#all he does is talk... and talk... and talk

[hiding-under-the-willow]

I've seen a lot of people, as this situation has gotten quieter, in my notes just barely learning what's happened. And I've seen people both in my notes and in tags going 'well I hope the hermits talked to Skizz about this behind closed doors.' Or some variation bc the hermits do tend to stay fairly private. But I'd like to suggest that no one internalize comfort in the idea that the other hermits have educated him behind closed doors, that he's probably just not responding publicly for this reason or that reason. Because not only have his shitty maga mods not been removed from their positions, he doubled down on his support by streaming with one of them the other day.

This is not a man who is getting educated privately in his own time in an attempt to be better. This is a man who does not give a shit that the people he associates with, pays, and gives power over his audience hold xenophobic, racist, transphobic, and misogynistic views. And who would rather be quiet in the face of those bigotries than risk making bigots in his spaces uncomfortable. At the least.

About nothing in particular.

[teaboot]

Do you know what this site thought of Elon Musk before he started supporting Trump and gave that Nazi Salute?

Going how far back? Ten years ago, we didn't talk about him and nobody cared. He was not in the wider public consciousness. Those who knew who he was mostly thought "oh yeah he's that rich guy who wants to look smart" and nothing much else was said. I think his first bump in popularity was when he married Grimes, and then he was just the weird rich dude Grimes married. I did not know who Grimes was and still kinda don't. She had a Tumblr blog and then made some music and had a baby with a weird name and then vanished kinda post-divorce afaik.

Then I think maybe five years ago ish he sort of started showing up more as a sort of weaboo man-baby deal? Pictures of him in Les Mis cosplay, dressed as a furby, and showing off empty Diet Coke cans and a fake replica gun on his nightstand circulated.

My impression was that he was just like. If that creepy awkward guy in class who unironically does the Naruto run and thinks katanas are magic was spawned out of the ether with infinite money.

And then I think maybe after that was how stupid he is? That became public knowledge shortly after-like how the safety vests in some of his factories are in washed-out neutral colours cause he doesn't like neons. Or like... how he seemed to be giving off the impression that he was a genius inventor, despite not actually making anything or having any kind of specialized area of education I can speak of? Not off the top of my head at least. Like I couldn’t even tell you if he has a degree in anything. All I know is like. He was an owner with PayPal and then bought Tesla?

And simultaneously if I remember correctly he was kind of always about "if we don't let the nazis talk on twitter then we're basically á dictatorship" or whatever, banging on the free speech drum and going on about how jokes used to be funny, then bluffed about buying twitter and somehow got legally shoehorned into ponying up and actually doing it for WAY more than it was worth, almost immediately making it worse and tanking its value.

Now it seems kind of like an Emporer's clothes situation where everyone knows the Emporer is naked, but instead of getting embarrassed and covering up, the emperor just keeps doubling down harder.

Meanwhile his whole entire ass is just. Out

[baepsays]

cw: fluff, mention of wife a lot, fem reader.

Broody husband Sukuna, who always looks like he does not want to be there when he's beside you. He's scoffing, looking away, hand in his pockets, murmuring things to himself—probably cursing, people think—and showing no displays of affection towards you. No one has ever seen him kiss you, even on the forehead or your cheeks.

So everyone assumes there's tension in your marriage. That probably he is one of those husbands who casually joke about hating their wives like it's the most normal thing ever. Or that he is probably cheating on you with someone. Because why else would he act like being around his own wife would incinerate him?

What they probably don't notice is his fumbling hands, trying to discreetly and smoothly land on your shoulder or waist while you two are walking together. And he accidentally slaps his hand into a random pedestrian's face. Or when he is standing behind you at some random party your neighbors invited you to, and he is looking at you all awestruck, not listening to whatever the fuck his annoying white-haired neighbor is yapping about. One too many times when you two are taking a walk at the park, he has attempted to hold your hands and then backed away and pretended like he was checking his nails or something. Let's say he is sitting beside you on a couch, and you are talking to your friends, and he goes to put his arms around you, and then when you lean back into the sofa, he is suddenly stretching his arms.

It is all very silly. How whipped he is for his wife when he looks like he could not be bothered with anything to care about shit. The funniest part is that you are aware of it all, what people think, and his little attempts at trying to be more affectionate in public and failing miserably. You intentionally freeze up when you notice them so he would not get scared off. But it is also extremely hilarious when he frowns, gets all grumpy, and sulks the rest of the time when he fails to be more husbandly to you in public.

Because he also hears stuff, and he does not like it. If it were in his power, he would kiss the shit out of you in front of the entire world. But he is just a very big guy who happens to be a very big loser for his wife. 

FIND MORE OF MY WORKS HERE

a/n: dividers by @/cafekitsune

inspired by azeez's matz. aka hongjoon being a loser around seonghwa. what is hongjoon doing? ... he's doing his best. ):c

[nanamisgirly]

༊࿐ ͎. SUGAR, WHISKEY & ONE HOT COWBOY ft.choso kamo

୨୧ — SYN. in the brutal heat of summer, you meet a quiet, crooked smile cowboy in a saloon—tattoos wrapping his golden skin. he doesn’t seem like the talkative type, even less like the kind to fuck you dumb against a tree before the sun dips… which makes it all the more surprising when he does.

୨୧ — cw. pinv, choso asking if reader is sure, flirt, big d choooo, a bit of oral (m.receiving), praise, choso telling us to take it, maybe this is slight voyeurism idk they do it outside the bar, shy choso my beloved I love them shy and big🙂‍↕️, tattooed choso, unprotected sex, creampied, doggy, slow then rough sex, happy trail, spit, lot of sweat, they both be a tease, hair pulling, use of pet name (sugar).

୨୧ — wc. 2.3k

arts cred k4enyu on twt

the sun was beginning its descent behind the canyons, casting a hazy gold across the dusty plains. heat still clung to the air like sweat to skin, thick and slow, making the wind feel like a tease.

inside the saloon, the old fan spun with a groan, failing to move the heat, but the cold drink in choso's black-gloved hand did just fine.

he sat high on a bar stool, long legs spread lazy in tight black denim, cowboy boots dusty from the ride in. his white top—cropped perfectly to show a sliver of his tattooed waist—clung to his skin, soaked with sweat along his lower back and chest. he'd rolled the edges of his short sleeves up to his shoulders, exposing more of the ink coiled around his strong arms, and the shade of his wide-brimmed hat covered his eyes just enough to make it dangerous when he looked up. 

his horse was lashed out front to a weather-worn hitch rail, glinting copper in the evening sun.

choso took his time with the drink, letting the cold trail down his throat. he wasn't in a rush, nothing to shoot, no one to chase, not tonight.

that's when the door swung open with a bang of heat and boots. he didn't look right away. just heard the confident thud of heels and the scrape of wood as someone took the seat beside him.

you didn't notice him at first, too busy fanning yourself with your hat, shoulders glistening, skin sun-kissed and warm from the ride. hair a bit wild, dust clinging to your boots. your low-cut shirt stuck to your chest in places, collar undone, sweat slipping down the curve of your neck as you barked at the bartender, “one whiskey over here. the strong one.”

choso's eyes slid sideways beneath the brim of his hat.

and damn.

his hand twitched around the glass, black glove creaking as he shifted on the stool. his tongue wet the corner of his mouth, jaw ticking once. 

quiet, staring.

you finally turned and caught the black tattoos snaking across a tan chest through his shirt, the lazy sprawl of thighs, the faint glimmer of a silver tooth when he licked his lip again. and the eyes—dark, deep, slow-blinking.

“…hot day,” you start, leaning an elbow on the bar. 

choso nodded, voice low and smooth. “hotter now.”

that earned your full attention—you raised a brow, lips twitching. “that a line, pretty?”

he tilted his head back, hat shadowing the corner of his mouth just enough to hide the hint of a smile. “ain't usin' line. just speakin' the truth.”

you let out a dry little laugh, lifting your drink when it was finally poured, “and what should i call you, besides pickup line?”

his voice came slower this time, a little rougher but with enough playfulness to keep you intrigued. “choso.”

“choso…” you let the name roll off your tongue. 

“you?”

you leaned close, enough that your thigh brushed his—and he didn't pull away. if anything, he shifted, pressing closer. “if i told you, would you remember it tomorrow?”

choso's smile curled—just one side— crooked and subtle, but too damn charming. “depends, you plannin' to keep me up all night?”

you let out a soft laugh, definitely pleased by his repartee. “don’t strike me as the type who talks pretty.”

he shrugged a shoulder, eyes drifting on your lips. “i don't. you just got me talkin'.” his gloved fingers nudged his glass aside. he turned more toward you, knees hitting yours under the bar, his voice dipping lower like a secret under the floorboards. “rough day, huh?”

you nodded, mouth slick from the drink. “real fukin' rough.”

“lemme make it sweeter then , will you?” his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he leaned close, like the heat wasn’t already unbearable. you tilted your head instinctively, letting him in. god forbid, you wanted to hear whatever came next.

“yeah? you know how?” you teased.

“reckon, i'm about to find out.”

at his words, you reached over, your fingers curling around his gloved hand, certain. his breath caught, and for a second he didn't move—big dark eyes locked on yours, searching. but soon enough, he rose, boots thudding against the saloon floor as he followed you out into the golden dusk, the door swinging behind you with a creak. the heat outside hit like a wall, thick with the scent of dust.

you led him around the back of the building where your horses flicked their tails lazily, the shadows long and the canyon wind finally, finally still. choso's hand tightened in yours the moment you turned to face him. he looked down at you from under that hat, his cheeks flushed, breath already rough. 

“you sure?” he asked, voice a rasp.

you reached up, eyes locked on his, and took his gloved hand in yours. then deliberately you brought it to your mouth. one finger at a time, you peeled the glove off with your teeth, lips brushing leather, dragging it down knuckle by knuckle. 

his breath hitched. you didn’t look away, kept your gaze steady and slow, watching the way his jaw flexed, how his nostrils flared when your tongue flicked just a little too close.

“you're not backing out now, are you?” you murmured.

he didn't answer—couldn't. at this exact moment, he was only capable of crowding you into the sun-warmed weather worn wall behind you. one hand bracing beside your head, the other catching your hip—his lips hovered close, eyes dropping to your mouth, then lower, watching your chest rise and fall, the slick curve of sweat down your collarbone.

you pulled his hat off and dropped it on the hitch rail. “wanna see your eyes, pretty boy.”

the sun beat down hard—thick air, heavy with heat and sweat—and it might've been that line, or just you: mouth slick, bold, a little cruel. whatever it was, it shattered his composure. his lips crashed into yours, hot and messy, tasting like salt and need. his tongue was slow at first, then deeper, needier, gripping your hair so he could angle your mouth where he wanted it.

he gasped when you reached down and cupped him through the denim—head dropping to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your smooth skin. “fuck,” he muttered, hips jerking onto your palm.

you smiled against his neck. “you started this, cowboy.”

your hands were scrambling at belts and buttons, he pressed you back against the wooden wall, and you dragged his shirt up over his head, breath catching when the fabric peeled away from his sweat-slick skin. he was cut—not showy, not vain—but strong, lean muscle under tan skin and black ink that twisted around his sides and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

where a dark happy trail running down from his navel—glistening with sweat—disappearing beneath his open fly, where his cock bulged obscenely. you shoved his jeans down just enough for his length to spring free, heavy and hard, curving up toward his stomach with a faint twitch—veiny, flushed surprisingly , a strawberry shade at the tip, thick enough that your mouth watered just looking at it.

you dropped to your knees in the dirt without a word, eyes dragging slow over the length of him. he was huge up close—a single fat vein curved down the underside, pulsing like a threat. the flushed head was wet and glossy, precum slicking down the tip—catching the sunlight like syrup.

choso looked down at you, chest rising hard, that beautiful jaw tight. one hand hovered, unsure if he should touch your hair. the other cup delicately your cheek.

“you always look this sweet,” you purred, licking a slow stripe from the base to the pretty tip, “or am i just lucky?” 

his eyes flutter half-shut. “don't usually let anyone get this close.”

you wrapped your hand around the base and spat—hot and messy—dripping onto the curls of his happy trail. he hissed when you smeared it in with teasing strokes. 

“shame,” you said, kissing sloppily the tip. “you were made for cock worshipping.” he groaned, low and broken, but didn't stop you—his hips tilted forward a little, like an invitation. and when you took the head between your warm lips, he whimpered.

you let the weight of him sit on your tongue, mouth wide, teasing the underside with soft licks, tracing the veins like you could memorize him with your mouth alone.

when he twitched—too close, too fast—he pulled you up with rough hand, stumbling you back toward the shade of a tree. the look in his eyes had shifted, pupils blown wide, sweat dripping down the slope of his temple. his hand gripped your throat and kissed you hard, open-mouthed, tongue fucking your mouth—he was intoxicated with your scent, his scent, the heat, everything. when he broke the kiss, a string of spit hung between your lips—exciting him even more.

he spun you around, shoved you against the bark, and yanked your hips back. belt still hanging, pants around his thighs. he was half-dressed and completely feral.

your pants were off in seconds—dragging them down with your underwear in one rough pull. your thighs were slick with sweat and arousal, inner folds wet and gleaming. he spread you open with both thumbs, breathing hard when your pussy clenched around nothing.

“you're soaked…”

“you gonna stare all day?” you taunted, looking back over your shoulder, “or—oh fuck!”

he slid in slow and thick, just the tip at first—but even that had your knees threatening to buckle. he was filling, impossibly so, dragging against every tight, trembling inch inside you until your mouth dropped open and all the teasing died in your throat.

“fuck, cho—” your palms scrabbled onto the wood as your head dipped. your eyes squeezed shut, trying to anchor yourself, but every nerve was already unraveling.

“you okay?” he whispered, voice tight, almost shy.

you nodded fast, eyes rolling “more. please. i can take it, just—fuck—give it to me.”

his forehead dropped to your shoulder with a shaky exhale as he pushed in the rest of the way, inch by inch, until his hips were flush with your ass and his cock buried deep. so deep it made your belly flutter. 

“holy shit,” you gasped “you feel—you feel t-too good.”

choso didn't talk much, apparently he wasn't much for words. and action was he taking.

he fucked you slow at first—cruelly slow. letting you feel every thick drag, every throb as he pulled nearly all the way out, leaving just the swollen head stretching you wide, before sliding back in with a wet, devastating grind.

your spine arched, damp with sweat. it beaded along your hairline, rolled down your temples, slid between your breasts where it pooled in the soft swell. every inch of you was flushed, fevered—your thighs trembling, your pussy fluttering tight and desperate around him, so hot you could barely think. and he just kept going—deep, unhurried thrusts that made your knees buckle, your walls clamp down around him.

but then he started to lose it as your moans grew louder.

his grip tightened, his pace picked up. you felt the growl in his chest before it hit your ear, “wanna fuck you dumb, sugar.” he rasped, his hips slamming harder and harder. “wanna make you forget your own goddamn name.”

you moaned, “already there—ah! fuuuck—don't stop, don't—'s sooo good choso—don't stop,”

he grabbed a handful of your hair and pulled you back into him as he pounded deeper, rougher—your slick coating his cock and pubic hair. your ass rippling with every slap of skin. the loose belt clinked with each thrust, swinging against his thigh and occasionally against ur ass too 

his hand slid up to your mouth, two thick digit slipping between your lips, pushing down on your tongue as he fucked you through it. you drooled around them, your moan muffled, spit slicking his fingers and trailing down your chin. his rhythm stutters as your walls clamped tightly around his sheer size.

“yeah, fuck—” he groans, hips pistoning into you with savage, relentless force. the sound is filthy, wet slap echoing through the sweltering heat, his cock punching into your soaked cunt like he's trying to split you open for real. the base of him grinds into your ass, his balls slapping up hard and heavy, coated in sweat and spit and your own dripping mess. his happy trail rubs against your skin, slick and sticky, every thrust driving you deliriously toward your climax. 

“take it.” he snarls, face buried against your neck. “just like that. so fuckin' tight, tryin' to keep me there. so fuckin' loudfor me, sugar.”

you couldn't even form words at this point, you were just a gasping mess, legs shaking as your orgasm built sharp and fast—one hand dropping between your thighs to rub fast, messy circles on your clit.

“c'mon,” he whispered in your ear, pounding into your tight hole like a beast. “c'mon on sugar, wanna feel you squeeze the fuck outta me.”

you broke with a sob, orgasm crushing into you. your vision blurring completely as your mind was a foggy mess and your pussy spasmed frantically around his cock.

choso wasn't far behind, with a last deep thrust and a strangled whimper against your skin, he came hard—cock jerking inside you, spilling hot and thick, filling you up with so much it leaked around the base.

for a moment, neither of you moved—just panting, trembling, the wood warm and rough against your front and his weight heavy behind you.

“…you okay?” he finally asked, voice dazed.

you laughed, weak and fucked-out. “i don't think i can walk.”

he chuckled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another behind your ear. “guess i'm carrin' you then, sugar.”

‧₊˚⋆♡̷☆₊ ៸៸᳐>⩊<៸៸᳐ ✩  

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 35: October 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…You okay?” he asked, cautiously.

Belle sniffled. “He’s so small.”

“He’s the size of a sofa.”

“Emotionally, Max.”

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

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

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

“That’s a trauma response.”

“Belle.”

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

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

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

“I think she has to be.”

There was a long pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle gave a watery laugh.

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

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

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

“You won’t be,” he said. “Not ever.”

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

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

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

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

Belle looked back, teary again.

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

“I’m not even mad about it.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

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

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

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

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 OH MY GOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilie: she projects, max. let her project.

Max: i think she meant herself

Emilie: oh.

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

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

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

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

Emilie: duh have you MET her

***

Max had been up before sunrise.

Not for training. Not for the simulator. 

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle stared. “You bought five copies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST | October 2024 Edition

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

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

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

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

The Soul of a House

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

Enter Belle Verstappen.

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

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

Quiet Luxury, Lived In

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Courtyard, Reimagined

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

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

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

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

A Designer Coming Into Her Own

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

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

That transition wasn’t without weight.

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

Designing for Emotion, Not Aesthetic

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

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

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

What’s Next?

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

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

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

This isn’t just a space someone lives in.

It’s a space that lives with them.

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

***

Instagram Stories: @/maxverstappen1

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: But you saw it. You always do.

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

Belle: I love you.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: UM. HELLO. EXCUSE ME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner

Max: Did you see the AD article?

Christian: The what?

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

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

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

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

Max: I married an artist.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Did you read the part about the courtyard?

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

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

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

Jos: You’re very lucky.

Max: I know.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: have you seen belle’s AD article?

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

Max: okay good just making sure

***

Group Chat: RBR STRATEGY & OPERATIONS

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

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

GP: Max.

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

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

Christian: She’s very talented.

Helmut: What is Architectural Digest.

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: Oscar. No.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: Your apartment actively resists adulthood.

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

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

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

Lando: You’re a genius.

***

Pascale Leclerc hadn’t planned to read it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The house gave me the courage."

"Homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: …yes?

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

Belle: I know.

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

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

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

Belle:  

Thanks, Maman. That means a lot.

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

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

Belle: MAX.

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

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

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

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

Lando: Oh we’re starting early today.

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

Franco: what is architectural digestion

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

Yuki: Wait so like… Belle designed a house?

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

Pierre: Bro he’s yelling.

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

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

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

Lance: Can she do race trailers?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando: And I, for one, welcome him.

Yuki: Can we all go live in the Provence house

Max: Get in line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max: Funny you mention that. Check your mail.

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

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

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

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

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

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

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

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

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

Yuki: You said that with your chest

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar: Lily said it changed the texture of her soul

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

Kimi: what are you all talking about

Zhou: Architecture But like. Feelings.

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

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

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

Yuki: You should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Charles was the one who broke the silence.

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

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

She inhaled slowly.

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

The words landed like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

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

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

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

She looked at them then — really looked.

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

Charles looked gutted. Pascale was blinking quickly.

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

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

Belle nodded.

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

Pascale finally spoke. “I’m sorry.”

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

Belle didn’t reply right away.

But she didn’t look away either.

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

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

“You didn’t ask,” she said.

That was the part that always hurt the most.

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

Then she looked at the others.

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

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

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

Charles looked pale.

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

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

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again.

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

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

Belle swallowed hard. Her voice was quieter now.

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled faintly at the memory.

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

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

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

A long pause.

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

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

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

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

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

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

Camille didn’t interrupt. No one did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle didn’t speak. Not yet.

But she didn’t look away either.

Camille waited a beat, then gently shifts the focus.

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

Charles exhales like he’s been underwater.

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

He stopped himself. Winced.

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

He nodded.

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

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

Charles flinched. “I know.”

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

Everyone turned.

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

Belle blinked. “What?”

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

There’s a long silence.

Belle’s expression softened — just a little.

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

Lorenzo finally spoke.

“You do.”

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

Camille gently stepped in.

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

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

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

Arthur nodded. “Me too.”

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

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

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

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

Belle exhales, slow and shaky. But she nodded.

***

It was late.

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

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

Belle shifted slightly. “Max?”

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

She nodded. “Just… thinking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My middle name,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked fast. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

[yan-randomfandom]

OKAYS GREAT i was thinking of like plat yan saja boys x overworked teen reader, reader is a highschool student thats overwhelmed by schoolwork so when they're amongst the crowd of the saja boys performing soda pop they really couldnt care less and just walked away(⁠◔⁠‿⁠◔⁠)

Platonic!Saja Boys x GN!Teen!Reader

a/n; stranger danger is ignored here, PLS!!!! do not copy what the reader does here

— 🫧

"Huh, what?" you mumble, eyes blinking separately in weariness. "What are you talking about?"

Are you that exhausted to start hallucinating about the men you saw performing earlier in the day? The leader, Juni or whatever his name was, stands in front of you with a cryptic smile. Why the fuck were they talking to you? You can't do this right now.

"Uh," he shifts the pen and paper in his hands. "Constructive criticism, please? You're part of our age range, but you don't seem to be interested. Why is that?"

You stare. "I can't do this right now."

Turning around, you plan to walk nonstop, but the other boys block your path. You look at them, bamboozled.

"Did you guys," you sigh, rubbing your eyes, half-expecting them to disappear once you open them again, "follow me all the way here for feedback? Don't you have a manager for that? Come on, dudes."

Much to your dismay, they still existed after you open your eyes.

"I mean, I worked so hard for this, I—" Juni rambles behind you, but you really could care less.

"Type shit. Not everyone is going to like you," you turn your head slightly to meet his eyes. "And unless you can do my homework for me, then I won't do any survey."

You face the rest of the band, using your arms to gently push them away. They let themselves be pushed; thank goodness you don't have to call the cops.

"We—We'll do it!"

You pause. "What?"

"Your homework! And then you'll give us your thoughts, right?"

You turn around with an evil smile.

— 📒

You haven't felt this relaxed in years.

Mystery gives you the last of the last, and you give him a happy grin. A smile of his grows at the sight.

"Thanks, Mist!" you chuckle, taking a peek at his work. It's not the prettiest handwriting, but the answers seem legit. "Good job!"

You grab a lollipop, a hairbrush, and a dumbbell, giving them respectively to Baby, Romance, and Abby.

Juni comes from around the corner. "So when you say this, then it means that. Blah blah blah, bloo bloo."

"Yeah sure whatever Juni," you shrug, not really listening. "Hey, aren't you guys gonna leave yet? You're lucky my parents are on a vacation."

They all stare at you.

"...Guys?"

They don't answer.

"Are you not... going to leave yet? Guys?"

They glance at each other.

"...Do I have to call the cops?"

— do u?

— also stranger danger!!!!! do NAWT let strangers into your house even if they're pretty, ESPECIALLY when they followed u home. DONT!!!!

[gay-dorito-dust]

saja boys flirting with manager!reader that just does not give a shit and only focuses on their job ?

‘Do you wanna touch my abs?’ Abby said as you were taking to social media to gauge the reactions of Saja Boy’s latest album, thankfully and expectedly the reactions were overwhelmingly positive, a job well done you guessed but it didn’t take much to gain traction when your grouped with conventionally attractive men with voices of angels.

‘I know you secretly do-‘

‘I don’t actually.’ You cut him off with a sharp, tight smile, hoping to be the point across that you were working and didn’t want to be bothered by senseless and meaningless flirting, it was unprofessional and you worked hard enough to get where you were without the unwanted flirting. ‘Besides don’t you have prentice that you should be at right now, we’ve got a video to put out after all.’ You add as you walked away from him, head firmly in your phone where you kept all your schedules and important information to keep this group within the public eye.

Abby only pouts as you walked away, crossing his arms. ‘Everything that breaths wants to touch my abs.’ He tells himself before going to practice like you said, you were certainly something if his flexing didn’t have much of an effect over you.

Romance was close as you overuse the meet and greet, so much so that he might as well have been pressed against you, watching you closely in hopes you’d notice and be rid of the furrow in your brows and the clench in your jaw. He even went to reach out and brush a finger against your cheek, only for your hand to come up and grab him by the wrist.

‘I better have something on my face for you to be doing that.’ You told him as your furrowed gaze was now directly on him, not the way that Romance would’ve liked but he’s got your attention regardless, so he guessed he got what he wanted in the end.

Romance smiled. ‘And what if you didn’t?’

You frowned. ‘Then learn to keep your hands to yourself, you’re too touchy and it’s distracting.’ You tell him as you drop his wrist as he leans in close to you, smirking.

‘I distract you huh?’ He says, completely ignoring the rest of what you had just said, much to your dismay as you groaned about how you couldn’t have been Huntrix’s manager instead, at least they wouldn’t be trying to flirt with you every second of every day. You loved the boys, you really did but they seemed to act as though you could be easily swayed as their fans, which wasn’t true, and completely forgetting that you were their manager half of the time.

‘From doing my job.’ You corrected him. ‘Now take that flirtatious energy and aim it towards the fans that are about to burst through those doors yeah?’ You concluded as Romance could only sigh, vowing to try again another time when you least expect it.

Baby happened to be your favourite band member of Saja Boys. He didn’t bother you as much as the rest of them did, kept himself occupied with spicy foods, or watching videos while indulging in some sweets he got from the nearby convenience store.

However that didn’t mean he was scott free from having moments where he would disrupt your day by whatever means he could. And right now he was sitting with his feet kicked up onto your lap, sucking on a lollipop, acting like he had nowhere better to be.

‘Can I help you?’ You asked as you looked over at him.

He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth and replied, ‘nope,’ before putting the lollipop back into his mouth. You looked at him unamused as you push his feet from your lap, only for Baby to put his feet back on your lap, smirking at your clear dislike of your current position. ‘Then why are you not chugging spicy sauce on a talk show or just in general?’ You asked, hating his lack of transparency in favour of being this nonchalant individual.

‘Am I not allowed to hang out with you?’ Baby asked, raising his brow as though you were scrutinising you for his active choice to be here with you then his band mates. ‘Is it truly a sin to be here with my utterly gorgeous manager?’

‘It is when all you’re going to do is flirt with me the entire time and certainly not when I’m working, so yeah it’ll be a no for me.’ You stated as you once again shoved his feet off of your lap and stood up and walked out of the room, tablet in hand.

Jinu came to you after you were bothered by the rest of the group, late in the night as you were finally getting ready for bed, but felt yourself unable to sleep and instead go out on the apartment balcony that over looked the city.

That’s when he comes to stand close by, your elbows touching ever so briefly, but it felt a lot like you were closer than you actually was. ‘Tired?’ He asked as he watched you rub at the dark bags under your eyes and taking in your overall exhausted body language.

‘It’s the price I pay for keeping you guys in the public zeitgeist.’ You replied, eyes remaining on the city and its billboards that you were certain promoting your boys and their newest song. ‘And a price well paid for too, you’re dominating the charts and becoming more and more popular by the day.’ You add as you finally look over at him, only to see him firmly looking at you with a softness that you weren’t sure you saw before, at least as far as you were aware.

‘That’s all in thanks to your hard work, we just look good and sing.’ Jinu says as his eyes shift from you to the city then back to you again, his hands twitching as though he wanted to hold yours but was holding himself back from doing so. ‘You deserve all the praise for getting us where we are. You’re exceptional.’ He concludes.

You puffed your chest in pride, not aware that he may or may not have been flirting with you, instead finally being recognised for all your hard work and dedication to the group and their ever growing popularity. ‘I am exceptional aren’t I?’ You rhetorically asked.

‘Yes you are.’ Jinu replied, watching you as you beam with pride as a smile graced his lips. ‘Charming and charismatic too.’ He piles up the compliments that seemingly went over your head, or were intentionally being dismissed by you as you patted him on the shoulder and said. ‘Welp! We better get some sleep as we’ve got a big day ahead of us to prepare for and I’ve got a schedule to keep and don’t feel like wasting time trying to wake one of you up because you didn’t rest properly.’

And with that you left Jinu on the balcony as you went to bed, switching off your light and everything as Jinu was left wondering if that had just happened.

Mystery hovered over you like an over protective guard dog. He was attentive, silent but ready to start barking at things he thought were intruding on his territory.

He might as well have been sat on your lap at this point when you were gauging what would keep the fans attention, looking on social media if there was anything that they wanted to see from Saja Boys, and keeping tract of the fact that they were to go on a show in a couple of hours where they’d have to eat chicken wings dipped in hot sauce that got gradually hotter while talking about how they came together amongst other things.

Mystery nudged your side to get your attention. Nothing.

He nudged your side again. Nothing, you were glued to your phone.

Mystery huffs and puts himself between you and your phone by shoving his head into your lap, acting like that of an overgrown dog that didn’t understand that he was too old to be sitting on your lap anymore. You huffed this time and looked at him as he looked back at you, small smile upon his lips as his plan ahd worked to his advantage, yet you were only significantly behind on your work and weren't up for any distractions from anyone in the slightest.

'Yes?' you asked, only for Mystery to put your free hand upon his head, his silent plea for you to run your fingers through his hair, unfortunately for him you weren't in the mood to that today as you hated to be off schedule even if it was by a milisecond.

You removed your hand from his head, making him pout at your lack of touch, tilting his head to the side as if to ask what you were doing. 'i can't today i need to get back on schedule, seen as how half of you seemed to have forgotten that you're meant to be on a press tour. we need to be puncutual abovr anything else.' You tell him as your attention is brought back to the tablet.

Mystery didn't like that all that much, hating your lack of attention, snatched the tablet from your hand and ran away with it, much to your dismay as you took our your phone and sighed. 'I swear he acts more dog then anything, love him, but at least i can hopefully get work done now i'm alone.'

Meanwhile poor mystery was waiting for you to come after him like he thought you would for thirty minutes before remembering that you could easily have done your work from a phone or a laptop within your vicinity, he returned the tablet shortly afterwards.

[dawnfire12]

Bedroom Revenge

Sequel to Dressing Room Hookup

Pairing: Jinu (Kpop Demon Hunter) X You (female)

Summary: You are Rumi’s youngster sister and a part of Huntrix. The last time you saw Jinu, he had you bent over your dressing room table and made you forget your own name. You left you a total mess before you had to go on stage so now you truly want to kill him. But sometimes plans don’t go as accordingly as they should.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, fingering, dirty talk, breeding kink, creampie

You sneak onto the balcony that’s connected to Jinu’s bedroom with a sword in your hand. You are going to end this tonight. His lights are all out signaling to you that he’s asleep. You open the door softly making sure to not make a sound. He doesn’t seem to react, just breathing in and out as one does when in a deep sleep. 

You lightly press down on the bed, having your legs straddle him with your sword against his neck.

“You should know you can’t sneak up on a 400 year old demon.” He comments without even opening his eyes.

You pressed your sword into his neck, “How are you even awake?”

“Puh-lease. I heard you land on the balcony. You’re not as smooth as you think.” He still has his eyes closed but raised his hand to shift his hands behind his head.

“You think you’re just so good. You’re not going to get away with this!” You seethe. 

“Oh is that what this is about?” He finally opens his eyes and has a big grin.

“What?” You ask.

He pouts at you, “Oh someone needs some more of my dick in them.” He brings one of his hands to your waist and starts moving it up and down.

“No, that’s not what this is about.” You protest and move up, trying to get away from his hand.

He groans,”Do that again.” 

You could feel the vibration of his groan going straight towards your pussy and you unknowingly grind into him again. His other hand knocks your sword away and both of his hands grasp your hips, pulling you to and from him. He’s using you as his own personal doll to get him off.

You moan,”This is not what I came for.”

He cocks on eyebrow, “Oh yeah? Well let’s see how wet your pussy is.”

He slips his fingers into your skort and feels how wet you are and moans.

“You’re not even wearing underwear, you dirty girl.”

“I forgot.” You shutter out as you try to rock yourself on his fingers.

“Mmhmm. Just admit that you came here for this.” He circles your clit.

“Hngh, no. Oh fuck.” He curls his fingers into you. He knows where your g spot is and targets that. Your legs start to shake a bit and you bite your lip.

“Fuckk! No,” You rip his fingers out and put one hand around his neck, choking him,”We are doing things on my terms today.” 

You moved down a little to pull his pants down to see his fully erect cock. You spit on it and stroke it up and down a few times. He groans, gripping his sheets and you push your skort off you with your other hand.You lower yourself onto him and whimper as you feel him stretch your walls. He feels so much bigger and deeper this way.

“Take off your shirt.” You demand as you sink onto his cock. 

He leans up and both of you moan from his movement as he whips his shirt off. He stays sitting up to pull yours off and lays back down, leaving you both fully naked. You put your hands on his chest and start moving up and down. You get wetter each time you pull yourself up.

All that can be heard are moans and slapping of skin. You gasp as your clit rubs a certain way. 

“You look so good like this. Taking me so well. Taking what’s yours.” He grips your waist. 

You whimper,”Don’t say that.”

He cocks his head,”What? How pretty you look on my cock, rocking yourself against me?”

You moan and move your hips faster. He groans and leans his head back. You lean down to lick his neck and bite him. He hisses and you grin. His nails and teeth start to elongate. Your legs start to get sore as you whimper.

“Oh does my girl need help?” He coos. 

You bit your lip and nod.

He grins, “Good girl.” He leans up, wrapping one arm around your waist and the other in your hair and brings his knees up. He slams you down on his dick repeatedly while moving his hips up against you. You wail and cry his name. He sucks on your tits, leaving you hickies for days.

“Oh Jinu!” You cry, the familiar pressure of your orgasm rapidly building.

“Be good and cum on my cock!” He orders you as he furiously rubs your clit. Your orgasm crashes over you so quickly you barely can react and can only cry his name. He carries you through it and pumps faster, cumming in you.

“Oh fuck!” He moans as he spills his seed, “Mmhhmm so good.” He pumps you up and down a few more times before laying down with his dick still in you. 

You try to catch your breath by breathing in and out slowly. You feel a little light headed.

“That’s my girl.” He licks his lips while looking at where you two are still joined.

“Not your girl.” You whisper. 

He narrows his eyes,”Guess I didn’t fuck you hard enough.”

He flips you over onto your back before you can react with your legs wide open and drills himself into you. You thought you were loud before, well now you’re even louder. Your nails grip his arms as he pushes his dick in and out of you.

He grunts,”I love your moans. But you have to keep quiet or else the rest of the boys will hear.”

You unconsciously grip his dick a little tighter when he says that. Being a little turned on at being quiet.

“Oh you like that?” He asks.

You reply with a moan.

“Well, maybe I should invite them over. To see how well your pussy takes cock. I bet you would like that.” He thrusts harder.

You cry out,”MMhmm! No Jinu! Only you!"

He grins,”Only me? That’s right! Only me! My good girl!”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your orgasm crashes over you. Your legs start shaking from the force of the orgasm and how hard Jinu is still going.

He hisses,”Fuck you’re so tight. Can’t wait to cum in this pussy. Cumming in you twice, no way you won’t be carrying my seed. Can’t wait to see you full of my cum.”

He bites your neck as he empties his seed into you and you wail, still sensitive from cuming. He moves slower before pulling out. You breathe heavily, trying to keep your eyes open. You feel him leave the bed and come back with a wipe cleaning you a little bit, making sure to keep some of his cum in you by pushing it back in you. 

He slips into bed next to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and whispers in your ear,”Sleep. Tomorrow you’re not leaving this bed till you’ve cummed as many times as I tell you.”

You fall asleep towards the end of his sentence, too exhausted from the activity to listen and too tired to comprehend that tomorrow will not be a rest day.

[boyfhee]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤCAT & MOUSE ，yjw

𝗘𝗣 𝗢𝟭 ❛ 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝗀𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖾, 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗂 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎.　❜

𝗦𝗧★𝗥ㅤㅤ’ ㅤ 𝑓𝘪𝘭𝘮────flirty neighbour jungwon x fem readerㅤㅤ❀ㅤㅤteasing, skinship, reader is described as someone shortㅤ 2O4Oㅤ REQUESTED

jungwon has been waiting.

with squinted eyes and frequent sighs, clock ticking on the wall and yet, he checks the one on his wrist every minute. his patience runs thin with every tick of the second hand that is in synchrony with the tap of his foot.

a minute passes. then another.

he gives up.

“you should get down and let me do that,” there’s an edge to his voice, one laced with irritation.

“i can do it—” and you speak of determination as you reach out for the bulb on your ceiling, only to miss it by a brush of your fingers. “—shit,”

it’s all out of spite.

you’re not half interested in talking to your very hot neighbour and asking him to change the fused bulb. it simply slipped out of your lips and jungwon, being the lovely guy next door he is, waltzed inside your apartment as if it belonged to him.

the light is barely within your reach and his eyes are going back and forth between you and the stool, afraid you might fall. “your stubbornness is going to land you in a hospital,”

you shoot him a glare from your periphery. “i said, i can do it!”

worse, he shouldn’t have undermined your ability to change light bulbs, despite your height, or rather the lack of it— as he says it— because now you’re set on doing it yourself.

you’re not that short, never felt it until jungwon moved in next door with his habit of patting your head every time you pass by, until he started leaning down to hear you talk knowing well he isn’t much taller than you.

it’s all his fault.

“get down. i’ll—”

“if you keep your mouth shut, i might actually be able to focus,” you cut him off sharply, barely balancing yourself on your tippy toes over the wobbly stool that’s supported by his hands.

just a little bit more.

and you aim to reach higher, extending every single muscle in your limbs if it’s even mortally possible. almost there, and then like a wisp of air, his arm wraps over your legs, the other holding your waist securely, bringing you down to the floor as if you weigh nothing.

“i almost did it, idiot!”

he scoffs at your whines, the huff in your cheeks and at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. “yeah, i’ve been seeing that for the last thirty minutes,”

the proximity between you two doesn’t even cross your mind until his arm tightens around your waist and he effortlessly moves you to the side in one swift motion.

he pushes you down gently against the nearest chair, taking a good few seconds to look at your pretty face. “you look mad,”

and it’s like he is stating the obvious. “i am mad. i would have done it on my own if you hadn’t interrupted,”

he huffs at your insistence, half annoyed half admiration. there’s that bark in your words even when you’re sitting with his hands on the arm rest, caging you in between. “give it up, shorty,”

you squint your eyes. “shut up,”

“make me,” he bends closer, head hanging dangerously low for your sanity and his too, in fact. you look attractive when you’re mad. “make me shut up,”

you want to wipe that shit eating grin off his face, to strip him off that facade and make him feel out of place just the way he does to you. your eyes move down to his lips that are slightly parted, almost invitingly.

it would be crazy to kiss him. you can do it— you shouldn’t, but then you gulp, gravitating towards him on your own, slow, hesitant, with a tilt in your head.

“oops!” and he backs off with a laugh, hands up in the air almost mockingly. he stands up on the stool to fix the light, acting ever so smug and insufferable. “duty calls,”

although, you don’t miss the way his ears turn red.

[madamechrissy]

Mr. Nanami's Secretary

Pairings - Boss Nanami x Secretary reader

Contents/warnings- based off the movie 'The Secretary' quite clearly aha, BDSM heavy, dom/sub elements, Nanami is NOT nice lol, power dynamics, some sexual teasing, quite an ass beating bc Nanami is mad at your typos!!!

This is for my baby @indiewritesxoxo she wanted this fic to win so badly lol! If ya'll want a tag for part two lmk in the comments <3

How did you end up here?

Crawling on all fours, with Mr. Nanami's paper dangling between your lips, wearing your black gartered stockings and your little blouse and pencil skirt, utterly professional looking - but here you are, crawling like a little puppy over his hardwood floors. As you get closer and enter his office, he leans back, lowering his green glasses, stern face assessing you when you crawl up to him.

You tilt your chin up and he reaches a hand down, tugging it out of your teeth's grip, inspecting it while tugging at his cheetah tie. It's the one quirky thing about his otherwise serious attire, this suit that fits him just a bit tightly, his muscles so big under his dress shirt it's like the material has to stretch.

You know there are two outcomes to this paper.

One, praise.

Two, punishment.

You're perfectly happy with either, you love his punishment as much as you love his praise - only one thing would be better, and that's having all of Mr. Nanami, which you're dying for. Your cunt is wet again just thinking about it, about another three days of not sitting right because he's beat you with his belt, and maybe he'd actually do more with you.

Nanami's lips purse as he's carefully studying your typing, if he finds just one flaw, you'll be bent over his desk, if you do it perfectly, he'll pat your head so sweet and let you rest your cheek on his lap. The thoughts make your heart race, as you patiently wait, your palms flat on your thighs as he likes you.

"Hmm," his husky sound just makes you desire him more, fuck you're tired of touching yourself to the thoughts of him, eyeing his side profile in the soft lights ahead. "What a shame, you almost got it all completely perfect."

"I did-"

"Did I tell you to speak?" His voice is calm, raising a thin brow, turning to you now, you're flushed when he tilts your chin up with two fingers, hazel eyes glinting.

"No, Sir."

"No, I didn't, yet you're still talking, huh?" You open your mouth again, just to close it. "I was going to let this slide, because it's just one letter wrong, but..."

He stands now, pushing back his giant office chair, standing so tall over you as his hand enwraps in your hair, tugging just a bit, you see the tenting in his slacks, making your cunt throb around nothing. You barely hold in a whine as he speaks slowly.

"Go lock the door."

You know better than to argue or ask, it's been your new routine, serving him, and he in turn tells you what to do. What to eat, what to wear, what to say, fuck you love it, love feeling like finally your life has some sort of order, wanting it to belong to him utterly.

With a gentle click of his door, you look back over your shoulder at him, so tall and broad, he's loosened his tie just a bit, showcasing the veins running across his neck. You swallow nervously as you head back to him, until your heels are right against his perfectly polished dress shoes.

"Bend over the desk," he murmurs, stepping around it, as you walk up nervously, doing just that. "Lift your skirt."

You're palms flat on the desk, arched for him, you've tugged your skirt up over the curve of your ass, while he just stands there. "Mr. Nanami..."

"I haven't given you permission to speak darling, have I?" The way it rolls off his tongue, when you feel his fingers ghosting your ass, the way you wish he'd do more, touch more, for once he does barely brush your slit for just a moment, your eyes shut, a gasp escaping. "Your slutty cunt is soaking wet from crawling on the floor?"

You look back at him, he nods. "No sir."

"What are you dripping for? Going to make a mess of my floors, tsk," he aches to sink two fingers inside your cunt - but not just yet, you have to need him more, beg for it more. So instead he lands a sharp smack against your ass cheek, cock throbbing when he sees his hand print, hearing your muffled cry as you bite your lip. "Ah ah."

He leans over, cupping your chin now, you're arching further against him, dying for more contact, he lands another smack. "Mr. Nanami..."

"Don't muffle your cries, I want to hear them, hmm? Nod if you understand." You nod quickly, nearly tasting his breath before he pulls back and lands another smack. The sharp sting just makes your cunt ache even more.

He doesn't stop there, no his sharp smacks echo in his office, mixed with muffled cries as your tears well up in your eyes, sniffling as you try to not fall to the ground. It's one after the other, so many your thighs nearly collapse, smacks until you'll be bruised from him for weeks, marked from him.

The sight of you was so fucking sexy like this, Nanami can't stand it, your arousal glistening and dripping down your inner thigh. He swipes a bit of it up, your thighs are twitching, cunt pushing more and more clear strings of arousal out. He can't help but captures some of it on his thumb, slipping it in his mouth and biting back a moan and how good you fucking taste, before smacking the fuck out of your ass again.

He loves how it jiggles for him, he loves how his hand prints are littered across it in patterns. "Don't move, you know the rules, don't you?"

"S-Sorry..." You can't help it, not when he touched the cunt you've been playing with since you started working here. "Could you... do more?"

"Now you're demanding things of me? That's not how this works, darling." He smacks you right across your cunt, your head falls back, hoarse moan escaping from your throat. "Do you deserve that after that glaringly apparent typo?"

"N-no..."

"I was going to lick this pretty cunt," he trails a finger from your clit up your dripping slit, up past your hole, teasing but never entering, yet this is more from Mr. Nanami than you've gotten so far. "But you aren't acting appropriately, are you Miss?"

"No, I'm sorry Mr. Nanami - ah!" He smacks your cunt again, fuck you almost cum, the sting and burn and ache so perfect, but then he pulls back, brushing back your hair almost gently.

"Go type the paper up again, make it perfect, not one mistake, hmm?" He tugs at your hair, yanking your head back, you nod, and he smiles just a bit. "Good girl."

He leaves you to sit back in his chair, you carefully tug your skirt down, biting your lip at the sweet pain, you go to open the door when he stops you. "Yes Mr. Nanami?"

"Hands and knees," he says softly, you sink right down, and he smiles just a bit, serious attorney Nanami having just one little moment where you see the real him come through. "Crawl on back to your desk now."

He props his feet up, crossing his legs at the heels, as you do just that. You should feel degraded, or feel some shame, right? But all you can think of as you crawl to your desk is how badly you want your boss Mr. Nanami inside you, even as you can barely sit on your stinging and bruised ass, you feel it, your mind drifting to it.

Just how did you get here?

♡ 💜 ♡︎ ♡ 💜 ♡︎ ♡ 💜 ♡︎ ♡ 💜 ♡︎ ♡ 💜 ♡︎ ♡ 💜 ♡︎ ♡ 💜 ♡︎

I love when Nanami is mean lol

[1000cavalry]

I am very emotional about @wolfythewitch’s View between Villages animatic and I don’t think I can fit everything in a YouTube comment. So here’s my review of some of the shots

Beautiful. I would frame this. His expression is so soft, he looks like his breath was taken away by the sight of his home.

There is Eumeus (best dude!) leading the way. The imagery of the bridge is so poignant. I think you can see the palace in the distance at the top of a hill.

Of course we need our hearts broken by poor Argus (is it a true nostos without it?). Also, bit random but Odysseus’ feet are really well drawn here.

Penelope only takes up a few shots of this animatic. I’m glad of that as it allows a focus on all the people Odysseus loves and has missed. She does look absolutely stunning here. The glow of light behind her is wonderful.

Here we get Telemachus greeting Eumeus’ dogs (very cute). Poor Odysseus is still in disguise in the background waiting to finally meet his son.

And then immediately moving to a shot of the last time he saw his son. You get the sense this animatic follows Odysseus’ thoughts.

You can see the scar on his thigh and the plough yoked with an ox and mule. Incredible attention to detail.

This image of the palace gives a sense of the chaos and crowdedness. That maid passing by looks almost tense despite being featureless.

A flashback to the war. I believe Nestor is in the foreground, being passed some bread. I can’t tell who the man Odysseus is talking to is (maybe Menelaus?) but I think Agamemnon is on the left and Diomedes(?) is to the right of Odysseus.

I think this scene is of Odysseus and his crew. None of the designs are immediately recognisable to me. There is a nice sense of comradery.

A stunning shot (no archery pun intended). I love the way wolfy depicts eyes. You can see that age and tiredness in the wrinkles.

[teaboot]

Question that I suspect is autism related

I have, on more than one occasion over multiple decades, been told that I “need to have the last word” and that I “have a response for everything”.

Additionally and in a similar vein, I’ve been told that “everything is an argument with you” and I “always have to say something”.

When I was a little kid I was bad at conversations. People said stuff I had no opinion on or didn’t need follow-up and so I wouldn’t answer and they’d get bored. And eventually through trial and error I figured out that if someone said something to me, all I had to do was say something related back, and the interaction could go on as long as it needed to.

But then as a teen- and now as an adult- a number of people (mostly people I’ve found to be very delicate and particular about things in a sort of need-to-be-in-control authoritarian way) have expressed the identical observation about how I naturally try to converse, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

And the thing is, I have a sibling that talks like this too. We bicker all the time. He changes his own opinions seemingly at a whim for the purpose of being contrary, and it’s impossible to make a statement or observation out loud without him contradicting it, and even when he is demonstrably, factually wrong about something, he will dig his heels into the dirt and defend his stance to the grave.

And like. I hear myself responding, or adding on to people’s comments, but I don’t hear the ‘arguing’ they describe, or the contrarian habits of my sibling. Even when I’m paying attention and being bery careful not to follow up too much or speak too often or disagree or correct something that isn’t important, I get called out for “picking a fight”. They say something, I answer, they reply, I continue, then seemingly out of nowhere they snap. I think everything’s fine until suddenly it isn’t.

And so I guess my question is, how can you tell if you’re a contrary sort of person? How can you tell when to respond or follow up on a person’s statement and how do you know when to leave it in silence? Does everybody see me this way, and is it only people who are already short-tempered who are willing to say it?

I honestly don’t really have that much to say, and half the time I don’t even really want to talk at all, but I’ve been told countless times that I “just seem to like the sound of your own voice” and have to just be “tuned out after a while”. So if it isn’t necessary and I don’t even want to, why am I doing it?

Is there a reason I’m like this? Why is my sibling like this? How do I stop talking when there’s nothing to say, and how can I tell the difference between a conversation and an argument before the other person visibly snaps?

I’m a full grown adult

[gukcnt]

TEDDY & SECRETS ⭒ JJK

in which you discover your shy coworker jungkook, has been leaving teddy bears and plushies with questionable notes on your doorstep to confess his secret crush for you

pairing — secret admirer!jungkook x coworker!femreader

genre — workplace au, friends to lovers, mystery elements, slice of life, romantic comedy, lots of fluff

warnings/tags — shy!jungkook, cozy vibes, teddy bear obession, slowburn, confrontation, adorable gestures, romantic notes, nervous confession, stalker vibes turned sweet, happy ending, no warnings because it's literally the cutest shit bfr

wc — 1.1k

a/n — I decided to write this short oneshot quickly because I was craving some fluff, and I haven’t had the urge to write in weeks TT but I hope y'all love this one! <3

m. list

────🧸────

You’ve always adored teddy bears ever since you were a kid.

Their soft squishy forms always brought you comfort in a way that you couldn’t deny.

They were like your silent friends.

A safe place.

Your apartment was the proof of this obsession—lined with bears and plushies of every size, from a mini one to a massive teddy that takes up half your couch.

At work, you’ve mentioned it during a random talk, gushing about a new bear arrival that you’ve seen at the market.

Apparently someone was listening.

For the past two weeks a new teddy bear has appeared at your doorstep every morning.

Each one unique.

Fluffy pastel ones, simple brown ones, and now you had bears of all unique colors and designs.

The one that stuck out the most

Was the pink polka dotted teddy with a bow tie.

And for some reason it was exactly the one you’ve been eyeing in the market, which confirms that it was someone from your work.

Each teddy came with a note tucked into their paws.

The handwriting was shaky and uneven, almost like the writer's hands trembled while writing.

“You light up my dark” — the first one said.

“I’m closer than you think” — another one.

The one you received yesterday felt like a soft plea.

Like the person sending these was facing a desperation, a need.

“Please notice me”

At first you thought it was a silly prank, maybe a friend teasing you for your love for plushies.

But all your friends denied it and your neighbors—an old couple—obviously weren’t the type to do such things.

The mystery was charming.

A little creepy, yes.

But each bear was tugging at your heart at the same time.

Endearing in some way but making you curious.

Tonight, you're done wondering.

You set an alarm for 3 am, determined to catch the culprit.

You stand by the window, coffee in hand as your eyes scan the quiet street.

The moonlight was the only source of light, your heart racing with anticipation.

After a few minutes or so you see a hooded figure approaching your door with careful steps, and they hold a small teddy bear.

A brown choco colored one with a tiny red bow.

He kneels to place it on your doorstep.

You don’t hesitate and rush to your door, flinging it open.

“Hey!” you shout.

The figure stumbles, and before you could react, he starts running away but you’re quicker, not caring about your bare feet.

You grab hold of his sleeve.

“Who are you? why are you doing this?”

The hood falls, revealing a familiar face—jeon jungkook, your quiet coworker with a shy smile and doe eyes that always seem to find you.

His cheeks are flushed, breaths shaky and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Almost like he got caught stealing

“jungkook?” you gasp.

“You’re the teddy bear guy?”

He cringes, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh… yeah, I—I’m sorry,” he stutters.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

You release his sleeve, stepping back as you cross your arms over your chest.

“What’s with these bears?”

jungkook fidgets, staring at his sneakers like they hold his answers.

“You mentioned it at work. A lot, actually and I thought you’d like them, so I wanted to do something special—“

“But I couldn’t just… approach you.”

Your mind flashes to those coffee break chats and your rants about teddies.

You imagine he’d listened sitting somewhere far.

Nodding quietly, his shy grin hiding how much your words had taken to his heart, valuing your wishes like they were the most precious thing.

“Why didn’t you just… talk to me?” you ask

“I tried talking, I mean. But every time I got near you… I—I don’t know.”

“You’re so…”

He trails off, then mumbles quietly.

“You’re you. And I’m just me.”

Your heart flutters strangely.

jungkook’s always been sweet at work—bringing you coffee when you’re too busy to look after yourself.

Laughing at your dumb jokes.

You never thought much of it, but now looking at his nervous gaze

It clicks.

The notes are starting to make sense.

“The notes,” you say, softly.

“They were about me?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

Doe eyes glassy.

“I’ve liked you—uhm—for a long while actually, and I thought the bears might be… romantic? but then I realized it was probably weird, I didn’t know how to stop without explaining and—“

He rambles and cuts himself off.

He exhales sharply, heart pounding out of his chest.

“I’m an idiot for doing this stupidity.”

You glance at your doorstep, where the brown bear sits, a note in its paw like always.

You pick it up, unfolding the paper.

“I’m scared, but I love you”

Your breath catches, lips parting as jungkook watches you now like he’s waiting for rejection.

You clutch the bear to your chest, heart skipping a beat.

The softness of the bear grounding you just like previous ones given by him.

“jungkook, this isn’t stupid.” you whisper.

A smile on your lips.

“It’s… adorable. Scary at first yes, but adorable.”

“You picked bears because of me?”

He nods.

“I thought they’d make you smile and you always light up when you talk about them.”

“You’re not mad?”

He asked, restless.

His eyes still wide with uncertainty, the fear of rejection still there.

You can't help it—you laugh, shaking your head.

“Oh god, you’re just ridiculous you know that? but I love them, every single one.”

You pause, meeting his gaze.

“And I think maybe… the guy leaving them, too.”

“Really?”

Hope in his voice, along with a slight tremble.

“Really.” you grin.

“Next time, maybe just ask me out instead of leaving stuffed animals in the dark like a little stalker.”

He laughs, a nervous yet joyful sound.

The sound warming you despite standing outside in the cold night air.

“So coffee tomorrow?”

You hum, looking at him while pretending to consider, enjoying teasing him and watching him squirm.

“Is that a yes…?”

His smile fades slightly.

“Depends. Only if you promise to keep leaving me bears.”

jungkook chuckles, the tension calming.

“Sure, but if I bring a bear for every date, you’ll need more space. Think you can handle my teddy bear game?”

His tone now cheeky, his smile bright.

“Bring it on, teddy guy.”

You both share a giggle, and you wonder why you didn’t notice him sooner.

As you invite him inside to escape the cold, you glance at the bear in your arms that you are hugging to yourself even tighter.

And the fluff in your arms feels like the start of something.

A promise

For the future.

────

💌 permanent taglist: @chaelvrx @wintaemoonjen @slutology00 @furioustrashlover @kelsyx33 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @minewlove @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lachesismoonmist @angelfuzzy2 @levisnumber1 @angelsdecalcomania @magicalnachocreator @hynjamkook @koodollylvr @withmuchluv-tannie @istarag @elmarimochi9513 @wtfanu @kooklv @endlesslysassy @nanisblogg @tatamicc @mokaliciouss @armybomb-infires @jiniminisworld @seokjinthescientist @gyeomibearr @xmiaacxio @n0chuprettykook @gizaspicebag @aaclariww @dollytingz @pokalunolino @bunnies-only @cuntygguk

[forthelorewick]

Another one couldn’t hurt…. right? Pt. 2

WC 7.5k - daddy joel, but not in that way… is very persistent in his pursuit to get what he wants.

NSFW 18+ MDI !!!

- Warnings / content: explicit sexual content, no outbreak!au, husband!joel x wife!reader, domestic fluff, smut, pwp, unprotected p-in-v sex, breeding kink/ pregnancy kink/ impregnation kink, soft dom!joel, size kink, praise kink, possessiveness, dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, mentions of going off of birth control, mild mention of a itty bitty lactation kink… after care, fluff, established relationship (reader & Joel are married), age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is late 40s), mentions of past pregnancy, results of pregnancy, etc.

pt 1 |

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

It’s been about a month since you and Joel started trying again, a month of him keeping you filled to the brim every moment he had you alone, and oddly enough… it seemed to be happening more and more.

Since the birth of your first, you’d both made a promise, spoken late one night over the soft snoring of a newborn tucked between you. A promise to choose each other, again and again, not just as parents, but as husband and wife, best friends and lovers. So every second Friday of every month, you carved out time to be just that. To have dinner alone, touch base, breathe each other in without any distractions and the ability to unapologetically be all over each other. Whether the kids stayed with your parents, your sister, or Tommy… who’d moved back in with Joel’s dad after their mom passed, it was your ritual now. Your rhythm.

Lately, though? It had become every Friday. Joel started arranging the hand-offs himself, and the moment the house was empty, he’d have you in his arms… pulling you close, whispering promises into your skin, leading you out the door with his hand low on your back.

He’d take you to dinner, always somewhere dim and romantic, with candles and wine… but recently only mocktails for both of you, and that look in his eye. The one that made your whole body ache with anticipation. The one that said, ‘You’re mine, and I’ll never get enough of you.’

He was never this intense about the other pregnancies. Never this deliberate. You figure it’s because you both know it’ll be the last. So now… it’s different. You swear the dinner’s just foreplay. Not in the way that it’s only the means to an end, but in the way that he uses it to tease you and work you up in a place where you can’t do a thing about it.

The restaurant is dimly lit, the kind of place with soft jazz playing under the low hum of conversation. It smells like rosemary and something slow-cooked. Joel’s thumb rubs lazy circles against your hand across the table, your fingers loosely threaded as he watches you with that infuriatingly smug, endlessly soft look on his face.

You roll your eyes at him, though your smile gives you away. “You gonna eat that steak or just make heart eyes at me the whole time?”

Joel doesn’t flinch, “Can’t do both?”

“You’re the worst.” You don’t mean that in any true sense of the word, and he knows that.

He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles slow and deliberate like he’s got all the time in the world to worship you in tiny touches. “Well, you’re wearin’ that dress, so that’s on you.”

Your stomach flutters, heat pooling low in your belly.

Every Friday, it’s the same game. The same sly glances, the same brush of his shoe against your ankle, the same way his eyes dip to your lips when you lick butter off your fingertip. The way his eyes drink you in every moment you’re preoccupied with your food or taking a sip of your drink. The way he tilts his head, and the low hum in his throat when your knee brushes his.

“You’re just mad I order better than you,” you murmur, lifting your fork to steal a bite from his plate anyway.

Joel watches you chew with a grin that you think he does just to show off his dimples which drive you mad, “You touch my potatoes, you get consequences later.”

You click your tongue thoughtfully and return a lopsided grin, “Promises, promises.”

He groans quietly and shakes his head, like he’s physically restraining himself from hauling you to the bathroom right that moment, “You’re a goddamn menace.”

You sip your drink, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve known that since you bought me that coffee on that fateful morning,” You bite your bottom lip and stifle a laugh at the thought of it.

He leans back in his chair and chuckles deeply in kind, you loved reminiscing over your life together. On how it all came to be. “You were such a young thing… so eager, y’just couldn’t help yourself. Had me wrapped around your finger from the moment I met ya,” his gaze travels over you, to describe it as him ‘drinking you in’ wouldn’t be too far-fetched. Not with the way you see his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips as if in anticipation of tasting you… you could see that look in his eyes where he was mapping out exactly how he’ll do it.

You have to snap yourself out of that thought as he tilts his head and clocks your body language immediately. But he doesn’t push, he just lets it simmer. But just like you knew him… he knows you. Somehow, likely, even more.

“And I’d do it all again. Every side eye in public, every dollar I spent on coffee from that overpriced café… to every sleepless night with the kiddos, every goddamn blowout, every tantrum… Just to end up right here.” He presses his finger onto the table between you to emphasize his point.

A life chosen and never regretted. Every version of you and every version of him, every turn and every choice that led to this. Joel never says anything he doesn’t mean, when he gives you something, it’s because he needs you to know it. And that’s what makes every word of his so impactful and that hazy arousal caused by just him such an issue on a daily basis. But he loved it, loved the game of getting you all worked up over seemingly nothing, but he always knows exactly what he’s doing.

You press your napkin to your mouth, not to wipe it, but just to give yourself a second to breathe, the man was so well-versed with you and you with him, but he still never failed to take your breath away, to make you so desperate for more of him in every way.

You knew you’d never tire of him, of the way he makes you feel, of just everything about him. You loved him so much that the anticipation of him coming home every day felt like you were only half awake until he wrapped those strong arms around you and planted his lips on yours.

You settle into the heat of his gaze, let it wrap around you like the warm candlelight dancing in his big, brown eyes.

And then you say it, too casual for what it means, but with your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it across the table, “I missed my period.”

Joel stills mid-bite, fork suspended, “Yeah?”

You nod, slow. “Wasn’t sure at first. Thought it might just be late. But… there was some light bleeding last week. Not like a period. Just… spotting.”

His jaw ticks, eyes narrowing just a little in focus, “Implantation?”

“Could be.”

There’s a long pause like the air itself is holding its breath.

Joel sets his fork down gently, like he’s grounding himself. Then he exhales through his nose and gives you a look so full of love and want and need… like you hung the moon and he’s already cradling the possibility in his hands. It makes your ribs ache.

“Well, holy shit,” he says softly, his breath shakes for a singular inhale, then evens out again, “Guess I better keep doin’ what I’m doin’.” A flash of heat flickers in his eyes as his eyes slowly trail down your body and settle on the place a baby, your baby, his baby could be growing right that very second. It’s like the moment is suspended, his breath is slow and shallow like he’s really letting it settle.

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “You’re not gonna say anything else?”

He tilts his head, eyes locked on yours again like he’s seeing straight through to every part of you, heart, body, and soul. “You want me to say somethin’ other than I fuckin’ love you? That I want this?” He shrugs slightly, eyes going soft and dark all at once. “’Cause I do. And I just… I’m trying to process it but goddamn, this is big news.”

Your throat tightens, “I know,” you say quietly.

And you do. Because even across the table, even after years and kids and everything life has thrown your way, Joel Miller still looks at you like he’s choosing you for the first time.

You reach across the table again and trace his wrist with your fingertips, “You ready to not sleep for who knows how many more years?”

Joel’s lip twitches. He sets his drink down without looking away from you, “I wasn’t gonna sleep anyway. s’what coffee’s for, darlin’.” He eyes you up and down again as if imagining the changes already, “Worth it to see you all swollen and glowin’ again and I’ll be too goddamn gone for you. I’ll be at your every beck and call.”

You watch him for a beat, the curve of his forearms under rolled sleeves, tan and strong. The way the fabric strains just a little where it buttons over his chest.

He looks back at you, head tilted, “What?” he asks, his eyes studying yours, a toothy grin on that handsome face of his.

You shake your head, “Nothing. I just really like you.”

Joel’s smile deepens, but there’s something shy in it now, boyish almost. “Yeah?”

You rest your chin in your hand and nod, “Yeah. Like a lot. Think I’m falling in love all over again.”

He lets out a quiet exhale, like he can’t quite handle that, like no matter how long he’s been yours, you still catch him off guard too, “Think I’d say the same happens to me nearly every day.” His foot shifts under the table, nudging yours again.

You look at him with those doey eyes you never realize you’re doing until he points them out.

Joel clocks it immediately, and you see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his fingers tighten slightly around the base of his water glass like he needs to ground himself.

“There they are,” he murmurs, a little dazed, a little wrecked. “Those damn eyes.”

You open your mouth to play dumb, but he just leans forward, elbows on the table now, voice low and reverent.

“You look at me like that, baby, I start thinkin’ about forever all over again.”

The words settle between you like silk, weightless but impossibly thick with meaning. The air grows warmer, heavier, humming with something unspoken and ancient and so sure. That love that doesn’t need proving, just noticing.

You reach for his hand again, and he lets you lace your fingers through his like it’s instinct. Like it’s muscle memory. His thumb rubs along yours, slow, steady, and then he brings your hand to his mouth again, kissing the inside of your wrist this time.

“You nervous?” he asks, more serious now.

You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek, “Not really nervous. Just… aware. Like I’m scared to get too hopeful too fast, y’know?”

Joel nods slowly. “I get it.” He leans forward again, his voice soft. “But I’m already hopin’, baby. Been really hopin’ since I came inside you that first week you went off your birth control.”

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh, “Jesus.”

“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me, you knew what you were doin’,” he grins, those brown eyes lighting up and sending butterflies through your chest then… straight down, “You bent over the dryer that time, I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.”

You pull your lip between your teeth as you smiled, a blush spreading on your cheeks.

“Knew it…”

You break into quiet laughter, warm and completely at ease. “Okay, fair.”

He lets the moment breathe, then reaches across the table again, hand warm over yours.

“We’ll be okay,” his eyes flicker in the candlight, almost golden. “However this turns out. You and me, we always figure it out.”

You nod, squeezing his hand, thumb brushing over the calluses that showed just how hard he works to provide for his family, for you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The restaurant hums around you, soft clinks of silverware, the low murmur of conversation, the gentle flicker of candlelight casting amber shadows across Joel’s face. He’s watching you the way he always does, like you’re a sunset, a firelight glow he can’t stop reaching for.

His gaze drops to your joined hands, then leans back slightly, just enough to really look at you. He takes his time, he always does. His eyes trace your face, every angle, every familiar shift of expression, “I just… I feel lucky, y’know? That we still get to do this. That we want to. That I look at you and know with everything I am that I want you, that I need you, and that you’re all fuckin’ mine.”

The tone shift sends a shiver down your spine as his grip on your hand tightens and that flicker in his eyes darkens.

You see it hit him again, the possibility and the reality that you might be carrying his child. You see the realization in the tick of his jaw and how his thumb brushes against the back of your hand like he’s memorizing the rhythm of your pulse. He’s watching you, studying you as if he’s trying to comprehend it, to let it settle deeper, and you can tell the thought is consuming him by the way his tongue glides across the front of his teeth, a telltale sign he’s deep in thought.

You swallow, pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips.

His eyes dip to your stomach with a hungry, awed sort of longing. Like he’s picturing it, picturing the swell and the glow again.

And when his eyes return to yours, there’s no mistaking what’s behind them. You see his eyes flare with possession and devotion, with the unmistakable glimmer of ferality.

“You alright, baby?”

Joel shifts in his seat, shoulders tense like he’s holding something back, he nods once. “Can’t fuckin’ think about anything else right now, sweetheart.”

He leans forward again, eyes flicking to your lips. “Want you round and glowy and needy again. Want to take care of you every minute. Rub your back, kiss your belly, hold you at night with my hand right where the baby’s growin’.”

Your throat goes dry.

He huffs a quiet breath, shakes his head, “Ain’t right how bad I wish I could just keep ya pregnant, just round and full of my babies forever.”

But the way he’s looking at you says he doesn’t care if it’s right or not, because it’s real. And it’s clear to you that the moment he gets you home, he’s not going to be able to hold back. He never can and you truly hope he never does.

—

By the time you make it home and the front door clicks shut behind you, you’re already pinned.

Your back hits it with a soft thud, and Joel’s mouth is on yours before you can even catch your breath. His hands bracket your hips, possessive and warm, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress like he’s seconds from tearing it in half.

You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” his voice is frayed at the edges. His thigh presses between yours, forcing your legs apart, rocking into you like he can’t get close enough. “All fuckin’ night I was sittin’ across from you, starin’ at your mouth, your fuckin’ eyes, thinkin’ about you soakin’ and needy for me, thinkin’ about you pregnant again…”

“I know… I was there..” you tease him as your fingers find purchase in his soft, greying curls at the nape of his neck. “You know what you do to me?”

He stills for a beat, his chest rising fast, eyes locked on yours like he’s clinging to every breath you take.

“What do I do to you?” he asks, his voice a rasp in your ear, wrecked and reverent all at once. His lips brush your cheekbone as he speaks, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a groan, and his hips jerk forward slightly like he needs the friction, needs your answer just to hold it together.

“You make me ache,” you whisper, breath warm against his jaw. “All day. All the time. You walk past me, and I forget what I was doing. I watch you roll up your sleeves and I’m wet. I hear your voice and I’m, god, Joel, I’m fucking gone for you.”

He exhales hard and his forehead drops to yours, and for a moment he’s still again, just holding you like he’s trying to regain some composure that was rapidly slipping away.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost a plea. “Can’t get enough of ya.”

Then his mouth crashes into yours hungrily again and he walks you backward toward the couch without letting go of you for even a second.

“Joel,” you gasp, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed as his mouth trails down your neck, biting gently into the soft flesh there, marking you as if you could be anymore his. “We should, we should go to bed…”

“Nuh-uh,” He lays you down like he’s handling something fragile, even as his body covers yours with a need that’s anything but gentle. His palm splays over your stomach again, whispering something indiscernible to himself, “Can’t wait, baby.”

You wrap your legs around his waist on instinct, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as he presses you into the couch, his weight settling above you, heat and need emanating from him.

Your breath catches as his fingers trail higher, pushing your dress up and over your hips, then off entirely as you lift accordingly to assist him in his task, he’s quick to undo and discard your bra on the floor next to the couch. His knuckles brush your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Gotta be careful,” he says, more to himself than to you. “Gotta be careful so I don’t—But I need, fuck, I need…” you don’t know what the hell he was trying to say, or maybe you did, but what you really knew was that you needed him inside of as soon as humanly possible and you couldn’t have that beautiful brain of his thinking too hard right now.

You tug him down to kiss you, one hand in his hair, the other already fumbling with his belt.

Joel groans low and deep like it’s being torn from his chest, his mouth finding yours again as he shucks his pants down just far enough and basically rips your panties off. His cock is hot and heavy, already leaking at the tip as he presses the length of it against your core, sliding through your slick with a sound that makes you both groan.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, forehead pressed to yours, voice rough but trembling. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth, the scruff of his jaw. “Always. Forever. I want all of you.”

Joel presses in slow, deep, and careful… but the grip he has on your hips is bruising, and his breath betrays the need that thrums beneath his skin as he pants against your skin, groaning softly when he finally bottoms out.

He stays there for a moment, buried inside you, one hand cupping your face, the other still gripping your hip in desperation.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “You, carryin’ my baby… Gonna take care of you. Gonna fuckin’ worship you forever.”

His words melt into your skin, heat and promise wrapped in every syllable.

You moan, soft and broken beneath him, your arms curling around his shoulders like you could somehow hold him closer than this. “Joel,” you breathe, “Please move.”

His hips snap forward, deep and steady, and you cry out, nails digging into the fabric covering his back. He groans again, louder this time, a sound that rumbles in his chest and spills into your mouth as he kisses you hard and messy and desperate. Every thrust is deliberate, full of something wild and possessive, like he’s branding this into both of you.

“I think about it all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, thrusting harder now, hand sliding up to cradle your head like you’re breakable even when he’s fucking you like he’s starving. “You round with my baby again. Knowin’ I did that. An’ everybody who looks at’cha will know I’m the one who fucked a baby into you again. The only one who ever will.”

“Joel…” You gasp his name, voice cracking on it, your thighs trembling around his hips.

He groans and shifts, angling deeper until you sob, his name the only word you remember. “Yeah, that’s it. Take it for me, sweetheart.”

His forehead drops to yours again, you can feel the slight dampness to his skin as he perspires. The heat of your bodies literally melting you together.

His hips begin stuttering with every squeeze of your pussy around him, “can feel ya squeezin’ me, sweetheart… gonna cum for me?”

Your body is unraveling around him, every nerve lit up and frayed. You nod, unable to speak, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it. You reach for him blindly, your fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, grounding yourself in the only thing that feels real.

Joel moans like the sound’s been punched out of him, his hips faltering for half a second before slamming back in even harder. “C’mon, baby,” he pleads, voice wrecked. “Need you to cum on me. Wanna feel you break on me.”

You let out a gasp that turns into a cry as you cum, your legs locking tight around him, walls clenching down so hard on his cock it forces a growl from his throat. His mouth crashing against yours, swallowing your moans like he needed to feel it in his bones. Then he’s picking up his pace again, breaking the kiss and panting hot against your skin.

“That’s it,” he breathes against your temple. “Goddamn, that’s it. Just like that, sweetheart.”

You’re still shaking when he presses in deep and stills, his own release hitting him like a wave, his hips jerk once, twice, and then he’s spilling into you with a broken groan, muttering your name like a prayer. One hand grips your hip so tight you know you’ll have an array of bruises to admire later, his other hand slides protectively over your belly again.

When he finally stills, when the tremors ease and his breathing steadies, he kisses your jaw, your cheek, your shoulder, his beard dragging rough over your skin leaving it flushed and raw. His hand grips your thigh, keeping your legs wrapped tight around him.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, voice low and trembling. “You fuckin’ ruin me.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he’s already moving again slow, instinctual thrusts that make you gasp and arch, oversensitive but needy still. He’s only half-hard inside of you as he comes down from his high, but you know he’s just making a point of fucking his spend deeper inside as if he needed to really solidify your potential pregnancy, as if it would change a damn thing if you already were.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, his nose brushing yours. “How full you are? That’s all mine, baby. I’m the only one that gets to do this to you.”

You pull his head back gently by the nape of his neck, eager to just look at him. You’ve always been obsessed by the way he looks after sex, that sleepy, dreamy look when he gets what he wants.

“You really think you’re pregnant?” He’s coming back to earth now, and you can see it in his eyes and the way they’re searching yours.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth again and nod.

He watches with apt attention, and you know how he reacts when you do certain things. Even when they weren’t always intentional on your part, you’re always aware of what you’re doing by his reaction.

“Goddamn, hun… can’t fuckin’ believe you’re makin’ me a daddy again,” his eyes light up in the way you’d known they would when he finally let it settle in his mind.

“A whole other person growin’ inside ya, darlin’, you’re a goddess… creatin’ life.”

“You’re part of this whole thing too, you know.” You run your fingers through his hair and he hums in approval.

“Thanks for the credit, baby, but I’m just the guy who got to fuck you raw until it took.”

You shake your head and laugh lightly, “a little underselling yourself, no?”

He just shrugs and gives you that toothy grin you never tire of, “just happy to be here.”

You smooth the back of your fingers down his cheekbone and cradle his face in your hands, memorizing this moment.

“I’ll be the best daddy and doting husband as I can be.”

“You already are. I'm so lucky to have your babies, I’d have a million of ‘em if I could.”

He peppers your faces with kisses and groans as you knead your fingers into the tight muscles of his back, “You spoil me, y’know that right?”

You grin and simply pull him into another kiss. He hums against you again and you feel a twitch of his cock which was still inside you. You squeeze around him in acknowledgement and he groans.

“Dammit, darlin..”

“What?”

He just shakes his head and smooths the hand that was gripping your hip up your body until it’s cupping one of your tits.

Joel’s voice is hoarse, reverent even as he mouths at your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. He leaves marks all over your neck, you can feel the sting of his beard over raw skin, it makes you whimper beneath him but he’s not done, he’s never done… “Been thinkin’ about your tits bein’ full again,” he rasps, breath fanning hot over your skin. “Leakin’ through your shirt, swollen and sore… mine to touch, mine to take care of. You, feedin’ our baby in the middle of the night while I hold you… rub your back… kiss that sweet neck, ease the ache of this needy pussy whenever you need it, alright?”

You whimper, arching into his touch as he palms your breast, thumb grazing your nipple, and he groans like he’s starving for you again.

“Fuck, look at ya,” he mutters, gaze flicking between your face and where his hand works your body then drags all the way down your body to look at where you and him are still joined, “You’re all flushed, still squeezin’ me tight inside like you want it again already.”

He rocks into you, slow and deliberate, just enough to tease, to feel that wet slide of his once again hardened cock still buried deep.

You gasp, the overstimulation starting to blur into need all over again, hips instinctively tilting toward him. “Joel, please.”

“I know, baby,” he whispers. “You spoil me so fuckin much. Every day you give me everything. Your body, your time, our babies, your love… you’re a fuckin’ gift, that’s what you are.”

You breathe his name like it’s holy, his words, his hands… his cock, you could’ve sworn you were in heaven. Your body and brain felt elevated like the only thing keeping you down on this earth was his body pressed into yours and his cock rocking in and out.

His hands keep you pressed into the couch cushions, the bead of sweat dripping down his neck and you pull him in, pressing his face to your neck so you have access to his, dragging your tongue up his pulse point like you’d been dying to do all night.

He groans and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, enough to leave a mark, he lavishes your skin with his tongue in what he calls “scenting you”. You’re a mess of moans and sweat-slicked bodies and his shirt being on still is driving you fucking crazy, you need his skin against yours, you need to absorb him into you.

He can sense your urgency as you finally unbutton his shirt and he chuckles, gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Something you need, darlin? Use your words.”

Oh, he was a goddamn menace. All you could do was whimper as he rolls his hips against yours again, the coarse hair above the base of his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit.

“Cmon, baby, tell me what you need.”

You look up at him and his eyes are dark and intense as they look down at your desperation.

“Need to feel you… please.”

He laughs, and it sounds so maniacal to you, like he’s drunk on your body and your need, the slick heat of you wrapped around him. Like he knows exactly how fucking desperate you are and he’s savoring every second of it.

“All that whimperin’,” he grits out, hips still rolling slow and mean, “and you tellin’ me you need me? Baby, I’m already inside you.”

You squirm beneath him, breath hitching on a sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a plea. “Joel,” you whisper, your voice breaking like you’re right on the edge, “your shirt… please..”

His jaw flexes and that little muscle ticks in his jaw as he stares down at you. His hands release your wrists but only so he can sit up and shove the shirt off like it’s offending him. His chest is flushed and heaving, and the moment it’s bare, he falls right back into you, finally giving his sweat-slicked body to your hungry eyes.

“Christ,” he breathes as his chest meets yours, skin to skin now, your nipples brushing his chest hair, your legs locked around his hips like you never wanna let him go. “You’re fuckin’ insatiable.”

You whimper again, nails dragging down his now-bare back like you’ve been waiting all night to do it. “You make me crazy,” you gasp. “I swear to god, Joel, you—”

“Yeah?” he cuts in, voice ragged and so full of affection it hurts. He presses a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, your temple, one hand tangling in your hair to keep your mouth near his. “Been sittin’ across from you all damn night thinkin’ about this… about how warm you are inside, how you fuckin’ grab at me when you’re close, how you look when I fill you up.”

You cry out as he thrusts again, somehow even deeper now, sweat slicking your skin and your bodies sliding together with every movement.

“Wanted to fuck you in that dress, baby,” he groans. “Was thinkin’ about tearin’ the damned thing in half.”

“You should’ve,” you rasp, clenching around him, trembling now as that wave builds again, heat flooding through your core. “Should’ve ruined me in the parking lot.”

Joel grins into your neck, voice low and wrecked, “Don’t tempt me, darlin’. I ain’t above makin’ a scene for my wife.”

“Maybe next week,” you say, breathlessly, and that causes him to lift his head from where it was resting in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah?” his grip tightens on your hips as he continues his relentless pace, a curl of his grey hair falling in his face and your fingers can’t help but bury themselves in the damp curls. Your hands move to cradle his face between your palms, your thumbs trace the sharp edges of his cheekbones and his jawline.

His eyes meet yours dark and intense, with his pupils blown wide. There’s something feral beneath the softness, something possessive that flickers hotter every time you gasp, every time you tighten around him.

“Yeah,” you whisper again, weaker this time, and your voice catches when he shifts his hips just slightly, hitting that spot inside you that makes you clench and cry out.

Soon enough you felt that white heat building at the base of your spine and low in your belly, that simmering heat that has you arching into him involuntarily.

Joel groans, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “You say that like I ain’t gonna spend the whole goddamn week thinkin’ about it. Thinkin’ about bendin’ you over every surface in that house while the kids are outta earshot.” His lips brush yours and it’s barely a kiss, more of a taunt.

You whimper, fingers tightening in his hair again, and he growls as he slams into you harder, gritting his teeth as your back arches.

“Fuck,” he rasps, “you’re squeezin’ me so tight, baby. Can feel you gettin’ close.”

You nod, unable to form words, mouth parted and panting, completely wrecked beneath him. He’s everywhere, inside you, over you, looking at you like he owns you. Like he’s going to keep doing this until the goddamn stars fall.

Your eyes roll back as he thrusts deep again, and this time it hits that spot, that devastating angle, and your whole body tightens.

“J-Joel…” you stutter, voice strangled and high, your legs beginning to tremble. “I… I can’t—”

“Yes, y’can,” he growls, hips pistoning now, relentless and so fucking deep. “Cum for me, baby… That’s it—my good girl, takin’ it like such a good fuckin’ girl.”

Your body breaks apart beneath him, a guttural moan ripping from your chest as the orgasm slams into you. It’s white-hot, full-body, and you go limp for a moment, spasming around him, legs twitching as your back arches into the air.

He watches it hit you, feels it in the clench of your body, the cry of his name from your lips, and he loses it.

“Fuck, baby…. fuck yes,” he pants, and then he’s gripping your hips tight enough to bruise again, holding you still as he pounds into you once, twice more, then buries himself deep and continues gently rocking his hips into yours, chest pressing you into the mattress as he spills inside you with a deep, broken groan into your shoulder. With a few more thrusts of his hips to really fuck his cum as deep as it will go, you feel the throb of his cock inside you as he empties himself.

His weight crushes you in the best way, heat rolling off his skin.

Finally, after a moment, he pushes himself up on his forearms again, studying your face as he slowly slips out of you.

You whimper at the loss of him, and he lets out a quiet hiss as his softening cock loses its warm sheath of pure bliss.

“So beautiful, darlin’.” He leans back, his big hands swallowing your frame as he massages the muscles of your hips and upper thighs, “My fuckin wife.”

You blush under his gaze as if he wasn’t just emptying his balls inside of you, as if this moment wasn’t something people usually got used to. Every time was like the first time with him, his heat simmered just as hot as that day he kissed you for the very first time.

Your hands find the hair on his firm chest, the sensation was one of your favorites, and you know you can’t keep saying that because everything about him was one of your very favorite things in the whole world.

His eyes met yours again, the deep brown settling from its darkened state, softening at the edges as he looks at you.

“I love you,” his hands come up to cradle your face, rough palms and calloused thumbs brushing across your flushed cheeks with featherlight care. You melt beneath him, aching and full and blissfully undone.

“I love you too,” you knew that with every fiber of your being you loved this man. From his morning coffee breath and the way he leaves socks on the floor, to the way he holds you and your little ones, to the way he loves with everything he is and holds nothing back. And for a million things about the man you’re lucky enough to call yours.

He hovers there for just a second longer, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead first, then your nose, one kiss on each cheek. And finally… finally… he presses his lips to yours again.

It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like coming home. His mouth moves against yours with a hum of satisfaction, deep and lazy, the kind of kiss you feel all the way down to your toes. Your lips part for him automatically, and when his tongue slides against yours, it’s slower this time, like you’re both savoring the taste of each other.

You sigh into it, one of your hands sliding up the back of his neck, your fingers curling into the damp, soft hair at his nape. His body stays pressed to yours, chest to chest, skin to skin. You can feel the stickiness between your legs and the feel of his spend spilling back out.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss for just a moment, drinking in every small sound you make. His nose brushes yours, and he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours again.

“I’ll never get enough of ya,” he breathes, barely more than a rasp of air against your lips.

You run your hands over his back, feeling every dip and line of him, mapping him with your fingertips as if you hadn’t already memorized every inch of him, your hands find his strong shoulders and trail your fingers up his neck and to the back of his head again, “I’m having your baby again, Joel.” As if you needed to remind yourself of the very real reality that neither of you could stop thinking about.

Joel lets out this soft, broken sound… half laugh of disbelief, half sigh… and presses another kiss to your lips, slower this time. Like he’s trying to write his love into you with nothing but his mouth and his hands and the way he keeps holding you like you’re something sacred.

His fingers trace the side of your neck, then down over your shoulder, slipping lazily along your ribs like he wants to touch every inch of you all over again.

Somehow, eventually, you both find the willpower to move.

Joel helps you up with steady hands, his touch still slow and lingering, like he hates letting you go even for a second. You’re both laughing softly, half-drunk on love and endorphins as you stumble your way to the bathroom.

The water runs hot and full, steam curling in the air as he sinks down behind you in the tub, pulling you between his legs like you belong there, because you do. His arms drape across your waist, his chest warm against your back, and you lean into him.

He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, then another, then another, lips trailing wet warmth across your skin as you hum in contentment.

You close your eyes as he pours warm water over your shoulders, his hands massaging your skin with gentle, soapy circles. Every now and then, he sneaks kisses on your neck, your temple, behind your ear.

You stay there like that for a while, tangled in heat and soft laughter, letting the water rinse away the sweat and the ache, but never the closeness.

When you finally climb out, toweling off and slipping into something comfortable, Joel’s pulling on a clean pair of boxers and getting the bed ready for the two of you to climb into.

“Gotta say it, I miss our munchkins,” you say softly as you climb beneath the sheets.

“Me too, darlin’. I’ll go get them first thing, okay?”

You nod your head sleepily, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck as his arm wraps around you and pulls you in closer, his fingers lightly trailing up and down your arm. You hum softly against his skin, letting yourself melt into the weight and heat of him. His scent. soap and sweat and Joel, fills your nose and surrounds you in a blissful haze of him, grounding you in a way nothing else ever could.

“Think they’re drivin’ Tommy and your dad crazy yet?” you murmur, smiling against his neck.

Joel chuckles, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Oh, no doubt. Bet they’re running the whole show.”

You grin sleepily at that, your fingers tracing lazy shapes over his chest. “They’re good kids.”

“Yeah they sure are, darlin’,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You and I make good kids. Can’t wait to see what this one becomes.” His hand slides protectively over your lower belly and you can’t help but sniffle and fight back a tear starting to form in your eye. Not from sadness, no, from the surreality that you get to have another little him growing inside of you. Knowing he’ll be there, right next to you through everything. Once again, you were reminded how damn lucky the two of you were to have found this love and to feel it so fully and so completely.

He pulls you closer and leaves a lingering kiss on your temple, his fingers trailing gently over the soft skin of your stomach.

For a while, there’s nothing but the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

“First thing in the morning,” he says again, his voice already fading into that low, sleepy timbre. “Gonna go pick ‘em up… bring our babies home.”

You smile against him, already half-asleep yourself. “Can’t wait.”

Joel tightens his arm around you, holding you close, and you both drift off like that, wrapped up in each other, warm and safe and full of everything you’ve built together.

Tomorrow would be noisy and sticky and full of little feet and laughter, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

—

The morning sun filters in slow and golden, the birds chirp outside, the same ones who greeted you and your family every morning.

Joel stirs first, he always does, his arms tightening around you like instinct before he even opens his eyes. You hum at the feeling, half-asleep, nuzzling deeper into his chest.

For a while, neither of you says anything. Just slow breathing, tangled legs, and the kind of heavy, warm stillness that only comes after loving someone so thoroughly they’re written into your muscles.

“Think it’s late enough to go get ‘em?” he finally murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, lips brushing your hairline.

You smile against his neck. “It’s barely seven.”

“Still late,” he says, stretching slow, muscles rippling under your cheek. “Feels like I been missin’ ‘em for days.”

You chuckle, tilting your head back to look at him. “Didn’t you say you wanted just one quiet morning for once?”

Joel grins, eyes still sleepy and soft. “Yeah… and I got it. Now I want my kids back.”

You lean up to kiss him, slow and sweet and full of that same aching affection that’s been burning in both of you since you met.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both dressed—Joel in jeans and one of his old, soft t-shirts, you in a loose sweater and leggings, hair still a little damp from your quick rinse in the bathroom.

The drive to Tommy and their dad’s place is full of soft country radio and Joel’s hand rests on your thigh the whole way there.

When you pull into the gravel drive, you can already hear faint giggles through the screen door.

Joel’s barely out of the truck before Tommy’s opening the front door, standing on the porch with his coffee in hand and a grin way too wide for this early in the morning.

“Well look who’s here,” Tommy calls, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes flick between you and Joel, lingering just long enough to let the meaning settle, “have a good Friday night, kids?”

Joel shoots him a warning glare, but there’s no heat behind it, “Knock it off.”

Tommy just smirks. “Hey, I’m not sayin’ nothin’. Just sayin’ you’re lookin’ about ten years younger this morning, big brother.”

You snort, trying to cover your laugh with a cough, and Joel immediately reaches behind him to swat your hip, muttering, “Traitor.”

Before you can retaliate, there’s a loud shriek from inside, “Daddy!!!” and then all three of your kids come barreling out the door, socks sliding on the wood floors, feet pounding the porch as they rush straight for Joel.

He barely has time to kneel before they’re on him. Sarah clinging to his neck, Artie talking a mile a minute, Ellie squealing and trying to crawl up onto his lap.

And god… the way Joel holds them, the way he laughs low and bright like they’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, because you know they are to him… you swear your heart could burst.

You watch from the steps, smiling soft and full, and when his eyes find yours over their heads, warm and tired and still so full of love, you swear you fall for him all over again.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

I couldn’t stop myself, I’ve got some angst to write! I gotta balance myself out 😭

The baby fever is going crazy though thank god for my IUD or else i’d be making terrible decisions🙏🏼 that’s all I gotta say.

[starmapz]

deprived - r. sukuna

❦ biker!ryomen sukuna x biker!f!reader [non-curse au]

❦ smut oneshot

❝ when you get home after work grumpier than sukuna usually is, he knows something's wrong. when you deprive him of a kiss once you've returned, well now he's just pissed. for that, he'll deprive you of all of your senses as he pampers you with his mouth and fingers. ❞

❦ cw ; 18+ only. mdni. contains explicit sexual content. husband!sukuna. dom!sukuna. sub!reader. sensory deprivation. ball gag. blindfold. music. manhandling. nipple play (f! receiving). neck kissing. marking. biting. licking. bondage. fingering. oral (f!receiving). spit. use of pet names (brat, baby, sweetheart, wife, girl). praise. praising degradation. taunting. edging. pussy slapping. toys (bullet vibe). teasing. aftercare. kinda soft!sukuna during aftercare :]. part of the love & company series of oneshots but can be read separately/out of order.

❦ words ; 5.2k.

previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist

Biker!Sukuna leans his head on the back of the couch, windswept pink hair hanging over the fabric as you sigh the moment you shut the door of your shared home behind you. He twists, a bulky bicep resting on the back of the couch to see you better. “Long day?”

“Long fucking day,” you agree, sighing once more.

“Work?”

You nod, pulling your laptop from your bag and setting it on the counter, only to open it back up and resume working. Your husband’s eyes narrow as he watches you stand at the kitchen counter in your work attire without so much as a welcome home kiss.

Like really, what the hell? You didn’t even kiss him?

With his extremely usual scowl, he pushes up from the couch, discarding the hoodie he was wearing (because there’s no world where you can resist Sukuna’s cocky charm and veiny forearms, right?) and follows you to the kitchen. He slides his body up to you, his hands finding a place along your waist as he presses his body against your back.

“I need to work, Ryomen,” you mutter tiredly, pulling away.

Stunned and downright offended at this point that you’ve just used his government name, denied him of his ‘honey, I’m home’ kiss, and shrugged him off like a discarded shawl, his lip curls in confusion. 

“You should quit.”

Your head finally whips around, and he swears his own scowl is mirrored on your face. “I can’t just quit. We have bills, Ryomen.”

“Stop fuckin’ calling me that-”

“Your name?” You query incredulously, giving him just an ounce more of your attention.

“My full name,” he corrects you, crossing his arms over his chest, and that’s when you notice it. Your big beefy husband is pouting.

Oh you do not have time for this. Shaking your head, you turn back to your laptop, still standing at the counter in your work clothes.

“C’mon. At least change into something comfy,” he prods, knowing you’re just at wit’s end with the day, and not with him specifically. He may be offended by your dismissal of his affections, but he knows he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Probably.

He does pause to think about it, though.

No, no. He’s good.

“I will later,” you wave him off again, leaving him further perturbed as he makes a show out of huffing and trudging back to the living room to resume what he was watching.

As over an hour goes by and you haven’t even moved from standing at the counter, he gets fed up, shutting the TV off and practically stomping back into the kitchen. He stands on the cusp of entering the room, arms crossed over his chest.

“You done yet? I need to make dinner, you’re in the damn way.”

That’s not the issue, he’s deflecting and he knows it, but Sukuna’s not about to admit that he wants your attention.

And his kiss.

“Not yet, give me another hour.”

“No. You got home fuckin’ forever ago. Go get changed, lemme make dinner.”

Sighing, you rub at your neck, sore from craning it to look down at your work. “Please, sweetheart. Give me a bit.”

Sukuna’s nose scrunches up in disdain. You only call him that when you’re attempting to sweet talk him in order to get your way when he’s uncooperative. And damn it, he’s a lovesick fool and it works. Every time.

You want to play dirty? He can play dirty.

With a huff, he takes a few steps towards you and physically shuts your laptop.

“Hey-!”

“Nuh uh. No more,” he frowns, looking you dead in the eye with that signature scowl, his hand firmly resting on your computer.

“You don’t understand, I have deadlines, I need-”

“You need to recharge,” he insists, his tone dropping to a hint of a growl. “I’m not arguin’ with you on this, sweetheart,” he mocks, flipping his hand to grab your wrist so that he can slide your hand into his much larger one. His skin is calloused and rough against yours, but the softness with which the grumpy and hardened man handles you never fails to make your heart race.

You want to give in and curl up on the couch and watch a reality show that he pretends to hate, but you have a presentation due early tomorrow morning and- “Please, Ryo. I just need one more hour, I promise.”

His scowl deepens and you fear the lines etched into his forehead might be permanent with the frustration he’s regarding you with. He grumbles your name, setting his free hand on your hip. He squeezes, making sure his intent comes across. “Go change into something comfy. I know you’re tired, don’t make this harder on yourself. Or are you askin’ to be tied up?”

With his breath fanning your face, he doesn’t miss the subtle way your pupils grow, your eyes darkening.

He snorts, squeezing your hip tighter. “If that’s whatcha want, then try me,” he taunts, pleased to have finally caught your attention. He knew from the moment you entered the door that you were overwhelmed and he equally knows that the easiest way to get his pretty wife to finally relax after the day he’s sure you’ve had is to take away your senses and allow you to focus only on him, only on pleasure, and only on yourself.

You contemplate his words, eyes sliding towards your laptop, then back to his lips. Your presentation is important, but you could just get up a bit early, right? Maybe you need a fresh perspective anyway, and you’re so wound up from the overwhelming day at work that giving in to Sukuna doesn’t sound so bad.

In fact, it sounds almost heavenly.

He watches carefully as you pull your arm out of his grasp, a bratty little smirk on your lips as you aim to open your laptop. He clicks his tongue before you even get the opportunity to touch the computer, barreling into your legs and flipping you over his shoulders with a triumphant grin.

“Good choice,” he hums in a gravelly tone as you squeal in surprise and cling to his shirt. “Even if you’re bein’ a brat.”

“Wait, my shirt, you’re gonna wrinkle it-”

“Enough about work,” he huffs, tossing you on your bed and pinning both of your arms over your head in one hand. “Enough. I don’t wanna hear about the damn presentation. You can finish later.”

“But-”

He growls your name in warning. “Don’t be a brat. Lemme take care of you.”

Your chest rises as you suck in a breath, nodding. He can see in the way that you hold your shoulders and the crease between your brows that you’re still stuck in your head and if that’s the case, he’ll give you something else to focus on. Pamper you in his own ‘Sukuna’ sort of way.

“That’s my pretty little wife.” He holds his hand out to you, searching for your consent. “You gonna let me take care of you?”

Again, you nod, taking his hand as you squeeze your thighs together. Heat pools in your core and you shuffle your hips, chasing the friction.

“Good,” he grins, rubbing his hand over your knuckles before disappearing altogether to open a drawer you know all-too-well. Your eyes darken a shade again as you watch him pull out a familiar set of ropes, as well as a new matching blindfold and ball gag you have yet to see. Your eyes widen, lips pursing as you take in the sight, shuffling on the edge of the bed.

“Is that new?” You ask, reaching out to slide your hands along the silk blindfold that matches Sukuna’s Ducati bike, a bright cherry red.

“Mhm,” he hums, a concentrated look on his face as he ties a slip knot into the shibari ropes you let him use on you every so often. “Wrists,” he commands, holding the knot out expectantly at you.

You make no attempt at arguing with him, slipping your wrists into the silk rope and allowing the cool material to bind your hands in front of you. The thrill causes your heart to race as you give in to your husband, allowing him to take full control. You shuffle once more, seeking any amount of friction on your already-throbbing clit.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, pressing his hands down on your thighs and spreading them just enough to keep you from seeking the friction you want so badly. “Be good,” he growls, leaving one hand on your thigh as your legs hang over the edge of the bed. “I’m only askin’ nicely this once.”

Your tongue swipes your lower lip before tugging it between your teeth, nodding slowly when the door suddenly creaks open. Sukuna pays it little mind until the newest furry addition to your family is softly headbutting his ankle and yelling.

“Not now, Cati,” he grumbles as though the young cat can understand him. When the little creature doesn’t let up and yells at her father for attention, Sukuna just sighs and picks her up, holding her out in front of him. “I’m tryna set a mood. You don’t make the mood better,” he explains. Her ear flicks and she wiggles her back legs, twisting her body in an effort to escape Sukuna’s grasp. “We can cuddle later,” he explains as he shuts the door with her outside it and heads to the ensuite to wash his hands.

“Brats, both o’ my girls,” he mutters to himself, turning to see you fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. He returns to the space beside you, picking up the blindfold and tying it expertly behind your head. He then takes the ball gag, using one hand to grab your chin as the other hovers the device over your lips. “If anything feels bad,” he says in all sincerity, staring straight through you to your soul as he even temporarily folds up the blindfold to get your full attention, “you use your foot to tap me twice, yeah?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“Yes, baby.”

“Good girl,” he approves before buckling the leather of the gag in place and replacing the blindfold. Testing your senses, or lack thereof, you twist your wrists against the rope, tilting your head in an effort to find your husband, only to whimper at the realization that you’re giving all of your trust to him right now and it’s hot.

You wait at the edge of the bed, twisting your head in search of any sign of him, but you’re unable to find him. It’s only when he turns on what might be the most generic ‘sex music’ you’ve ever heard that you get an idea of where he is. You want to tease him for his playlist choice, fight against the ball gag, maybe be the brat he keeps saying you are, but before you can, you’re yelping in surprise as your arms are carefully tied to the top of the bed, your body dragged with them.

You struggle to swallow, adjusting your lips around the gag as you aim to search for him again, but with all of your senses aside from smell completely deprived, you can only whimper.

A large hand presses against your collarbone, pushing you into the bed and allowing you to relax into the mattress and pillows. Your husband’s weight makes the bed dip as he crawls over you, testing the hold the shibari bamboo ropes have on your wrists. Satisfied with his setup, he sweetly kisses your cheek once, before shocking you as he massages your shoulders.

“Relax,” he purrs into your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. Beneath the blindfold, your eyes flutter shut as you turn to putty in his hands with the way his digits work the knots from your muscles. This isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but you’re pleased nonetheless. He slides his hand down the front of your chest, unbuttoning the front of your white blouse and pushing it over your shoulders to give him better access.

You sigh, melting as he straddles you in order to rub the knots from your muscles. It only takes a mere couple of minutes before you’re blissfully relaxed, eyes heavy with the exhaustion of the day as your husband takes care of you. So comfortable, you barely even notice that he unbuttons the rest of your top. He searches for the zipper on your skirt, unzipping it and slipping them down your legs.

He smirks at the sight of you in a pretty pair of black lingerie that he got you on your first wedding anniversary. Always spoiling him, even if you don’t mean to. His cock twitches in the tent of his pants, but he sets his own needs aside in favor of servicing you.

Placing himself over top of you again, he kisses down the expanse of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your collar. He grins as you sigh in pleasure, relieved that you’re finally letting go of the shitty day.

His lips travel the length of your neck down to your collar, sucking and leaving his mark just below where the neckline of your shirt falls. Any higher and he knows you would scold him for forcing you to use makeup to cover it at work, but he toes the line anyway, sucking just a bit higher. Pleased with the marks that make up your skin and the way you’re squirming beneath him, he moves lower, palming your left breast over your bra.

His other hand slides around your back, unhooking the lingerie and letting your breasts free with a small jiggle that has him eagerly grinning.

“Mmph,” you attempt to ask him not to rip or ruin your favorite bra, but the gag does you no favors.

Moving your bra up to rest on your upper chest, Sukuna runs the flat of his tongue over your bare nipple, thrilled when you jolt hard at the suddenness of the metal of his piercing grazing your nipple. “Yeah, baby?”

Your muffled words make no sense as you attempt again to worry about something, and Sukuna’s not having it.

“Stop thinkin’. No sight, no sound, no taste, just feel me. Be a good lil’ slut for me, yeah?”

It’s hard not to listen to him when he talks in that low purr you adore so much, his hands roaming your body as he sucks your nipple between his lips. He flicks and pinches the other bud between his forefinger and thumb, allowing his teeth to graze the sensitive skin between his lips when he grins.

Every reaction is tenfold with how heightened your sense of touch feels right now, every movement by Sukuna increasing in pleasure immensely when it’s all you can focus on as everything fades away. Your head lolls back as he swirls his tongue around your perky nipple, breath coming in fast pants when he switches his attention to the other side. He nips at the perky skin, satisfaction coursing through him when you jerk and jolt, your wrists tugging on the bamboo ropes.

With a final soft kiss, his lips move down to your waist and hips, kissing every inch of your body as he quietly worships you. This may be about you, but Sukuna takes great pleasure in seeing you melt and quiver under his gentle and saccharine touch. After all, he’s not a particularly soft man, so he knows it turns you to putty when he shows another side to him.

He spreads your legs, one hand on each thigh, positioning himself between them so that you can’t close them. Leaning down, he watches the way you fiddle against your restraints, unable to stay still under his attention. He chuckles lowly, though you can barely hear it over the music, when your entire body jerks as he licks a stripe up your damp panties.

“So wet,” he groans, both of his hands roaming up your thighs to your hips and waist, before he brings them back down and pulls your panties with them, discarding them from your ankles. “So fuckin’ wet,” he repeats with a view of your bare pussy.

Unable to see him, your breathing quickens as you eagerly await the feeling of his tongue on your clit, but he only teases you as he runs his fingers through your soaking wet folds. You let out a muffled whine, jerking your hips up to meet his fingers as you chase the friction he won’t bestow upon his poor needy wife, too occupied with teasing you.

His fingers pause as you wriggle in his grip. “Ah-” he clicks his tongue, lightly slapping your pussy. “Be good for me.”

Your body jerks as you shuffle away from him, whimpering at the unexpected sensation and attempting to close your legs. Your husband pulls you back by your thighs, keeping you spread as his weight shifts, before he’s finally where you want him. He tests the waters, pleased when you tense with the small kitten lick he gives your clit. You can feel his grin against your skin when he buries his tongue in your needy cunt.

Your back arches for him and you tug against the ropes when his tongue plunges into the depths of your pussy, the metal of the ball piercing in his tongue amplifying the sensations of pleasure. He moves slowly, enjoying the taste of your slick and the way your body jolts, tenses, and twitches as his tongue explores your body.

He hums in approval when you whimper and whine, accentuated with gasps as it’s all you can manage behind the gag. You can feel drool slipping down your chin, unable to care as Sukuna has you so thoroughly bound, unable to care about anything but him.

You just barely hear him mutter “all mine”, before his tongue moves up to swirl around your clit. Your jaw clenches against the red ball gag as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, intense pleasure coursing through your body.

God, you needed this. You just didn’t know how badly, but the muscles in your stomach are already clenching as you feel the wave of your orgasm nearing its shore, only for Sukuna to pull back. You whine in protest, tugging hard against your binding as you yearn to pull him back down by his hair. You whimper again when you aren’t able to, lifting your lead in an effort to see him, but it’s all in vain. There’s nothing but darkness, no sounds to fill the air but yours and his, no taste but the blandness of the gag, and no smell but him to fill your nostrils.

It’s so overwhelming in all the right ways, unable to think of anything but his touch as you seek him out in whatever way you can. Work is a problem of the past as you clench your thighs.

“Thought I told ya to be good,” he hums, though his only punishment seems to be more serviceable to you, and you certainly won’t complain about that as he plunges his middle and ring finger suddenly into your soaking hole. He hums in approval as you gasp and clench your fists, nails digging into your palms with the sudden wave of pleasure that ripples through you.

He pulls them out slowly, pushing the digits back in to the hilt as you feel the cool metal of his wedding ring sink between your folds. You whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head, attempting to whimper a “please”, but it barely comes out as anything more than “pfff”.

“I know, princess,” he hums, kissing your rib below the swell of your left breast. “Feels good, yeah?”

You manage a nod, crying out when he curls his fingers forward, your stomach clenching each time he expertly hits your G-spot. It sends you into a flurry, legs closing in around him as you chase that same wave from earlier, every muscle tensing as you swear you’re right there, only for him to pull his fingers from you.

Another whine, another tug of the ropes as you’re left hanging right on the edge of your orgasm. Again. Your stomach relaxes as the feeling passes and your chest heaves. You clench your teeth down on the ball again, growing frustrated and needy as hell. Sukuna can see it in the way your brow knits, a crease forming just above the blindfold.

You hear him chuckle again. “Somethin’ got you riled up, sweetheart?” His hand slides from your breast around your body until he’s arching your back closer to him. “Easy to forget all the bullshit when all you can focus on is me, huh?” You can hear the grin in his voice as the flat of his tongue licks a stripe up your right nipple, making your head hang back in sheer pleasure.

Your pussy pulses around nothing, desperate for attention and release. As you buck your hips up towards your husband, he presses you into the mattress with a strong hand.

“Needy girl,” he chuckles, sliding his opposite hand from your sternum to your chin. He runs his thumb along your lips, wiping the saliva from the corners of your mouth as you whine and whimper around the ball gag.

Every sense is completely occupied only by Sukuna, his touch electrifying. A shiver runs up your spine as you just barely hear the scraping of your bedside drawer open once more. The mattress shifts under his weight, before he’s leaning over you again.

His lips brush your ear for a moment, the deep rumble of his voice only making you more wet for him. “You’ll cum when I tell you, got it?”

Whining around the gag, you nod.

With a satisfied hum, the bed shifts beneath you as Sukuna positions himself between your legs again, able to feel his strong thighs seated between your own. He leans down, pressing a startlingly gentle kiss to your stomach that throws you off-kilter, only to meanly bully his middle and ring finger back into your pussy.

Your hands curl into fists as you cry out, desperate to cling to anything as you attempt to close your thighs on your husband, who keeps you spread with his free hand, while your other leg presses against his torso. Sukuna doesn’t let up his pace, hitting the gummy part of your walls with ease and sending bliss straight to your core like lightning.

His name comes out muffled as you attempt to whine for him, bucking your hips up as a knot ties in the pit of your stomach, threatening to come undone at any moment. The second your abdomen begins tensing, Sukuna’s pace slows to an agonizing halt.

“Ah- what’d I say?”

You whine, but he’s not having any of it.

“What did I say?” He repeats lowly.

It surely makes no sense with the ball still between your lips, but you repeat back to him that you’re only allowed to cum when he says. He hums in approval, one large hand leaving your thigh to caress your cheek as he tries to- literally- fuck you dumb, until you forget about your presentation altogether.

And it’s working. Well. 

Your head hangs back against the pillows, your chest heaving as you shuffle against your bindings, whining when he doesn’t pick up the pace at all, even as you obey his commands. The slow in and out of his fingers is just enough to keep you squirming and whining, but equally not enough to satiate your desire.

It’s muffled, but you just barely manage a “please,” much to Sukuna’s pleasure.

“Yeah, princess? You willin’ to beg?” He hums. The bed shifts again, and you jolt when cold steel is pressed to your clit. Gasping at the sudden chill, your body gradually relaxes as the toy is held still for a moment, only to be turned on a second later, the vibration sending a tingling sensation through your body to your limbs.

Your hips jerk and twitch with the subtle movements of the metallic toy, the continued stimulation to your clit and his fingers still slowly curling sending you closer to the edge and closer to overstimulation. You whine out, your stomach tightening as the knot is just about to unravel when he pulls away altogether.

You whine louder, pleading with him behind the gag though it all comes out as little more than mmphs.

Your legs are trembling, your walls pulsing around nothing as Sukuna teasingly flicks your nipple, pulling a cry from your pretty lips. “What’s that, princess?” He chides, tugging on the leather strap of the ball gag and pulling it back just enough to hear your whiny request.

“Please let me cum, Ryo, plea- mmph-!” Your chest heaves again as you pull on your restraints. Your movements are growing wearier the more fucked out you get, and Sukuna figures he might just have some mercy on you.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he purrs, and before you have time to process that he’s there, his tongue is on your clit, sucking hard and sending sparks straight to the knot in your abdomen. It tightens as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bundle of nerves, his teeth grazing it and causing you to jump. He keeps you right on the edge until tears of overstimulation are wetting the blindfold and you’re trembling around his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby,” he commands, latching his lips back onto your clit.

The final push across the finish line are his fingers effortlessly pinpointing your G-spot and sending you straight over the edge in an orgasm that rocks your body. Your husband slows his movements, pulling wave after wave of your climax through you and watching every subtle twitch and jerk of your body as he coaxes you into a completely blissed out state.

Your head hangs back against the pillows as he slowly pulls his mouth and fingers from your core, slipping the soaked digits between his lips. He pulls them out with a sinful pop! and a smirk that betrays his satisfaction, despite the rock-hard and throbbing issue between his own thighs.

His weight disappears for a moment as the volume of the music softens to something low and comfortable, before he’s carefully untying your wrists. No longer bound, he brings them down to your lap before focusing on the gag and blindfold. As he slips them both off and sets them aside, you blink as your eyes adjust to the low lighting of your bedroom.

“How’re you feelin’?” He grunts, gently taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head in either direction as he searches your skin for any signs that anything might have been too tight.

Yawning, you nod. “I’m good. I needed that, thanks Kuna.”

“Mmm. I could tell,” he smirks, satisfied that the gag and blindfold he bought are to his liking. He checks your wrists over and nods to himself before focusing in on you. “Relax for the night, yeah?”

You nod again. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I was a little snappy earlier.”

He kisses the crown of your hair in acknowledgement before making his way to the ensuite washroom. You watch as he leans over to fill the tub for you, a subtle smile making its way to your lips.

As he returns to your side, you eye the twitching tent in his pants, your gaze sliding up to meet his. “Turn off the bath,” you murmur sweetly, a feline look in your eyes that Sukuna shuts down with a scoff.

A goddamn scoff while he’s looking like that. Bewildered, you stare at him from your place on the bed.

“I got a hand, I’ll take care of myself. Now lemme take care of you,” he gruffs, slipping the sleeves of your blouse off your arms and pulling the straps of your bra along with it. He hoists you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you bridal-style to the bath and setting you on the edge to check the temperature before lowering you into it.

The water warms your skin and you feel your muscles loosen even more, but you still pout up at him. “Are you sure? You could join me, maybe-”

He says your name chidingly. “You’ve had a long day. Relax.”

Letting out a breath, you just smile at your husband. For as rough around the edges as he is, and for how frustrating and stubborn he can be, he’s a sweetheart when it comes to what matters. Pushing up on the edge of the tub, you place a sweet kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” you murmur.

You don’t expect him to reply, he rarely does. He’s a man of action, not of words, so his next movements don’t shock you.

He hums, heading to the cabinet below the sink. “Y’got any of those bath bomb things?” He asks, in his own little ‘I love you’ sort of action.

“Um, probably. Towards the back in a little bag, maybe?”

He rustles through the cabinet for a moment before pulling out a brown stone with a questioning raise of his brow as he presents it to you.

“That’s a pumice stone.”

“So… no?”

Stifling your giggle, you shake your head. “Definitely not.”

“Don’t say ‘definitely’,” he gripes sarcastically. “I don’t know any of this shit.”

You don’t hold back your giggle now, only pausing your laughter when he presents a pink bath bomb to you. You nod, though your fit of giggles doesn’t cease.

Returning to your side, your husband flicks your forehead softly in mock disdain, waiting silently by your side for the water to fill before dropping the bath bomb into the water in front of you. It fizzes softly, dyeing the water (and the side of the tub) a soft pink. With shining eyes and a weary but satisfied expression, you grip Sukuna’s wrist before he can leave.

“Thank you.”

“‘Course. Maybe now you won’t forget my kiss when you get home,” he grumbles, grumpy as ever once again.

Your jaw slacks, gaze narrowing. “Hold on. Is that what this was about?”

Sukuna freezes in your grip, regarding you with a deep scowl. “No. Just wanted you out of the kitchen to cook.”

It’s just about the saddest excuse you’ve ever heard, and while you brushed past it earlier while you were busy, it sounds even more pitiful now. “Ryo.”

“What?” He huffs.

“Come here, you big baby.”

He doesn’t move for a split second, still caught in the grasp of your hand on his wrist, but even with the frustrated scowl he’s sporting, he can’t deny you. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s doing this for you.

Duh.

He gets down on his knees, letting you pull him in for his hard-earned ‘welcome home’ kiss. It’s soft and sweet, filled with the very same love he’s poured into taking care of you.

Your eyes flutter open as you pull back, your fingers tracing the rough stubble poking through his skin along the tattoos lining his chin. “Better?”

He grunts, side-eyeing the wall as if it’s suddenly interesting. “Love you.”

Your eyes widen for a split second before you break into a grin, pulling him in again. Your lips brush his as you whisper your reply. “I love you, too.”

previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist

❦ a/n ; hope you enjoyed the return of my fave freaky couple! needed a break from the angst of my ongoing sukuna series [wyk], but the next chapter is about halfway done <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist to be added or removed. 18+ only, age must be visible on blog.

@toffeebrat @gojodickbig @4acoffee @billiondollarworth @qyuin

@bxnfire @jayghostedu @favvkiki

writing & format © starmapz. art © too-many-owls. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune.

[adeptustemptations]

How do you think caleb or any of the others lads guys would react to their wife lactating? 👀 do you think that they'd be down to try it? I love your writing!! 💗💗

Honey, is that...? 🍼

(wc. 2.1k) How would the LADS boys react when they spot you, their wife, lactating?

featuring: rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader, zayne x reader, xavier x reader (all separate) warnings: mild smut, mdni.

a/n: first request down! i definitely think all of the boys would be down to try it LOL. i had so much fun writing this. hope you guys enjoy! c:

🧜 RAFAYEL:

At first, you think Rafayel’s being moody because of something work related. Probably just something about him not getting inspiration for his next piece.

He's quiet during dinner, pushing his food around with the fork, glancing at you between bites but saying nothing. Then he sighs. Dramatically. Like you’ve just told him the love of his life is marrying someone else.

“Do you need the tub prepared?” you ask, gently patting the baby's mouth with a cloth as your baby drifts off to sleep, full and milk-drunk in your arms.

He shrugs. “No.”

Another sigh. Even more dramatic this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

Silence.

You put the baby down in the bassinet, tiptoeing back to the couch where he’s brooding like a man personally victimized by your child. You sit beside him and poke his thigh.

“Rafayel. Talk.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts in his seat dramatically, like you should already know why he’s in a mood.

You raise a brow. “Raf?”

“…Why does he get to taste it?” he finally mutters.

You blink. “What?”

Rafayel lifts his gaze, eyes narrowed. “Your milk. The baby gets all of it. Meanwhile, I, your husband, don’t even get to try?”

You stare at him, baffled, amused, a little turned on by how offended he looks.

He shifts closer suddenly, tone softening like he’s trying to guilt you.

 “You used to let me suck on them all the time,” he mumbles, voice pitiful. “Now I get nothing.”

“Rafayel Qi,” you say, laughing despite yourself. “You’re jealous of your own child?”

“He doesn’t even appreciate it,” Rafayel huffs dramatically. “He’s just... drinking. No compliments. No praise. No loving gaze. No eye contact.” He places a hand over his heart. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“You want to flirt with my boobs while I’m nursing?”

He nods solemnly. “And after.”

You blink. “Raf.”

“No, no, go ahead. Ignore me. That’s fine.” He gestures grandly, flopping back on the couch like a neglected kid in a drama. 

“I mean, I get it,” Rafayel huffs, gesturing vaguely toward the baby now blissfully passed out at the bassinet. “He needs it. It’s nourishment. Bonding. Blah blah. But like, what about me? A stranger in my own marriage.”

You roll your eyes. “Then ask.”

He freezes. Turns to you slowly.

“…Seriously?”

You nod. “If you’re that curious, then fine. Go ahead.”

Wasting no moment, he immediately latches onto you, and his reaction is instant. His eyes roll back. A full-body shudder.

He suckles on your nipple with the eagerness of a thirsty man who had just found water after days of being dehydrated. When a bit of milk manages to escape from the side? He immediately laps it up, wasting no drop.

He pulls back, breathless. Dazed. “...Fuck."

Then he smirks.

“Alright. New plan. Let’s have six more kids.”

You shove him off the couch.

🐦‍⬛ SYLUS:

Everyone in the N109 Zone knows that Sylus doesn’t kneel.

He doesn’t plead.

He doesn’t repeat himself.

He doesn’t need to.

He gives orders, and people obey. His name alone strikes fear into civilians and corrupt officials alike. He's the kind of man who takes what he wants, and everyone bends at his will.

But you?

You’re the one thing he never commands.

Because with you, he never wants to.

And right now? He’s at your feet.

Literally.

It starts when you’re in the privacy of your home, in a soft robe, curled on the couch with your baby fast asleep in the bassinet. You’re drowsy and glowing, eyes heavy from the feeding, your robe slipping just slightly to reveal a glistening patch where you’ve started to leak again.

Sylus was reading some documents, possibly just about a new batch of weapons shipped to one of his armories. All that boring stuff. When he looks at you, his eyes immediately zero to your chest.

He freezes.

The documents clattered to the ground. 

You glance at him, confused. “Sylus?”

But he’s already closing the space between you. You see it, the desire in his eyes as he kneels before you, palms on your thighs, breath hot and uneven.

“Please.”

His voice is hoarse. Ragged. Barely a whisper.

You blink. “Huh?”

“I need to taste you, sweetie.” He says it like it physically hurts to admit, jaw clenched. 

“Can I try? Please?”

Your breath hitches. “Sylus—”

“I never beg,” he murmurs, leaning forward, brushing his lips against the skin of your breast. “But I’ll get on my knees for this. For you.”

He doesn’t ask again.

Just lowers his mouth to your breast and licks. The moment the white liquid hits his tongue, everything changes.

His lips part in stunned disbelief. Then, he groans, deep and guttural, like you just unlocked something feral in him.

“You taste sweet,” he rasps. He’s already latching on you again, open-mouthed, greedy. 

“Fuck. You taste better than anything.”

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders as he begins to devour you. There’s nothing classy about the way he sucks at you–it’s messy, hungry, possessive. Like he’s waited his whole life for this and didn’t even know it.

You try to say something, to make a joke; “You’re worse than the baby.”

But Sylus growls into your skin, low and dark: “I’ll give you another one. I’ll fill you up again, if that’s what it takes to keep you like this.”

Your breath stutters. “Sylus—”

“No one else gets this. No one else gets to taste you like this.” He presses his palm to your womb. “You hear me? Only me.”

And you believe him. Because when Sylus Qin finds something he likes?

He gets it.

🍎 CALEB:

It starts with the panties.

Caleb thinks he’s subtle about it. Volunteering to do your laundry in the pretense that he 'just wants to help', setting aside a pair that smells like you, worn, soft, intimate. The design doesn't matter too, the one with lace? Spectacular. The cotton ones he bought with the apple patterns? Give him 14 of them right now. He tells himself it’s harmless, just something to keep close when you're gone on long shifts or too tired to stay up with him after work from the Hunter's Association.

When you've caught him in the act, all he does is raise an eyebrow, as if you're the one being strange.

“What?” he says, with that deadpan tone of his, nose still pressed into the fabric. “You smell nice.”

You should be flustered, but you’ve been married to this man long enough to know how weirdly intense he can be. It's part of the Caleb experience. When you tried scolding him because some of your pairs have gone missing, all he does is shoot you his signature puppy-eyed look.

But then after giving birth to your baby, everything changes. Your underwear drawer's surprisingly complete, and none of the pairs have gone missing. You'd think that maybe Caleb had just become too busy tending to the baby to even focus on his needs.

But what you don't notice is how his touches linger longer during nighttime cuddles, especially around your chest, or the way he glances at your shirt when it dampens just a little.

It happens when you’re fresh out of the shower. You're drying your hair, not noticing at first that the front of your shirt is damp. A few minutes later, you glance down and–

Oh.

You’re leaking.

“Caleb?" you call out, not thinking much of it, “I think I’m lactating again. I forgot to pump.”

You don’t expect a reaction. You expect him to say something like, ‘Want me to grab the pump?’

What you don’t expect is for Caleb to freeze in the doorway, eyes locked on the wet patch spreading across the fabric.

“...Again?” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “Yeah? That’s usually how it works.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and before you can respond, he’s across the room, pushing your shirt up to your chest with eagerness, hunger glinting in those beautiful purple eyes.

“Let me taste.”

Your brain short circuits. “Wha–Caleb–?”

But he’s already there, lips closing around your nipple, hand firmly planted at your waist like he owns you.

And when he moans? You swear it’s the dirtiest sound he’s ever made.

He drinks like he’s been deprived. Like this was what he needed all along, and nothing else compares. Not the panties. Not your bath soap. Not even the taste of your skin.

No–this. This is divine. This is yours.

Later, when you're sprawled on the bed, dazed and breathless, he kisses your stomach and murmurs softly:

"Maybe we should have another baby. Just so you don't run out."

You laugh. “You're a freak.”

“I’m serious.”

He looks up at you, utterly sincere, eyes dark with something that’s not quite lust–it’s obsession, devotion, need.

And you know then: he’s addicted.

Not just to you.

But to every part of you.

☃️ ZAYNE:

You already knew Zayne had a problem with sweets.

The bakery receipts stuffed in his lab coat. The way he always “accidentally” wanders into the dessert section at the grocery store. The time he got bribed by Dr. Greyson with macarons.

But this?

You hadn’t seen coming.

It starts innocently enough; he’s helping you undress after a long day, brushing his fingers along the curve of your side as he unclasps your bra. You’re a few weeks postpartum, still sore and soft in all the ways he loves. He’s kneeling in front of you, peppering lazy kisses along your stomach when he notices the damp spot on your breast.

"Hmm?" He hums, brows furrowing. He leans in closer.

"You're leaking."

You sigh. “Yeah. I forgot to pump again. I’ll go get–”

“No,” Zayne cuts in, already cupping your breast in his hand. “Let me.”

“Zayne–!”

But he’s already latched on before you can finish, mouth closing around you like it’s second nature.

The first taste hits him like a drug.

His eyes widen.

Then flutter shut.

He moans. Actually moans. Like he just took a bite out of the best dessert of his life.

“Dearest,” he breathes when he finally pulls back, his lips still wet. “Why didn’t you tell me it tastes like this?”

You blink, a little dazed. “Like… what?”

He licks his lips. “Sweet. Warm...”

Then his gaze flicks up, dark and hungry. “Better than any dessert I've ever tasted.”

Your face flushes. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, already nudging you backward onto the bed, crawling over you with sinful intent. “But you married me.”

And just like that, he’s latched on again, slow, thorough, absolutely obsessed. Like he’s savoring every drop. Like you’re his final meal, and he’s a man who’s starved.

When he finally pulls away, lips wet and pupils blown wide, he looks like he’s come undone.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he mutters:

“…I think I need to adjust my meal plan.”

You raise a brow. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, dead serious. “You’re my new dessert. Effective immediately.”

⭐ XAVIER:

It’s still dark out when Xavier stirs beside you.

He wakes like he always does. Quiet, warm, arms automatically reaching for your sleeping form. He pulls you close, breath brushing on your neck, his hand splaying across your waist under the covers.

That’s when he notices it.

A damp spot on your shirt. Right over your chest. You’re on your side, curled towards him, unaware.

He blinks once. Then twice. Brain still foggy from sleep.

But then he leans closer, nose brushing against the fabric, breathing in the scent that’s distinctly you. Warm and milky. Sweet.

Something stirs in him. Not lust, something gentler. Deeper.

An ache in his chest he can’t explain. Like he wants to be closer, somehow. Like he needs to feel it. Taste it.

He shifts beneath the blankets, carefully nudging the neckline of your shirt down. He presses a kiss just above your nipple, reverent, before wrapping his lips softly around it.

You stir, eyelids fluttering. “...Xavi?” you murmur, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Mm,” he hums against your skin, mouth still lazily suckling. “Just helping.”

You blink blearily at him. “That’s… not how the pump works.”

“Don’t care,” he whispers. “Tastes better this way.”

You huff a soft laugh, too tired to scold him, too warm to care. “You’re unbelievable.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark hair tousled, eyes still heavy lidded. 

“It’s comforting,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re comforting.”

And with that, he tucks himself back into your arms, head resting on your chest, one hand lazily cupping your breast. You feel the occasional soft suckle as he drifts off again, slow and rhythmic, like a baby himself.

You close your eyes.

The room is quiet. The baby’s still asleep. And for now... just for now, there’s no need to move.

You both fall back into sleep, tangled together, Warm, safe, and full.

—

[MASTERLIST]