into him, just enough that he felt it.

“I didn’t mean to make it a scene,” she murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

“You didn’t make a scene,” Max said. “You told the truth.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the cake tin on the counter like it might disappear if she focused hard enough.

“I’m just surprised you said all that out loud,” he added gently.

Belle let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a breath. “So am I.”

He rubbed small circles into her back. “They needed to hear it.”

“She won’t change.”

“Maybe not right away,” Max allowed. “But tonight… that landed. They were quiet, Belle. Your mother looked like she got hit with a brick.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” she muttered, though she didn’t pull away.

Max lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I mean it. You gave them a wake-up call they couldn’t brush off. That takes guts.”

She was silent for a long beat. Then: “I didn’t want to cry in front of them.”

“You didn’t. You stood up for yourself.”

Belle turned slightly to look at him. “Did I come off like an asshole?”

Max smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “No. You came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.”

Belle exhaled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”

“I know,” he said. “And deep down, I think she does too. But she needed to feel it. You gave her the truth. What she does with it is up to her.”

Belle leaned into his chest fully now, the tension finally starting to seep out of her limbs. “I just… I don’t want our son to ever feel that way. Like he has to earn being seen.”

Max wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “He won’t. Not with you as his mother.”

She let out another breath, steadier this time. “God. Dessert feels so stupid now.”

Max tilted his head. “It’s chocolate tart. Nothing about that is ever stupid.”

She laughed, soft and tired. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek, “are the bravest person I know.”

***

The moment Belle disappeared through the kitchen door with Max, the silence she left behind clung to the room like smoke.

No one spoke.

Charlotte gently touched Lorenzo’s arm, but he barely registered it.

He turned to his mother, voice low. “Do you realize what you just did?”

Pascale blinked at him, eyes still wide. “Lorenzo—”

“No.” He shook his head, biting back the anger rising in his throat. “You don’t get to play innocent now, Maman. You made a joke about not being invited to her wedding, and you didn’t think once about why you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” Pascale said, voice trembling. “It was meant to be lighthearted.”

“And that’s the problem.” Lorenzo’s voice hardened. 

Pascale blinked at her oldest son. “Lorenzo—”

“No,” he said, calm but sharp. “Don’t deflect.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Like you always do. Like we all do. And I’ve let it slide for years. We all have. Because it’s Belle, and she never kicks up a fuss, right?”

He leaned forward, fingers pressed against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold him down.

“But she remembers.” His voice dropped, hard with the weight of truth. “She remembers everything you brush off. Every joke about her job. Every time we prioritized a podium over a person. Every thing we forgot because we were too caught up in what one of us was doing on the track.”

Pascale’s eyes were glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt her—”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo snapped, sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard him. “You keep saying that. You never mean to. But it happens anyway. And because she doesn’t fight you on it, you think it didn’t cut.”

Arthur looked down. Even Charles didn’t try to interrupt.

“She helped me plan my proposal, Maman. Thought of every detail, reminded me to tell Charlotte’s parents first—she did it all with a smile. And not once did she bring up her wedding. Not once.”

He sat back slowly, tone dipping into something quieter. “She didn’t even want a wedding with us. You understand how much that says?”

Pascale had a hand pressed to her lips now.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe with you. Not loved. Not supported. Safe. Do you know how devastating that is?”

Pascale blinked hard, and for once, she didn’t have anything to say.

“And you know what?” Lorenzo added. “That’s on you. Not her. She found someone who sees her. Who values her. Who protects her, because he understands what it feels like to be treated like you’re never quite enough.”

Lorenzo’s tone turned more bitter than he meant it to. “God, Max Verstappen treats her better than any of us ever have. And we’re her blood.”

Pascale shook her head, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Lorenzo echoed Belle’s words, soft but resolute. “And I’m done pretending you didn’t.”

He stood, placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

“I’m going to help with dessert,” he said quietly.  He looked around the table, gaze landing on his mother last. “You can sit with what Belle said for a while.”

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

***

Belle’s hands stayed on the countertop, gripping the edge a little tighter than necessary. Her breath was steady, but only because she’d fought for every inch of calm since leaving the dining room. Max hovered nearby, silently setting out the plates for dessert. He hadn’t said a word—just let her have her silence, the same way he always had when she needed to recalibrate.

Then she heard the second pair of footsteps.

Lorenzo.

“Belle,” he said gently, and that was all it took for her throat to go tight again.

She turned slowly, blinking fast. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—tonight was supposed to be about you. And I—God, I just—ruined it.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh and crossed the kitchen in two strides.

“Petite sœur,” he said softly, wrapping her into a hug so immediate and so warm that it nearly undid her.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t ever say that.”

Belle shook her head against his shoulder. “But I took the spotlight—”

“No. You spoke your truth. Finally. That’s not stealing attention. That’s surviving.” He pulled back slightly, hands still on her shoulders, anchoring her. “And frankly? Someone needed to say it. It should’ve been me. Years ago.”

Her eyes welled again. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. “It was about all of us. And what we didn’t see. What we didn’t do.” His voice softened. “And for what it’s worth? I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Belle blinked at him, stunned.

“I meant it when I said you helped make the proposal perfect. And tonight? You gave me the best gift you could have—your honesty.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Lorenzo whispered. “And I love you. Even if you made Charles nearly cry during dinner.”

Belle laughed, a wet, breathless sound. “He’ll recover.”

“Barely,” Max called from the counter without turning around. “Pretty sure he is still emotionally buffering.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I just emotionally nuked a family dinner. Max says it was brave. I think I might throw up. (Also, Charles looked like someone kicked his puppy.)

Emilie: WHAT. WHAT DID YOU DO. Please tell me it was deserved and you finally snapped. I’ve been manifesting it for a year.

Belle: Lorenzo announced his engagement. Pascale made a joke about not being invited to my wedding. So I told them why.

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: You didn’t just light a match. You set that table ablaze. I am SO proud of you.

Belle: I didn’t mean to make it about me. It just came out. All of it. Every forgotten birthday. Every time they dismissed my work. I told her she wasn’t invited because she made me feel like an afterthought.

Emilie: GOOD. She needed to hear it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to be palatable. Quiet. Easy. But you are not an afterthought. And it’s not your job to shrink so they’re comfortable.

Belle: Max has been perfect, obviously. Didn’t say a word while I was talking. Just stayed next to me. Held my hand. Told me later I didn’t make a scene—I told the truth. That they were finally quiet because it landed.

Emilie: That man. That man would build you a cathedral out of reclaimed stone and lavender if you asked.

Belle: I’d settle for the chocolate tart he just plated.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. So proud. I hope you know how big this is. You stood up for yourself and didn’t apologize for it. You chose yourself.

Belle: I think I finally did. And I think—for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel guilty about it.

Emilie: Damn right you don’t. Also I need Charles' face in that moment. Please. A voice note reenactment. I beg.

Belle: He looked like someone told him Ferrari ran out of red paint.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Just got back from dinner at Belle’s family’s place. It was… Intense.

Sophie: Oh? What happened? Are you okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s a bit wrung out. Her brother Lorenzo got engaged. Announced it at dinner. Everyone was celebrating. Pascale made some joke about expecting an invite this time.

Sophie: Oh no.

Max: Yeah. Belle told them why they weren’t invited to our wedding. In front of everyone. Calm. Clear. Brutal.

Sophie: Good for her.

Max: She told them they forgot her birthday. That they treat her like she’s nothing. Said she only invited people who remembered her. I’ve never seen her do that before. Not with them.

Sophie: She finally snapped.

Max: Yeah. But it wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was honest. Tired. She just laid it out—like she wasn’t going to carry their excuses anymore.

Max: And her mother. God. She looked shocked. Like she couldn’t believe Belle didn’t feel loved.

Sophie: Because people like that don’t notice until it’s too late. They don’t think they have to change because they’re the mother.

Max: Exactly. She kept saying “I didn’t mean to.” And Belle just said, “But you did.”

Sophie: Oof. That girl has been swallowing it all for years, hasn’t she?

Max: All of it. Her work. Her feelings. Being ignored. She told them the reason she married me without them was because she didn’t feel safe. And I think it finally hit them. Maybe. Hopefully.

Max: But I don’t understand her mother. How do you look at someone like Belle and not see her? She’s brilliant. She’s kind. She feels everything. And they made her feel like she didn’t matter.

Sophie: Because some people only love the version of you they can control. And Belle? She’s soft, yes—but she’s also steel. That scares people who only know how to hold love with conditions.

Max: I didn’t even have to say anything. She did it all on her own. And then she turned to me in the kitchen and asked if she came off like an asshole.

Sophie: Oh, sweetheart.

Max: I told her no. She came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.

Sophie: I’m proud of her. And proud of you. She needed someone who would stand beside her while she took her voice back. And that’s exactly what you did.

Max: I don’t get it, Mama. How can you have a daughter like Belle and make her feel like she has to earn your love?

Sophie: Because some people only know how to love the loud ones. The gold medals. The press conferences. The obvious successes. Not the quiet girl who builds beauty and doesn’t ask for applause.

Sophie: But you see her. And that matters more than anything.

Max: She told me she didn’t want our son to ever feel like that. Like he has to earn being seen.

Sophie: He won’t. Because his father will show him what love looks like. And his mother will teach him how to build a home out of strength and gentleness.

Max: I hope so. I just hate that it ever made her feel small.

Sophie: That’s because you love her. And you, my boy, are nothing like her mother.

Max: Good. Because she deserves better.

Sophie: She has better now. She has you.

***

Victoria hadn’t meant to stay long.

She’d only stopped by to drop off a scarf she’d picked up for her mother in Amsterdam. But Sophie had made tea, and the afternoon light was soft, and somehow they’d ended up on the couch with lemon biscuits between them and a conversation that turned, inevitably, to Belle.

Specifically, the Leclercs.

Max had told Sophie the whole story via text—blunt, half-capitalized, frustrated in a way he rarely got—but Victoria hadn’t realized how much had happened until Sophie quietly said, “Pascale made a joke about expecting an invite next time,” and stirred her tea like she was imagining stirring something else instead.

Victoria blinked. “She joked about not being invited?”

Sophie hummed. Calm. Neutral. Terrifying.

Victoria sat back a little.

Because she knew that sound. She’d heard it as a teenager when Jos yelled and stomped and slammed doors—and Sophie just got quiet. When Jos was a hurricane and Sophie was the pressure drop right before the sky cracked in two.

Everyone thought Jos Verstappen was the scary one. And he was, in his own way. But Jos exploded, and Sophie? Sophie waited. Sophie watched. Sophie didn’t lose control—she took it. And there was something so much more lethal in that.

“She said it with a laugh, apparently,” Sophie went on, still stirring. “Right after Belle helped plan the proposal. Said she expected an invite to this one.”

Victoria blinked again. “Oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“She said that in front of everyone?”

“In front of Belle. At the table.”

Victoria felt something flicker in her chest. A cold edge of anger on Belle’s behalf. “What did Belle say?”

“She told them the truth,” Sophie said softly. “That she got married surrounded by people who remembered her birthday. That she didn’t want backhanded comments at her own wedding. That she didn’t feel safe with her own family.”

Victoria’s jaw tightened. “And Pascale?”

“Tried to say she didn’t mean to hurt her.” Sophie finally set the spoon down, slow and deliberate. “I suppose that’s supposed to count for something.”

There was a long silence then—thicker than the steam curling from the kettle, heavier than any of the words still hanging between them.

Victoria had grown up around volatility. Her father’s temper was legendary, a weather system that built and broke and sometimes came back with no warning at all. But Sophie—Sophie Verstappen was a different kind of terrifying. Jos exploded. Sophie observed. Calculated. Waited. And when she struck, it was always surgical.

Jos could knock you over like a thunderclap. Sophie could gut you with a whisper.

And right now, Victoria could see it: that slow, icy rage simmering just beneath her mother’s carefully neutral face.

“She told them,” Sophie said finally, “that she didn’t invite them to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. Not unloved. Not forgotten. Unsafe.”

Victoria swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I have half a mind to call Pascale and tell her exactly what I think of her.”

Victoria blinked. Sophie never said things like that. She didn’t make threats. She made decisions.

“She’s pregnant,” Sophie added, quieter now. “And still had to stand there and explain why her family made her feel like a placeholder in her own life.”

“I have watched Belle love that family with her whole heart,” Sophie said, and now her voice had an edge. “I have watched her shrink herself so they wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I’ve watched her pretend she doesn’t care that they forget her. That they talk over her. That they diminish everything she is.”

The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.

“She was raised to believe love is conditional,” Sophie said, not looking at her. “That it comes after achievements. Or for being quiet. Or for not asking for too much.”

Victoria felt something lodge in her chest.

“She has spent her whole life shrinking to fit into their idea of family,” Sophie continued, her voice steady and lethal. “And they still managed to ignore her.”

Victoria swallowed.

“And then she gets married—to my son—and not one of them is there. And not because she wanted to hurt them, but because she didn’t feel safe with them.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but her tone dropped low. “That’s not something you laugh about over dinner.”

Victoria sat very still.

Because that was the thing about Sophie Verstappen. You never saw her fury coming. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t rant or throw things or storm out. She just… waited. Like gravity. Like consequence. And then she spoke with that glacial softness that made you feel every syllable like it might cut.

Victoria suddenly felt like she was sixteen again and had missed curfew by three hours.

“I’m so mad for her,” she said after a pause. “Belle.”

Sophie nodded. “So am I.”

“She deserves better.”

“She has better,” Sophie said. And that time, there was warmth in it. Fierce. Unshakable. “She has Max. And she has us.”

“You like her,” Victoria said, surprised by the softness that slipped into her own voice.

“I love her,” Sophie corrected. “I don’t care how she came into this family. I don’t care what her last name is. Belle is mine now.”

Victoria blinked fast. “God. Okay. You’re mad.”

Sophie looked at her, eyes dark and razor-sharp. “No, Victoria. I’m focused.”

And Victoria—who had seen Jos Verstappen angry enough to make grown men shrink back—felt a shiver run down her spine. Because Jos might yell. He might throw chairs and punch walls.

But Sophie? Sophie waited until your guard was down and then made sure you never forgot the consequences.

Victoria took a sip of her tea when Sophie finally poured it. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you learned that lesson in 2011.”

Victoria laughed, a little breathless. “Fair.” Then paused. “Do you think they even realize how lucky they are to still be in her life?”

Sophie gave her a look that said no, not yet.

But they would.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: i just left mom’s pretty sure she’s going to have words with your mother in law like. capital W. Italics. Possibly in multiple languages

Max: …oh no what kind of “words”

Victoria: the terrifying kind you know how dad yells? mom doesn’t yell. she plans

Max: okay but like what kind of planning are we talking tea-and-a-pointed-sentence planning or scorched-earth-PR-nightmare planning

Victoria: you know the answer to that she was calm. TOO calm. like she’s already made a list and put a neat little check box next to “remind pascale she’s on thin ice”

Max: oh god

Victoria: on the bright side if belle didn’t feel protected before she definitely has a battle unit behind her now

Max: she does she always did but still maybe warn me if mom starts practicing her diplomatic voice that one always ends in casualties

Victoria: consider this your official warning if Mom puts on pearls and offers to “drop by for a coffee,” RUN

***

Instagram DMs: @sophiekumpen → @charles_leclerc

Sophie: Bonjour, Charles. Would you mind sending me your mother’s number?

Charles:Bonjour… of course. Is everything alright?

Sophie: Everything is fine. I just think she and I should have a little chat. Mother to mother.

Charles: ... Is this about dinner?

Sophie: Among other things. Don’t worry. I’m always very polite. Even when I’m deeply unimpressed.

Charles: ...I’ll send the number. Should I warn her?

Sophie: If you like. Though I find surprise tends to make people more honest. 😊

Charles: Noted.

Sophie: Merci. And Charles? Be kind to your sister. She’s braver than most of you realize.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Sophie Kumpen just DMed me asking for Maman’s number.

Arthur: wait what. as in Max’s mum????

Lorenzo: …what did she say?

Charles: She said she wants to “have a little chat.” “Mother to mother.” Also said she’s “always polite. Even when deeply unimpressed.”

Arthur: holy shit

Lorenzo: That’s… terrifying. She’s the quiet kind of scary.

Charles: Right?? Jos is like a storm. You see him coming. Sophie is the earthquake under your feet.

Arthur: did you give her the number???

Charles: Yes?? What was I supposed to do?? She said “merci” and then told me to be kind to Belle because she’s braver than any of us know. I was emotionally held hostage.

Lorenzo: She’s not wrong. Belle is braver than any of us. We just didn’t see it.

Arthur: we should’ve. we should’ve made her feel like she didn’t need to be brave around us.

Charles: Well. Now we wait for the Sophie Effect.

Lorenzo: Maman’s not ready.

Arthur: nobody’s ready.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie :Good Morning, Belle! I’m in Monaco on Thursday. Would you like to have lunch?

Belle: Yes. That sounds great. Please. Wherever suits you. (Unless you want to come to ours, I’ll make something.)

Sophie: I’ll let you choose. I just want to see you. 12:30?

Belle: Perfect. I’ll make a reservation. Thank you for asking. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.

Sophie: As have I. I’ll see you Thursday, sweetheart. Bring that beautiful baby bump. And don’t you dare worry about anything else.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Did you know your mother is in Monaco on Thursday?!

Max: …no? I had no idea. Why? What’s happening? Is she okay?

Belle: She just texted and asked if I wanted to get lunch. No drama. Just lunch. She was very sweet.

Max: That’s good?? I mean, she loves you. I’m just confused why I didn’t know 😅

Belle: Maybe she didn’t want you to stress about it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: The day has come. The talk is upon us. Mom’s going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Victoria: oh. oh no. is this about Pascale?

Max: She asked Belle to lunch. Alone. So I am expecting her to verbally annihilate Pascale for breakfast.

Victoria: SHE’S GOING TO EAT HER ALIVE IN A TAILORED COAT AND PEARL EARRINGS

Max: I’m honestly more afraid for Pascale than I was for Dad that one time

Victoria: she’s going to do the quiet voice

Max: the lethal quiet voice the "I’m not angry, I’m disappointed and also morally superior" tone

Victoria: may God have mercy on Pascale’s soul (because mom won’t)

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Max: Heads up. My mum is going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Charles: Oh no.

Max:

I’m 95% sure this is about Sunday.

And your mother.

Charles:

Ah. She asked me for her phone number but clearly she has decided that she needs to talk to her in person… 

Max: Yeah. She knows what happened at dinner. I didn’t tell her everything, but I didn’t need to. She’s connected enough dots to be… not thrilled.

Charles: How bad are we talking?

Max: Sophie-bad. Not Jos yelling bad—worse. The calm kind of bad. The “I will destroy you with facts and a smile” kind of bad.

Charles: …she’s going to kill Maman.

Max: She’s not going to kill her. She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.

Charles: Oh god.

Max: Belle has no idea. And I would prefer to keep it that way.

Charles: Understood. I’ll warn the others. (Should we call Lorenzo?? He’s the diplomat.)

Max:

If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: 🚨 Update: Sophie Verstappen is going to be in Monaco on Thursday. It’s not a social visit. It’s a Sophie visit. Max warned me. She knows what happened at dinner. Apparently Max didn’t even tell her everything—but she figured it out. She’s not happy.

Arthur: Okay but what does that mean exactly??

Lorenzo: It means she’s coming in tailored trousers and quiet fury and is about to emotionally dismantle Maman using three polite sentences and an herbal tea.

Arthur: …should we warn Maman??

Charles: That’s what I said.

Lorenzo: If we tell her, she’ll try to control the situation and that’ll make it worse.

Arthur: So we just… let her walk into the Sophie Trap??

Charles: We let Max handle it. He asked us not to say anything to Belle. She has no idea.

Lorenzo: She deserves a break, anyway. Honestly, Sophie giving Maman a long-overdue reality check might be the best gift Belle could get.

Arthur: She’s going to obliterate Maman, isn’t she. . 

Charles: Max literally said: “She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.”

Lorenzo: …well.

Arthur: Should we do something?

Charles: Max said not to. I quote: “If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.”

Lorenzo: Rude, but fair.

Arthur: I vote we hide.

***

Sophie hadn’t come to Monaco to start a fight. She didn’t need to.

People like Pascale Leclerc didn’t respond to raised voices. They responded to subtle shifts in temperature. Gentle truths. Icy clarity.

Sophie’s heels clicked softly against the stone path leading to Pascale Leclerc’s door, the rhythm even, precise. She’d chosen her outfit deliberately: clean ivory trousers, a soft blue blouse, hair pinned back. No jewelry except for her watch. Everything about her appearance said calm, collected, reasonable.

And that, of course, was the point.

Jos could intimidate with volume. Sophie did it with silence, with poise, with a steel-edged smile that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

The door opened.

Pascale blinked at her, startled and still in her dressing robe, a coffee cup in hand.

“Sophie?”

“Bonjour, Pascale,” Sophie said, smooth as ever. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was in Monaco and thought we could catch up.”

“Oh, I—of course, come in.”

Inside, everything was as Sophie expected. Elegant. Neutral. Impersonal.

She took a seat in the sitting room, hands resting lightly in her lap as Pascale flitted to the kitchen to prepare espresso. Sophie’s eyes wandered—not snooping, just observant. Pictures of the Leclerc children lined the mantel. Arthur, Charles, Lorenzo—big frames, central placements. Belle was there too, but off to the side. Cropped in. Slightly tilted behind a decorative candle holder.

That told her everything she needed to know.

Pascale returned with the espresso cups and handed one over with a tentative smile. “Sugar?”

“Always,” Sophie replied.

There was a moment of polite silence.

“I’m not here because something’s wrong,” Sophie said calmly. “I’m here because something has been wrong for a very long time. And I think you need to hear it from someone who isn’t your daughter. I heard about Sunday finner”

Pascale blinked. “From Belle?”

“From my son.” Sophie’s gaze didn’t waver. “Belle doesn’t complain. She survives.”

Pascale flinched. “I didn’t mean to upset her—”

Sophie tilted her head, eyes cool. “You didn’t mean to. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? You’ve built your whole motherhood on the idea that intention erases harm. It doesn’t.”

Pascale didn’t answer.

“You didn’t mean to forget her birthday. You didn’t mean to dismiss her work. You didn’t mean to make a joke about not being invited to her wedding when you didn’t even ask why you weren’t invited in the first place.”

Pascale went quiet.

Sophie continued, voice calm and exact. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. But you did. Over and over. Because you assumed she’d take it. That she’d understand. That she’d be fine.”

Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands neatly. Her voice didn’t sharpen, but it grew firmer. “I have two children. Max and Victoria.”

Pascale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“They’re just about two years apart. He was born in 1997. She arrived in 1999. They were loud. Competitive. Wild.” A fond smile tugged at Sophie’s lips. “Very much siblings.”

Pascale exhaled. “They’re close in age too, you know. All three of them. Charles was born in 1997. Belle in ’99. Arthur in 2000. They were always… together. Loud. Chaotic. There is no manual for parenting children so tightly packed.”

Sophie let the silence breathe before adding, “And yet somehow, I managed not to forget my daughter.”

Pascale flinched.

“I love both of my children. Equally. Differently. Fiercely. And not once have I ever made Victoria feel like she mattered less than Max. Even when he started winning karting trophies. Even when the spotlight was on him and him alone. I could’ve let him take up all the space. He’s Max Verstappen—how easy would that have been? One child chasing world titles, the other left in the background.”

Sophie folded her hands delicately around her coffee cup.

“I know what it’s like to sit at a dinner table and choose to ask my daughter how her week was. I know what it’s like to remember her birthday even when Max has a race. I know what it’s like to see them both as whole people—equally deserving of being seen, even when the world tries to make it about just one.”

She let that sit between them. Let it sting.

“I don’t think you meant to forget Belle,” Sophie said, her voice soft now. “But you did. For years.”

“I know I haven’t always handled things well,” Pascale said. “Charles’ career took so much of everything. Time. Energy. Attention. And Belle never demanded anything. Not like the boys.”

“That’s the thing about girls like Belle,” Sophie said. “They don’t demand—they just quietly disappear. Until one day, they don’t come back.” Sophie leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t just forget your daughter. You erased her. Slowly. Kindly. With a smile. The kind of maternal neglect you can hide behind birthday cards and a roast chicken.”

Tears pricked in Pascale’s eyes. Sophie didn’t flinch.

“Belle is more than Charles’ sister. More than a Leclerc. She’s a woman. A professional. A wife. A soon-to-be mother. And you made her feel like the understudy in a family performance that never had room for her.”

A pause.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not an oversight, Pascale. That’s a statement. And she was right to make it.”

That landed.

“She didn’t marry Max because of who he is on the grid,” Sophie went on. “She married him because he saw her. Because he made her feel like she mattered. Because he never asked her to shrink.”

A long pause.

“She loves you, Pascale. That’s obvious. It’s why it hurt so much. It’s why she stayed quiet for so long. But she’s not going to beg anymore. And you don’t get forever to fix this.”

“I’ve watched Max fall in love exactly once,” Sophie said softly. “And it was with her. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.”

That stopped Pascale. She said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means, Pascale?” Sophie asked. “Max is not an easy man. He’s brilliant, yes. But he is intense. Demanding. He grew up in a house where love was conditional, where you earned praise by winning. And then Belle—your daughter—walked into his life, and everything changed.”

“She softened him,” Sophie continued. “Not by shrinking herself, not by appeasing him. But by loving him exactly as he is. By never making him feel like he was too much. She steadies him. Sees the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else see. And because of her, he’s gentler. Happier. Kinder.”

A beat.

She met Pascale’s eyes. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how much it means to me, as his mother, that the person he chose makes him feel safe?”

Pascale looked down at her hands.

“She is so good for my son,” Sophie said. “She sees him as Max, not a trophy. And he sees her—really sees her. Your daughter. Your brilliant, kind, fiercely steady daughter.”

She picked up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. “You may not get many more chances to prove you see her too.”

Pascale rose slowly, still blinking.

Sophie reached the door, paused, and turned. “It’s not too late, Pascale. But it’s getting close.”

And with that, she left. Silent, measured, devastating. Like a queen who didn’t need a crown to be feared.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur:ok but like who’s going to check on Maman

Charles:not me.

Arthur:not me. Enzo, you’re up. 

Lorenzo:you’re both cowards. you’ve driven at monaco in the rain and you’re scared of a 60-year-old woman in linen this is above my paygrade

Charles: this is above everyone’s paygrade

Lorenzo:i’m not a diplomat. i can’t emotionally reparent maman.

Lorenzo: if i don’t text back in 20 mins assume the worst and tell Charlotte i loved her

Arthur: Also… maybe don’t bring up Belle for a bit.

Lorenzo: She already said, “I was trying my best.” I didn’t know what to say.

Arthur: Maybe: “Then your best wasn’t good enough”? 😬

Charles: Jesus Christ. Do not say that.

***

Belle was already seated at their usual table at Le Petit Marché by the time Sophie arrived—linen blouse perfectly pressed, sunglasses still perched on her head like she’d walked out of a silent film set in Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour, sweetheart,” Sophie said, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks before taking the seat across from her.  “You look glowing.”

Belle laughed, a little breathless. “I look puffy.”

“You look lovely,” Sophie corrected, settling across from her. She flagged down the waiter with a tilt of her chin. “Still sparkling water?”

Belle nodded. “You remember.”

“I remember everything,” Sophie said lightly, but her eyes lingered on Belle for a second too long to be casual.

They ordered—salads, tartines, nothing too heavy—and by the time the drinks arrived, Belle had finally let herself exhale.

It was easy, being with Sophie. It always had been.

Max’s mother had never made her feel like she needed to be louder, or smaller, or clever in a way that didn’t come naturally. Sophie simply saw her, and for Belle, that was still something of a quiet miracle.

They talked about everything and nothing. It was only when their plates had been cleared and coffee had been brought that Sophie said, in her most casual tone, “And how are you doing? Truly?”

Belle blinked. “I’m… okay.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“Some days are harder than others,” Belle admitted. “But Max makes them better. Always.”

Sophie stirred her coffee once, twice, then set her spoon down with precision. “He’s different with you, you know.”

Belle smiled, ducking her head. “I know.”

“I’ve watched that boy drive through everything—noise, pressure, fire. And still, you’re the first person who made him slow down.” Sophie’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful. And it scares him.”

Belle was still smiling when she looked up and saw Sophie watching her. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… looking.

“I had coffee with your mother this morning,” Sophie said, tone gentle but deliberate.

Belle blinked. “You did?”

“I did. She didn’t know I was coming. I like the element of surprise.”

Belle set her fork down carefully. “Was she…”

“Wrecked? Defensive? A little of both.” Sophie shrugged. “But I said what I needed to say.”

Belle was silent, unsure if she wanted to ask what that entailed.

Sophie didn’t make her. “I told her that I have a son who drives a Formula One car. And a daughter who has spent most of her life in his shadow. Just like you.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t forget my daughter,” Sophie continued, voice calm and precise. “I didn’t ask her to shrink so her brother could shine. I didn’t treat her love as smaller just because it wasn’t in a headline. And I certainly didn’t make her feel like the supporting character in her own life.”

Belle looked down at her water glass. Her eyes stung.

“I told her,” Sophie went on, “that my son saw your worth immediately. From the first moment. ”

Belle swallowed, hard. “Sophie…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sophie said. “It was overdue.”

“She loves you, I think,” Sophie said. “But love without effort is just sentiment. And you deserve more than sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Belle whispered.“I’m really glad you’re here,” Belle said softly.

Sophie smiled and reached across the table, brushing a piece of hair from Belle’s cheek. “You are my daughter now. I will always show up.”

Belle blinked fast. “If I cry in this café, Max is going to blame you.”

“He already does,” Sophie said breezily. “Now then we’re going shopping. I saw a pair of flats that are very you, and you’re not leaving without them.”

 Which meant Belle left the afternoon with a pair of maternity jeans so well-tailored she could cry, a cashmere cardigan in the softest dove grey, and a little knit hat for the baby that Sophie claimed she couldn’t walk past without buying.

“I spoil the people I love,” she said, like it was obvious.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Your mother’s intervention has resulted in our mother questioning all her life choices.

Max:Good. She should.

Charles: She’s been sitting on the balcony for an hour Just… staring at the sea Like she’s in an existential French film. Alexandra brought her tea and she whispered "Am I a bad mother?"

Max: Sophie works fast. And thoroughly.

Charles: She didn’t even raise her voice.

Max: She never does. That’s how you know it’s serious.

Charles: Do you think she’s available for hire? We could send her to FIA meetings.

Max: I’ll ask.

Charles: No but seriously I think it got through to her. She hasn’t deflected once today. She’s just… quiet.

Max: That’s progress.

Charles: She’s still herself, don’t worry. She asked if Belle wanted a proper wedding And Arthur started choking on his juice.

Max: Tell your mother our wedding was already perfect. No upgrades needed.

Charles: Tell your mother she might be the only person who’s ever successfully made our mother reflect. It’s like watching a glacier move.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: And has your mother-in-law survived Mom? 👀

Max:

She’s still breathing. But I think she’s in a mild existential crisis.

Victoria: Mild?

Max: She spent twenty minutes staring at the ocean in silence. Then apparently asked Charles if she’s been a bad mother. Then actually listened when he answered.

Victoria: Oh damn. Mom really unleashed the linen-trousered therapy nuke.

Max: She just sipped her espresso and dismantled a whole family system. Belle doesn’t know the half of it.

Victoria: She doesn’t need to. Mom did what moms are supposed to do: Protect their daughters.

Max: I know. And Belle’s glowing today. She had lunch with her and came back with a cardigan, a hat for the baby, and suspiciously expensive flats.

Victoria: That’s the Sophie Kumpen Experience™ Phase 1: espresso. Phase 2: emotional reparenting. Phase 3: light shopping spree.

Max: Tell me you’re related without telling me you’re related.

Victoria: Tell Belle I said she’s now Mom’s favorite. Also tell Pascale not to test her again unless she wants a sequel.

***

The room felt softer this time.

There was no cold weight in her chest, no sense of armor laced tight under her ribs. Belle still sat close to Max, still had one hand resting over her bump, but for once, it wasn’t to brace herself. It was just—her hand. On her stomach. Because their son had been active all morning, and she could feel the light nudges that reminded her, constantly, of the new chapter ahead.

Camille gave everyone the same calm nod as she sat. “Thank you for being here again.”

They all murmured polite hellos. Belle caught her brothers’ expressions—Charles quiet but attentive, Arthur slightly wary, Lorenzo composed as ever. Max, steady and grounded next to her, nodded at Camille. She always liked how seriously he took this.

But it was Pascale who surprised her.

Her mother looked tired—but not defensive. Not braced. She looked… resolved. There were faint lines beneath her eyes, the kind that come from crying. Her hair was pinned back neatly. Her hands folded in her lap. Belle didn’t recognize this version of her. And somehow, that made it harder.

“Before we begin,” Camille said gently, “Pascale mentioned she had something she’d like to say.”

Belle tensed automatically. Max’s pinky brushed hers in silent reassurance.

Pascale looked at her daughter.

“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly.

The words landed like a stone in the water. Clear. Heavy. Real.

Belle didn’t speak.

“I didn’t come here today to justify anything,” Pascale said. “I’ve spent too long doing that. Dismissing things. Telling myself that good intentions were enough.” She exhaled. “They weren’t.”

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Pascale continued. “About you, Belle. About how many birthdays I missed. How many quiet accomplishments I treated like background noise. I thought I was being fair. Letting everyone find their own way. But I see now—I see that I didn’t give you the same space I gave the boys.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

Pascale looked down, voice softer. “I told myself that because you didn’t complain, you were okay. That you were independent. That you didn’t need as much.” Her voice cracked. “But you did. Of course you did. And I wasn’t there.”

There was a moment—brief, flickering—where Belle’s heart stuttered. She tried to breathe through it.

“I was a good mother to Charles,” Pascale said. “And Arthur. And Lorenzo. But I wasn’t a good mother to you. And I want to say that out loud. I need you to hear it. No excuses. Just truth.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I am so proud of the woman you became anyway.”

That broke something in Belle. She didn’t cry—but the tears burned hot in her chest, where all the old silences used to live.

Pascale looked up, eyes glassy. “Your work is brilliant. Your marriage is strong. And this baby—this baby is so lucky. Because he’ll be raised by someone who knows how to see people. Truly see them.”

Belle exhaled shakily.

“I want to earn my place again,” Pascale said. “Not as your mother by name. But as someone who supports you. Who shows up. Who listens, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Max stayed quiet beside her. Charles had his hand loosely over his mouth. Arthur blinked hard. Lorenzo watched his mother like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Belle’s voice was small. “It hurt.”

“I know,” Pascale whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

[solarstranger]

You just know Bakugo mentally catalogs every little thing he learns about you. Especially your type/dating preferences

It's cute to imagine him comparing himself whenever you mention something you find attractive

And if it's a body part? He's suddenly showing it off more

and he tries to convince himself he's not doing any of that on purpose!!!! it's not his fault he's got superb acuity and is good at memorizing things. 😔

bakugou katsuki is a smart man.

sure, he may be as subtle as a gun when it comes to some—okay, most—things, but he can definitely be inconspicuous when need be.

things like his feelings, or whatever the fuck these sensations that never fail to spring violently up in his chest when he so much as looks at you mean.

and it’s not like he’s being obvious, he thinks. he’s not even doing any of this on purpose. it just so happened that the one time you told mina in passing during one of your weekly dinners that you thought guys with glasses were cute, his eye clinic ran out of his prescription contacts the day after when he was supposed to pick them up, and he was forced to start wearing his reading glasses to work.

or the other time when he heard you excitedly mention a band he hadn’t heard before in a conversation with sero, he accidentally clicked on their latest album that was featured in his spotify account’s new music friday and wound up listening to the whole thing.

or the other time when you praised kirishima about his arms looking so good, he was in the middle of sprucing up his workout regimen with his trainer, and ended up adding more exercises for his biceps and triceps.

all of which are things he’s kept to himself, because while he knows deep in his heart that these are all merely funny coincidences, it might not seem that way for dumbasses looking from the outside.

dumbasses like—

“man,” kaminari drawls, pointing at your tv screen from where he’s plastered comfortably on your living room couch, “i wish i had michael b. jordan’s guns.”

“that’s what you’re staring at?” sero laughs from the other sofa, mouth half-full with popcorn.

“what?” the electric hero asks defensively, glancing at sero with a pout, “there are two of them. it’s hard not to stare.”

“i agree,” you chime in quietly, nodding, “it’s admirable. he must’ve worked so hard to get those.”

“thank you,” kaminari huffs, vindicated, and tosses you a grateful look. you grin at the blonde in response, just as bakugou feels kirishima stir right beside him, turning towards you.

“bakubro’s been working on his arms, too,” the redhead adds proudly, before glancing back at the ash-blonde, a knowing glint in his eyes. “isn’t that right?”

“uh, yeah,” is the only thing bakugou manages to say after a beat, acutely aware of your curious eyes on him, and it takes everything within him not to shoot the man with a warning glare.

“really?” you ask, struggling to mask your surprise. bakugou feels himself flame despite himself. “i thought you were gonna focus on your legs?”

“i just felt like mixing it—”

“oh, he wanted you to—ow!”

as if on cue, kaminari groans dramatically, the pillow that mina just flung straight at him now lying flatly on the floor.

“i didn’t get that,” you frown, eyes darting between bakugou and kaminari. “what did you two say?”

“nothing,” kaminari croaks just as bakugou grumbles a “forget it”.

“do you guys mind?” mina interjects, but not before secretly flashing bakugou an apologetic grimace, probably on behalf of the man. “i’m trying to watch a movie here.”

so, yes. bakugou can not be as subtle as a gun.

but his friends apparently couldn’t.

a/n. this one's pretty stupid but i wanted to whip something up based on this ask because i fuck with this headcanon so bad. thank you nonie for the input!!!! had to throw in a little bit of bakusquad because why not >:)

[archangeldyke-all]

Papa me want more movie (paramedic sevika) 😞

okay baby here comes the airplane vrooom

men and minors dni

sevika is very protective of her ambulance.

unless you're her patient and she's in the back to treat you, sevika's usually the one driving the rig to the hospital.

it's her baby. when she's not working, silco's the other paramedic driving it. the two of them are precious about the truck, like it's a living creature. they text each other updates during their shifts; if they filled it with gas, when the last stock up was, if the brakes have been sounding squeaky, stuff like that. like it's their baby they're co-parenting, or something.

before she met you, her phone lock screen was just a picture of the ambulance under a sunset. she's such a dork.

so you know sevika's lost her mind when she shows up to pick you up from work in the ambulance.

"sevika. what the fuck." you laugh as she leads you to the giant red truck. she giggles and shrugs.

"gotta take the old gal in to get her oil changed, figured i'd treat my girl to a spin around the block."

"and i'm i the old gal or the girl, in this situation?" you ask. sevika grins and pops open the passenger's side door for you.

it's surprisingly boring in the front seat. granted you've only ever ridden in the back under the influence of pain and drugs but you expected something a little more high tech than this.

"not even a gps?" you ask as sevika jumps in beside you, starting the rig up with a loud sputter from the engine. she snorts.

"what do i need a gps for? i've got the city streets memorized up here." she taps her forehead. "seatbelt." she demands.

god, she's sexy. that big brain of hers-- memorizing every street. you dart out of the passenger seat, ignoring sevika's squawks of protest to press a kiss to her cheek.

that shuts her up pretty quick. she's smiling all shy when you sit back down in your seat and pull on your seatbelt. you giggle, and she shoots you a glare.

"no funny buisness." she grunts. you giggle.

"then why's there a bed in the back?" you tease. sevika glares at you again.

"it's called a gurney, and silco will kill me if i'm late gettin' the rig to the shop."

"doesn't the department send you a replacement rig while yours is getting fixed?" you ask. she nods.

"yeah, but it's hard to find a truck as driveable and reliable as vivian."

"vivian!?" you cackle. "she's got a name?!"

"it was the sexiest name me and silco could come up with." sevika chuckles. "ran wanted it to be 'ruby' but that was way too obvious."

"you think the truck's sexy!?" you cackle. sevika glares at you again.

"baby. you better watch your tone. this is my rig you're talking about. she's been in my life much longer than you."

"oh my god, i can't believe i'm jealous of a truck right now."

"you don't need to be jealous, i'm not fucking the truck."

"you called it sexy!"

"when a vehicle this big can go from twenty to ninety miles an hour in ten seconds, stop on a dime, and carry as much life saving medicine as vivian does-- that's sexy!"

"you hit ninety?!" you screech. sevika cringes, knowing she's in the dog house now. you absolutely despise hearing about how she drives in this truck.

"no-- just-- hypothetically." she mutters, her eyes suspiciously glued to the road. you chuckle and reach over the center console-- where your favorite iced beverage is waiting for you beside sevika's pina colada slushie-- and grab her hand.

"vivian's... beautiful." you try, not sure what a proper compliment for a truck is. "she's a great ambulance. she drove you into my life. she's given me several rides to the hospital. she's protected you every day you work. i'm glad you have her in your life."

sevika smiles sweetly and drags your knuckles to her lips, kissing your hand sweetly. the action makes you feel all fuzzy and warm.

it's quiet for several moments as sevika eases to a stop at a red light, but when she's still she finally turns to study you. "what're you thinking about?"

"i don't think i've ever gone ninety before." you admit.

something about the lack of judgement in your voice has sevika cocking a curious eyebrow at you.

"do you... wanna feel it?" she asks with a mischevious smile.

you gulp. if there's one person in your life you trust to drive a truck going that fucking fast you suppose it's sevika.

sevika's smile is only growing as she watches your nervous excitement.

"we are running late to the rig shop. had to stop for our drinks before hand... we could flick the sirens on... get there on time?" sevika offers, goading you.

you groan and shake your head in shame. "uuugh. okay, fine, but--"

you're cut off by sevika blaring on the horn and flicking on the loud sirens. in front of you, cars merge to make a path for her, and before you can even find something to hold onto sevika's slamming on the gas and taking off.

you squeal. sevika giggles. she's got a bit of a show off smile, but mostly she's focused. on the dashboard, on the road, on the oncoming traffic-- making sure everyone's stopped for her, swerving around assholes who aren't. you realize that if sevika hadn't become a paramedic she could've found a lucrative career in formula 1 racing.

"this is only fifty, drama queen." sevika laughs. you flip her off from the passenger's seat. she hits a turn and you squeal-- and then she's on the freeway, and the city is speeding past you.

"we're so fast!" you giggle. sevika grins.

"soak it up babe, next exit is ours." she laughs.

for just one moment you let go of your fear and let yourself feel exhilarated. sevika's a loon, and she's the love of your life, and you're giggling like a dizzy kid as she speeds down the exit ramp.

"oh, shit!" you gasp as sevika comes to a hard, fast stop at the bottom of the hill, the tires squealing as you somehow manage to stop for the red light.

sevika flicks the sirens off, turns on her turn signal, then turns to grin at you. you cackle.

"you're insane. you do that all the fucking time, don't you?" you ask. she giggles and shrugs.

"i get paid like shit to get shat on all day, i gotta find my perks somewhere. vivian's pretty fuckin' cool, huh?"

you cackle and nod. "she's fucking awesome." you say, admiring sevika's proud little smile. but you're not talking about the truck at all.

taglist!

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taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @runawaybaby3 @vikasfemme @lesbones

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[webslinger-holland]

just wanted to say that I'm a big fan of your work. was wondering if you'd do a headcanon for the boys where they find out the reader is on their period and they try to do something nice but it kinda ends up awkward

Prompt: Bucky, John, and Bob try to do something sweet for you after they learn you're on your period

Warning: mentions of periods, menstrual cycles, pain, etc.

Note: As someone who is currently going through this, this really resonated with me :)

When it comes to that time of the month, there are very few things that are pleasant. Your body feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself, your lower back becomes a traitor, and everything from your patience to your appetite swings like a pendulum.

Shuffling around the tower wearing oversized hoodies, mismatched socks, and greasy hair due to the lack of energy it takes in order to shower. You become a little quieter; you're not one to broadcast it.

Both Ava and Yelena know when your time does come around. You don't have to say anything to them; it's the little things that give it away. They never say anything, but they do hand you your favorite chocolate after a meeting.

They protect you from questions and noise and the wrong kind of attention—and without a word, they make the worst week of the month feel a little more survivable. But then the boys grow suspicious.

Bucky: It was the subtle things that really caught his attention. He overheard a conversation on the phone where you asked to take a personal week. He often found you holding your lower back for better support. You'd also swapped out your regular jeans for comfy sweatpants.

He doesn't bring it up—not directly. Instead, Bucky slips out early and comes back from a corner store with a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. You’re in the common room, hunched over a tea mug with barely enough energy to stay upright.

Bucky walks over, sits beside you, and places the bag on your lap without a word. You open the bag to look inside finding: some snacks, a bottle of magnesium and a bottle of ibuprofen, a roll-on essential oil labeled calm, and a paperback book from your favorite author.

You look at him, eyebrows lifted in surprise. "How'd you know?"

Bucky shrugs like it’s nothing. “Used to have a sister. You pick up on patterns. Figured you’d say you were fine even if you weren’t.”

You nod slowly, appreciating that he didn't need to say out loud to acknowledge what you were going through. You gently set the bag down and shift closer, shoulder brushing his. He finally turns his head to look at you.

You nudge him softly. “You always this thoughtful?”

He huffs a dry little laugh. “Only on Wednesdays.”

“It’s Tuesday.” You recall blankly.

“Then...I’m ahead of schedule.” Bucky tries to recover.

You smile, smaller than usual, but it still reaches your eyes.

He watches you for a moment, then tilts his head. “You want me to stay? Don’t have to talk. I can just… sit.”

You nod, settling back into the couch. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

Bucky leans back beside you, metal hand resting loosely between you, close enough to feel his presence, but not intrusive. The silence stretches—comfortable now.

John: The team had gathering in the kitchen for breakfast; each one focused on making their own foods according to what they preferred in the morning.

While Alexei worked on frying some eggs, Bucky was making another pot of coffee. At the island barstools, Ava and Yelena sat beside each other eating avocado toast with everything seasoning. Bob had his bowl of cereal and John munched on some toast.

Without a word, you came shuffling into the room looking for food yourself. Your hoodie draped over your head and your hands were hidden in the sleeves. There were dark bags under your eyes and your face was pale. It was clear you weren't wearing any makeup.

"Morning," you mumbled, but weren't sure who heard you. You opened the refrigerator and searched for something decent to eat.

John, who was chewing toast, immediately paused mid-bite. His brows lifted, expression half-horrified, half-impressed.

"Jesus Christ," he drawled, lowering his toast. You didn’t even dignify him with a response—just sent a slow, dangerous glare over your shoulder. "You look like death."

Slamming the fridge door shut was enough to cause Bob to flinch. You stormed out of the room with nothing to eat, clearing annoyed and frustrated beyond explanation.

For his comment, Yelena dutifully smacked the back of his head and John reached up to touch it.

"Ouch!" He flinched dramatically. "What the hell—?!”

"Why would you say that to her?" Yelena snapped angrily.

"Because it's true! Did you see her? She looked like a zombie that crawled out of a horror movie," John's eyes tore to the empty spot where you stood only a moment ago.

"She's on her period, dipshit." Ava cut in flatly, not even looking up from her phone.

"Oh." John blinked.

"Go apologize to her," Yelena ordered and pointed towards the hallways. "And try not to sound like an asshole when you do."

Less than an hour later, John was standing outside your locked bedroom door with a heavy brown paper bag tucked under his arm. He reached up and knocked a couple times, patiently waiting for you to answer. When the door slowly creaked open, you poked your head out and glared at him.

"Hey," John awkwardly smiled.

"What do you want?" You narrowed your eyes at him, but didn't miss the paper bag he held.

"I came to apologize for what I said," John shuffled the bag to be in front of him. He cast his eyes down. "I didn't know you were... bleeding."

He winced at his own choice of words. His face was red—clearly embarrassed—but there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… sometimes words fall outta my mouth before my brain gets a chance to check 'em for cruelty.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And what’s in the bag?"

He held it out for you to take, which you did. "Peace offering."

Peering inside, you quickly discovered just how full it was. There was a new heating pad still in its packaging, an array of chocolates, some of your favorite snacks, one of your all-time favorite movies, a pair of warm fuzzy socks, and a note that when you held it up read: "SORRY FOR BEING AN IDIOT. PLS DON’T HATE ME."

Something in you softened. Much to his surprise, you stepped aside without a word, holding the door open and inviting him to join you.

Bob: Your door was strictly locked. Just outside the door was Bob. He lingered outside with his arms crossed tight against his chest. He’d passed the hallway no less than five times in the last hour—each time slowing to listen, hesitating like he might knock, then losing the nerve.

Once he came by holding a mug of tea. Another time it was a blanket. Once he just stood there with a snack bar, staring at the door like it owed him an explanation.

He was starting to look like part of the wall when Yelena rounded the corner.

She stopped, eyebrows lifting. “You planning to camp out here or…?”

Bob flinched, startled. “No! I’m just—"

Yelena didn't say anything at first, just glanced at him suspiciously and then towards the door and then back to him.

He sighed and gestured helplessly toward the door. "She's been locked in there all day. She skipped breakfast. I thought— maybe she was mad at me. Or something happened—"

"She’s not mad, Bob.” Yelena tried to hide the smile from growing at the corners of her mouth.

“She didn’t answer when I knocked,” Bob added, voice dropping with concern. “What if she’s hurt?”

“She’s not hurt,” Yelena said flatly. “She’s just on her period.”

Bob blinked. He processed that for a second, then blurted: “Oh.”

Yelena rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “Don’t look so horrified. She’s not dying.”

“I didn’t know,” Bob said, glancing back at the door like it suddenly made sense. He shuffled back shyly like he was trying to give her some space even though she wasn't there. “She— she didn’t say anything.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Yelena shrugged. “Most girls don’t want to explain it every month. We just suffer in silence and wait for the world to leave us alone.”

Bob looked genuinely stricken. “So what should I do?”

Yelena squinted at him. “Depends. Are you going to be weird about it?”

“No!” he said too fast. She sent him a look and he softened. “I just want to help. I didn’t realize she was in pain.”

She sighed, relenting. “Okay. Bring snacks. Something warm. Maybe painkillers if she doesn’t have any. And don’t say the word ‘period.’ Just… offer. Don’t hover.”

Bob nodded quickly. “Right. Quiet support. No hovering.”

He gave the door one last worried glance before heading off, already mumbling to himself about heating pads, herbal tea, and whether it was weird to give someone three different kinds of chocolate at once.

Yelena shook her head fondly as she walked away.

“Men,” she muttered. “Have been through space, but can’t survive a menstrual cycle.”

A little while later, there was a soft knocking sound coming from your door. You sighed, dragging yourself upright with a groan and shuffling to the door. You cracked it open just a sliver, enough to see him standing there like a very tall, very apologetic mountain.

He had a paper bag clutched in both hands and a look on his face like he was terrified you might tell him to go away forever.

“I—I brought some stuff,” Bob said quickly, eyes flicking between your face and the floor. “Just in case you… needed anything. Not that you have to need anything. Or want anything. I just thought—I mean—Yelena said—well, she knew, I didn’t, I swear—”

You blinked at him.

“I panicked,” he admitted, defeated. He very carefully held the bag out. You took it, still cautious.

Looking into the bag, you found a wonderful arrangement of items just for you. There were; three different kinds of chocolate neatly arranged by intensity, a microwavable lavender-scented neck wrap, a box of your favorite tea, and an entire package of your favorite brand of tampons.

Your brows lifted. “How’d you know which ones I use?”

Bob’s ears immediately turned red. He tried to laugh it off. “I just—uh—I figured, you know… you’d probably… have a preference."

"Yeah,” you said slowly, picking up the pack and turning it in your hand. “There's loads of different brands out there and these are the same ones I use."

Bob cleared his throat. “I might’ve… seen them. Once. I think. Maybe. On the counter.”

You gave him a look. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch and never be perceived again.

Much to his surprise, your voice softened. “Thank you. For noticing.”

[bowxs]

dean winchester, 48

48. "I know a workout you might actually enjoy."

divider from @cursed-carmine

dean was at it again, being the usual showoff he is, trying to impress you by doing pushups on the carpeted floor of the motel. every time he pushed himself back up, he let out one of those grunts that sounded similar to the sound he made when he was balls deep in you injured

every couple pushups he would look over at you, a stupid smirk on his face when he caught you staring every single time without a fail, the looks only boosting his ego in a way he definitely didnt need.

"dean, how much longer are you going to do that before you come to bed?" your voice is practically a groan of annoyance, or maybe a plea for your boyfriend to finally come sit next to you and wrap his big strong arms around you and go to sleep

"how much longer will you keep staring?" he grunts out, his pace never faltering. youd never admit it, but it always amazed you just how strong he was- how much stamina he had when it came to working out and sex

"dean, you dont need to work out, c'mon" you try again, just wanting to go to bed. you see him finally stop, resting himself on his knees as he chuckles at you, shaking his head "you really got something against watching me exercise?"

"no well-" "I know a workout you might actually enjoy."

dean had you bent over on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor to hold yourself up but not proving very helpful as your legs wobble from the way dean pistioned in and out of you

he said something about having to stretch before working out- hence the being bent over the bed- but god he didnt say youd be stretched from the inside as well, his cock reaching all the right places inside of you

"jesus-! dean- fuck my legs are sore" you somehow managed to complain in between gasps and whimpers, and you can feel the rumble in his chest as he laughs at you, already so sore and you have barely started

"c'mon baby, gotta stretch you out" he tries to emphasize the word with a slower, even deeper thrust, pausing for a split second while hes buried to the hilt before hes building back up the quick pace set from before

his tip kissed that oh-so-sweet, spongy spot deep inside of you and your legs almost gave out beneath you, the sheets below you suddenly looking like a very good thing to hold onto now

"i dont needa- mnh- stretch, dee- just wanted to- oh fuck- wanted to sleep" you protested weakly, but the moans dean kept pulling out of you proved your protests pointless- this was a much better use of your time rather than sleeping

"maybe i should stretch your mouth out next, then you oughta stop complaining all the damn time"

[lazysoulwriter]

the glasses - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: explicit smut, established relationship, riding, slight dom/sub dynamics, pet names (mi amor, baby), he keeps the glasses on

He’s in the armchair, legs spread, laptop balanced on one thigh, wearing those glasses — the thin ones, with dark frames and just enough slouch to make him look like a hot professor who’s very close to losing his mind.

You watch him from the doorway.

Button-up half undone, sleeves rolled. Hair messy from running his fingers through it. Reading something on the screen with his lips parted and brow furrowed.

“You look like a wet dream,” you mutter, already walking over.

He looks up, smirking. “I thought you were in bed.”

You swing a leg over his lap and settle down, slowly, ass nestled into his thighs. His hands fly to your hips like muscle memory.

“I was waiting for you,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But then you started looking like that.”

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like someone I need to ride.”

Pedro exhales hard through his nose. “Mi amor…”

You grind forward just enough to feel the shift in his breathing.

“I’m not even hard yet.”

“You’re getting there.”

And oh, he is.

Especially when you start kissing down his neck, undoing the rest of his buttons while he grips your waist like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

“Keep the glasses on,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.

He licks his lips, cock twitching beneath you. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Want you to see real clear who you're fucking, baby.”

He groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You drag his briefs down just enough. Line yourself up. Sink onto him slow — so slow, letting the stretch pull a moan from both your throats.

He’s panting now. Hands trembling on your thighs. His head falls back slightly and you see it — the lenses sliding down his nose, catching the light as he looks at you from under them, completely gone.

You roll your hips.

He gasps. “Fuck—just like that, baby.”

You kiss him messily. Keep riding him at that torturously slow pace, letting your body take what it wants while he watches every second.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. “Can’t think straight with you like this. Just wanna let you use me.”

You moan, squeezing around him. His fingers tighten.

“Feels so good, mi amor. So good. Fuck—look at you. Taking it so well.”

Your forehead touches his. His glasses are crooked now. His mouth is open. And when you grind down a little harder, he whimpers.

You smile.

“Still wanna work, professor?”

He groans. “You’re gonna make me come just like this.”

You nod, riding harder now. “Yeah, baby. Wanna feel it.”

It doesn’t take long. He lets go with a ragged moan, face buried in your neck, hands gripping you like he’s about to fall apart.

You follow right after — a sharp gasp and a shake, clinging to him as the tension breaks all at once.

Then, quiet. The sound of your breath slowing. His arms wrapped around you. Glasses still on.

He kisses your shoulder.

“…Next time,” he murmurs, still dazed, “I’m wearing the glasses to bed.”

You giggle, blissed out and barely coherent. “Can’t wait, slutty librarian.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.