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wooyoungiewritings · 23 days ago

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P☆RNSTAR - Park Seonghwa x Reader

Inspired by the song "P☆RNSTAR" by Nessa Barrett

"Show me who you are, pornstar"

Summary: You're a sharp, ambitious journalist who's assigned on a column about Park Seonghwa, the biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. He's a pornstar. But from the moment he turns his sharp eyes on you, everything shifts. He reads you too easily, teases you too precisely, unraveling every line you swore you wouldn’t cross. What begins as a probing interview turns into a game of control, tension, and exposed desires neither of you saw coming.

Word count: 17K

Genre: Pornstar!Seonghwa, reporter!reader, oneshot, smut

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), oneshot, smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), masturbation, oral sex (f/m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, spitting, unprotected sex, cum play, Hwa is very dominant (he's a pornstar, he knows what he's doing lmao), lmk if I missed anything!

The office smells like cheap coffee and stale ambition. You sit on the edge of a squeaky swivel chair, scrolling through the latest assignment email with a sinking feeling.

New project: “The Lives Behind the Screens” — a column digging into the unseen realities of internet celebrities and adult entertainers.

Great.

You thought journalism would be different. Real stories, real people. Not this digital voyeurism dressed up as “content.” But here you are, fresh out of college, with a degree gathering dust and a boss breathing down your neck.

Your editor’s voice plays in your head: “Next up? Park Seonghwa. The biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. Viral, iconic, untouchable. And you? You’re going to tell his story. Follow him. Watch him. Don’t fall for the fantasy.”

You click the link your editor attached and his face fills the screen, high-definition, impossibly symmetrical, built for the camera. Dark hair, parted just enough to frame his cheekbones like they were carved. A mouth that looks both sinful and soft, depending on the angle. Eyes like velvet, sharp, unreadable, expensive. He doesn’t smile in most of his photos. Doesn’t need to.

The headline reads: "The Pornstar Prince of the Internet."

You roll your eyes. But you keep scrolling.

Clips. Gifs. Edits. Reposts. Commentary threads that worship him like religion. "God-tier performance." "Unreal stamina." "He makes you feel like he’s looking right at you." You keep reading. Watching. Studying.

You find a clip, thirty seconds, muted, of him on a dimly lit set, shirt hanging off one shoulder, smirking at someone off-camera. He doesn’t blink much. He doesn’t need to. His body language is all ease, all control. Not arrogance. Not exactly. It’s more like... confidence that’s been sharpened into a weapon.

You don't look away.

Not because you’re turned on, not really. You’re... intrigued.

***

You show up ten minutes early, because you're not about to let a pornstar, no matter how famous, be the one waiting for you. The building is tucked between a yoga studio and a wellness café, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and minimalist signage that makes you feel underdressed just for breathing near it.

You expected neon lights. Maybe a couch no one should sit on. Definitely something sleazy.

But inside, it’s... clean.

Modern. Quiet. A tall woman with a tablet and black pumps greets you like you’re here for a boardroom pitch, not a profile piece on one of the internet’s most prolific sex symbols.

“You’re here for Mr. Park?”

Mr. Park.

You have to bite your tongue to stop from smirking.

“Yes. I’m with-”

“I know who you’re with,” she says politely, tapping something on her screen. “He’s finishing up a call. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Water? Coffee? Champagne? You half expect the offer to end in something absurd like cocaine or compliments. But instead, you shake your head politely and she gestures toward a plush couch in a waiting area that looks more like a magazine launch office than a porn empire.

You sit, legs crossed, notebook in your lap, and glance around.

There are no posters. No half-naked shots. No trophies shaped like body parts. Just soft lighting, neutral palettes, and a low hum of quiet professionalism that makes your spine tighten.

You don’t like this.

You were ready for something raw. Tacky. Exposed. You were ready to roll your eyes and keep your emotional distance.

Instead, this place feels... corporate. Intentional. Curated.

You wonder if it’s a reflection or a deflection. You wonder what the perfectly polished floor is hiding.

“He’s ready for you now,” the assistant says, voice crisp but warm. “Down the hall. Last door on the right.”

You smooth your jacket, grip your notebook, and stand.

You walk down the hall, heels dull against the polished concrete, every surface too clean, too careful. The door is slightly ajar, the only one without a nameplate. That feels intentional.

You push it open.

And there he is.

Not behind a desk, not seated with polite formality, not postured for you, just leaning against the wide windowsill, half-turned to the city below, a cigarette balanced loosely between two fingers.

Dark hair, slightly tousled like he hasn’t bothered to tame it. His shirt, black, sheer, loose at the collar. A thin chain around his throat catches the light. And his nails, black polish, chipped at the edges. Purposefully imperfect. Like he’s above caring, or maybe it’s the only thing he cares about.

He glances over his shoulder when you step in. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you.

The eyes are worse than the photos. Darker. Sharper. Too direct. Like he’s already bored, already curious. Like he sees everything, and he’s trying to decide if you’re worth keeping his attention on.

He flicks ash into a small black tray on the ledge. There’s nothing else on it. No papers, no phone. Just him.

He finally speaks, voice low and warm with the edges of smoke, like it could wrap around your neck if you let it.

“So you’re the one who wants to figure me out.” It’s not a question. But his eyes don’t move from yours. They don’t flinch. “You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You offer the smallest shrug. “I could say the same.”

That earns the hint of a laugh. Just a breath, barely there.

He stubs out the cigarette, gestures toward the lone armchair behind you. “You can sit. I won’t bite.”

You don’t say anything. Just take the seat, notebook still closed in your lap. He stays standing. Of course he does. You can tell he likes the distance, the height, likes watching from above. Not out of arrogance, but out of habit. He’s used to reading people, measuring how they move when they’re inside a space that belongs to him.

“I’m working on a column,” you say finally. “Series called The Lives Behind the Screens.”

“I’ve heard.” He nods once. “They sent me your articles. You ask better questions than most.”

You glance up. “You actually read them?”

His mouth quirks into a crooked kind of smile. Dry, a little arrogant, but not in a way that pushes you away. If anything, it pulls you in.

“I like knowing who’s about to ask if I’ve always been this good with my hands.”

That draws a smile from you, small, tight. Not because it’s funny. But because you expected that line. He’s testing the waters.

“I’m not here just to talk about your sex life,” you say.

There’s a flicker at the corner of his lips. Something amused. Not quite a grin, just a suggestion of one, like he’s trying to decide if he’s impressed or annoyed.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “That’s usually the fun part.” there’s a languid rhythm to the way he speaks, each word stretched just enough to make you feel it.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable. Just... charged. Like you’re both waiting to see who steps forward first.

Across the room, Seonghwa moves toward the bookshelf along the far wall. Not performative, not for your benefit. He’s just giving you time to look at him.

So you do.

He’s taller than you realized. Lean, but strong in the way dancers are. He walks like he knows people are watching, not cocky, just aware. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention, it assumes it. And the longer you observe, the more it’s clear: nothing about him is accidental.

The sheer shirt might as well be part of his skin. It moves when he moves. His black jeans are worn soft at the seams, sitting low on his hips. No belt. Just a silver chain around one wrist, around his neck and that single piercing. A bar through his eyebrow.

When he turns to face you again, he doesn't sit.

“I’m guessing you’ve already read everything about me,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

“I tried to,” you admit, finally jotting something down, the way he speaks without looking for approval, the confidence that isn’t loud. “But I don’t think it matters.”

That earns you a longer look. His head tilts. “Why not?”

You don’t glance up from your page. “Because none of it’s yours. It's press releases. Magazine quotes. Fan rumors. It’s the version of you people think they want to believe in.”

He’s silent for a beat too long. When you do meet his eyes again, there’s something softer around the edges. Not exposed. But interested.

“And what version are you looking for?” he asks.

“I’m here to figure out if there’s a man behind the star,” you say, tone even. “Or if you’ve just become the thing people want from you.”

That lands. You can feel it. His jaw shifts slightly, but he doesn’t look away.

“I could lie,” he offers, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Make up some tragic story. Childhood trauma. First heartbreak. Tell you something that’ll look good in a pull quote.”

“You could,” you nod, pen tapping once against the paper. “But I’d know.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, but this time there’s no amusement in it. Just curiosity. A quiet spark behind his eyes that says you’ve surprised him.

He moves closer.

Only a few steps, measured, unrushed, and then leans against the back of the leather armchair opposite yours. His arms fold loosely across his chest, and he studies you like a mirror. Like you’re suddenly the one under scrutiny.

“You don’t flirt,” he observes.

You blink. “Is that a problem?”

“Most people do,” he says simply. “Even the ones who say they won’t.”

You meet his gaze, hold it. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to work out how you got under his skin without touching him. “You’re not.”

For a moment, something spreads between you. You’re not even sure what it is yet. But it’s there, between you. Not attraction. But interest. A tension that hums like a wire strung too tight.

You look away first, not out of defeat, but control. Your voice is smooth as you ask, “What’s the worst assumption people make about you?”

Seonghwa exhales through his nose. A faint smile, but more thoughtful this time. He leans his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling like he’s weighing the cost of honesty.

“That's easy,” he says eventually. “All of it. That I just show up and look good and take my clothes off, and somehow, that’s enough.”

You nod once, pen moving again.

“And is it?” you ask, without looking up.

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “But sometimes I wish it were.”

The vulnerability slips through so subtly, you almost miss it. But it’s there. And he lets it hang in the space between you, bare, unpolished.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just underline the sentence on your page, twice.

When you glance at him again, he’s already watching you.

Not in the way men look at women. Not like he’s trying to undress you.

He looks at you like he wants to know what you look like with your guard down.

“What made you start doing this?” you ask again, pushing a little harder this time.

Seonghwa exhales through his nose, grabs another cigarette from his pocket and lights it with an unreadable expression. He taps ash into the glass tray on the table between you.

“I like sex,” he says simply, lips curving just slightly. “Turns out, I’m good at it. People like to watch. Seemed like a win-win.”

You don’t blink. Don’t smile back.

“I’m sure that’s true,” you say evenly. “But that’s not really an answer.”

His brows lift. Just a fraction. You think you catch the flicker of something else in his eyes, not surprise, exactly, but interest. Curiosity. Most people probably take the bait and laugh. Move on.

You don’t.

“So what kind of answer are you looking for?” he asks, his tone lighter now. It’s playful. Not mocking, but there’s a dare underneath it.

“The real kind,” you say. “Unless that’s too much to ask.”

He looks at you for a beat too long. Then, just when the silence starts to turn into something heavier, he grins. It’s not the polished smile from his photoshoots or the cocky smirk from his scenes. It’s crooked. Defensive.

“You’re intense,” he says.

“You’re guarded,” you shoot back.

That actually gets a laugh out of him, low and warm. He places the cigarette between his lips again, holding your gaze as he breathes in. He smells like smoke and sandalwood, expensive and addictive.

“Is it hard to get hard when you don’t actually want the person touching you?”

That makes him go still.

No smirk. No clever deflection. Just a small shift in his eyes, like a curtain tugged half an inch to the side.

“That’s a hell of a question,” he says eventually, exhaling smoke slowly through his nose.

You wait.

The jewelry on his fingers glints in the soft light. He taps the cigarette out with one hand, stubs it, and doesn’t light another.

“Sometimes it’s hard,” he says eventually. “Not physically. Mechanically, there are tricks. Prep. It’s part of the job. But mentally…” He shrugs. “Some days you show up and your body does the work, but your head isn’t anywhere near it.”

“Where does it go?” you ask.

That question lands harder than you expected. He doesn’t answer it right away.

“You like making people uncomfortable, don’t you?” he says instead, with a sharp little smile.

“I like watching people flinch when they’re used to being worshipped,” you shoot back.

That does it, a soft laugh, almost disbelieving. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the first sign of agitation. Or maybe… intrigue.

“You think I’m used to being worshipped?”

“I think you’ve made a career off of it,” you say. “And I think you’re smart enough to know none of it’s real.”

He straightens up slowly, standing to full height. Not a threat, but a shift in dynamic. He towers, but doesn’t loom. He just exists fully, commandingly, in the space. Smoke, sex, control, all wrapped in the body of a man who knows what power feels like in his palm.

“Tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped now. “Be on set at ten. Don’t be late.”

You nod, but don’t move yet. “And you’ll show me?”

He lifts a brow. “Show you what?”

“What it looks like when you stop pretending.”

The look he gives you is unreadable. Half danger, half fascination.

Then he says, “Careful what you wish for.”

***

You don’t expect to be alone when he finds you.

You’re standing just beyond the edge of the set, not quite hidden but far enough away that you don’t feel like you’re intruding. The lights are half-up, the crew moving with quiet efficiency, adjusting equipment, taping marks to the floor. It’s all so… normal. Not chaotic. Not hypersexualized. Not what you thought a porn set would look like.

There’s nothing cheap about it. No sleaze. No haze of something you can’t name.

Just calm. Controlled. Professional.

Then you feel him before you hear him.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to show up early to this,” Seonghwa says.

You turn.

He’s closer than you expected, but not too close, just inside your space enough to remind you this is his world. His set. His rules.

He’s dressed down. Black pants. Loose black tank. Hair still damp, like he just showered. Barefoot. There’s a quiet confidence to him, the kind that doesn’t need announcing. And that damn eyebrow piercing catches the light when he looks at you.

“I figured you’d bail,” he says, "Didn’t think this kind of work was your thing.”

You glance over your notepad without looking up. “It’s not.”

He tilts his head. “Dedicated. Or just curious?”

“I’m here to work.”

“You keep saying that,” he muses. “Like you’re trying to convince someone.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “Would it make you more comfortable if I pretended to be flustered around you?”

He laughs, soft, warm. “No,” he says. “That’s the problem. You don’t pretend.”

You say nothing, but your fingers tighten slightly around your notebook. He catches it.

His smile sharpens, but his voice stays casual. “So,” he says, “first time seeing something like this in person?”

You nod.

“No nerves?”

“A few,” you admit. “But I’ve done harder interviews.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Harder than watching me fuck someone ten feet in front of you?”

Your throat tightens, just slightly. Not enough to show. But something shifts in your expression. His eyes track it.

He grins.

You look back at him, carefully composed. “I’m still here.”

“That you are,” he says, quieter now. “And you’ll watch? Even if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think it will.”

A beat passes. His gaze lingers on your face. Then he nods, almost approvingly.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s see how much you’re really ready for.”

He turns, just like that, walking toward the set. The curtain parts behind him.

And just before it closes, he glances over his shoulder.

“Try not to fall for me,” he says with a crooked smile. “It gets messy.”

You don’t answer. You just grip your notebook a little tighter.

You’re here. Watching, really watching.

The red light blinks above like a warning and a promise, casting a harsh glow over the small, claustrophobic set. Seonghwa stands center stage, muscles taut beneath his soaked black tank top, sweat glistening on his skin like he’s been moving for hours.

He doesn’t look up as he starts, he’s not just touching her, his set-partner. He’s worshipping every inch.

She’s moaning, low, ragged sounds that fill the room, vibrating against your skin. His fingers find her, moving inside her with a steady, expert pressure that makes her cry out in pleasure. His mouth covers hers, rough and demanding, teeth grazing her bottom lip, swallowing every protest she might have.

His hips thrust hard, the tank top clinging to every muscle twitch, sweat dripping down the curve of his spine. He grunts low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest as he drives her higher, faster.

And then, just when you think you can’t bear it, he looks up.

His eyes catch yours across the room, sharp and knowing. It’s like he can see right through your carefully constructed wall, the cool, detached journalist trying to stay professional, and he’s amused by it. Maybe even hungry for it. There’s a flicker of cocky challenge there, a silent dare: Keep watching.

The way his mouth curves into a slow, teasing smile sends a jolt through you, and you realize this isn’t just a show for the cameras. This is his playground, and you’re the unexpected audience he wants to mesmerize.

You feel heat rise between your legs, your breath catching in your throat despite yourself. This is supposed to be work. But your body betrays you, tightening, aching, wanting. Your skin prickles as the two of them writhe, tangled in lust and need, so raw, so real, it’s impossible to pretend it’s not affecting you.

Every moan, every bite, every slick slide of his fingers on her wetness is a punch straight to your gut. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be feeling this. But you are.

And it terrifies you.

You wait alone in the dim waiting room, the muffled sounds of the set still echoing faintly beyond the door. Your fingers drum nervously against the notebook in your arms, mind spinning with what you just witnessed. The intoxicating mix of raw power, control, and vulnerability, everything about him pulls at you in ways you didn’t expect.

The door swings open without warning.

He steps inside, still dripping with sweat, the black robe hanging loose and wet against his skin. His dark hair is tangled, strands plastered to his forehead and neck, but he looks effortless, like he just conquered the world or at least that room.

His gaze lands on you, smirking as if he knows exactly what’s racing through your mind. “So,” he says, voice low and husky, “did the show live up to your expectations?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “It was... intense. Different than anything I imagined.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, the heat radiating off him making your skin flush. “I told you, this isn’t some act. It’s real.”

You don’t look away, but take a small step back so you feel the wall behind you. “I saw that. You’re not faking it.”

His smirk deepens. “I don’t do fake. My body knows what to do.” He lets the robe slip slightly off one shoulder, revealing the sweat-slick skin beneath. “But now, I want to see you. What happens when you drop the act?”

Your breath catches. “I’m not the one putting on a show.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel his warmth, eyes locked on yours with a playful challenge. “Maybe you’re hiding better than I thought. But I don’t scare easy. You push me, I’ll push back.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of your chair. “Then push.”

Seonghwa leans in just a fraction closer, his dark eyes locked onto yours with that smoldering mix of cocky challenge and genuine curiosity. The faint scent of sweat and something uniquely his, clean, but with a wild edge, fills the small space between you. He lets the robe slip a little more off his shoulder, just enough to tease, but not enough to give everything away.

“So, what’s your move, reporter?”

His gaze narrows, sharp and piercing as he lets his fingers trail just a breath away from your skin, deliberately not touching, drawing out the moment. Neither of you is blinking.

“You want answers,” he says, voice low and teasing. “But answers come at a price. You think you can handle what you don’t expect?”

You hold his stare, heart pounding, refusing to flinch. “I’m not here to be intimidated.”

He lets out a slow, dark laugh, amused and a little impressed. “Good. Because I’m not here to entertain you… at least, not yet.”

He steps back, letting the space between you swell with the weight of what just passed, then pulls his robe tighter around his frame with a smooth motion. “But here’s a deal: I’ll give you the story you want. The real me, the part behind the flashing lights and staged scenes. On one condition.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Which is?”

He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice a rough whisper. “You come back. You don’t flinch. You keep pushing. No matter how messy it gets. You keep digging, even when it hurts. No backing down. And maybe… just maybe, you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

He pulls away, smirking like he’s already won the game. “Think it over. I’ll be waiting.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his challenge ringing louder than any spotlight.

***

When the elevator dings on his floor, you step out into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The walls are a cool gray, the faint smell of leather and something smoky wafting up from behind one door.

You take a breath and knock lightly.

The door swings open before you finish the knock, revealing Seonghwa. “Come in,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. He steps aside, letting you slip inside.

The air smells faintly of cologne and smoke, the leftover echo of whatever he did on set lingering like something physical. The windows are wide, letting in the soft amber of the city outside. It should feel casual. It doesn’t.

You take it all in quietly, feeling the weight of his space, the echo of the man who lives here.

You settle into the dark gray couch, eyes never leaving him as he moves with casual ease.

Seonghwa walks toward the open-plan kitchen, barefoot, hair damp from a quick shower. He’s once again a robe, black, slung loose around him, revealing toned legs and glimpses of his chest when the fabric parts with each lazy step. You pretend not to notice. You do. It’s impossible not to.

He grabs a lighter from the counter, flicks it without looking, and lights the cigarette already tucked between his lips. The inhale is long. Slow. A sigh through his nose. Then he turns toward you.

“You look like you’re in a dentist’s waiting room,” he murmurs. Voice warm. Slightly mocking.

He exhales smoke and walks closer, staying on his side of the room but dropping into the armchair across from you, in the middle of the two couches, slouching low like he owns the place. Which, of course, he does.

The room shrinks around you, charged with something unspoken and raw. You don’t like it. You don’t want it. But you can’t look away.

“Okay, then,” you say, voice sharp. “You like being watched?”

A lazy smirk curls his mouth. “Doesn’t everyone?” He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs, cigarette perched between his fingers. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling.

Then he speaks again. “I like control,” he says. “I like knowing what people want and giving it to them. It’s… intimate. But safe. And when you’re good at it? They forget it’s a performance.”

Your throat tightens slightly, but you nod. “So it’s about power?”

“It’s about reading people,” he corrects. Then, smoothly, “My turn.” He tilts his head, studying you like you’re the subject now.

“Who broke you?”

Your stomach tightens. “What?”

He grins, slow and wicked. “You walk around like you’re armored, like you’ve got barbed wire under your skin. So who put it there?”

“I’m not here to talk about me.”

His voice drops, velvet smooth. “Show me who you are.”

Your lips tighten. “No one broke me.”

“Everyone’s broken somewhere,” he says, quietly. “You just hide it well.”

He eyes you again. “My turn, again. Because you didn't answer properly before-”

You shake your head. “I’m the interviewer.” you interrupt.

“And I’m interested in you.” His smile grows.

You feel your breath hitch, but hide it behind a slow blink.

The tension between you burns like the end of his cigarette. He stubs it out, stands slowly, robe slipping slightly off his shoulder as he crosses the space between you.

Then he pauses in front of you, not quite touching, looking down.

“You want more access?” he asks, voice velvet smooth. “Then let me have the same.”

You look up, chin raised. “What are you proposing?”

“A deal.” His eyes darken. “I’ll answer anything. All of your questions. But I get to ask whatever I want too. I get to dig just as deep.”

You hesitate. He sees it. Feeds off it.

“And if you can’t handle that,” he adds, soft and cutting, “you should probably go.”

You grit your teeth. Your pulse pounds in your throat. Your body leans forward before your mind catches up.

“Fine,” you breathe. “Deal.”

He grins.

“Good,” he says. “Now, let’s really begin.”

You’re still on the couch when he lowers himself beside you, not in the armchair across the room, not at a polite distance, but next to you. His thigh brushes yours. The robe shifts again, riding high on his legs, revealing toned skin and hints of muscle that make it hard to focus.

He’s warm. Too warm. And the silence between you goes thick and heavy, soaked in everything you aren’t saying.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your voice flat, composed, even though your heart is hammering in your chest. “You made a deal. Ask.”

He smirks, eyes raking over your face like he’s deciding where to begin.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

Your breath catches, like he’s slapped you with the question instead of asking it. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“You said I could ask a question,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-smooth. “I’m just playing by the rules.”

You recover quickly, jaw tightening. “Next question.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You want honesty? Fine,” You meet his eyes, sharp, challenging. “I think about what it feels like to stop controlling everything. To not be the one driving. To let someone else take over, just for a while.”

His expression shifts, only slightly, but you see it. Something almost thoughtful in the cocky glint of his gaze. He leans back, just a little, arm along the top of the couch behind you.

“Interesting,” he says. “So you like to let go.”

Your turn. “How often do you sleep with someone off-camera?”

He shrugs. “Less than people think. When sex becomes work, it’s harder to want it just for fun. But when I do… I make sure it’s worth it.”

Your pulse skips. You force yourself not to look away.

He leans in. His voice drops, brushing your skin like it knows what it’s doing.

“Would you ever let go with someone like me?”

You stare at him. Hard. “Would you ever stop performing with someone like me?”

A beat. A flicker of surprise behind his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve performed once since you walked through my door.”

“Liar.”

He laughs, low, rough, the sound curling down your spine. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

You should move. You don’t. He’s closer now, his thigh pressing against yours, the robe parting slightly as he turns toward you.

“And what about you?” he asks. “What’s under your perfect little armor?”

You stare back at him, fingers curling around the edges of your notebook.

He continues, tone deceptively light. “You come in here, all calm and collected. Like you’re not flustered. Like watching me get someone off in front of a room full of people didn’t do something to you.”

Your spine straightens.

“It didn’t,” you lie.

He grins slowly. “Sure. Let me guess, you’re just doing your job. You don’t feel anything.”

You don’t answer.

“I think you feel more than you let on,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’re too busy trying to prove you’re better than all of this. That you’re above it.”

You meet his gaze, and something inside you cracks. Just a little. “You think you know me?” you whisper.

“I think you wear control like I wear seduction. Like armor.” He leans back again, watching you with something that’s dangerously close to fascination. “But no one ever asks what happens when you take it off.”

You suck in a breath. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to earn respect in a world that doesn’t take women seriously unless they’re agreeable.”

He tilts his head. “And you don’t know what it’s like to be only wanted for what your body can do, not who you are.”

There it is.

The stillness between you is different now, warmer, denser. It hums beneath your skin.

He says it softer, like he means it. “No one gives a fuck about what I think. Just what I can make them feel.”

The words sit heavy in your chest. There’s a moment of silence. This is biggest crack you’ve managed to get out of his guarded shell.

Then his voice softens again, teasing this time. “Alright, journalist. My turn. Last question.”

Your stomach coils, tight with anticipation.

“Have you ever imagined someone fucking you so good it ruins you for everyone else?”

Your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t blink. “Not just the act. The aftermath. The kind of sex that stays in your bones, makes everything after feel like a cheap imitation. You ever wondered what it’d take to break you like that?”

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Just quiet curiosity. Like it’s a scientific inquiry. You look at him, really look at him, and it’s suddenly so obvious he’s not just asking for the sake of it.

He wants to know if he could do it.

Your breath hitches.

And he sees it.

The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, that smug spark in his eye, you’ve just confirmed something for him.

He ashes the cigarette again, slow and easy. “Thought so,” he murmurs.

And the worst part?

You can’t even bring yourself to deny it.

***

You lie on your back in the dark, your sheets cool against your skin but your body too warm.

It’s late. Later than you meant to be awake. Your bedside lamp casts a muted glow across the ceiling, and you’ve already scrolled through every app on your phone twice. But your mind won’t stop replaying the evening.

You shift under the covers. They’re soft but do nothing to ease the heat crawling under your skin.

He got to you.

You hate that. You hate knowing that.

All of it replays in your mind on a loop, the cocky slant of his mouth, the lazy sprawl of his body across the couch, the way he tossed you that question like a match and watched it catch fire between your thighs.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

The nerve. And still, your stomach twisted.

But it wasn’t just the question. It was the way he said it. The way he looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he could read it on your skin.

You shouldn’t care. He’s your subject. Your project. Your assignment. You’re here to peel back the layers, uncover the man behind the persona.

And yet, here you are. Lying in your bed. Thinking about him.

You open your browser on your phone. Start to type.

Park Seonghwa.

A breath hitches in your throat as the name autofills. You press enter.

Links bloom across the screen in a chaotic sprawl. Clips. Interviews. Promo photos. Glossy thumbnails of sex.

But it’s the one at the very top that stops you.

No clickbait. No dramatic title. Just:

Park Seonghwa – Solo | Intimate POV.

You stare at the thumbnail. It’s dark, soft-red-lit, just a close-up of his face. Damp hair pushed back. His lips slightly parted. His eyes. direct, dark, focused. On the camera. On you.

You hesitate.

Then your finger taps the screen.

The video loads slowly, black for a beat, and then…

There he is.

The camera is positioned low on the nightstand, the frame unsteady but intimate, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to see. The soft red lighting of Seonghwa’s bedroom casts red shadows over his skin, the familiar surroundings of his private apartment making the moment feel even more forbidden. This isn’t a set. It’s his space. His bed. His sheets.

And he’s standing at the edge of it, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the waistband barely clinging to his skin. His black-painted fingers trace a path along his abdomen.

His voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough, like he’s talking to himself as much as to whoever’s watching.

“I’m all alone tonight,” he says, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Just me, my hands, and this hard fucking cock. You watching this in your bed, baby?” he murmurs, voice low, laced with that cocky softness that makes your stomach twist. “Lying there all sweet and needy, just for me?”

The waistband slips lower. Your breath catches.

The camera captures it all, his cock, thick and hard, gradually revealed, the flushed head slick with precome, shining under the dim red light. Veins curl along the shaft like cords pulled tight with anticipation, each one pulsing with restrained tension.

“Mm, look at that. Fucking myself… but every thought? You. Every touch? You.” he drawls, spitting into his palm and wrapping his hand around himself with a practiced grip. He groans, low and deep, as he spreads the slickness over his cock. “I wish you were here, on this bed, touching yourself just like I am. Knowing I’m watching. Knowing you belong to me tonight.”

He starts to stroke himself, slow and teasing, watching the camera like he can see right through it. “Don’t touch yet,” he warns, voice sharp. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

He talks like he sees you, sees directly through the screen and into your eyes. Like he knows what you’re doing in your own room, alone, totally under his control.

He leans back against the edge of the bed, one hand behind him to steady him, the other still wrapped around his cock.

Then, his gaze sharpens again. “Alright, baby. Now you can touch. Let me see it. Fingers deep. Rub that clit slow and soft, don’t rush it. I want to hear how messy it gets.”

Your fingers tremble as you slide your hand beneath your clothes, cheeks flushing hot with a mix of shame and desperate need. Your breath hitches as your fingers meet your slick folds. Heat coils in your gut, sharp and needy.

“Good girl,” he groans. “That’s it. Just like that. Take your time. I want you fucking ruined by the end of this.”

He’s so fucking good at this. He’s a goddamn star.

His voice drops, ragged with arousal now. “Faster. Rub that little clit hard, don’t you dare stop. Fuck yourself for me, just like I told you.”

You whimper, body writhing under your sheets. Your shirt is already pushed up, one hand squeezing your phone tightly, the other between your thighs, fingers slick with arousal. Your hips roll into your own touch, matching the rhythm of his strokes.

He groans again, low and filthy, his voice rough with lust. “You better be touching yourself exactly like I told you. I want to hear you come for me, baby. Say my name loud.”

Your breath stutters as your fingers circle your clit faster, the wet sounds of your need echoing in your room. “Seonghwa… I-, please…”

“Fingers deeper,” he growls. “Rub that clit while you fuck yourself, baby, don’t make me say it again. I want you moaning my name, legs shaking, begging for more even when you can’t take it.”

You obey without hesitation, sprawled on your bed, one hand buried between your thighs, soaked with your own slick.

But it’s not enough.

Your eyes flutter shut, body already moving in rhythm with his voice, his words, his breath. And then you let go. You pretend it’s not your fingers. You imagine it’s him.

That it’s Seonghwa between your legs, kneeling over you on your bed. His hands are the ones parting your thighs, his fingers circling your clit in teasing, torturously slow circles. You imagine the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his chest above yours, his cock hard against your stomach as he whispers filth right into your ear.

Your eyes snap open. They find the screen in your hand, find him.

“Look at you,” he pants, stroking faster now, spit and precome shining along the thick length of his cock. “Fucking yourself like a good little slut. You’d let me wreck you, wouldn’t you? You’d take every inch and still ask for more. I want you crying because it feels so fucking good.”

Your breath hitches, hips lifting into your own touch, and you pretend it’s him holding you down, not your trembling hand. That it’s his lips grazing your neck as he groans how tight and wet you are for him.

You moan, high and broken, hips jerking up against your fingers. “Yes-, yes, Seonghwa, please, I-”

Tears sting your lashes from how good it feels, how overwhelming it is to be seen and controlled, even from across a screen.

Then, suddenly, his voice softens just enough to ruin you. “Come for me now, pretty girl. Say my fucking name. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You cry out, body seizing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. “Seonghwa-, fuck, Seonghwa!”

And all the while, his eyes never leave the camera. Never leave you.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans, his strokes turning desperate now, almost harsh, as he chases his own release. “Look what you do to me.”

His body tenses, abs flexing, brows drawn tight with pleasure, lips parted as a strangled sound leaves him. And then he comes, cock jerking in his fist, thick ropes spilling over his stomach. His whole body shakes with it, moans leaving his beautiful mouth.

The video ends with him slumping back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat shining on his skin, his hair a mess across his forehead. The smirk that curls on his lips is smug, victorious, as if he’s just claimed something from you without lifting a finger.

“Fucking perfect,” he says softly. “Next time, maybe you’ll be here.”

And the video ends.

You’re left panting, flushed, utterly undone.

You set the phone down, heart still racing, skin still tingling. Embarrassment floods you, but beneath it is a darker craving, a need that won’t be satisfied anytime soon.

***

On Friday, you knock on the door, hesitate for a second, then push it open.

Same office. Same dark walls, same black armchair in the corner, same lingering scent of something expensive and musky. But today, none of it feels the same.

Your chest tightens with a rush of heat and embarrassment of seeing him. You remind yourself to focus, to stay professional. But the memory of the other night, the video you couldn’t stop watching, presses against your thoughts, making your cheeks flush.

He doesn’t notice.

Because the man sitting there doesn’t look like the one you met earlier this week.

Seonghwa is sunk deep into the armchair near the window, hood up, legs stretched out. A lit cigarette dangles between his fingers, ash clinging stubbornly to the end. His usual polished precision is nowhere in sight.

And neither is that smirk.

You pause in the doorway. “Morning.”

He lifts his head just barely, eyes narrowing like the light annoys him. “Oh. Right.. Today.”

No charm. No grin. Not even the cool confidence he always wears like armor.

“I texted you last night. Said I’d be here at ten.”

“Doesn’t mean I remembered,” he mutters, dragging from the cigarette. The smoke curls between you, soft and lazy, but his tone cuts through it like glass.

You step into the room, letting the door click softly behind you. “Are you okay?”

He gives you a look that makes it very clear that was the wrong question. “Peachy.”

You pause, scanning him. The hoodie. The mess of papers on his desk. A barely touched coffee going cold beside his laptop. The light in here is dim, drawn shades casting thin slats across the floor. You can feel the heat of his mood before he says another word.

“You don’t have to fake concern,” he mutters, taking another drag. “It’s not gonna make the column sound any less curated.”

Your brows knit. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand toward you, toward the room. “This. All of this. Let’s not pretend this is anything other than you getting your material.”

You shift on your feet, a slow flare of irritation lighting your chest. “What do you think I want from this?”

“I think you care about getting the most interesting version of me. The wounded, brooding performer with something to hide.” His mouth twists into something sharp. “It’s exactly what you wanted to see, right?” His gaze cuts to you, sharp and flat. “Congratulations. You’re getting it.”

Your chest tightens, but you stay still. “You think I want you like this?”

“I think you want truth,” he snaps, tapping the ash into the tray. “And this is it. The version I try to keep under wraps because it doesn’t sell. Because it doesn’t make anyone hard or fall in love.”

You glance at the clock. “Do we still do this today? Or should I come back another time?”

He exhales a long breath, rubs a hand over his jaw. “Let’s get it over with.”

And for the first time since this whole thing began, you see him not as the man who holds all the cards, but as someone who hates being looked at too closely.

The day unfolds in fragments.

Meetings. Scripts. Phone calls. Camera tests.

You follow him like you’re supposed to, your notebook tucked under your arm, phone in your pocket, voice recorder untouched. Seonghwa walks ahead of you like he forgot you were even there, hood still up, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, the fraying hem of his sweatshirt twitching with each agitated movement.

The production assistant tries to make a joke as he hands Seonghwa a stack of papers. Seonghwa doesn’t smile.

It’s the little things. The way his knee bounces restlessly beneath the conference table. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he thinks no one’s looking. The way he zooms out when no one is talking.

You’re silent, mostly. Observing. But it’s impossible not to feel how much he doesn’t want you here.

Not just today, maybe at all.

When the others clear out of the room for a break, you’re left standing near the window. He lights another cigarette and leans back in his chair, exhaling with all the exhaustion of a man three times his age.

You glance at him. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do I look okay?”

“No. That’s why I asked.”

He drags in another breath of smoke, eyes fixed somewhere past the window.

You take a step closer. “I’m not here to-”

“To fix anything,” he says, voice quieter now, less bite in it. He finally meets your eyes, and something in his expression softens just enough to hurt. “You’re here to tell a story. I get it.”

“That’s not all I’m doing. That’s not fair.”

He shrugs, more resigned than cold. “It’s not meant to be. It’s just… easier to believe you’re doing your job than actually giving a fuck.”

And it hits you then, he’s not trying to shut you out to be cruel. He’s doing it to keep himself from hoping for something more. You hate that he means it. That he believes it. That somewhere between the tension and the peeling back of layers, he still doesn’t trust you enough to believe you care.

Today’s studio space is colder than the hallway, industrial lights buzzing overhead, metal rigs stacked along the walls, and a makeshift bed propped under the camera setup.

You step in behind Seonghwa, careful not to bump into the maze of cords and crew. It’s eerily quiet for a shoot day. But maybe that’s because everyone’s waiting for him.

He’s in his hoodie, the hood still pulled over his head like armor. Hands in his pockets, spine tense. His steps are heavy, slow. Like walking into this room costs him something. And the moment people notice him, something shifts. Not respect. Not admiration. Something more primal.

“God, look at that,” someone murmurs near the lighting board. “Even with a hoodie on, he looks like sex.”

A grip elbows his buddy. “Bet they have him jack off again. He’s too good at it not to.”

Laughter buzzes through the set like a current. You pretend not to hear.

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t respond. You watch his expression from the side, blank. Guarded. Not new to this.

The director finally enters, a man in a designer tee and sunglasses indoors, and claps his hands together with a wide, lazy grin. His eyes go straight to Seonghwa.

“There he is! My masterpiece,” he says with a grin. “Fuck, you’re still so fuckable it’s actually unfair. Even with that tired little pout, perfect. Stay like that.” He steps in close, fingers curling under the hem of Seonghwa’s hoodie and lifting it uninvited. “Yeah, we’ll use this for the thumbnail. Boys wanna be you, girls wanna ride you. And the ones in between? They’re paying double. Let’s not waste time on foreplay, you're losing the pants before we hit four minutes anyways.”

You blink. He doesn’t even ask.

“Today’s just a solo,” the director continues, already talking to the crew. “I want long shots of the buildup. Give me that lazy jerk-off style he does. Like he just woke up and couldn’t help himself. And get tight on his abs when he clenches, viewers love that shit. Make the fuckers at home feel like they’re right there, breathing down his neck.“

He turns back to Seonghwa. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just stroke it, look hot, moan a little, and come when I tell you.”

The words land with the weight of indifference. Like Seonghwa’s just a prop. A function. A dick and a face with a pulse.

You glance up at him. His jaw is tight. His mouth a flat line. Not angry, no. This isn’t new to him. It’s routine. Expected. A part of the job he doesn’t get to question.

You speak without thinking. “He’s not just a prop.”

That earns you a look. Not just from the director, but Seonghwa too. Something flickers in his eyes, shock, maybe surprise.

The director barks a laugh. “Relax. Don’t get righteous. It’s the industry, sweetheart. If you don’t like it, you’re in the wrong room.” He walks off before you can respond, barking something about angles and cumshots.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Seonghwa doesn’t move at first. When he finally does, it’s slow, measured. His jaw works, but his voice is low, almost too quiet to hear. “It’s not about what I want,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor. “It never is.” He doesn’t say more. Just shrugs off the hoodie and walks toward the set.

You don’t say a word.

But the director’s yelling grabs attention, half-distracted by his phone.

“Come on, Seonghwa. Slower. Let’s really feel that stroke. Sell it like you mean it.”

He doesn’t flinch, not outwardly.

You watch him slip into the rhythm. One hand curls lightly at the base of his stomach, the other resting behind him. He’s not touching himself, not yet.

He looks like a sculpture: smooth, stunning, perfect, and completely lifeless inside. The charm is gone. The Seonghwa you’ve gotten glimpses of, the one with the bitter laugh and the razor wit, the one who says too much when he’s tired and smokes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, isn’t here. He’s been replaced by a fantasy. A tool.

And no one seems to care.

“Yeah,” the director says absently, standing near the monitor. “God, your face does most of the work for you, doesn’t it? You could just stand there and they’d still fucking come.”

There’s laughter around the room. Like Seonghwa isn’t even present, like he’s just a prop they’re manipulating.

And it makes your chest ache.

You take a slow breath and step back from the edge of the set. There’s nothing for you to do here. Nothing to say that wouldn’t sound hollow, or patronizing, or worse, just like everyone else who pretends to care while still benefiting from his body.

So you turn and quietly leave the room. The hallway outside feels colder, quieter. You don’t know what you’re allowed to feel in this moment. Anger? Sympathy? Guilt?

You just know you couldn't watch anymore.

Not when he clearly didn’t want you to. Not when the man you came here to understand was being stripped away, piece by piece, until only the image was left.

And that image? That glossy, controlled performance?

That’s what they want. Not him. Not the real him.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than you expected.

The dressing room smells faintly of cologne, latex, and sweat. You sit on the edge of the black bench against the wall when the door opens. The sound is sharp in the stillness, followed by footsteps that slow as they see you.

Seonghwa walks in, his hoodie bunched in one hand, hair damp, jaw clenched. He’s wearing only his sweatpants, his skin still glistening with leftover oil. His expression flickers, not anger, but something edged. Tired. Wary.

He walks past you, heading to the corner where a small fridge hums beside the dressing table. Rows of expensive liquor line the shelves. Vodka, whiskey, soju, even a few overly expensive wine bottles. Every possible way to forget himself sits chilled and ready. But he ignores them all, reaching instead for a plain bottle of water. He drinks slowly, throat moving, his other hand flexing once at his side like he’s holding something in.

"You left." His voice is rough. Not accusing. Just...surprised.

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t think that would bother you,” He drops the hoodie onto a chair, drags a towel off a hook and wipes at his face. “You’ve seen me do worse.”

“I didn’t leave because I couldn’t handle the scene,” you say. “I left because you looked like you couldn’t.”

His movements slow. The towel lowers slightly.

“I’ve seen you do this before. At the studio, with the woman. You were in it. Comfortable. Maybe even enjoying it.”

He scoffs under his breath and turns away, tossing the towel onto the counter. “That was a different day. Different shoot. Different director.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Back then, it looked like a choice. Like you were in control. Today it didn’t.”

He leans both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense. “You know what the difference is?” He looks at you in the mirror, not turning. “That shoot? I liked the director. I liked the setting. I was in the fucking mood. It worked because it came from me. This-” He laughs hollowly, a crack of frustration. “This was someone powerful enough to say do it or get out. Someone I can’t afford to say no to. So, I did it.”

You don’t speak. You let him.

“I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t want anyone touching me. Didn’t want to fuck, didn’t want to look sexy, didn’t want to perform, but I had to.” He shakes his head. “There are days that feels like a goddamn prison sentence.”

He finally turns, leaning back against the counter now. Arms crossed. His chest rises slowly, like he’s trying not to show how much he said just cost him.

You watch him carefully, the hard edges softening just enough to see the man behind the mask.

“You said you don’t fake it,” you say quietly. “So… what was that?”

He sighs, eyes flicking away before meeting yours again. “Survival,” he admits, voice low but steady. “I love what I do. I’m proud of who I’ve become, what I’ve built from nothing. I own this life. The good, the bad, all of it. But like any job, there are parts you hate. Parts that drain you.” He taps the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “That scene? That was me bending to someone else’s will. I swallowed it because I had to. Because I don’t get to pick every day. And sometimes surviving means doing things you hate, even when you don’t want to.”

The silence stretches between you. Something hangs in the air, too heavy for neither of you to grab.

“No one’s ever walked away before,” he says finally. His voice is lower now. “They usually just...watch. Or enjoy the show.”

Slowly, you rise to your feet, the movement drawing his attention. He lowers his gaze, fingers dragging over his jaw. There's exhaustion etched into his features, but beneath it, something quieter, heavier. Resignation.

“I didn’t come here to feed on the worst version of you,” you say. “I came here to see the real one. That’s not the same thing.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw flexes once. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry, or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he doesn’t know how to respond.

Then, finally, a dry sound leaves his throat. Almost a laugh.

“Well,” he says softer, glancing over at you again, voice softer, “congrats. You got him.” His gaze sharpens, a little of that old arrogance flickering behind it. “Grumpy. Tired. Mentally undressing people out of sheer boredom. You sure that’s the ‘real’ me you wanted?”

You lift a brow. “If this is you flirting again, it’s deeply depressing.”

He snorts, pushing off the dressing table to pace the small room with slow steps.

“You make it hard not to,” he says.

There’s something in his walk, looser than before, more relaxed, like some of the tension’s drained from his muscles.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more thoughtful. “You know, I usually expect people to want things from me. Attention. A show. Something they can get off to, or write about, or pretend to care about just long enough to take.”

You meet his eyes.

“And what do I want?” you ask.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says, a little smile curling at his lips now. “But it’s starting to piss me off.”

You let out a short laugh. “Good.”

He steps closer.

Not too close. Just enough to tilt the atmosphere again. To remind you of how he carries himself when he’s not being forced to play a role, but when he chooses to.

“Maybe you’re the first one who didn’t want the performance,” he murmurs. “But that means you might actually want me. And that’s… far more dangerous.”

He steps closer. Enough to make you feel like he could cage you.

Your mouth twists. “I can handle dangerous.”

“I know you can,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before rising again. “Which is probably why I keep wondering what it’d take to ruin you.”

Your breath catches, just barely. But you recover fast, narrowing your eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in control here.”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I remember. You’ve been trying to control me from day one.”

You smirk. “Trying?”

The air between you charges again, a slow rise of energy you’ve both become addicted to, banter as foreplay, tension as currency.

He leans in just slightly, voice a whisper now. “You keep poking at the beast, sweetheart, and one day it’s gonna bite.”

You don’t back down. You never do. Instead, you tilt your head, eyes bright, tone playful but edged.

“Show me who you are, pornstar.”

And this time, it’s him left watching your back as you leave the room, a slow grin curving at the edge of his mouth.

The day drags on, marked by long meetings, quick walks between sets, and endless discussions about scripts, schedules, and contracts. From the outside, Seonghwa is in professional, his face a carefully guarded mask as he navigates a world that rarely sees past his looks.

But you notice the small things that slip through the cracks.

When a new intern drops a clipboard near him, he crouches without hesitation, helping her gather the pages. “It happens,” he murmurs, flashing a small, crooked smile. She blushes. He doesn’t notice, he’s too focused on making sure the papers aren’t bent.

You see how he checks in with his scene partner when going through an upcoming scene. Not just the “are you okay?” they’re supposed to say, but the quiet, real kind. “Do you want to run through it first?” “Is there a word you don’t like hearing?” “Tell me what makes you feel safe.” His voice never dips into showmanship. He means it.

He holds the boom operator’s ladder while they’re adjusting the rig, just instinct. Offers his hoodie to a grip when the studio AC kicks in too hard. Tells the runner she can take his spot in line for catering because she’s been on her feet all day.

The day’s light was fading as you wrapped up, the set slowly emptying out around you. You felt the weight of the last few days settle in, a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. On Monday, this all would be just words on a page, a story told from your view. But tonight, there was still unfinished business. A handful of questions you needed to ask him before publishing on Monday.

He didn’t say much as you left the set together. When you arrived at his apartment, the familiar scent of his space settled around you like a cloak, dark wood, leather, a faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air.

The city outside buzzed faintly, but inside, it was different. More intimate. Raw.

In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle. You expect something like whiskey or beer, something to match the rough edges you’ve seen in him, but instead, he grabs a sparkling water and pops the cap with a practiced flick. He drinks without hesitation, eyes locked on the glass.

You watch for a moment. He drinks other things, coffee, energy drinks, soda, but not alcohol. Curious, you finally address it, “You never touch alcohol.”

He exhales slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m sober. Used to drink, back when I started all this,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the industry chaos outside. “Made things easier, especially scenes I didn’t want to do. Just numb the brain, let the body do the work. But it didn’t stay easy. Became a problem.”

He shrugs, a little bitter. “Quit cold turkey. Stuck to cigarettes. They don’t fuck with me the way alcohol did.”

You take that in, the weight behind his words settling between you.

He glances up, a spark of that familiar cocky edge in his eyes. “Same deal as last time,” he says quietly. “You get to ask whatever you want, I get to ask you back.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod, meeting his gaze steadily. “Fair enough.”

The room shifts subtly, the air thickening as you settle on the couch, the glow of the city filtering in through the blinds. He drops onto the couch opposite you, propping an elbow on the armrest and flicking a glance your way that’s half teasing, half challenging. The familiar smirk curling at the corner of his lips, the kind that warns you he’s gearing up to push boundaries.

“So,” he starts, voice low and teasing, “what’s the first thing you want to know? Don’t hold back. You’re not here for small talk.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the heat of it, the sharpness wrapped in that easy confidence. “Alright then,” you say, “what’s the one thing about you that no one’s ever bothered to ask?”

His smirk deepens. “Curious. I like that.” He taps his finger against his chin. “I guess… people never ask what scares me. Everyone’s so obsessed with the surface, nobody wants to know what actually keeps me up at night.”

He leans back in the couch, arm resting casually on the armrest, his gaze locked on you with that familiar cocky glint. “Alright,” he says, voice low and slow like he’s savoring every word. “Your turn to answer. But I’m not asking about your favorite color or some safe, boring shit.” He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver a verdict. “What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined me doing to you? Don’t hide it, I know you’ve thought about it.”

Your breath hitches. You want to look away, but his gaze pins you, sharp and relentless. “You don’t know a thing about me,” you say, voice tight but quiet.

“Just admit that I get under your skin.” he pushes.

The air thickens between you, every word a spark, every look a flame. You don’t answer, but the tension says everything.

He tips his head toward you, a slow grin pulling at his lips. “Alright,” he says, voice low and playful. “Speed round. No thinking, just answer.”

You bite back a smirk. “Fine. But same rules for you.”

He raises his hand, palm open in mock surrender. “Deal.” A pause. He leans forward, eyes glinting. “Lights on or off?”

You roll your eyes. “Off.” You don’t hesitate. “What was your first scene like?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Awful. Cheap hotel room, bad lighting, guy behind the camera eating chips the whole time. I hated every second of it, until the money hit.”

You nod, filing it away.

His eyes flicker over you. “Ever had someone make you come so hard you forgot your own name?”

You blink, caught off guard, but you recover quickly. “No.”

He raises a brow. “No?”

You shake your head. “Next question.”

He’s grinning now. “Cold. I like it.”

You tilt your head. “What makes a scene enjoyable for you?”

“Chemistry,” he answers easily. “Real tension. Not just moaning on command.” He doesn’t wait. “Where do you like to be touched first?”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

“I’m not here for your journalism,” he says smoothly. “I want the truth.”

You shift in your seat. “Fine. Shoulders, my neck,” You exhale, shifting in your seat. “Rough or slow?”

His gaze darkens just a shade. “Both. Start slow, end ruined.” His eyes glitter as he tilts his head. “When you touched yourself the other night… what did you picture me doing?”

The question hits like a slap, fast, sharp, completely out of nowhere.

You freeze.

It’s just for a second. A breath, a blink. But it’s all he needs.

His smirk blooms, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the flavor of your silence.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and rich. “That’s all the answer I need.”

Your eyes narrow, heart beating faster. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was better than one,” he murmurs. “You should see your face right now.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, every line of him tuned in. “So what was it? Me between your thighs? My fingers? My mouth?” He grins. “Or did you watch a video of mine?”

You hate that he’s right. You hate even more how much of this is true. How a few nights ago, in your bed, you had slipped your hand between your thighs with the very image of him in your head, voice, mouth, body, all of it.

And now he’s sitting across from you, as if he knows.

You shift in your seat, your heart beating in your neck, tightening your jaw. “Do you always get off on making people flustered?”

He smiles, utterly unbothered. “Only when they’re pretending they’re not dying to be fucked.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches you from across the room, legs spread comfortably on the couch opposite yours, his elbow draped lazily over the armrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then, without a word, he rises.

You don’t track him with your eyes, but you feel it, his slow, easy steps as he walks around the coffee table and then behind your couch. Your breath hitches when you sense him close, the faint scent of his cologne and smoke drifting down as he pauses behind you. You stiffen slightly, unsure of his next move.

And then his fingers touch your shoulders.

His voice comes low beside your ear, thick with promise and filth. “So what was I doing in that pretty little head of yours?”

You inhale sharply, but say nothing.

“Was it my mouth?” he continues, fingertips trailing with maddening gentleness over the curve of your shoulder. “My tongue?”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

His hand pauses, then brushes a little more firmly down your upper arm. “Or were you fucking yourself to a video? The kitchen one, maybe? The way I bend her over the counter and make her beg? That one tends to be a favorite,”

Your legs press together without thinking, and you feel his pause, feel the smirk in it.

“Oh,” he says softly. “So it was a video.”

Behind you, his voice lowers.

“Maybe it wasn’t one of the rough ones,” he murmurs. “Maybe it wasn’t even with a partner. Maybe…” His fingers pause, then brush inwards, tracing just beneath the neckline of your shirt, not quite slipping in, but enough to make your skin tighten. “Maybe it was one of the solo ones from my own bed.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. But the heat climbing up your chest gives you away.

“Those are always my favorites,” he adds, almost conversationally, but there's a layer beneath it, quieter, more real. “No director. No lights. Just me. In my space. Needing something.”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep control, but it’s already slipping. Your thighs press tighter together, and he must know.

He keeps going.

He leans in closer, breath warm against your skin. “Did you watch me stroke myself slow? Did you imagine kneeling between my legs, watching the way my hand moves? Did you-”

A sound escapes you, too soft to be a word, too loud to be ignored.

“Was I good?” he whispers.

Your breathe halters. You scoff, weakly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

He pushes, knowing what this is doing to you. “Did I make you come fast? Or did you take your time, pretending it was my fingers inside you?”

His hands settle gently at your shoulders again, and this time, his thumbs drag over the base of your neck.

“And now I’m right here,” he murmurs. “Right behind you. Talking you through it. Wanting to see when you give in.”

His thumbs sweep in lazy circles over the tops of your shoulders, light enough to keep you aching for more.

“I could make you feel so fucking good right now,” he says, voice silken and low. “You don’t even know.”

You grip the edge of the couch cushion, nails digging in. You still don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your breath is shallow, not when you’re afraid he’ll see just how badly you want it.

He chuckles, not mocking, but knowing.

“I see it in the way you breathe,” he says, “the way your thighs press together when I talk like this. You’re imagining it, aren’t you? Me between your legs. My mouth. My hands. My cock.”

Your entire body tenses, heat pulsing through your core like a current.

“But I’m not touching you yet,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, along the side of your neck this time, slow, reverent. “You want it. But I need you to give it to me. Say the word. Look at me. Move. Something.”

His fingers still, barely resting against your skin.

“I won’t take unless you give,” he murmurs. “But sweetheart, if you do give…” His voice dips, dark and sweet like molasses, “... I’ll ruin you in the best fucking way.”

You stay frozen for half a beat longer, heart thundering, torn between pride and hunger, between control and the deep, unbearable need rising in your chest.

Then, you shift.

Your voice is quiet. Barely above a whisper.

“Then take me.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t lunge for you. He doesn't devour or drag or tear, no, Seonghwa moves like he’s been waiting years for this, like he knows exactly how to handle something delicate, how to cherish what’s willingly offered. His hands leave your shoulders and slide down your arms, slow and grounding, as he steps around the couch and kneels before you.

His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, breath shaky. “I want you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not with aggression, but with intensity, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way your breath catches when he deepens it. His hands press to your thighs, parting them slightly so he can move closer, fitting between them like he belongs there.

You wrap your arms around him, needing him more than you’d ever dare to admit.

His fingers skim beneath the hem of your shirt but don’t push, just touch, warm and open-palmed against your waist, your ribs, your spine.

You let out a moan just from his touch.

He grins against your neck, the cocky bastard, but it’s laced with something deeper, that maddening adoration, the one you’re not ready to look too closely at.

“I’m going to make it better than you imagined,” he says. “I promise you that.”

His tank top clings to his toned muscles, black nail polish catching the light, and that eyebrow piercing, sharp and bold, reminds you exactly who he is. A fucking pornstar. And he owns every part of that.

He doesn’t even look away as he drags down your jeans and they hit the floor. His hands stay on your thighs, spreading them apart like it’s instinct. Confident. Unshakable. His thumbs brush over your inner skin, slow and unhurried, like he’s already memorizing what makes you squirm.

And you do, just a little. Just enough.

“God, you’re so damn easy to read,” he breathes, his fingers trace up, catching at the edge of your panties, not pulling, just letting the pressure build.

One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady. The other slips beneath the fabric, knuckles dragging slow and hot across your skin. His fingers slide through the slick mess between your legs, and he groans, low, appreciative, like he’s savoring it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough against your skin. “You’re soaked for me. This wet just from my voice, my mouth…” His words brush against your thigh like heat. But it’s his fingers that undo you, two of them buried deep, dragging slow, perfect pressure inside you, curling just right.

You try to hold back the sounds, but you can’t. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with him touching you like this.

“I want to know,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady, eyes locked on yours as his fingers work inside you, steady and relentless. “Which one did you watch?”

You hesitate, jaw tight, breath shaky. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, soft, slow, teasing.

“Was it one of the rough ones?” he continues, cocking his head.

You shake your head. Your voice barely escapes you, breathless and shame-warm. “It was… one of the solo ones.”

He stills for just a second. “Yeah?,” he breathes, pushing deeper, harder. “You watched me touch myself? Stroke my cock for the camera like I was thinking of someone like you?” He groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Was that it?”

His fingers slip out of you only long enough to hook into your panties, tugging them down in one smooth motion. He doesn’t rush it. He watches every inch of your skin as he reveals it, his eyes hot, hungry, reverent.

When they’re off, he drops them to the floor without a second thought, gaze trailing up the inside of your thighs like a promise.

“Tell me what you liked about it,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “That video. Tell me what made you soak your sheets. Was I dirty enough? Rough? Did you picture me fucking you slow, or fast and ruthless?”

You hesitate, but his mouth moves higher, a wet kiss just beside your center, and your hips twitch.

He smiles against your skin. “Come on. You watched me stroke my cock in that bed, didn’t you? The way I moaned, the way I whispered filthy shit to the camera like I knew someone like you was watching.” His tongue traces a line slowly up your thigh. “You fucking loved it.”

Your voice cracks. “You… looked so good. The way you touched yourself. Slow. Like you weren’t in a rush. Like you really felt it.”

He groans, soft and deep. “I did feel it, baby. I was thinking of a mouth like yours. Of a pussy just like this…” He leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You gasp, thighs jumping. “And now I get to taste you for real.”

He doesn’t wait.

His mouth is there, tongue dragging firm and slow over your clit like he’s claiming it, sucking it between his lips with a low growl that vibrates right through you.

You arch up, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the couch, already unraveling.

“Tell me more,” he murmurs against you. “What made you come?”

You can barely breathe. “When you-” Your hips jerk as he flicks his tongue again. “When you moaned. The way your eyes looked when you came. Like… like you needed it.”

He moans in response, mouth working deeper now, and slides two fingers into you again, curling them just right.

“Yeah? You like seeing me lose it?” he groans. “Wanna see it again, real and messy? Feel it instead of watching it?”

You nod, desperate, hips grinding against his mouth, chasing his tongue. He laughs softly, dark and full of heat. “You’re so fucking responsive. That’s my favorite kind of girl, one who can’t fake it, can’t hide it.”

His fingers work with unrelenting precision, pornstar skill, yes, but this is personal. Focused. For you.

He eats you like it’s his favorite meal. His mouth and fingers work in perfect rhythm, slow at first, then faster when your moans rise. He pulls you to the edge and keeps you there, not letting up, not letting go, until-

You shatter.

It rips through you like lightning, your moan breaking out loud and needy, hips bucking, thighs clenching around his head. He holds you through it, groaning into your pussy like your orgasm is everything he’s ever wanted.

You’re still trying to catch your breath, thighs trembling, body slack against the couch when he rises up from between your legs.

He looks wrecked, in the most beautiful way. Lips wet, hair mussed from your hands, chest rising and falling beneath that goddamn tank top that clings to him like a second skin. His eyes never leave yours, dark and full of something primal.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you, deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, making sure you feel how filthy he is. How much he wants more.

You kiss him back, instinctive now, desperate and starved, the lingering taste of yourself on his tongue only turning you on more.

He pulls back just enough to tug his tank top over his head and toss it aside. His body is ridiculous. Toned, cut, a living ad for sin.

He unbuttons his pants, unzips, and pulls them down, revealing hard thighs and that heavy bulge beneath his briefs. You can’t help the way your eyes lock there, at the thick outline of him, the part of him you’ve seen in clips, in curated fantasies, shadows of it from across a room, but never this close, never this real.

He smirks, catches your gaze. “Want to see what you touched yourself to?”

Your throat dries. You nod slowly.

He pushes his briefs down, cock springing free, thick, veined, flushed, already hard and leaking at the tip. Bigger than you remembered. Even more intimidating in person. Even more fucking perfect.

He wraps a hand around himself, stroking once, slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“This what you watched?” he murmurs. “Me in my bed, stroking it slow, saying your name without even knowing it?”

You nod again, breathless.

You stay right where you are, seated on the edge of the couch, looking up at him, and he looks fucking godlike. His cock is thick and hard, and he’s looking at you like he’s about to ruin you all over again.

You reach for him, wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, thick and warm and pulsing in your hand, and the sound he makes is low, choked, like he wasn’t expecting how good it would feel already. His head falls back for just a second as you stroke him, your thumb brushing over the bead of pre-cum at the tip.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of him, from base to tip, your tongue flat and teasing. His thighs flex, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I watched you do this,” you whisper, licking your lips. “In that solo video. In your bed. Your hand wrapped around your cock just like this.”

His thumb wipes the mess from your bottom lip, but there’s nothing gentle about it now. There’s a fire behind his eyes, hunger sharpened into something rough, possessive.

“Open,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You do.

He slides his cock back between your lips, his hand finds the back of your head, threading through your hair, not rough, but firm. Grounding.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, breath hitching. “Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. Just let me in.”

You focus on your breath. Inhale, exhale. You relax your jaw, tongue flat, letting him take up space, letting him show you how.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.”

This time, when he pushes deeper, it’s smoother. Less panic, more control. Your body adjusts. Your mouth opens wider for him, your throat yielding, and it feels good. Powerful, even.

He groans, deep in his chest. “You feel that? That little click when it goes in deeper? That’s your throat giving up. That’s perfect, sweetheart.”

You hum around him, and he shudders.

“God, look at you. Taking me so fucking well. You learn fast.”

His praise makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low. Your eyes flutter up to meet his, wet and wide, and the look on his face, awe, hunger, something almost reverent, makes you want to show off.

You press forward on your own this time, let him slip fully into your throat.

He hisses, hips jerking.

“Fuck. Good girl. That’s it-, fuck, that’s it.”

His free hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw, watching every twitch of your expression like it’s art. Like you’re art.

He’s fucking your face now.

Your nails dig into his thighs, eyes locked on his, and he can see it. The want. The ache. You need this. You need him. He pulls out slowly, finally, letting you gasp for air, spit trailing from your lip to his cock. Your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth red and swollen, and you’ve never felt more ruined, or more alive.

His hand stays on your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

You nod, breathing hard, voice wrecked. “More.”

That word? It’s all he needs.

He grips your jaw, your throat sore, spit clinging to your lips and chin. Your eyes are glassy, lashes wet, cheeks flushed from being fucked so deep, so hard, and he can’t take it.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, staring at you like he’s ready to devour you. “You don’t even know what you look like right now.”

Your lips part like you might try to answer, but he doesn’t let you. He hauls you to your feet with one firm pull, fingers still tangled in your hair, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not sweet.

It’s desperate.

He kisses you like he owns your breath, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like the filthy mess you’ve become under his hands only makes him hungrier.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb wipes at the trail of spit along your cheek, slow and deliberate.

Without a word, he turns and drops into the black armchair behind him, legs spread, cock flushed and heavy, glistening with your spit. His fingers curl in a come here motion as he leans back, one brow lifted.

“Come sit, sweetheart,” he says, voice like smoke and sin. “I want to see everything.”

You hesitate, just a second. Enough for his grin to deepen.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs. “You’ve already had me fuck your mouth. Be a good girl and let me fill you up.”

Your pulse stutters, but your body moves on instinct. You slide into his lap, thighs spread wide, and his hands are instantly on you, firm on your hips, anchoring you in place. He’s so fucking hard beneath you, the thick weight of him resting right where you need it.

“Look at you,” he says, gaze locked on yours. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you’re all mine right now.”

You shift slightly, the friction making you gasp, and his hands tighten.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice low, like a promise. “Right here. Just like this. I want to feel all of you.”

He’s a pornstar, yes. But right now, with you, he’s so much more, an expert, a predator, a lover who knows every move to make you unravel.

Your hands grip his shoulders, grounding yourself. His hands slide up your thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin near your hips before he reaches between you both and takes his cock in hand. He doesn’t rush, just rubs the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

“God, you’re soaked,” he groans. “You want me to fuck you, baby? Want me to fill that tight little pussy?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

He lines himself up and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch making your eyes flutter shut, your breath catch. He’s thick, hot, perfect, and when he’s fully seated inside you, the moan you let out is unfiltered, broken.

His head falls back against the chair, jaw clenched. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s how you take cock, baby. Just like that.”

You’re start bounce your hips, both of you breathless, sweat clinging to skin, when Seonghwa leans forward and fists the hem of your top.

“Off,” he growls against your neck, voice low and ragged. “I want to see all of you.”

He peels the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without breaking eye contact. His gaze drops to your bare chest, and for a moment, just a moment, he laughs, low and rich, like you're too unreal to fathom. His tongue flicks over your nipple and you arch into him, hands tangled in his hair.

His hand slides up to your throat, not tight, just there, possessive, grounding, as his other arm wraps around your back, pulling you in tighter. He kisses you again, tongue claiming yours, messy and hot and hungry.

Then he shifts, just slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies, his fingers curling around your hips.

“Here,” he says, voice low and firm. “Tilt forward a little. Right there, now roll your hips when I fuck into you. Not just up and down, roll. You’ll feel it hit deeper.”

You do as he says, and the second your hips adjust, your breath catches. Fuck. It’s like the angle unlocks something, you feel him right against that spot inside you, that sharp, aching pressure that steals the words from your mouth.

“Oh-, oh my god-”

“There you go,” he groans, watching your face twist. “That’s it. You feel that now?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, slow, rolling circles, grinding down as he thrusts up, every inch of him dragging right over that spot he told you to find.

His mouth finds your jaw, your ear. “Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” he breathes. “Smart girl. Feel how deep I am now? That’s all you. That’s you fucking yourself on my cock, just like I told you.”

You moan, loud and raw, body starting to tremble.

Suddenly, he shifts under you, standing in one fluid motion with your legs still wrapped around him, his arms securing you like you weigh nothing. You cling to him instinctively, arms around his neck, heart thudding like a war drum against your ribs.

He carries you through the dim hallway, but his eyes, his eyes are locked on you the whole way, like he doesn’t dare blink.

When he steps into the bedroom, it hits you.

The layout. The red lighting. The exact angle of the bed. The nightstand where the camera had been.

This is where he filmed it.

Your breath stutters, and he feels it. He knows.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. More like something darker. “You recognize it.”

Before you can even say anything, he throws you down on the mattress, already dragging your legs apart, standing by the edge, looking down at you like he owns the whole fucking room. Like he owns you.

“You watched me stroke my cock on this bed? Come right here?” he asks, glancing down at the sheets beneath you.

You nod slowly, breath shallow.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark with promise, “Let’s make it fair.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers spreading you open with no hesitation. His gaze flicks down, then back to your face, hungry.

And before you can ask what he means, he spits.

A slow, deliberate string lands between your legs, hitting right where you’re already dripping for him. He watches it drip, then reaches down to smear it in with two fingers, slow, messy circles that make your hips jerk.

He strokes himself lazily with his other hand, the head flushed and slick as he guides it up against your entrance again, but doesn’t push in.

“Now you’re getting the exclusive.” His smirk is wicked. “First-hand experience.”

And with no more warning, he pushes in, slow, deep, endless, his hips staying flush to yours as he lets you feel all of it. No rush. No mercy.

The stretch makes your spine arch, legs trembling where they dangle off the edge of the bed.

His hands grip your thighs, keeping you wide open, keeping you in place. His hips draw back just enough to make you whimper, then slam back in, harder this time.

You cry out, unfiltered, aching, and his mouth curves up. Another thrust, deeper. Your hands claw at the sheets.

“God-”

“No, baby.” His voice drops, taunting. “Say it right.”

You meet his eyes, panting. “Seonghwa.”

“Mmm,” he groans like it feeds him. “That’s better.”

You yelp, a high, broken sound, and he only grins, dragging your legs up to rest over his shoulders without warning.

“Fuck, look at you,” he pants, the shift angling him deeper, harder, like he’s trying to reach the part of you no one else has ever touched. His hips pound into you in a relentless rhythm, practiced, ruthless, like every stroke is calculated to make your body obey him.

“Fuck-, Seonghwa-”

“Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this. Bet no one’s ever earned it like I have.”

You shake your head, breathless. “N-No-, never-”

Seonghwa keeps his grip locked around your thighs, holding your legs over his shoulders, your body folded perfectly for him. His thrusts stay deep and steady, measured, intentional, devastating.

“Please-, please don’t stop-” you gasp, nails digging into the sheets. “You feel so good-, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he hisses, thrusting harder now. “You’re gonna take all of it, sweetheart. You’re gonna come again with me standing right here, fucking you like no one ever has.”

The bed creaks beneath you. His grip is bruising now, one hand sliding to your waist to hold you still as he picks up speed, hips slapping against you with ruthless precision.

Your body’s not just close, it’s on the edge, tipping over.

“Good girl,” he murmurs darkly. “Now cum on this cock. Let me feel it. Let me fucking have it.”

Your back arches, your body convulsing as you fall apart again, crying out his name like it’s the only word you know. Your walls clamp down around him, wet and tight and perfect, and he groans deep from his chest, like your pleasure physically wrecks him.

He doesn't slow. Doesn't stop.

"Where do you want it, baby?" he pants, voice low, urgent, dangerous. "Tell me where I can come."

You barely manage to speak, voice wrecked and raw with need. “Inside,” you breathe. “Please-, want it in me.”

His eyes flare. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck,” he snarls, grip tightening on your thighs as he buries himself to the hilt, hard and deep. His pace turns brutal, hips snapping forward with mindless hunger. “You want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you full like a good girl?”

“Yes-, yes, Seonghwa-, please, give it to me-”

He lets out a desperate, broken sound, then his whole body seizes, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills everything, hot and thick and endless, painting your walls with every last drop. His head hangs forward, jaw clenched, muscles flexed with the effort of holding himself up.

He stays inside for a beat. Just breathing.

Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, still watching you, and watches as his cum spills out of you, slow and messy, dribbling down your skin and pooling on the sheets beneath.

His fingers drift to your inner thigh, spreading you wider, watching more of it leak from your swollen entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

Then, without hesitation, his fingers press inside you again, pushing gently but firmly to shove back every last drop he can.

“Can’t let any of this go to waste,” he growls, possessive and rough.

You shiver at how desperate and controlling he sounds, but beneath that rough edge, there’s a strange reverence in his touch, like he’s worshipping the mark he’s left on you.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, coated with his warmth, and lifts them to your lips, eyes never leaving your flushed, gasping face. You open for him, trembling, sucking his fingers wet and slow, tasting both of you on his fingers. He watches with that smug, greedy smile, like he’s already claiming you completely.

He leans down, lips pressing against yours in a slow, soft kiss that melts away the sharp edges of the moment. His hands cup your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing gentle circles as if grounding you back to the here and now.

He stands up, flexing his shoulders, and walks over to the mini fridge near the dressing table. You hear the familiar click-hiss of a water bottle cap twisting.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from everything, “take your time. No rush.”

He walks back to you, places the bottle into your hand, and taps your fingers lightly until you hold it.

“Drink,” he says. “You’ll thank me in twenty minutes.”

You take it, but your fingers are still trembling. Whether from the rush or the way he’s looking at you now, you can’t quite tell.

“Dizzy?” he asks, settling onto the bed next to you. Not touching, just close enough that his warmth bleeds into your skin.

“A little,” you admit.

“That happens,” he says, voice lower now, gentler. “You came hard, probably held your breath. Let your body level out. You’ll be okay. I’m right here.” He reaches up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his eyes warm and steady.

There’s a pause. You take a sip of water.

“I didn’t expect you to be so...” You search for the word, then settle on it. “Attentive.”

He raises a brow, something amused flickering in his eyes. “You thought I just fuck and leave?”

“No. I just...” You shrug. “Didn’t think the guy who made that video would also bring me water. Be so soft after.”

“It’s not softness. It’s responsibility.” He smiles, a small, tender curve of his mouth that reaches his eyes. “I’m not just the guy in the video, you know. I don’t just show up, take what I want, and disappear.” His voice is steady, warm.

“They don't show this part in the videos. I thought it was different,” you whisper.

He shakes his head gently, as if it’s the simplest truth. “It’s not about being different. It’s about respect. About care. You deserve that."

He leans forward, brushing your hair off your forehead with a gentle touch, like he can’t stop touching you.

“And besides,” he adds, his voice dipping again, “you didn’t just watch the video. You liked it.” His thumb lingers at your temple. “You deserve to be taken care of after finally getting what you wanted.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

As you sip you water again, he grabs a towel from the dresser, and gently parts your legs again. His touch is slower now, deliberate, but no less confident. He wipes you down with care, checking your reaction with every motion, watching for discomfort.

He catches your gaze once, smirking at whatever expression you’re making. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, teasing. “You’re the one who wanted it inside.”

You let out a weak sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

His fingers press a little more firmly at your thigh, not sexual, just grounding. “Still with me?”

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to place a kiss just above your knee. Then another on your hip. Then your stomach. Not tender, possessive. A little filthy, like a promise that he could do it all over again if you weren’t trembling already.

He pulls the blanket up, not too high, just enough to cover the heat cooling on your skin. He settles beside you, moving slowly like he’s careful not to jostle you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you in gently, not possessive, not demanding. Just there. Anchoring. And the moment you let your head rest against his chest, he exhales like he’s been waiting for you to do that.

His fingers wander lightly over your skin, warm and steady, drawing lazy circles against your hipbone, then trailing up the line of your side. Over and over, same rhythm. Like he’s reminding your body that it’s safe now. That he’s still here.

You’re still flushed, still a little dazed, but he watches you like he’s tracking every breath. Not because he’s worried, but because he knows exactly what this moment means. This part. The calm after the wreckage.

“You okay?” he asks, tone softer now. Not teasing.

You nod, your cheek pressed to his chest. “Mhm. More than okay.”

He hums, pleased. “Didn’t expect you to let go like that,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your shoulder without thinking. “You surprise me.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is.” His mouth quirks at the edge, and he kisses the same spot again, just because he can. “You were good. So fucking good.”

You glance up at him, the daze still clinging to your lashes. Then, after a long beat, he smirks, voice dipping again into that familiar cocky charm.

“Responsive. Loud. The camera would love you.”

“Don’t get ideas,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, eyes closed now.

“Too late.”

And before you can roll your eyes or protest, he leans in again, presses a final kiss to your bare shoulder, and settles back, satisfied, smug, and still entirely himself.

***

Monday morning light filters softly through your window as you sit at your desk, fingers poised above the keyboard. The weekend had slipped away in a blur, days spent pouring over notes, replaying moments, shaping words into something honest.

Your column isn’t about the headlines, the shock factor, or the rumors swirling around Park Seonghwa. It’s about the man beneath the surface, the one who’s more than just a pornstar or a carefully crafted persona.

You write about his quiet moments, the way he listens, how he’s sharp and cocky but never cruel. You describe how his confidence is real, born from years of experience and knowing exactly who he is, not just the image he projects.

There’s a paragraph about his past struggles, how he battled his own demons, found sobriety, and reclaimed control over his life, a story of resilience rarely told in the industry he dominates.

You reflect on the subtle ways he cares, the small, almost invisible acts of kindness and attention he offers to those around him. How his cocky charm is layered with vulnerability, even if he’s the first to hide it.

With a slow breath, you hit send. The column goes live.

You feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation, this is more than just a story. It’s a reckoning, a quiet unveiling of someone you’ve come to know in ways no one else has.

The day passes at the office, and before you know it, it’s afternoon.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and push through the office doors, stepping into the late afternoon light. You start walking away from the building, the click of your heels echoing on the sidewalk. The buzz of the street pulls at you, but then, unexpectedly, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey.”

You stop and glance over your shoulder. There he is, Seonghwa, leaning casually against the brick wall a few steps away. Black tank top, black pants, eyebrow piercing catching the light, and that wicked, confident smirk you know so well.

You try to hide the quickening of your heart.

“Hey” You raise an eyebrow, trying not to react. “You following me now?”

He pushes off the wall with a lazy kind of grace, hands in his pockets as he strolls toward you. “Would you be mad if I said yes?”

“I’d be impressed you admitted it.”

He chuckles, stopping in front of you, close, but not too close. “I read your column.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your tone cool. “Oh? Didn’t peg you as the literary type.”

His voice drops, amused. “Let’s see…” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “‘Park Seonghwa is more than what meets the eye,’” he begins, voice low and teasing. “‘Behind the piercing gaze and confident smirk is a man who understands what it means to be seen, truly seen, beyond the surface.’” He looks up, smirk widening. “That almost sounded sincere.”

“I have my moments.”

His smirk deepens. “And here I thought you just tolerated me.” He scrolls a little more, then reads with a wicked grin, “‘And maybe, that’s what makes him not just the best in his field, but someone impossible to forget.’”. He looks up at you. “Now I know that wasn’t for the readers.”

You flush slightly but play it off. “Believe it or not, I write for an audience. Not for your ego.”

He leans in just a little closer, eyes glinting with amusement. “Guess I’m not as bad as you thought, huh?”

You shrug, fighting a smile. “Maybe.”

That’s when he moves.

Slow, like he knows exactly how to set you off. He steps in, close enough that you have to tilt your chin slightly to keep eye contact. One hand comes up, fingertips skimming along your jaw, then drifting down the side of your neck. Light. Barely there. But very, very intentional.

His voice drops, velvet-soft. “So tell me this…” His thumb brushes under your jaw, coaxing your chin up just a touch. “Who’d you really write it for?”

You meet his gaze, lips twitching. “My editor.”

That smirk of his sharpens. “Mm. Liar.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, lips hovering over yours. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if daring you to close the gap between you.

“Don’t think this is the end of the story, though. I like where this is headed,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with promise.

You don’t hesitate. Your confidence hums beneath your skin as you step forward, closing the last fraction of space. Your hand presses firmly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Leaning in, your lips brush just along the curve of his ear, a breathy, teasing whisper that drips with cocky challenge.

“Then keep up, pornstar.”

His breath catches, just for a second.

You pull back with a wicked smile, tapping his chest once before turning on your heel and strolling off like he didn’t just get flipped on his own script.

You don’t look back.

But you feel his stare, burning, amused, and turned on as hell.

And behind you, Seonghwa watches with a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glued to your retreating figure.

Yeah. The story’s just getting good.

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx @lveegsoi @vixensss @yizhou-time @imgenieforyou-boy @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @ateezswonderland @cozypaint @blutiny @aerangi @arigakittyo @femaholicc @queenofdumbfuckery @mingiatz @hwaskookies @vent-stink @desanslogique @taestrwbrry @hannahstacos @tinyteezer @gold--gucciempress @zhangyi-johee @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @yunhoswrldddd @beljakovina @soso59love-blog @trivia-134340 @skzfangirl143 @spicxbnny @h0rnyp0t @mingimangomu @no-nottoday @roguesthetic @hwas-star @tsuukamori @londonbridges01 @nayutalvr @purplelady85 @lover-ofallthingspretty @awkward-fucking-thing @luvbgy @thuyting @p1ecetinyzen @eumpappasmom @marsofeight @maidens-world @girlblogger-04 @renapersa @lol-imtrash2000 @melitadala @yoonglesbae @bby-boo4u @babymbbatinygirl @dalsuwaha @diekleinesuesse @beccaskz @les4heeseung @oddin4ry @manu2004 @mingimangomu @intowxnderland @chaotic-floral @toxicstrawberries @musicconversedance @insanityz @therealcuppicake @darkdayelixer @soobieboobiebaby @thevintagefangirl @fireseo @smileyishere92 @faerouzia @zerefdragn33l @lover-ofallthingspretty @yup-thats-me @trivia-134340 @mochi13 @mishtique-blog1 @desiatiny @hwaromi

#ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez x reader #ateez au #kpop fanfic #ateez smut #ateez #atz fanfic #ateez scenarios #kpop smut #ateez seonghwa #park seonghwa #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fic #atz smut #atz x reader #seonghwa

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sukumna · 2 months ago

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┌─ .✦ DOES INARIZAKI PREFER BRATS OR GOOD GIRLS?

best haikyuu team??? best haikyuu team 🙂‍↕️.

— OSAMU MIYA, loves a sweet, obedient good girl who listens, cooks with him, and blushes when praised. melts when you say “yes sir,” or follow instructions without hesitation. he loves to spoil you with soft touches and gentle dominance, but he’s firm when needed. the better you are, the more rewards you get. he makes you feel like his everything. “there ya go, sweetheart. knew you could listen.”

— SUNA RINTAROU, a quiet brat. the subtle eye rolls, smirks, and passive disobedience, he finds brats entertaining. the type to not react right away, but he’s definitely keeping score. you’ll pay for it later, you always do. he stores every little challenge away like ammo. later, when you least expect it, he’ll flip the switch and make you pay for every eye-roll. quiet, cold payback. “you done?”

— MIYA ATSUMU, a brat. only because he thrives off the chase. he loves the attitude, the teasing, the fight for control. the more you sass, the more he smirks. he’ll tease, edge, deny—make you earn your pleasure. The more you pout, the more he grins. loves turning you into a moaning mess. “oh? that mouth’s real loud for someone who’s gonna be beggin’ in five minutes.”

— KITA SHINSUKE, the most respectful, sweet good girl. he does not entertain brats. he’s calm, composed, and very traditional. he wants someone respectful, disciplined, and eager to serve—not challenge him. he’s all about structure. loves a girl who kneels without being told, keeps her eyes down, and takes his guidance seriously. his control is quiet but absolute—and he’s so soft when you obey. “If you can’t behave, you don’t deserve my hands on you.”

— ARAN OJIRO, a brat with a lot of sass. he’s chill. real laid-back. but a little attitude? he loves that. It makes things interesting. he’ll match your energy—laugh with you, banter—but the moment it crosses a line, his voice drops. his hand tightens. that grip turns punishing. he makes brats feel small, but safe. wrecked, but cherished. “you keep talkin’ like that, baby, and I’m gonna have to remind you who you belong to.”

#sukumna.#atsumu x reader #atsumu smut #osamu x reader #suna x reader #osamu smut #suna smut #suna x you #kita x reader #kita smut #aran x reader #aran smut

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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 11: December 2023

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, discussion of allergies.

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

EXCLUSIVE: MAX VERSTAPPEN ON LEGACY, LOVE, AND LIFE BEYOND THE TRACK

Max Verstappen has nothing left to prove. At just 26, the Dutch driver has secured his third consecutive Formula 1 World Championship, cementing his place among the sport’s greats. A record-breaking season. The most dominant year of his career.

Sitting down with us in the aftermath of his 2023 season, Verstappen is more reflective than ever—about racing, his future, and, unexpectedly, love.

“I’m just really happy with where I am,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a rare, easy smile. “It’s been an incredible year, not just on the track but personally too.”

For a driver known for his laser focus and relentless pursuit of perfection, the mention of his personal life is intriguing. Verstappen has always been fiercely private, but for the first time, he opens up—just a little—about the woman who has been by his side through it all.

“She’s been amazing,” he says with a rare softness. “Just always there, supporting me. It makes a difference, having that stability, someone who understands what this life is like but also makes it feel normal. Racing is intense, it takes so much out of you, and having someone who understands that, who knows when to push and when to just be there… it makes a difference.”

There’s a softness in his voice that is unexpected, a rare glimpse into a side of Verstappen few get to see. While he doesn’t reveal her name, it’s clear she holds a special place in his life.

“I’ve been learning French,” he reveals, smiling. “It’s… a work in progress. But I hear it a lot at home now, so I’m trying. I think it’s important to make an effort, to meet someone halfway.”

The mention of home is deliberate—he’s no longer just passing through Monaco, but truly settling in. For a driver who once lived and breathed racing with little room for anything else, that shift is telling.

And when asked about his future outside of F1, his answer is telling: “Marriage with her? Yes, definitely,” he said with the certainty of a man who knows exactly what he wants. “One day, I want a family. I want kids. I think that’s something really special.”

Still, don’t mistake contentment for complacency. If anything, Verstappen seems more driven than ever. “I love what I do,” he says simply. “And I love coming home after, too.”

As Verstappen looks ahead to 2024, his goals remain the same: keep winning, keep pushing, keep proving that his dominance is no accident. But for the first time, it seems like he’s racing toward something more than just trophies. And perhaps, that’s what truly makes a champion.

Comments:

@/F1Obsessed: MAX VERSTAPPEN. LEARNING FRENCH. FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND. WE HAVE WON.

@/RedBullRacingUpdates: “I hear it a lot at home now” HOLD ON. HOME?????? HE LIVES WITH HER?????

@/MonacoGossip: So Max has a girlfriend. He’s learning French. He hears it a lot at home. CONCLUSIONS ARE BEING DRAWN.

@/PitLanePrincess: No bc WHO is she. WHO is this woman who has Max Verstappen learning a whole new language.

@/SoftMaxxie: “She makes it feel normal” I’M SORRY BUT THAT’S SO CUTE I NEED A MOMENT

@DR3Stan: Max is really out here being domesticated and thriving.

@/CharlesFanatic: French. Girlfriend. Monaco apartment. squints at every French-speaking woman in the paddock

@/TheGridTea: The way he just casually dropped that he’s LEARNING FRENCH for her like that’s a normal thing. Max, sir, you are in love.

@/CheckeredHeart: Not me downloading Duolingo because if Max Verstappen can learn French for love, so can I.

@/OversteerQueen: The fact that he didn’t even realize he was basically confirming he lives with her… Max, babe, you’re so in love.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: I need to go through Max’s entire Instagram with a fine-tooth comb IMMEDIATELY. There must be something.

@/F1Troll: Duolingo about to see a spike in Dutch users trying to figure out what Max is learning.

@/DR3Honeybadger: “I hear it a lot at home” SO YOU’RE SAYING HE GOES HOME TO HER. MAX VERSTAPPEN GOES HOME TO HIS GIRLFRIEND.

@/BoxBoxBox: Max Verstappen being all “oh yeah, my girlfriend this, my girlfriend that” like we KNOW who she is. SIR, WHO??

@/FormulaHeartbreak: I thought I was prepared for soft domestic Max but I WAS NOT.

@/TifosiDrama: Charles Leclerc’s face when he realizes his biggest rival is learning his language for his mystery girlfriend.

@/SidepodShenanigans: Forget the championship, I need an in-depth investigation into WHO this woman is and how she has Max Verstappen willingly studying.

@/ChecoFan88: We’re never getting her identity confirmed, are we? Max is just going to keep saying “my girlfriend” like it’s a classified government secret.

@/F1Obsessed: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID “MARRIAGE WITH HER? YES, DEFINITELY.” HELLO??? WHO IS SHE???

@/LandoNorrisFanclub: I need someone to look at me the way Max Verstappen looks at his mystery girlfriend that none of us have ever seen.

@/GridGossip: Max Verstappen, the man who once said all he needed was sim racing and his cats, is out here talking about marriage and kids. Character development.

@/Formula1Fanatic: Max in 2021: “I don’t need friends, I have sim racing.” Max in 2023: “I want kids, a home, and a life beyond the paddock.” What did this woman DO TO HIM???

@LightsOutMax: This man used to refuse to even acknowledge personal questions and now he’s out here basically writing wedding vows. Love really changes people.

@/PaddockPrincess: If Max Verstappen, king of emotional repression, is out here openly talking about love and marriage… yeah, she’s the one.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Spotted: Pretty sure I just saw Isabelle Leclerc buying baby clothes…??? Is there a Leclerc niece/nephew we don’t know about? 👀

@/F1Updates: oh we’re COOKING today. someone get the conspiracy board out. it’s time.

@/ItsAboutDrive: Charles is gonna be an uncle????? 🍼

@/mclarenny: Wait wait wait Isabelle has a boyfriend??? Did i miss a chapter???

@/verstappensupremacy: me, knowing damn well who her boyfriend is, sipping my tea calmly 😌🍵

@/gridgossip: LECLERC BABY ERA INCOMING??? ISABELLE WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US RIGHT BEFORE THE WINTER BREAK

@/f1blonde: If Isabelle Leclerc is pregnant and we don't even know who the dad is, i'm going to personally storm the monaco royal palace

@/f1insiderz: to be clear: no confirmation of anything, she was spotted in a boutique, could be a gift, could be for someone else, could be NOTHING (we’re still gonna lose our minds though)

@/chequeredflag: me trying to stay calm: it’s probably just a present also me: ISABELLE LECLERC BABY ERA CONFIRMED 😭

@/charlesincrisis: charles: what a peaceful day

twitter: ur sister might be pregnant

charles: 🧍🏻‍♂️

@/reasonableracer: guys: take a breath. Victoria Verstappen is literally pregnant. And CHRISTMAS IS IN 24 DAYS. Maybe Isabelle is just buying baby clothes for HER FRIEND’S BABY.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHY ISABELLE WAS JUST SPOTTED BUYING BABY CLOTHES??

Charles: WHAT???

Arthur: LOOK AT THIS. [attaches screenshot of a Twitter post: “Pretty sure I just saw Isabelle Leclerc buying baby clothes…??? Is there a Leclerc niece/nephew we don’t know about? 👀”]

Lorenzo: Isabelle. Tell me this is a joke.

Isabelle: Calm down. It’s not a big deal.

Arthur: NOT A BIG DEAL??? WHY ARE YOU BUYING BABY CLOTHES???

Isabelle: Because they’re cute??

Charles: …What?

Lorenzo: Isabelle, that’s not an answer.

Isabelle: I just like them, okay?

Charles: Wait. Is there something you need to tell us?

Arthur: OH MY GOD. ARE YOU PREGNANT?

Isabelle: No.

Arthur: Then WHY are you buying baby clothes??

Isabelle: First of all, a friend of mine is pregnant, so I bought some as a gift. Secondly, I like baby clothes! I have a whole box of them at home!

Charles: A WHOLE BOX???

Arthur: ISABELLE. THAT MAKES IT WORSE.

Lorenzo: WHY DO YOU HAVE A BOX OF BABY CLOTHES WITH NO BABY??

Isabelle: Because I’ve been collecting them for years!

Charles: …Years??

Arthur: But… for what?

Isabelle: For when I have a baby one day??

Lorenzo: One day?? Isabelle, you don’t even have a boyfriend.

Charles: Yeah. Who exactly are you planning this baby with?

Isabelle: Excuse me??

Arthur: I mean… it’s a little weird, right? Collecting baby clothes for years when there’s no sign of a baby happening anytime soon?

Charles: It’s just… I don’t know, kind of pointless?

Isabelle: Wow. Okay.

Arthur: We’re just saying—

Isabelle: No, I get it. It’s weird because I have them. If someone else did, it’d be sweet. But because it’s me, it’s just sad and pathetic, right?

Lorenzo: We didn’t say that.

Isabelle: You didn’t have to.

Arthur: Come on, don’t be like that.

Isabelle: No, really. It’s fine. I’ll make sure to run all my future life choices by you three first so I don’t embarrass the Leclerc name.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: So… my brothers are currently having an absolute meltdown.

Emilie: What did you do? Actually, wait—what do they think you did?

Isabelle: Oh, nothing major. Just bought some baby clothes.

Emilie: …Are you pregnant?

Isabelle: NO!

Emilie: Okay, just checking! So why are they freaking out?

Isabelle: Because I told them I have a box of baby clothes at home, and now they think I’m insane.

Emilie: Pffft. That’s not insane. That’s just you.

Isabelle: THANK YOU.

Emilie: Seriously, I don’t know why they’re acting so shocked. You were the girl who had a wedding binder at thirteen and a full baby name list by fifteen.

Isabelle: It was color-coded.

Emilie: Of course it was. Because you plan ahead. It’s not weird—it’s just you being Belle.

Isabelle: It’s just a small box of things I’ve collected over the years…

Emilie: Honestly, I don’t get why they’re so weird about it. Like, I don’t want kids, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s strange that you do.

Isabelle: You don’t?

Emilie: I will personally never deal with sticky fingers or 3 AM crying, but you? You’re gonna be an amazing mom one day. And when that happens, I will spoil your kids rotten.

Isabelle: You’re the best.

Emilie: I know. Now, do you need me to help you pick out more baby clothes? Because I will fully commit to this.

Isabelle: I might have seen a few more things today that were cute.

Emilie: I’m in.

***

Instagram Story: @/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Updates: LMAO, not pregnant, just buying Christmas presents for literally anyone with a baby. I can’t.

@/ItsAboutDrive: Sadly Charles is not gonna be an uncle 😭 Isabelle literally went on to Instagram to shut down these rumours

@/mclarenny: It’s honestly insane that we need a full IG story to clear up the rumors. Just let her buy a few baby clothes in peace…

@/verstappensupremacy: The fact she had to make that statement is just... wild. Why do we live in a world where women can't even buy baby clothes without everyone assuming they’re pregnant?

@/leclercslens: Honestly, it’s not even funny. If she was pregnant, it’s her news to share, and people jumping to conclusions is gross. Let her live her life!

@/gridgossip: LECLERC BABY ERA INCOMING??? ISABELLE WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US RIGHT BEFORE THE WINTER BREAK

@/f1blonde: If Isabelle Leclerc is pregnant and we don't even know who the dad is, i'm going to personally storm the monaco royal palace

@/chequeredflag: Imagine buying a gift for a baby and then having to do a whole Instagram story just because people have assumptions😭

***

The winter sun slanted low through the living room windows, casting golden stripes across the hardwood floors.

Isabelle sat cross-legged on the carpet, the lid of the old storage box propped up against the coffee table.

Inside: soft cotton onesies, tiny knitted booties, delicate little cardigans wrapped in tissue paper.

A tiny quilt she had picked up at a market in Paris three years ago, too lovely to leave behind.

She hadn’t meant to pull it all out today.

It had just... happened.

Maybe because the fight with her brothers was still lingering under her skin, the words they hadn’t said loud enough to name — weird, sad, pathetic — scratching at her confidence like sandpaper.

Isabelle carefully unfolded a tiny pair of socks, brushing her thumb lightly over the soft fabric.

She hadn’t even heard the door open.

"Hey," Max’s voice came, warm and familiar from behind her. "You’re back early."

She turned, startled — and froze.

Max stood just inside the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair tousled, still a little flushed from training.

His eyes dropped to the scene in front of her. The open box. The tiny clothes.

Isabelle’s stomach twisted painfully.

"I—" she stammered, already rushing to shove the lid back on, to stuff the pieces away. "It’s nothing. I was just... cleaning. I should put this away."

But before she could, Max was there, crouching down beside her, one hand gently catching her wrist.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "You don’t have to hide it."

She looked at him helplessly, the shame still hot and heavy in her chest. "I know it’s weird," she muttered. "You don’t have to pretend."

Max just shook his head, slow and certain.

"It’s not weird," he said simply. "It’s you."

He reached into the box without hesitation, pulling out a tiny, soft grey onesie embroidered with a little fox.

He smiled — a small, real smile that made her chest ache.

"This is adorable," he said, running his thumb lightly over the fabric. "You’ve had all this ready. Just waiting."

Isabelle swallowed hard. "It’s stupid," she whispered. "I don’t even know if—when—"

Max set the onesie carefully on her knee, and took her face in his hands.

"You’re going to be an incredible mother someday," he said, steady and sure, like it was a fact written in the stars. "And it’s not stupid to dream about it."

Tears stung behind her eyes, burning hot and fast.

"I’m not in a rush," she said quickly, panicked, because the last thing she wanted was for him to feel trapped. "I’m not—this isn’t pressure, I swear—"

Max’s thumb brushed under her eye, catching the first tear before it could fall.

"I know," he said. "I know you’re not rushing. And I’m not scared."

He smiled again — small, crooked, devastating. "I want that with you. One day. When you’re ready. When we’re ready."

Isabelle let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch.

Max kissed her forehead, lingering there for a long moment, like he could press all his promises into her skin.

“I hope they have your heart,” he murmured.

“I hope they have your eyes,” Isabelle whispered, half-laughing through the emotion that suddenly welled up in her chest.

They stood there for a long moment — Max with his arm around her, Isabelle resting against his shoulder, the box of tiny dreams between them.

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel silly for hoping.

Didn’t feel foolish for wanting.

She just felt… safe.

Held.

Seen.

***

The meeting was supposed to be quick.

Just a light debrief before the holidays — finalize a few schedules, exchange terrible Secret Santa gifts, maybe sneak out early and pretend they were already on break.

It wasn’t supposed to turn into... whatever this was.

GP, casually flipping through his notes, glanced at Max and said, "You sorted your Christmas break yet, mate?"

Max shrugged. "Mostly."

Then, without warning, he pulled a folder from his backpack and slid it across the table like it was nothing.

"Also, this is for you."

GP raised an eyebrow, visibly suspicious. "What's this?"

Max leaned back lazily, arms stretched over the chair next to him. "Kitchen plans," he said. "Merry Christmas."

Checo, half-listening at first, glanced up. Kitchen plans?

GP cracked open the folder, frowning. Max was utterly relaxed, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

"Belle helped draw it up. Should make it easier," Max added, casual as anything.

Checo’s brain stalled on one word.

Belle.

Belle?

Across the table, Checo slowly straightened, feeling a weird knot twist in his chest.

Surely Max didn’t mean—

No.

No way.

"Belle," Checo repeated carefully, watching Max’s face.

Max nodded once, calm and easy. "Yeah."

Checo looked at the folder again.

Then at Max.

Then back at the folder.

Slow horror dawned in the pit of his stomach.

"Belle like..." Checo said, the words dragging themselves out against his will, "Isabelle Leclerc?"

Max’s answering nod was small but smug. Proud, even.

"Yeah."

Checo stared at him.

Dead silent.

The realization hitting him like a slow-motion car crash.

"You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s little sister," Checo said aloud, more for his own sanity than anyone else's.

Not a question. A statement. A grim acknowledgment.

Max’s smirk widened, barely restrained.

"Yes," he said again, almost cheerfully.

Checo just sat there for a long moment, frozen in place, wondering at what point in life he had taken the wrong turn that led him to this exact situation.

Charles was going to kill him just for knowing this information.

Max might survive because Max was Max. But Checo? Checo had a family to think about.

He valued peace. He valued survival.

Very, very carefully, Checo set his coffee down.

"You know what?" he said, pushing his chair back with slow, deliberate movements. "I don't want to know more."

Max tilted his head, amused. "You sure?"

"Completely sure," Checo said firmly, standing up like he needed physical distance from the absolute disaster this could become. "I value my life. I value my continued existence. I don’t want to be an accessory to whatever crime scene this turns into."

Max just chuckled under his breath, spinning his pen between his fingers like the smug bastard he was.

Meanwhile, GP was still utterly oblivious, flipping through the kitchen plans like he’d been handed the Holy Grail.

"This is under budget," GP muttered, awed. "How the hell—?"

"She’s good at what she does," Max said simply, stealing a sip of his Red Bull like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.

Checo rubbed a hand over his face.

He needed a drink.

Maybe several.

"You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s little sister," he muttered again, mostly to himself. "And now she’s designing kitchens for your engineer. I’m just... I’m going to mind my own business. Completely. Forever."

Max gave him a bright, insufferable thumbs-up.

"Happy holidays," Checo muttered darkly, clutching his coffee like it might save him from the nightmare he was now complicit in. He turned and walked straight out of the meeting room, not daring to look back.

Some things, he decided grimly, were above his pay grade.

Max Verstappen dating a Leclerc was absolutely one of them.

He didn’t want to know more.

He didn’t want to witness more.

And if anyone asked later, Checo would simply say he had no idea, no involvement, no memory of any of it.

Survival first.

Questions never.

***

The kitchen was filled with the soft clatter of dishes and the hum of the coffee machine.

Belle leaned against the counter, scrolling absently through emails on her phone, half-listening to the quiet patter of the cats chasing each other down the hallway.

She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do next.

Quitting had been the right choice — she didn’t doubt that. But for the first time in years, she felt... unmoored.

No title to hide behind.

No company name to make herself sound important.

Just her.

Her phone buzzed, startling her slightly.

Unknown number.

Frowning, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Isabelle Leclerc?"

The voice was vaguely familiar. Polished. Professional.

"This is Daniel Moreau — you worked with us last year on the Chevalier renovation in Beaulieu?"

Her heart lifted in instant recognition. The Moreau project — one of the few she’d truly loved. A quiet, modern transformation of a historic villa. One where the client had listened. Trusted her.

"Yes, of course," Isabelle said, straightening.

"I hope I’m not interrupting," Daniel said warmly. "I just... I was hoping to get in touch with you directly."

Isabelle blinked. "With me?"

"Yes. I know you were working with Atelier Renard before, but I heard you’ve gone independent?"

She hesitated.

Independent.

Was that what she was now?

"I—" She cleared her throat. "Yes. I’m no longer with them."

"Good," he said, without missing a beat. "Because between you and me, I wasn’t impressed with the rest of their work. You were the reason we kept moving forward…Frankly, we want to work with you. Not the firm. You were the reason the project went so smoothly last time."

Isabelle felt something flicker in her chest — a cautious, disbelieving warmth.

"We’ve bought another property," Daniel continued. "Another historic site. Needs sensitive handling. We were hoping you might be willing to take it on."

Her heart was hammering now.

They wanted her.

Not the company behind her name.

Not the brand.

Her.

"I—I'd love to hear more," she said, keeping her voice steady somehow.

They talked for a few minutes — broad sketches of timelines, budgets, expectations. Nothing binding yet. But real. Solid. Tangible.

When she finally hung up, she stood there for a long moment, the silence of the apartment pressing in around her.

And then it hit her.

She could do this.

Freelancing wasn’t just a fantasy.

It wasn’t some reckless, impossible dream.

She had clients who trusted her.

She had projects she could be proud of.

She didn’t have to disappear into someone else’s firm again.

She could build something of her own.

The realization settled into her bones, slow and sure and so much bigger than she'd expected.

From down the hall, she heard the cats yowl — something crashing into a wall — and a muttered curse from Max, who was apparently trying (and failing) to play referee.

Isabelle laughed under her breath, feeling something unfurl inside her she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Real, solid hope.

Maybe she didn’t need a title to be important.

Maybe she just needed to bet on herself — finally, properly — and not be afraid of being seen.

***

Max wandered out of the hallway, barefoot, hair still damp from a quick shower after wrestling two hyperactive cats off the curtains. He found Isabelle standing by the kitchen counter, barefoot too, scrolling through her phone with that look he knew well — half-distracted, half-scheming.

She looked up when she heard him.

And immediately, he knew.

Something had shifted.

Something good.

He crossed the room lazily, leaned one hip against the counter, and stole a sip of her coffee before she could swat him away.

"Alright?" he asked, pretending to be casual.

Isabelle bit her lip — that tiny, telltale smile she couldn't hide when she was excited.

"I got a call," she said.

Max tilted his head, setting down the cup. "Yeah?"

"Daniel Moreau. From the Chevalier project,” she said, voice careful, like she was still half-afraid to jinx it. "You know — the villa renovation project I did this year?"

Max frowned, sorting through his mental archive — and then remembered.

The client she’d actually liked. The one who sent her a handwritten thank you note. The one she had called reasonable, which for Belle was practically sainthood.

She’d talked about that project differently. Like it had meant something.

"He wants me to take on a new property," she said, almost breathless. "Not with the firm. With me. Freelance."

Max’s chest tightened in a way he hadn’t expected.

Pride.

He grinned, wide and stupid, and grabbed her by the waist, lifting her off the ground for half a second before she squealed and shoved at his shoulders.

"Max!" she laughed, breathless.

He set her down carefully, brushing her hair out of her face.

"You’re a menace," she accused, cheeks pink, smiling anyway.

He just smirked. "And you’re brilliant."

Isabelle ducked her head, embarrassed, but Max didn’t let go. He never would.

"You’re doing it," he said, quieter now. "On your own."

She nodded, biting her lip again.

"It feels... real. Like maybe I can actually do it."

Max dropped a kiss on her forehead, easy and sure. "You’re going to be brilliant, schatje. You always were."

Then, grinning wickedly, he added, "Although I guess this means you’re quitting your career as my trophy wife after, what, three weeks?"

Isabelle snorted. "You’re the one who said I should be a trophy wife while I figured things out."

"You were terrible at it," Max teased. "No gold digger instincts. No dramatic shopping sprees. You kept refusing to use the black card."

"I bought the cats toys," she said defensively.

"For like two hundred euros," Max deadpanned. "Pathetic effort."

Isabelle laughed properly then, tipping forward to rest her forehead against his chest.

Max wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

"You’re the worst trophy wife," he said affectionately. "But you’re the best everything else."

She hummed quietly against him, the kind of sound that always made something in him settle.

And just like that — without even thinking about it — a plan started forming in his head.

"You’re going to need space," he said, thoughtful.

Belle blinked. "Space?"

"A proper office," Max said casually, already picturing it. "One of the guest bedrooms. We’ll clear it out this week. Desk, shelving, everything you want. Set it up properly."

She stared at him, stunned.

"You—you don’t have to—"

He cut her off with a soft snort. "You're not freelancing from the kitchen table, Belle. You're not hiding your work anymore."

She bit her lip, eyes shining.

"You’re building something," Max said, voice low and certain. "And you’re doing it here. With me."

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: EMILIE

Emilie: Oh god. What did the cats destroy?

Emilie: Is Max in jail for killing your brothers? Do I need bail money?

Isabelle: No?? Not this time

Isabelle: This is GOOD news!

Emilie: 👀 I’m listening

Isabelle: Do you remember the Chevalier project??

Isabelle: The villa in Beaulieu with the modern restoration?

Isabelle: The client I actually liked??

Emilie: omg yes

Emilie: The miracle project.

Emilie: The one with the client who sent you a thank-you basket instead of screaming about grout.

Isabelle: YES

Isabelle: He called me.

Emilie: Wait what??

Isabelle: He called me directly. Me. not the firm.

Isabelle: He and his husband bought another property

Isabelle: A historic one and they want me to lead it

Isabelle: me-me

Isabelle: not me-through-someone-else

Isabelle: not “representing a firm”

Isabelle: just me

Isabelle: freelance

Emilie: OH MY GOD BELLE

Emilie: HOLY SHIT

Emilie: YOU’RE DOING IT

Isabelle: I think I am??

Isabelle: I think I actually am 😭

Emilie: I’m so proud I could throw up

Isabelle: thank you

Isabelle: I literally hung up the phone and just stood in the kitchen like. blinking. processing.

Isabelle: Max is already planning to convert a guest room into an office

Isabelle: he was like “you’re not freelancing from the kitchen table, Belle”

Isabelle: like it wasn’t even a question

Isabelle: I think I almost cried??

Emilie: you deserve every bit of this

Emilie: the job

Emilie: the space

Emilie: the love

Isabelle: 😭😭😭

Emilie: now

Emilie: send me photos of this imaginary office

Emilie: we're making mood boards

Emilie: this is not a drill

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Belle, you’re getting the gifts sorted, right?

Arthur: And can you find a tree?

Arthur: The one last year was kinda sad.

Charles: Maybe get the ornaments too?

Charles: Some of them broke last year when Arthur dropped the box.

Arthur: NOT MY FAULT

Charles: Was totally your fault.

Arthur: Ok but Belle dropped it first and I just caught it badly.

Arthur: Not 100% my fault.

Isabelle: I can get a tree.

Isabelle: But I thought we were all doing gifts separately this year?

Lorenzo: It’s easier if you just coordinate it.

Charles: Yeah like last year.

Arthur: You have the spreadsheets.

Charles: Exactly.

Lorenzo: I’ll send you money for my part.

Arthur: Same ***

Max knew Isabelle liked things to be done properly.

He just hadn’t realized how much of Christmas rested entirely on her shoulders—until he saw it for himself.

He leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching as she moved through the room in a practiced, exhausted sort of rhythm. No music playing, no humming, no bright Christmas energy — just quiet determination.

The dining table was buried under piles of wrapping paper, tissue, and scotch tape.

The counters were cluttered with cookie tins she had baked and labeled herself— and he knew she had stayed up until two in the morning last night finishing them.

"Belle," Max said quietly. "When was the last time you sat down?"

She didn’t answer right away, too busy fiddling with the tags on a stack of presents. Her movements were brisk, mechanical, like she was running on autopilot.

"I’m almost done," she mumbled.

Max pushed off the doorframe, crossing the room to her. "That's not what I asked."

Isabelle finally looked up at him, and he caught it then — the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged under the weight of it all.

"I have to finish," she said, voice soft but firm. "There’s still the place settings for dinner, and I have to make sure the boys’ gifts are packed up, and if I don’t do the grocery shopping today, no one will—"

She cut herself off with a frustrated little breath, pressing her fingers to her temple.

Max felt something sharp and angry twist in his chest — but not at her.

At them.

At the way her family didn’t even seem to notice how much she did. How much she gave.

"Why does it all fall on you?" he asked, gentler now.

Isabelle shrugged. A small, defeated motion.

"Because if I don’t do it," she whispered, "nobody will."

And Max realized, all at once, that Christmas wasn’t a magical time for Isabelle.

It was work. It was duty. It was trying to make sure everyone else felt special, even if it meant breaking herself in the process.

He reached out and tugged the ribbon from her hands, letting it drop onto the table.

"Enough," he said quietly.

"But—"

"Belle." His voice left no room for argument. "Enough."

Her lip wobbled, just a little, and Max swore he felt his heart crack.

He pulled her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin, and just held her.

Held her like he could carry the exhaustion for her, even if only for a moment.

"You don’t have to do everything," he murmured. "You shouldn’t have to."

"I just… I want it to be nice," she whispered into his shirt. "For them."

Max kissed the top of her head, fierce and aching with love, unable to come up with an answer to that.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: You know what’s actually insane?

Emilie: That you’re obsessed with my best friend?

Max: That Isabelle plans EVERYTHING and no one even notices.

Emilie: Oh. That. Yeah, it’s infuriating.

Max: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, their mom— they just assume things magically happen.

Emilie: The best part? If she ever didn’t plan something, they’d all just stand around confused like, “Oh, I thought you handled it.”

Max: And she’d probably still feel bad and fix it for them.

Emilie: EXACTLY.

Max: How has she not quit being the family event planner?

Emilie: Because she’s too nice. And apparently, someone has to be the responsible one.

Max: No, but really. Why is she the one who always has to book everything?

Emilie: Because if she doesn’t, nobody will.

Max: They’d just show up at an airport with no flights booked.

Emilie: Or try to go to a fully booked restaurant like, “Oh, you need reservations?”

Max: It’s actually painful to think about.

Emilie: The best was when Arthur’s girlfriend was like, “It’s so cute how he planned our anniversary dinner.”

Max: No. Don’t tell me—

Emilie: ISABELLE BOOKED IT.

Max: I refuse to believe this.

Emilie: She even picked out the gift.

Max: Arthur better be eternally grateful.

Emilie: Oh, no. He just went, “Oh yeah, great,” and moved on with his life.

Max: …I need a moment.

Emilie: I KNOW.

Max: Does anyone EVER actually thank her??

Emilie: Not really. They just assume she enjoys it.

Max: What if she doesn’t?

Emilie: Then she suffers in silence because if she stops, everything falls apart.

Max: I actually hate this.

Emilie: Welcome to my world.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

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

Pascale: Good afternoon my loves!

Pascale: Isabelle, have you finalized the menu for Christmas Eve yet?

Lorenzo: And did you book the restaurant for Christmas Day lunch?

Arthur: Also, did you grab the tree yet?

Pascale: Don’t forget to wrap the presents nicely this year.

Pascale: Remember last year? Arthur’s wrapping was a disaster.

Arthur: HEY

Arthur: you gave me like five minutes and no tape!!

Pascale: Also, Isabelle, can you remind everyone about the dress code for Christmas Eve?

Pascale: I want a nice family photo this year. No jeans.

Pascale: I want it to feel festive, but tasteful.

Arthur: CAN I WEAR A CHRISTMAS SWEATER WITH A DINOSAUR

Charles: Maman will actually murder you.

Lorenzo: And you’re getting gifts for the cousins, right? Maman said you handled it best last year.

Pascale: And don’t forget to bake some of those little cinnamon cookies your brothers love!

Isabelle: Sure.

Isabelle: I’ll handle it.

***

The smell hit him first.

Warm, rich, spicy — the kind of scent that wrapped around your senses and pulled you straight into childhood memories.

Max inhaled without thinking… and then frowned.

Cinnamon.

He stepped into the kitchen, fully expecting to find Isabelle humming or maybe sneakily sampling cookies fresh from the oven.

Instead, he found her hunched over the counter, moving carefully as she arranged rows of golden-brown cookies onto a cooling rack. Her sleeves were pushed up, her hair pinned back messily. There was flour on her cheek.

And a deep, angry rash beginning to creep up the side of her wrist.

Max's heart dropped.

"Belle," he said sharply, striding over. "What are you doing?"

She jumped, startled, nearly dropping the spatula.

"Max! You scared me."

He caught her hand before she could hide it behind her back. The rash was worse up close — red and inflamed, already beginning to welt. He knew the signs; Isabelle was allergic to cinnamon. Had been since she was a kid.

"You're having a reaction," he said, keeping his voice steady even as his blood simmered with frustration. "Why are you—?"

She gave a small, guilty shrug, trying to tug her hand back.

"It's just a little," she muttered. "It’s fine. I washed my hands a lot. I’ll take something after."

"Belle."

"They like them," she said, almost defensively. "Arthur, Lorenzo and Charles always ask for them. I didn’t want to disappoint them."

Max stared at her, the cookies cooling between them, the kitchen warm and bright but the air between them unbearably heavy.

"You’re allergic," he said, low and rough. "You're hurting yourself. For cookies."

"For my brothers," she corrected softly. "They don't even realize I can't eat them."

The words slipped out, unguarded, and Max felt them land like a punch to the chest.

They didn't even realize.

She baked them every year anyway.

Because she loved them. Because she thought that was what love meant — giving and giving, even when it cost her.

He closed his eyes, the fury, hot and immediate.

All the work, all the care, all the quiet sacrifices—things her family didn’t even see unless they went undone.

Max opened his eyes and pulled a bowl away from her, setting it firmly on the counter.

"No," he said.

Isabelle blinked up at him, startled. "No?"

"No more," Max repeated. "You’re not doing this. Not for them. Not when it hurts you."

"But—"

Max cupped her face, ignoring the faint cinnamon dust on her cheek.

"I love how much you care," he said, voice low, steady. "I love how much you want things to be perfect for everyone. But you deserve someone who thinks about you, too."

He saw the way her throat bobbed, the way her lashes fluttered like she was trying not to cry.

"You don’t have to earn their love, Belle," Max whispered. "You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep them warm."

And for a long moment, neither of them moved.

The oven beeped in the background, forgotten.

Finally, Isabelle sagged into him, her forehead pressing into his chest, her hands fisting lightly in his sweater.

Max wrapped his arms around her, holding her together because he knew she’d spent so long holding everyone else.

****

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Your best friend is insane.

Emilie: I assume this isn’t about the fact she alphabetizes her spice rack?

Max: No.

Max: She’s baking cinnamon cookies.

Max: FOR HER BROTHERS.

Max: SHE’S ALLERGIC TO CINNAMON.

Emilie: Oh god.

Emilie: Again???

Max: AGAIN???

Max: THIS HAPPENS EVERY YEAR???

Emilie: Max, breathe.

Emilie: Yes.

Emilie: She does it every year because Arthur and Charles expect it and she doesn’t want to “ruin Christmas.”

Max: THIS ISN’T FUCKING NORMAL.

Max: SHE’S HAVING A REACTION.

Max: FROM COOKIES.

Max: THAT SHE IS MAKING FOR PEOPLE WHO DON’T EVEN NOTICE.

Emilie: Yeah.

Emilie: Welcome to the Leclerc family dynamic.

Emilie: You’re catching up.

Max: No.

Max: Absolutely not.

Max: I’m burning the cinnamon.

Max: I’m throwing the cookies out the window.

Max: I’m locking her in a room with antihistamines and telling Arthur to choke on store-bought biscuits.

Max: How has nobody told her she doesn’t have to kill herself for them?

Emilie: Because she thinks love is earning your place.

Emilie: Not just existing and being enough.

Emilie:She’s never really had anyone who told her otherwise.

Max: She does now.

Emilie: Good.

Emilie: Because she deserves better.

Emilie: And if you ever need backup setting fire to the cinnamon cookies, I’m free.

Max: Might take you up on that.

***

Group Chat: Santa’s Elves

(Members: Max, Victoria, Tom and Sophie)

Victoria: okay troops

Victoria: Christmas dinner plan is a GO

Victoria: assignments incoming

Tom: I’m ready

Tom: already bought festive beer Tom: and the good wine Tom: you’re welcome

Sophie: 😂 Love the enthusiasm, Tom

Max: what’s my job? Max: …please nothing that involves cooking

Victoria: relax Victoria: you’re on babysitting duty Victoria: keep the kids alive while we finish food

Max: Easy Max: i’m their favorite anyway 😎

Sophie: Confirmed.

Sophie: The boys like Max better than Tom and me combined.

Tom: 😑 i’m buying more wine to cope

Victoria: Mom is doing the main course (queen)

Victoria: I’m doing the cheeseboard and table set up

Victoria: Tom’s on drinks duty

Victoria: Max is kid-wrangling + ordering dessert from that bakery we like

Max: got it

Max: will order tomorrow morning

Max: anything specific?

Sophie: something chocolate. always chocolate.

Victoria: and something pretty for Instagram pls

Victoria: priorities

Tom: if it looks good but tastes bad that’s your fault, Vic

Victoria: you’re on thin ice

Max: if you two fight the kids are judging

Sophie: The kids already judge

Sophie: you should hear the Luka critique Tom’s hot chocolate skills

Tom: As long as Max doesn’t set anything on fire we’re good this christmas

Max: no promises 🔥

***

Max’s suitcase was by the door, neat and ready, like always.

She sat on the edge of the couch, fingers curled around a mug of tea she wasn’t drinking, pretending the ache in her chest was just from the cold — not from the knowledge that he was leaving, and she was staying.

They had never made a big thing out of it. They had agreed months ago: Christmas with their own families.

She hadn’t wanted to impose. And truthfully, she hadn’t thought she was allowed to want anything else.

Max crossed the room, zipping up his jacket, his steps slow like he didn’t want to leave either.

"You sure you’ll be okay?" he asked softly, crouching in front of her, his hand coming to rest on her knee.

Isabelle smiled, small and careful.

"Yeah," she lied. "It’s just a few days."

Max’s gaze didn’t move from her face. He was too good at reading her now — too good at seeing the spaces between what she said and what she meant.

"You’re dreading it."

It wasn’t a question.

She let out a quiet breath and looked down into her tea.

"They mean well," she said, which wasn’t really true. "They just... expect things. And it’s always a lot. No matter how much I do, it never feels like enough."

Max reached for her hand. He held it carefully, like it might crumble if he wasn’t gentle.

"You don’t have to do it all," he said. "You can say no."

Her throat tightened. "Not with them. You know that."

He didn’t argue.

Just brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"You want me to stay?"

The words were so quiet she almost missed them.

Her eyes shot up to his, wide and startled. "What?"

Max smiled — soft, knowing. "I’d stay. If you asked."

And oh, she wanted to. God, she wanted to.

But she couldn’t be the reason he missed his family.

The one that actually showed up. The one that divided the work. The one that loved him without conditions.

"You should go," she whispered. "They’ll be waiting."

Max nodded, though his hand didn’t let go of hers right away.

"You text me," he said firmly. "Whenever you need to. If it gets too much. If you just want to vent. Anything."

Isabelle nodded. "I will."

Max leaned in, kissed her forehead — slow and lingering — then pressed his mouth to her temple, like he was trying to pass all his steadiness into her through the skin.

"You come to me the moment you need a break, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

And then he was gone — suitcase in hand, footsteps echoing down the hall, the door clicking shut behind him.

She sat in the quiet, tea still untouched, the weight of the upcoming holiday settling back over her like a too-heavy coat.

A few days.

She could survive a few days.

Even if it meant smiling through disappointment.

Even if it meant being everyone’s glue while no one held her together.

She stared at the blinking Christmas lights, silent and still, and braced herself.

***

The pet carrier sat on the passenger seat, tiny but somehow loud, the small bundle inside meowing indignantly every few seconds.

"I know, I know," Isabelle murmured, glancing over as she pulled into the underground parking. "Almost there, little one. Just hold on."

The breeder had handed her the kitten that morning, wrapped up in a soft blanket, small and wriggling and so full of attitude that Isabelle had immediately thought, Yes. You’re perfect for us.

A Bengal — fiery little spirit, spotted coat shining under the winter sun, with eyes so impossibly blue they hardly looked real.

Max was going to lose his mind.

She smiled to herself as she carried the carrier carefully up the elevator to the apartment. The plan was simple: keep the kitten separated from Sassy and Jimmy for a few days. Let her adjust. Let them adjust.

Slow introductions, every guide said. Boundaries.

She set the carrier down in the guest bedroom, heart pounding with excitement.

"You have a few days to settle in before Max gets back," Isabelle whispered, unlocking the carrier door. "Nice and quiet. No stress."

The kitten immediately barreled out of the carrier, straight into her lap, climbing up Isabelle’s chest like she was a mountain to be conquered.

Isabelle laughed, steadying her with gentle hands.

"You’re trouble already," she murmured fondly.

She sat with the kitten for a while, letting her explore the little setup — litter box, toys, cozy blankets. Everything ready.

Then came the problem.

The door.

She had just cracked it open to slip out quietly when two familiar blurs appeared: Jimmy first, then Sassy, both clearly having heard the new sounds and smells.

Sassy sat elegantly just outside the threshold, blinking slowly. Jimmy practically vibrated with excitement, already chirping.

"Not yet," Isabelle whispered. "You’re supposed to meet her later, carefully, slowly—"

The kitten, of course, had other plans.

Before Isabelle could stop her, she wobbled toward the door on still-clumsy legs, let out one fierce little meow, and plopped herself directly in front of Sassy.

For a split second, Isabelle panicked, heart racing.

And then—

Sassy lowered her head slowly, gave the kitten a long, inspecting sniff... and purred.

Isabelle blinked.

Jimmy, emboldened, bounded forward and nudged the kitten with his nose.

The kitten immediately batted at Jimmy’s ear, clearly delighted, and Jimmy flopped onto his side with a happy trill, inviting her to climb all over him.

Isabelle stood frozen, watching her careful, responsible plan unravel in real time — and somehow turn into magic.

The kitten was already nuzzling into Sassy’s side, purring like a tiny engine.

Jimmy rolled onto his back, paws waving playfully in the air.

There was no hissing. No swatting. No stress.

Just acceptance.

Immediate, unquestioning.

A soft lump rose in Isabelle’s throat.

They already loved her.

No slow introductions needed. No hesitation.

Just home.

Isabelle knelt down carefully, heart full to bursting, and whispered:

"Well. That was easy."

The kitten squeaked and headbutted her hand.

Jimmy chirped again.

Sassy blinked at her like, obviously.

Isabelle laughed, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

Within minutes, the kitten was curled up between Sassy and Jimmy, purring so loudly her tiny body vibrated.

Belle pressed her hand to her chest, overwhelmed by how right it all felt.

Max was going to lose his mind. In the best way.

She snapped a quick photo — Jimmy snoring, the kitten sprawled across his paw, Sassy watching them both with regal approval — and saved it carefully.

Not sending it yet.

Wanting Max to be surprised in person.

This — this little chaotic, purring pile of love — was the Christmas she wanted to give him.

Home.

Family.

Peace.

Exactly what he deserved.

Exactly what they deserved.

***

The house was warm with the scent of cinnamon and pine, the soft hum of holiday music playing in the background. Wrapping paper littered the floor as Victoria’s two-year-old son toddled between family members, showing off his new toy car, while her boyfriend sat on the couch, trying (and failing) to assemble a playset.

Max sat beside his mother, watching the scene unfold, a rare moment of quiet as the chaos of Christmas morning settled. He reached into the pile of gifts beside him and pulled out a simple, tasteful gift bag.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to Victoria. “This is from Isabelle.”

Victoria looked up from where she was helping her son unwrap another gift. “Isabelle got me something?”

Max shrugged like it was no big deal. “Well, technically for the baby.”

Victoria’s expression softened, and she took the bag, carefully peeling back the tissue paper. Inside was a collection of delicate baby clothes—soft cotton onesies, tiny knitted socks, and an elegant, hand-stitched blanket in muted pastels. She pulled out a small note tucked inside.

For your little girl, with love – Belle.

Victoria stared at it for a long moment before shaking her head with a fond smile. “Max.”

“What?”

She looked up at him, her eyes full of something knowing. “You know I love her, right?”

Max exhaled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I figured.”

“No, I mean it,” Victoria pressed. “She’s… she’s perfect for you.”

Their mother, who had been watching quietly, nodded in agreement. “She is.”

Victoria placed the baby blanket back in the bag, then met Max’s eyes again. “You should marry her.”

Max blinked, feeling his heart stutter for just a second. He didn’t say anything at first, just rolled the thought over in his mind—something he had already done a lot lately.

His silence didn’t go unnoticed. Victoria’s gaze sharpened. “Oh my God. You have been thinking about it.”

Max exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the couch. “I mean… yeah.”

Victoria lit up like a Christmas tree. “Max!”

Their mother smiled knowingly. “You love her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max ran a hand through his hair, a little overwhelmed but not denying it. “I do.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Victoria pressed.

Max sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing, really. I just—I want to do it right.”

Victoria hummed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t want her to feel like it’s rushed. Or that I’m just asking because things are good now, but I haven’t thought about what comes after.” He hesitated. “I know what comes after. And I still want it.”

Victoria’s expression softened even more. “That’s kind of the whole point of marriage, Max.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… I don’t want her to doubt it, even for a second.”

Victoria gave him a long look, then smiled. “She won’t.”

Max exhaled, rubbing at the tension in the back of his neck. “She might. Her family—”

“Is a mess,” Victoria finished for him. “Yeah, I know. But that’s exactly why she’ll believe you. You’re showing her something different. Stability. Love. Someone who actually puts her first.”

Max swallowed, something tight in his throat. “Yeah.”

Victoria smirked. “Also, I’d pay good money to see Charles’ face when you tell him.”

Max let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’ll be… something.”

“You should do it at a race weekend. Really put him on the back foot.”

“Victoria.”

“What? It’d be funny.”

Max rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. His sister had a point, even if she was enjoying the idea of Charles' reaction a little too much.

After a moment, Victoria nudged him with her foot. “So? You gonna do it?”

Max sighed, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I am.”

***

Christmas with the Leclercs had always been... complicated.

Isabelle wasn’t naïve enough to expect magic anymore.

Not after years of being an afterthought.

Not after years of achievements brushed aside in favor of louder, brighter celebrations for her brothers.

Still— Some small, stubborn part of her had hoped this year would be different.

She had spent days picking out gifts — careful, thoughtful gifts — ones that showed she knew them, that she cared. A rare edition of sneakers from a brand Arthur loved. A custom wine set for Lorenzo. A framed photo restoration for her mother. A new golf carry bag for Charles, with his initials embroidered onto it.

Things that mattered.

And in return?

A wall calendar from her mother. (Dogs in silly costumes. Not even horses. Not even cats. Nothing she liked. The tag read simply: "For your office, so you can keep better track of things. Love, Maman.")

A gift card to a random electronics store she never shopped at from Lorenzo.

A keychain shaped like a tire from Charles. ("Because you’re a Leclerc too, Isabelle, you’re part of the racing spirit, right?")

And then from Arthur, the piece de resistance: A crop top. Tight. Neon pink. (“Saw it on sale and thought — this is way more fun than all the beige you wear!”)

Gifts that said: We don’t know you. We didn’t try.

Isabelle kept her smile pinned in place all through the day, all through the polite clinking of glasses and the endless, thoughtless chatter.

She had smiled, folded it carefully, and said thank you.

Because that’s what she always did.

Be the good gril. The grateful quiet sister. Regardless of how much it hurt.

Still, as soon as she could go…

Belle went home.

The door clicked shut behind her with a final, hollow sound.

The apartment was silent except for the soft pad of paws across hardwood.

The kitten darted toward her first, meowing indignantly. Jimmy and Sassy followed, blinking sleepily from their place curled up on the couch.

Isabelle dropped her keys on the counter.

Kicked off her shoes.

She made it three steps toward the living room before her legs gave out.

She sank to the floor — cold against the wood — and buried her face in her hands.

The tears came fast. Hot. Helpless.

Not just for today.

For all the Christmases before it.

For all the years spent trying to earn a place she should’ve already had.

She didn't sob.

No messy gasps for air.

Just silent, shaking tears that soaked her palms and blurred the world around her.

The kitten crept onto her lap first, purring loudly, headbutting her arm. Jimmy slunk in next, nudging her side with his nose.

Sassy stretched lazily, then trotted over and curled against her knees.

They didn't ask for anything.

They just stayed.

Isabelle curled into the weight of them — warm and grounding — clutching the kitten to her chest like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his fur. "I'm sorry for expecting anything different."

The cats purred louder, blanketing her in their soft, unbothered love.

Somewhere deep down, she knew Max would be home in a few days. He would take one look at her, see right through her smile, and pull her into his arms without asking any questions.

He always did.

But for now— It was just her. And them.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had to be.

***

The days stretched out, slow and heavy.

Max wouldn’t be home until the 27th.

That left her in the quiet.

No clinking glasses. No forced smiles. No careful pretending.

Just her.

And the kitten, curled against her chest more often than not. And Jimmy, draped dramatically over her lap. And Sassy, perched like a soft guardian nearby.

She didn't even turn on the TV. The blinking Christmas lights stayed unplugged. The gifts — the ugly, hollow things — sat untouched on the kitchen counter, still half-wrapped.

Isabelle moved through the apartment like a ghost.

Feeding the cats. Watering the plants. Existing.

And the thing was... it didn't feel like peace.

It felt like grief.

Grief for the girl who had tried so hard.

Grief for all the years she had believed that if she just did a little more — gave a little more — loved a little louder — she would finally be enough.

She found herself curled on the couch one night, knees to her chest, staring out at the glittering lights of Monaco beyond the glass balcony doors.

The kitten kneaded her sweater, purring obliviously.

Jimmy snored softly against her feet.

And somewhere deep inside, a small, painful thought broke free:

"I can't do this anymore."She whispered it aloud, her voice cracking."I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt."

Her chest tightened, her throat closing.

"I can't keep loving people who don't love me back the way I need."

The admission shattered something inside her.

It was terrifying — it felt like giving up.

But it also felt... honest.

Real.

Necessary.

She wiped at her cheeks with shaking hands, breathing hard.

The kitten headbutted her chin, making her laugh — a raw, broken sound.

"I need help," she whispered into the empty apartment. "I need... someone to help me figure out how to stop doing this to myself."

The kitten purred louder.

Sassy hopped up onto the back of the couch and flopped across her shoulders with a regal little grunt.

Jimmy rolled onto his back and batted at her ankle.

Not demanding. Not needing her to earn anything.

Just there.

Isabelle closed her eyes, letting the tears fall without fighting them anymore.

And when she opened them again — when she sat up, cradling the kitten against her chest — she wasn’t thinking about the next Christmas, or the next gathering, or the next thing she had to survive.

She was thinking about tomorrow.

One day.

One step.

Maybe she could call a therapist. Maybe she could start small — just talking. Maybe she could start choosing herself for once.

She wasn’t sure yet.

But for the first time, she wasn’t thinking "how do I fix them?" She was thinking "how do I heal me?"

***

The second he opened the door, Max knew something was wrong.

The apartment was dark. Too quiet, except for the soft, broken sounds he couldn't place at first.

He dropped his bag without thinking, heart thudding painfully against his ribs, and moved quickly down the hall.

And there she was.

Isabelle.

Curled up in a tight ball on the couch, knees to her chest, face buried in a pillow.

Crying.

Not loud, racking sobs.

Not the kind of tears she could hide behind a tight smile and a polite "I'm fine."

The real ones. The ones she never let anyone else see.

Max's chest cracked wide open.

He crossed the room in two strides, crouching beside her without hesitation.

"Belle," he said, voice breaking. "I'm here. I'm here, Schatje."

She lifted her head slowly, her face blotchy and pale, her eyes swollen from crying.

And then, hoarse and desperate, she whispered:

"I need therapy."

Max swallowed hard.

"I need a therapist," she said again, voice trembling. "I can't—I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt."

Max didn’t say anything.

He just gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest like she was something breakable, precious.

She clutched at his hoodie like a drowning girl grabbing a lifeline.

"I can’t fix it," she whispered against him. "No matter how good I try to be, it’s never enough. I’m so tired, Max. I’m so tired."

Max kissed her hair, his hands moving gently up and down her back, trying to soothe, to anchor.

"You don't have to fix anything," he murmured. "Not for them. Not for anyone. I'm so proud of you for saying it out loud, Belle. I'm so proud of you."

She sobbed then — real, gasping sobs — and he just held her tighter, rocking her gently like she was something he could shelter from the whole fucking world.

It was minutes, maybe longer, before the crying started to ease, the shaking in her body slowing to small, exhausted tremors.

Only then did he notice the movement out of the corner of his eye.

A tiny, curious kitten stood perched on the arm of the couch, blinking at him with wide, impossibly blue eyes.

Spotted, fierce-looking, all attitude in a body that barely fit in his hand.

She meowed loudly, clearly offended at being ignored.

Max blinked, stunned.

"Belle," he said softly, half-laughing through the ache in his chest. "Is that—?"

Isabelle sniffled, curling closer into him.

"Your Christmas present," she whispered. "I got her for you."

Max smiled, the kind of smile that hurt because it was too full, too much.

The kitten — tiny menace that she was — marched straight onto his lap without hesitation, climbed up his arm, and flopped against his chest like she belonged there.

Jimmy and Sassy appeared a second later, trotting over with soft chirps, their tails high and proud. Like they were presenting the newest member of the family for inspection.

Max pressed another kiss to Isabelle’s hair and looked down at the kitten sprawled across him.

"She’s perfect," he said simply.

Isabelle let out a broken little laugh — the smallest flicker of something lighter — and Max kissed her again, over and over, soft and steady.

"You’re not alone anymore," he whispered against her temple. "You don't have to carry it by yourself. We’ll find you someone good. We’ll do it together."

She nodded against him, the tiniest, exhausted nod.

And Max stayed right there — one arm around Isabelle, one hand cradling the tiny, fierce little kitten — anchoring them both.

Because they were his family.

And he was never letting them go.

***

The world slowed down after Christmas.

Not in the way it had when she was alone — heavy, suffocating — but in a quieter, gentler way.

Because Max stayed.

He didn’t try to fix her with grand gestures.

He didn’t try to force her to smile or pretend she was okay.

He just took care of her.

Small, steady things.

Waking up early to make coffee before she even stumbled out of bed.

Filling the fridge with all her favorite food without asking.

Curling up with her on the couch, half-watching bad movies while the new kitten climbed all over them, fearless and bright.

They spent an entire afternoon sprawled on the living room floor, arguing over names.

"Sassy and Jimmy are named after Monaco clubs," Max pointed out, gently prying the kitten off his sleeve for the tenth time. "It’s tradition now."

Isabelle smiled — a real one, small and unsteady but there.

"Lilly, then," she said after a while, watching the kitten attack Jimmy’s tail with wild enthusiasm. "After Lilly’s."

Max grinned, reaching out to scratch behind the kitten’s ear.

She immediately tried to bite his finger.

"Perfect," he said. "A little chaos queen."

"Lilly it is," Isabelle said softly, scooping the tiny, purring bundle into her arms.

Lilly. Sassy. Jimmy.

Home.

***

Four days after Christmas, Emilie showed up.

She barely made it two steps inside the apartment before pulling Isabelle into a hug so fierce it knocked the breath out of her.

"You should’ve called me," Emilie muttered into her hair.

"I’m okay," Isabelle said, though it came out thin.

Emilie pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes sharp. "You shouldn’t have to be."

Max gave them space, drifting into the kitchen with Jimmy and Lilly trailing at his heels. (Sassy remained queenly on the back of the couch, surveying her kingdom.)

Emilie spotted the pile of gifts Isabelle had dropped on the counter — the ridiculous calendar, the generic gift card, the keychain, the pink crop top — and went still.

She picked up the crop top between two fingers, like it might bite her.

"This," Emilie said slowly, "is an insult."

Isabelle laughed, but it cracked around the edges.

Emilie turned, her eyes blazing now.

"They don't deserve you."

The words landed harder than Isabelle expected.

Not because they were cruel.

Because they were true.

She opened her mouth to deflect — to say it wasn’t that bad, that they didn’t mean to hurt her — but Emilie just shook her head.

"No. None of that. You gave them everything, Belle. Thoughtful gifts. Time. Care. And they couldn’t even be bothered to see you."

Isabelle felt her throat tighten painfully.

"You’re not asking for too much," Emilie said fiercely. "You’ve never asked for too much. You just wanted to matter."

The tears came fast and hot, blurring the kitchen into light and shadow.

Emilie stepped closer, squeezing her shoulders.

"You do matter," she said. "Just not to people who only know how to take."

Behind them, Max hovered silently, a plate of cookies in his hand, his eyes soft and steady.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t add anything.

He just stayed.

Exactly what she needed.

Exactly what she deserved.

Later, after Emilie left with promises of vengeance and an ominous "Just say the word and I will rain hellfire on all of them," Isabelle curled up on the couch with Max, Jimmy, Sassy, and little Lilly wriggling between them.

Max pulled a blanket over both of them, tucking her into his side without a word.

Isabelle let herself lean into him, breathing him in — warmth and safety and home.

Maybe the family she was born into would never see her the way she wished.

But the one she was building?

The one that showed up — not because they had to, but because they wanted to?

That family was hers.

And she was enough for them.

Exactly as she was.

***

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buckyalpine · 8 months ago

Note

i feel like bucky definitely gives off like horny teenage vibes but times that by ten. like maybe y/n and bucky finally get together after the whole “will they won’t situation” and the minute bucky sleeps with y/n i feel like since he’s been so touched starved for like 70+ years that he’s like the most insatiable, kinkiest man y/n has ever been with , he’s touchy, he’s needy (in the best way possible) and all of the avengers are like “i’m glad you’re happy bro but put your dick away and get your hands out of your pants” and then he’s like “no”

18+ All the incoming smut. I need a cold shower wtf, this is so hot, is this even allowed? The answer is YES. yes it is. Bucky gives 10000% horny teenage energy and with that serum in his veins?

The will they won't they situation drives Bucky insane because it's gone on for long enough. He's been pining after you, too shy to actually spit it out, taking what he can get in those feeling moments you share. Lingering touches during training. Longing stares across the room. Late night talks where you're both too close to be just friends but you're not quite anything more either.

Bucky airs on the side of caution when it comes to you until he sees another man trying to get your attention from where he's seated at the bar. He's spent enough nights alone with his hand between his legs, tugging and pawing at his cock for some type of relief, surges of jealousy absolutely crush those feelings of shyness he had. By the end of the night, he has you naked in bed and he's ready to take you apart every which way but you're just too fucking pretty and he realizes he needs to be touched more than ever.

Bucky is the neediest baby on the planet, he's greedy, trying to touch every bit of you all at once. He doesn't have time to feel shame, to try and act like this is something he does on the regular. Honestly, he doesn't care that he's practically humping you like a little puppy, his hips rocking against your bare cunt, cock perfectly slotted between your folds.

"It's so fuckin' hard, angel" He moans against your neck, one hand squeezing your waist, the other reaching up you to tug your nipples. "My cock is so fuckin' hard cause of you"

He hasn't felt anything this soft in years and he's putty in your hands. He feels so sensitive all over, letting you push him onto his back so you can kneel between his thighs, your mouth so dangerously close to where he needed you so bad.

"Wait-wai-oh God, fuckkk meee" Bucky's head is thrown back with the deepest groan when you take his flushed tip into your mouth, dribbles of precum wetting your already silky tongue. He nearly shoots when you pull off with a pop and dip down to play with his sac, your warm mouth so much different from his hand.

"Oh my god my balls are so fuckin' heavy, yeah just like that baby, never had em' sucked before, fuck I- m'cumming!" His back arches and he has to careful not to clamp his legs shut as he starts to cum without warning. His hips thrust up against the air and his hands rush down to hold onto your head as he practically rubs his balls against you.

"Let's empty your cock, baby" You coo when his orgasm starts to slow, your hand coming up to wrap around his now semi hard cock. Your slow strokes cause spurts to dribble out and he starts to get harder against your palm.

"Shit, m'getting hard again baby, put it in your pussy, c'mon please angel, wanna feel it, it's been so long" Bucky's always considered himself a dominant man but that was until it came to you. He was definitely going to redeem himself but not tonight. Tonight he was just a needy slut for you and he was going to own every bit of it.

He spreads apart his thighs more for you to see how big and hard he is, not like you didn't know. He's pouting with those flushed cheeks, pupils blown, pawing at your body to get on top.

"Can I suck your boobs, wanna suck em' so bad, fuck-c'mere, put your nipples in my mouth angel, feed me those perfect breasts with my cock in you"

"Ready Jamie?-

"Yeah, yeah please, m'ready I promise, I'll be good, my balls are full again, feel them, please, wanna empty my cock" You hush his needy whines, reaching behind and cupping his sack with a smirk on your face.

"S'full again baby?"

"So full" He nods, his jaw falling slack when you start to sink down on him, chest heaving, how the fuck was he already ready to blow, there was no way-

"FUCKKKK" He cried out, shoving his hips up so he was stuffed all the way, pulling you down and rolling over, giving you sloppy thrusts while cum spilled from his sensitive head.

"Don't even think I came this fast the first time I touched myself" Bucky mumbles against your neck, practically purring while basking in the best post orgasm haze he's ever felt. He loves the smell of raw sex filling the room, your combined arousal the best thing on the planet. He's not ashamed from cumming multiple times, hardly lasting, making such a sticky mess on the bed.

He's too busy getting in all his needy cuddles while you baby him like he deserves, kissing his forehead and rubbing his back, cooing at the way he hugs you extra tight.

But it doesn't stop there.

Bucky is insatiable and after finally getting a taste, he's not going to stop now.

"For fucks sake Barnes" Sam shakes his head seeing Bucky make out with you while your perched on the kitchen island, the sight sort of wholesome except he can see the way the soldier is slotted between your thighs. Your legs wrap around him and Bucky's hips are rutting against your core, shamelessly trying to hump you, barely muffled groans slipping past his lips. If rubbing his dick on you was all he could get, then he'd fuckin' take it without a question.

It wouldn't be the first time.

You'd been caught more than once in the middle of missions. Bucky knew he was down bad when he was injured once and forced to just keep surveillance over a mission you were leading. He was watching everything on a large screen, lasting all of 5 minutes watching you in combat unless he couldn't handle the ache between his legs anymore. At first he hid what he was doing pretty well.

Then you sliced someone's neck and-

"Oh fuck me!"

"You better be shot, stabbed or missing an eyeball" Sam hissed through the coms while Tony's cackled crackled through, everyone's frequency synced to keep in contact.

"Sounds like he's the one whose about to shoot-

"FUCK BOTH OF YOU"

"MMPH" Bucky didn't bother responding, continuing to jerk his cock off while watching his gorgeous girlfriend.

"I know you're happy with y/n, and I'm happy for you both, trust me, but for the love of God can you please get your hand out of your pants?!"

The muffled groan that follows has Sam contemplating letting his wings fall off mid flight. Steve nearly gets stabbed with how distracted he is.

"Does Barnes every put his dick away?" Clint snorts hearing the muffled sounds of the bed hitting the wall from Bucky's room and seeing as you're nowhere to be found, it's clear what's happening.

"No. No he does not"

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the-tarot-witch22 · 6 months ago

Text

What's coming for you in 2025? - Pick a Pile

Pile 1/ Pile 2/ Pile 3

My Paid Readings | My insta | My year goal post

Liked my blog or readings? Tip me!

Hello everyone ! This is my another pick a pile or pac reading so please be kind and leave comment or reblog, and let me know if it resonated with you!

Note : This is a general reading or collective reading. It may or may not resonate with you. Please take what resonates and leave what doesn't. And it's totally okay if our energies aren't aligned!

How to pick : Take a deep breath and choose a pile which you feel most connected to! You can choose more than one pile, it just means both pile have messages for you!

I worked really hard on this pile please show some love by leaving comments, likes and reblogs!

Pile 1:

(The cards I got for you - The emperor, The hanged man, 6 of pentacles, 5 of pentacles, and 6 of cups)

Okay so the very first thing I feel and heard for you guy is "Organization and structure", if you have been messy like emotionally or just not cleaning your room and just being lazy, I see you getting better and do things in a better way, I am also feeling you will be taking charge in your personal and professional life, if you are in school then i am seeing you being group leader or having better grades, and if you work then i see leading your team, or even correcting your manager like damn this person doesn't hold back, I am feeling some of you may even start your own business like plenty of you wanting to do that, or had doubts, so i am seeing this year could be very fruitful to you in so many ways, I am feeling many of you are just polite in this group, even though you guys might be snarky, BUT, this year i am seeing changing that, i am feeling you will communicated yourself a lot better, if you guys had some financial issues that will be resolving too, I am also feeling you might learn from a male figure in your life, make them your role model, and learn a lot from them. Or I am also feeling in your life you guys have someone dominating your household, like a man, sometimes you do get in fights but it's not bad, this is only for some of you. I am also seeing you being not lazy as you were before, going out of comfort zone, doing things, which you have to do, i keep hearing panda for you guys, some of you could definitely be resonating with that lol. I am also feeling this year you would be helping out a lot of people, and looking back on things you did wrong and will do better this year, also do help people when you can, like feeding animals or people who are in need, it will count as a good karma, some of you could have been injured in past? definitely felt that, but don't worry this year, i am also feeling good health for you, I am also feeling some of you could reunite with people from past, but only let them in if you feel like it, for some of you its a friend, and for some its an ex, just be careful <3 I am also feeling you will get lots of nostalgic feeling and if you have moved out, i am seeing you meeting your parents this year, like getting a feeling some of you might be in abroad, so you might meet or talk with your parents and friends a lot. Earth signs are very prominent here especially virgo and taurus sun/moon/rising, and scorpio sun/ moon / rising.

Oracle cards I pulled for you :

a new start is coming (new moon) : A new beginning a new start is on its way for you, you will be more hopeful, let go of the past, things you manifest will be fruitful, things will move, you will feel more alive if you felt stuck, and YES! whatever your question could be your doubts because trust me its a yes.

be assertive - Be confident in your decisions and yourself, i am hearing "life is too short" living by other people's rules, so make your own and just do what you gotta do.

Okay pile 1, that's all i got for you guys, happy new year my pookies, may all your wishes come true cheers <3

Pile 2 :

(The cards I got for you - 8 of wands, 2 of pentacles, 5 of pentacles, 6 of swords and the lovers)

Okay so the very first thing I heard and feel is that you will or might be taking a trip, I am feeling things will move fast for you, I am also seeing you guys getting the job you want, the internship, the college you want to go into, everything working out for you, the hard struggles that you have faced in your life are just vanishing but i am also seeing a small trip or just up and down from the college/school/work to your kind of travel, I am feeling you might meet someone this year could be at work or at school if not then, some sort of daily doing activity, but anyhow i am feeling there is so much in life that will be working out for you guys. Some of you would be developing new hobbies for yourself like going to gym or yoga or art classes. You might do find to juggle with them a bit difficult like there will be so many things and you would be like we want to try it, try that etc. But all in a good way. I am also feeling that there might be a sort of loss you faced in your life in 2024 or 2023, i am seeing you will be moving away from it, and healing that part of yours, I am also feeling when you do and that's when you will meet someone in your life, and if you don't meet someone then your energy will definitely be calling your partner's energy. But for many of you I am sensing there is a beautiful reunion ahead. Plus there will be decision coming ahead, so go with your gut and choose what you have to. Self love is also a care here, where you focus on yourself. Gemini , cancer, capricorn sun/ moon/ rising are quite prominent here.

Oracles Cards I pulled for you -

Luck is on your side (new moon in Sagittarius) - Write down your wishes your gratitude in the journal, don't be judgy if sometimes you are, a thing that will help you in every way, which you wanted so much it will come to you, there might also be a trip coming.

No need to worry : Things will get better for you so leave the rest to universe and be present in the moment, I am sensing some of you are over worrier so do take it easy, because universe got your back.

Ask for help from others - If you bottle things up, then try to ask for help from others don't hesitate, and your loved ones love you, they love to listen to you talk don't get lost in your heads all the time, you got this.

Okay pile 2, that's all i got for you guys, happy new year my pookies, may all your wishes come true cheers <3

Pile 3 :

(The cards I got for you guys - 3 of wands, queen of wands, king of cups, the fool)

Okay so the very first thing i hear and feel for you guys is, manifest your dreams, just do it, don't doubt if it will be fruitful or not just do it, I am also feeling this new year will bring you a new sort of adventure, something you have never felt before, WHY AM I FEELING THE ADERALINE RUSH, SO I AM SENSING IT WILL BE SOMETHING UNIQUE AND AMAZING AND A DREAM COME TRUE! I am also feeling that some of you guys have fire sign prominent sun/moon/rising especially Sagittarius, I am feeling you guys will be going on a trip this year, which is abroad, you might also go to study in new country, it will be so sudden you will feel it's a no, but when you do it will be like, you made it, 2025 is a year of prosperity for you, and i am seeing lots of blue color, and blue skies, and I am seeing hope for you guys, new starts, adventures, I am also feeling you might adopt a dog or a animal this year, I am also feeling you will enter your divine feminine era this year, and being more confident in your body, I am also feeling the person you will attract will be head over heels for you, awwww, and I am seeing you stepping or taking risks, you might be a bit reckless but honestly seeing this will work out for you~

Oracles card I got for you -

conclusion are within reach (full moon eclipse) - Forgive yourself and others what they have hurt you, it will help you heal, the door once shut, dont go back to it, just know helping others will also be fruitful to you guys.

step out of your comfort zone (north node) - go out just do what you always want to do, say fuck it and do it don't doubt your blessing, you got this, leave the past in past, let go of people or things that doesn't serve you, just know whatever you choose you will be moving in right direction.

success! - I am seeing your professional life getting better and better and whatever door was not opened it will open now, and I am seeing you getting lots of opportunities.

romance - I am definitely seeing you meeting someone this year, if you alrwady have someone your relationship might move to next level.

compromise - The only thing I will say is just get out of your comfort zone.

Okay pile 3, that's all i got for you guys, happy new year my pookies, may all your wishes come true cheers <3

Thank you for stopping by! Take care and remember you are loved <3

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deikshen · 2 months ago

Text

Shen Yuan who lives his life being an absolute simp of some character from a random stallion novel—[character] is absolutely amazing! He has a harem of beauties! And also, a rich and wonderful story where he rises from the most vile and gains his power based on his efforts! If only the story had a little more worldbuilding and cool monsters, Shen Yuan would like it more. But. But there's [character] and definitely everything it's worth reading! He's smart, cunning, and strategic! And his adventures are GREAT! He faces incredible trials, and even though he collects wives as trophies, those wives are INTERESTING. The character development! The story! The harem drama!!!

So one day, Shen Yuan is just doing nothing, waiting for another update on his favorite read—it would be the last chapter!!! Finally a closure to the final dramatic arc!! And Shen Yuan hoped it would be a GOOD ENDING—, when a portal opens in his fucking apartment. After cursing, yelling, and scuttling away, a xianxia man clearly emerges. WHAT. THE. FUCK!?

The man is... what the hell? Shen Yuan thinks he knows him, in some weird way, like, maybe he's seen his face somewhere??? Any popular novel or thing that hasn't caught his attention but he KNOW is famous? What the fuck??

The xianxia man with an absolutely OP sword if he was able to open a FUCKING PORTAL THROUGH THE UNREALITY OF FICTION WHAT THE HELL looks at Shen Yuan with, first, doubt, and then, certainty.

"So, that's Shizun" says the xianxia man, grinning like a fucking nightmare cat, with many menacing teeth. "This Emperor is glad to see you again."

The only intelligent thing Shen Yuan can say is: "Who the hell are you?"

The xianxia man looks confused. He doesn't let that emotion dominate him. He advances in his room with firm steps, his dark robes billowing as he goes. He's clearly not fully human, from the red mark on his forehead, those pointy ears, those black claws...

Shen Yuan doesn't recognize a damn thing about the character. He knows he's famous, he knows it, but why can't he remember it...?

"This Emperor is Luo Binghe" he introduces himself simply, and Shen Yuan's jaw drops.

"No fucking way" is all Shen Yuan actually says, suddenly recognizing the name, and realizing why he'd never read anything more than skimmed about the character. And his sister had actively tried to get him to read it!! "You—... Luo Binghe like, the one from that danmei novel? What the fuck?"

Shen Yuan hadn't been interested at all. While Luo Binghe's character seemed minimally... intriguing... Danmei novel! He had nothing against gays, but why would he read a gay thing?? Besides, what were those relationships!! Transmigration with identity never revealed? Protagonist/Scum Villain?! Even worse, teacher/student?! Yes, Shen Yuan understood that things like age difference roleplay in fetish contexts were intriguing, he had read it in other novels, BUT STILL, it wasn't exactly a roleplay!!! One of them still believed his partner was immortal!!!

(... Shen Yuan may have read some summaries of the novel. Very superficially. Many years ago, when it was popular.)

"This Shizun recognizes me, then" Luo Binghe says, and Shen Yuan lets out an undignified horrified shriek.

"OH, NO, NO, I'M NOT YOUR SHIZUN" he moves away as quickly as he can. Luo Binghe, of course, chases after him. "I don't know what happened in your, err, world?, I don't know why you decided to appear here, but I'm not... Not..." And Shen Yuan has no idea how to explain himself. I'm not your, what? Your Shizun, your partner, your... husband?

Shen Yuan feels a chaotic chill run down his spine.

"Maybe not yet" Luo Binghe says, as if it were only natural. As if he hadn’t already opened a FUCKING PORTAL WITH HIS SWORD. Shen Yuan needs to calm down or he’ll hyperventilate. "If this Xiao Shizun meets this Emperor, perhaps this Emperor's story isn't over yet. It's when this one's story ends that Xiao Shizun will become Shizun. However, this Emperor has made sure to come first this time."

Shen Yuan... actually doesn't understand him at all.

"The story…" Shen Yuan hesitates, looking at Luo Binghe. The imposing man looks, well, obviously like a blackened ML icon, but, well. Weird. Powerful. "You... Do you know that you come from a story?"

That's disturbingly weird. Luo Binghe nods.

"This Lord has been informed" he explains simply. "Shizun, a kind Shizun, has informed this Emperor about everything. But Xiao Shizun doesn't have to worry. This Lord will be here, he will prevent Xiao Shizun's death tonight, and Xiao Shizun will come with this Emperor to his world."

Shen Yuan might be starting to get a bit of a migraine. What the... hell? What nonsense? Had interdimensional travel affected the ML's brain?

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Shen Yuan says confusedly. "Isn’t that Shizun your husband? Why do you want to take me with you? Aren't you like, happily married?"

It's Luo Binghe's turn to be confused. Fucking confused, it seemed, judging by his expression.

"From which novel does Xiao Shizun know this Lord?" Luo Binghe asks in an even dangerous tone of voice.

Shen Yuan has no idea what the name is. What he does: he searches for Luo Binghe on the internet and hands the smartphone and the results to Luo Binghe. Luo Binghe holds the phone in absolute bewilderment, and as he reads, his expression twists into at least seven different forms of horror.

At least he doesn't break his screen with the black claws. Damn, that would have been horrible.

"This Lord understands," Luo Binghe says, his expression flat and absolutely blank. He gives the smartphone back to him and Shen Yuan quickly takes it back. "This Emperor has been wrong, again. Offering apologies."

Shen Yuan feels a little sorry for the interdimensional traveler who accidentally fell into his apartment. Okay, he hasn't read that danmei novel, but the protagonist's design is GREAT. The man also looks quite... dejected. As if the weight of the world had fallen off his shoulders.

"Oh, all right, it happens to the best too" he says, shrugging. The look Luo Binghe gives him is not reassuring. "Look, ah... I can't cook to save my life, but I ordered some stuffed baos for dinner in a nearby restaurant. They haven't left the kitchen yet, so I can order a couple more of them if you'd like to stay for dinner. It must be exhausting, you know, go through... worlds?"

Luo Binghe continues to look at him with a strange look. In fact, his gaze is getting more and more stranger.

"It would be a pleasure for this Lord" he says, raising both eyebrows. "Can this Lord get your name?"

"Shen Yuan," he says nonchalantly. He returns to his phone, grateful that his baos are still cooking and he can add more to the order. "I'll add more to the order. Err— Lord Luo prefer beef or pork?"

Luo Binghe doesn't reply. Shen Yuan adds one and one. And a few other things. Usually, he's content with a big stuffed bao, but perhaps his, uh, guest will eat more?

"Anything is fine," is Luo Binghe's reply, and Shen Yuan adds an extra order of soup and snacks as well. Ah. His order will take a while, but he hopes it will arrive in time for when the latest chapter of his favorite webnovel is uploaded.

... Although he doubts he'll be able to read it in peace if Luo-fucking-Binghe is still there. Well, he'll read it tonight, when he's already in bed.

"It may take a while" Shen Yuan says, bewildered, not knowing what to do. Ugh. He hates having visits. Does it count as visits if a fictional character basically invaded his property? Shen Yuan isn't going to go into much detail about that. "Eh, Lord Luo could... sit down? Make yourself comfortable? Make yourself at home meanwhile?"

Luo Binghe looks at him with a raised eyebrow. However, he does as Shen Yuan suggests and sits down. Shen Yuan turns his back on him, arranging the chair he knocked over and some of his mess made in the panic of seeing A FUCKING PORTAL OPENS OUT OF NOWHERE, wondering if he's finally gone completely crazy.

But it's there. Luo Binghe for some reason came to his house talking about Shizun and Xiao Shizun and knowing that he was in a story, and Shen Yuan is too confused to ask any questions. He has too many. He needs to sort out his thoughts.

"Shen Yuan looks nervous," Luo Binghe says, saying his name for the first time and almost making Shen Yuan react as if he had been stabbed. It's too much!! What the hell!? "Is this Lord intimidating to him?"

"So much for a, uh, love interest," he says, making an awkward face. "I haven't read the novel where are you from, sorry. I'm not completely familiar with... well, with how your personality can be. But... for arts and some things, I expected less, eh, intimidating, yeah."

He remembered many tears. And something about a lamb. NOT THIS.

Luo Binghe laughs. Incredibly, that's also intimidating.

"If Shen Yuan hasn't read this novel, what novels has he read?" Luo Binghe asks.

... Forty minutes later, as Shen Yuan rushes up to collect dinner from the door, he wonders how good an idea it is to completely infodump Luo Binghe about his current favourite stallion novel, And most of all, about [character], his absolute favorite protagonist. Nobody can't blame Shen Yuan!!! He... Never gets the chance to talk about his favorite things outside of the internet!! And he spoke: about the characters, their developments, he went into great depth about his complaints about the mediocre worldbuilding and the lack of interesting flora and fauna for such a vast cultivation world, but highlighted every good point in the plot. Given the ENORMOUS length of the novel, 40 minutes was just a summary!! Hardly anything!!

While they are having dinner, Luo Binghe insists on seeing [character]. He has a very intense expression when Shen Yuan runs straight to his room and comes back with one of his framed posters. What!? He's a fan, it's totally normal!! [Character] was an absolute power fantasy, a magnificent, admirable character!! Definitely!! It's normal that he has a lot of his posters! And fanmade figures! And commissioned art!! Totally normal!!!

Luo Binghe looks serious as Shen Yuan continues to talk about [character], deepening his tragic backstory, his difficult beginnings, how he had to rise through hatred and prejudice. How he discovered his heritage and power and how he achieved the glory he always deserved!!

And Luo Binghe asks many, many questions. He asks so many questions that, haha, Shen Yuan would think he was considering challenging [character] to a fight. But he- he definitely couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't, right? Well, with an OP sword like that capable of leaving its own reality, who knows!!

Dinner drags on because Shen Yuan talks too much. When it's finally over, he's actually not sure he wants to leave the poor love interest from that danmei novel adrift. Yes, he can go... But Shen Yuan isn't sure he's safe! He still looks very tired! He probably needs a good night's sleep! Besides, he ate too much! Crossing worlds on a full stomach might be bad for him!

Shen Yuan then prepares the guest bed and offers it to him. Usually, his Da-ge or Er-ge usually stays, or his Meimei, so the room is clean and suitable, and only when Shen Yuan is left alone after the long night does he notice that there is an notification that he had been waiting for on his smartphone.

YES! THE UPDATE!! Shen Yuan doesn't even make it to bed. He throws himself onto the sofa and quickly opens the door to read.

... Thirty minutes later, he's choking on rage. WHAT THE HELL? WHAT HAPPY ENDING WAS THAT? THE STALLION PROTAGONIST SIMPLY DECIDING, AFTER A LONG CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT ARC OF ANOTHER UNNECESSARY NPC, THAT NOTHING MADE HIM HAPPY? LOCKING HIMSELF IN HIS PALACE AND SINKING WITH IT? WHAT WAS THAT? AND WHY?

Dumbfu—

Shen Yuan catches a glimpse of blue light at the edge of his eye before something catches him, repositioning him so he can breathe deeply without choking on his breath. The thing holding him up is, of course, the only other living thing in his apartment—a danmei character who helps him take a deep breath even with tears in the corners of his eyes, swallowing a little water, making him realize how choked he really had been.

"Is Shen Yuan alright?" Luo Binghe asks.

And all Shen Yuan can say, barely able to breathe on his own, is: "WHAT KIND OF CRAPPY ENDING IS THAT?"

Luo Binghe's gaze does not look surprised.

"Shen Yuan must be very upset" he says, as if this is nothing new. "So angry. Enough to choke on rage."

Shen Yuan pouts a little embarrassed. Oh, well. What does it matter?

"It really is a bad ending" he complains, and tells him.

In the end, Luo Binghe agrees that it's a shitty ending. Luo Binghe proves genuinely interested in hearing Shen Yuan's opinions, but also in providing solutions and arguments. He's a fun person to talk to. They talk about better endings, how the protagonist's emptiness could have been fixed, and how sometimes a single bond could be enough instead of a harem, until Shen Yuan starts yawning.

When Shen Yuan falls asleep that night, for the first time, even surrounded by posters and pictures of his favorite character, he is not thinking of him, but of Luo Binghe.

(In the morning, Shen Yuan will be given a breakfast that Luo Binghe made—the most exquisite thing in the absolute fucking world—and will try to talking about all that other world stuff, about how he had made a mistake again, or Shizun and Xiao Shizun thing. Luo Binghe evades his questions very well and always makes an excuse to stay longer and longer as the days go by, his novel guest basically takes over his kitchen, takes the guest room hostage, and takes the control about the cleanliness and order of the apartment. Shen Yuan worries a little, after all, isn't Luo Binghe very peaceful here away from that husband of his? Didn't the internet say their relationship was very codependent? What is he missing out on there?

... And why does he notice more and more of his favorite character's merch missing every day? Binghe has been cleaning, yes, but why would he take his stuff away!?)

#THIS ENDED UP BEING LONGER THAN I EXPECTED #I had so much fun writing this lol #svsss #svsss ideas #svsss au #mxtx svsss #the scum villain's self saving system #original luo binghe #shen yuan #bingyuan #binggeyuan #i thought: under what concept in the world would shen yuan not be a fan of luo binghe?#and my mind: if luo binghe were from a danmei novel shen yuan's ass in the closet wouldn't read it. then he wouldn't be a fan of him.#that resulted in THIS #lbg: oh no it's the wrong shizun again :(#sy: *is kind and nice to him*#lbg: ... the search is over #yea shen yuan was going to die that night. and he would transmigrate in that stallion novel.#luo binghe will not let that happen #luo “look may not be your favorite character but can be your favorite person” binghe #shen “don't you have a husband to go back to???” yuan #they'll talk about it. not soon.#would be funny if shen yuan's favorite character was very similar to liu qingge #hehehehehe #long post #veeeery long post

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smutoperator · 3 months ago

Text

Like a Demon

Bae Joohyun (Irene) x Male Reader

Tags: begging, crime, creampie, dungeon, (lots of) edging, female domination, facesitting, handcuffing, kidnapping, nymphomaniac, riding, sex demon, supernatural, table sex, worshipping

Word count: 4378

It just seems like a regular night. You go to the bar, order a cocktail, and watch the most recent onslaught of bad news coming from the TV. The drink arrives; you enjoy it—just another day.

There is until a woman occupies the chair by your side.

"Hello," the 30-something woman starts talking to you. She wears a beautiful red dress. "You must be doing a lot of business," she says, looking at the suit you're wearing as she drinks her whisky while the news talks about the story of a woman that has been running over town kidnapping men.

"What a crazy story, don't you think?" you ask her as you try to talk to the woman on your side. "Definitely, I've never seen something like this before," she answers. "By the way, what is your name?" you then pivot. "Bae, but people prefer to call me Irene instead," she says.

"Alright, Irene," you say to her. "I'll be back soon; I need to go to the bathroom," you tell her. Irene patiently waits as you take your time, checking more news about the case you saw on TV out of curiosity, until you read the description of the woman.

"A very short, dark-haired, pale-skinned Asian girl."

You go back to the bar and look at Irene, who perfectly fits it. "I have to go now," you tell her as you move toward the car, but just as you are about to enter the door, you feel a vampire-esque biting on your neck that makes you suddenly collapse.

You wake up in a dungeon, completely naked with your hands tied. Irene is right there by your side as she starts running her soft hands over your legs. "I can feel your body craving for something," she says, the movement of her hands matching with your throbbing cock.

"Please, have mercy," you ask Irene, knowing that you are completely screwed. "Did you say something?" Irene asks, pretending not to hear you pleading. "Please, don't hurt me," you beg harder.

"Hurt?" Irene asks. "I'm not going to hurt you; quite the opposite, I want to please you," she continues, touching her soft hands on your shaft and running circles around the tip of your cock. "Follow my orders, and I won't hurt you," she says.

"Alright," you say, panting as Irene starts edging you. Her face is insanely gorgeous, but the work her hands make around the tip of your cock is probably even more divine. "As long as you don't cum without my permission, I won't hurt you," she says.

You try to resist the magic touch of Irene's hands, but she makes it very hard for you. "If you cum, you're going to die," she tells you as she increases the heat on your cock.

Irene slowly starts using her tongue over your cock. "Oh yes," you tell her as her thirsty red lips make their way into your shaft. She puts your cock slowly in her mouth, tasting it very patiently as she runs her tongue over your shaft, enjoying your torso moving as you breathe loudly just to survive her sexy mouth.

"Oh yes, oh yes, I want you so badly, please," you moan as Irene does what she pleases to your cock, her beautiful mouth driving you insane and sucking the soul out of you like a demon. She closes her eyes and tastes your throbbing cock with lots of hunger, moving her tongue around your tips as she shoves it deeper and deeper in her mouth and enjoys you groaning and moaning.

"Oh my God," you say as Irene gives you her first deepthroat, stroking your shaft and watching it throb. "Look at you, baby, shaking so hard with my touch, begging for more," Irene says as she keeps going with the blowjob, getting louder with the movements of her mouth and faster with her strokes.

"More, please," you beg Irene as you look into her beautiful face. "Put it deep in your throat," you beg her. "Oh fuck," you then groan as Irene gives you a huge deepthroat. Irene smiles; she's got your cock completely under her control.

"Tell me what you want, baby," Irene says to you. "I want more," you answer her. "Louder," she answers. "I WANT MORE," you say with all your energy, Irene ready for more soul-sucking blowjobs, as she puts it in her mouth. "Oh my God, that's so good," you moan as she massages your balls and gets your shaft even more wet.

You keep telling Irene how good her cocksucking skills are as she moves faster and faster with your shaft. She touches your tip, toying with your cock. "Baby, please," you beg her. "Let me hear it," she says. "Please, I want more," you tell Irene, her licking your shaft and starting another round of cocksucking. "Just like that, please," you tell her.

"I want you so fucking badly, oh my god," you tell Irene. "Tell me," she says. "I want your mouth all over my cock; I want to feel your touch; I want to fuck you." You show your intentions to her as Irene now gives you a no-hands blowjob.

"Yes, please, just like that, fuck," you tell her, Irene now moving crazy fast and bobbing her head all over your shaft, enjoying every second of it. "Give me more," you beg her as Irene stops for more playing before getting away from you, walking across the room with her.

Irene massages your torso with her feet and then puts it in your mouth. You lick it, worshipping another beautiful part of her body. She puts a foot on your neck as she twists her hand once again all over your cock, stroking it quite hard this time while staring at you with sexy eyes.

"Oh yes, don't stop, you're going to make me cum," you tell Irene before she ruins your orgasm. "Fuck, you're edging me so good," you tell her as your cock pulsates. "Please, keep going," you beg her as the cock stroking continues, her laughing in your face as you almost lose your breath.

"Keep going, make me your little slave, take it," you keep begging Irene, who strokes your cock like a crazy demon before sucking it a little more with a hard head-bobbing. "Hmmm, delicious," she says with her right foot in your mouth as you try to survive her fast strokes.

"Do you want to cum, baby?" Irene asks you. "YES, FUCK," you scream as she pushes really hard. "Please, have mercy on me," you continue to beg. "Well, I told you the rules: if you cum right now, I'll kill you," she says.

"Alright, I won't cum," you tell Irene as she looks at you with hungry eyes, slowly taking off her dress and unveiling the sexy black lingerie underneath it. "How much do you want me?" she asks you. "I'd do anything to have you," you tell her.

"Would you eat my ass and my pussy to have that big fat cock inside me?" Irene asks. "Yes, of course," you answer her. Irene hears you and starts climbing on top of the table. "Oh my god," you say as you admire her beautiful, cute butt, and she takes her panties off, unveiling her already dripping wet pussy.

"Oh yes, please," you say as Irene slowly sits on your face. "Oh, I want it," you tell her as Irene starts moaning while you worship her pussy. "Ahhhh, baby," she says as she presses her hands on your chest. "YEAH," she celebrates as you start tonguing her folds, Irene grabbing your cock and massaging it.

"You're under my full control, ahhhh," Irene says as she turns into a moaning mess, your face all over her wet cunt. She grinds on your face, putting you under total submission while she edges your cock. "OH YEAH BABY," she screams.

Irene covers your face with her juices as you don't stop working around her folds. She looks at your wet face, kissing you and cleaning it up. "You did a good job with my pussy; keep going, baby," Irene says as you oblige, tonguing her clit and making her moan, working your mouth like crazy as you give her pink pussy the treatment it deserves.

Irene moans like a good slut. "OHHHH YEAHHH, DON'T STOP BABY," she screams, her tits almost popping out of her bra as you make her cum multiple times with your tongue. "OH FUCK, AHHHH," Irene groans as you keep working your magic, her now bouncing her ass in your face.

"Please, lick it, oh fuck," you beg for Irene as she gets out of your face and sucks your cock again. "I want more," you once again beg. "Do you?" she aggressively asks. "Yes, I do, please," you answer her.

"Then eat my ass," Irene orders as she gets back on top of you, leaning forward as she lets you bury your face in her butt. "Ahhhh," Irene moans. "Thank you," you tell her, savoring her asshole that smells like a flower while she strokes your cock.

"Ahhhh, fuck, yeah," Irene moans as she gets her ass eaten out, bobbing her head on your cock using her hands to muffle her moans. "Oh baby, you eat that ass so good," she tells you, moaning loud as she sucks your balls while you grab her waist to firmly grip her ass.

"OH FUCK," Irene moans as your tongue runs all over her asshole, trying to compete with more cock-sucking. She gets sideways, but you worship her feet. "Remember, you can't fucking cum until I tell you," she says. "Whatever you say, you're my master," you tell her.

Irene sits on your face and strokes your cock. "OH MY GOD, AHHHH," she moans, enjoying the work you give to her holes. "Turn around," she tells you as she starts massaging your cock from behind. You can feel her folds rubbing against your back as she moves. "You've got such a beautiful cock, so long and thick, throbbing for me," she says as she grabs your balls and runs her hands all over it.

"Your cock looks so big in my hand," Irene says as she strokes it, edging you while squeezing your balls in her right hand. "Fuck, this has so much length and girth; I can't wait to have it in my pussy. Such a big fat cock, I've been yearning for it for so long," she continues.

"I love how your cock feels in my hands, such a gorgeous thick cock," Irene says as you just close your eyes not to cum while she edges you, using the spit she left all over it to slide with ease, giving your shaft the best possible massage.

"Fuck, this cock is gonna feel so good between my legs; it looks so delicious," Irene says as she squeezes some precum out of your cock with her massage. "So much precum for me; you must be really holding strong for my pussy," she tells you.

"Lean on your back, baby, let me sit on this cock," Irene says as she takes off her bra, showing you her bare, perky boobs. "Do you want my pussy?" she asks you. "Yes, please, give it to me," you beg her. But Irene is in no rush, circling the tip of your cock in her entrance and teasing you.

"Oh my God, use me, please, use me, give me that pussy," you keep begging Irene. "Please, please, please," you say as Irene continues to tease, rubbing your cock between her cracks before she inserts it in her tight pussy.

"Oh my God, fuck, it feels so good," you tell Irene as she finally sinks your cock in her wet cunt. She runs her hands on your torso and starts very slowly, just putting half of your length inside. "Tell me how much you want that pussy," she tells you as your cock slides out of it. "My life depends on it; please, put it back in," you beg her.

Irene uses the accidental sliding out as an opportunity for more teasing, showing you she's in complete control. "Put it back in; I want it so bad. Your pussy is so good; yes, please," you keep begging as she slides back in, moving her hips very calmly as she kisses you. "Oh fuck," you groan as Irene kisses your neck.

"You're all mine, baby," Irene whispers in your ear as she grabs your neck. "Faster, please," you beg her as Irene sinks your cock deeper in her pussy. "Yes, please," you tell her.

"I'll make you scream," Irene says as she grinds on your cock. Pressing on your chest hard, she finally starts to pick up the pace. "I want you to use my cock for your pleasure," you tell her, Irene running her hands over her hair as she bounces on you, her erected nipples pointing hard in your direction.

"Want to watch that cock going in and out of my beautiful pussy?" Irene asks, spreading her legs and showing your shaft buried in her warm hole. "Yes, please," you tell her. Everything Irene asks you to do, you will. She slowly bounces up and down on your cock. "It feels so good inside me," she says, her moves driving you crazy.

Irene takes your cock out of her pussy one more time, sitting her folds on top of it and grinding on your shaft. "You said you wanted me to use that cock for my pleasure, baby boy," Irene says, enjoying your tip rubbing against her clit. "Teasing that cock, I love it," she says.

"Please, put it back inside; I want more," you tell Irene. "I don't think you want it; show me, baby," she answers. "I do, please," you keep begging. "I want your pussy, yes, Irene, please," you continue to plead.

Irene finally commits as she puts your cock back in her pussy. "Oh my god, just like that, bounce on my cock," you tell her, Irene suddenly flipping a switch and going really hard. "OH YEAH, AHHHH," she moans as your cock impales her tight hole, her legs shaking as her wet pussy doesn't take long to get on the verge of orgasm.

Irene briefly pauses her ride for you to beg more. "Let me hear you," she says. "Please, please, please," you keep begging. "How much do you want it?" she asks. "I want it so badly," you answer. Irene feels pity for you, turning around and grinding on your cock while she shows you her ass. "I need your pussy," you beg as your shaft seems so close yet so far at the same time, rubbing it against her folds like a toy she decides when she wants to play with it.

"Oh yeah," you groan as Irene makes good work of your cock. "I love to fucking use that cock," Irene says as she spins on your cock, finally showing her riding prowess to the fullest.

Irene picks up the speed, getting your cock all the way in her pussy while rotating all over it. "Let's see how strong you are," she tells you. "It's so fucking deep in your pussy; that feels so good," you tell her as she continues to move, pushing your cock to the edge with beautiful bounces as she opens and closes her legs.

"Oh my God," you groan as Irene now moves at full speed. "Yeah," she groans, moving her legs really fast and moaning loudly. "AHHHHH," you groan loudly. "OH FUCK, YES, YES," she moans, fingering her clit and getting herself ready to cum, her legs trembling as she gets your shaft all the way inside her.

"Yes, yes, baby, bounce on that cock," you tell Irene as she makes the table creak. "Fuck, baby, that cock is so good, I'm gonna cum," she says as she coats your cock full of her juices.

Irene pulls out one more time and turns in your direction, massaging your balls while she looks in your eye. "Look how I own this cock, I'm in full control of you, baby boy," she says, moving the massage upwards to your shaft, pushing it to the edge one more time. She looks at you one more time. "Keep telling me how much you want it," she says. "I want it so bad," you answer her again as Irene runs her hands on your torso.

Irene offers you her wet pussy for you to suck as you make her squirt, grinding it on your face while she keeps stroking your cock, covering your face with her juices. "OH YEAH FUCK," she says as you worship her pussy, eating it out like an animal as she closes her legs on your head. "OH MY GOD, YES, YES, EAT THAT PUSSY, BABY," she begs.

"I wanna touch you; I wanna feel you, please," you continue to beg as Irene now gets on top of you, the scent of her perfume all over your nostrils. She unties your wrists from the table as you keep kissing her body. "Are you ready to touch me further, baby boy?" she asks, setting you free.

You run your hands all over Irene's tiny, beautiful body, kissing her as she sniffs you. "Please, I want more," you say it again. "You want more?" Irene asks, putting herself sideways as you insert your cock back in her pussy. "Oh yes," you groan as Irene's tight folds wrap around your shaft one more time.

"Go nice and slow, baby," Irene tells you, and you initially oblige but quickly pick up the pace. "Oh yes, baby, fuck me," she says, moaning as she moves her hips in response to your thrusts. "Look at me giving that cock some long strokes with my beautiful pussy," she says.

"Speed it up, baby," Irene commands as you fuck her even harder, your balls smashing against her throbbing clit as you grab her waist. "I want all of it, deep in your fucking pussy," you tell her. "OHHH YESSS BABY," she moans.

"Fuck me, baby, fuck me until you cum inside my pussy," Irene tells you as you start fingering her clit. "YES, YES, YES, AHHH, FUCK," she moans, closing her eyes as her legs shake and she creams all over your cock. "GIVE ME MORE, PLEASE, OH MY GOD," she begs, the sound of your balls clapping her cheeks getting louder.

"YEAH, YEAH, OHHHH, FUCK," Irene moans even louder. "Oh my God, your pussy is so tight," you tell her. "Please, baby, make me cum; that's it," she says, louder sounds coming from you pounding her. "Put it back in," she is now the one begging as your cock goes out just for a bit before going back inside with full force.

You grope Irene's beautiful tits as the pounding continues. You intensely finger her clit. "OH MY GOD, YES, BABY, MAKE ME CUM," she begs as her pussy now gets stretched out hard. "THAT'S IT, THAT'S IT, RIGHT THERE, RIGHT THERE, AHHHH," she commands.

"HARDER, HARDER, HARDER, I'M GONNA CUM," Irene says as she squirts hard. You push your face into her pussy, eating it all out as you kiss her, before putting it back inside her, drilling her in a hot missionary position as you grab your tie and wrap it on your neck, letting her choke you.

Irene puts the tie on your mouth as you increase the pressure in her pussy, moaning as you finger her clit really hard, laughing as you turn yourself into a crazy animal. "Worship me, baby, kiss my body," she says, getting herself on all fours.

You fuck Irene on all fours like crazy. "Fuck me hard, yes, yes," she says, you spanking her ass as her juices leak into the table as her cunt gets stretched out. "OH MY GOD, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YEAH, FUCK ME HARDER," she continues to beg, moving her hips in your direction.

"Right there, baby, don't stop; pound that pussy," Irene continues to command, her palms on the table as you fuck her hard. "OH MY GOD YOU'RE SO FUCKING DEEP, AHHHH," she moans. You grab her arms, using her hard. "YES, YES, FUCK, THAT'S SO DEEP," she screams. You hit her pale pink ass, finally getting to dominate her as you let your animalistic instincts take off.

"Put it back in, keep going," Irene softly whispers as you pull out. You tease her pussy, giving it small thrusts before going back to a hard pounding, Irene spreading her legs over the table as you hit her ass but smiling at all times and showing you she's still in control.

You eat Irene's ass and play with your thumb on her clit. "Yes, baby, eat my ass," she commands as your tongue is all over her pink anal folds. "HARDER, HARDER, PUT YOUR FINGER IN MY CLIT AND YOUR MOUTH IN MY ASS, FUCKKKK," she says, you massaging her clit now very hard and making Irene squirt all over the table.

You insert your cock back in Irene's pussy, pounding her hard as you lick her feet. "Yes, that's what I want to see baby, worship every inch of my body," she says. You grab her tits too, sucking them as you pound her pussy. "YESSS, FUCK," she moans, fingering herself as you are more addicted to her pussy than ever, making her body bounce all over the table.

"Don't stop, baby, keep rubbing my fucking clit, yes, harder, don't stop, fuck," Irene commands as her body shakes with your thrusts. "I'M CUMMING, I'M CUMMING, I'M CUMMING, YEAHHH," she says, squirting as you kiss her and then worship her body one more time.

You lie on the table, letting Irene voraciously suck your cock, jerking it off nonstop as she bobs her head on it. "I bet the cum from your cock tastes so good," she says, deepthroating you and giving you a no-hands blowjob before sitting back on your cock and bouncing hard on it.

"Yes, yes, yes, baby, give me all of that cock," Irene says as she rides you like a maniac. "You like watching me being a slut and squatting all over that cock?" she asks, going at full speed.

"FUCK, YES, YES, YES," Irene moans as you suddenly push upwards into her delicious cunt. "OH MY GOD, FUCK, THAT'S IT," she says, you putting your legs up and attacking her pussy nonstop, clapping her cheeks hard. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK," she screams, you grabbing her body as her perky tits bounce all over her face.

Irene grabs your neck, retaking control as she rides you hard and makes you groan. You still push up, going crazy for her tight pussy. But despite her little frame, she's just too strong, squatting like crazy on your dick and pushing you to complete submission.

"You're gonna make me fucking cum, you fucking slut," you tell Irene. "Then I want you to cum in my pussy," she replies. "For real?" you ask her. "Yes, I'm going to take all of your cum. I want all that fucking cum inside me. Give it to me; cum inside my little fucking pussy," she begs you. "I don't know if it's a good idea," you hesitate. "Of course it is, especially because I'm not on the pill," Irene replies.

"Oh damn, I'm gonna cum," you tell Irene. "Yes, baby, do it just like I want it; give it to me," she says. "AHHHHHH, fuck," you start to groan as your cock prepares to fill Irene's womb with your seed. "Yes, baby, give it to me, every last drop," she says.

You cum inside Irene, with her grabbing a string of semen coming out of your cock and digging it inside her pussy before taking a bit of it to taste. "This is my cum," she says, tasting it and savoring it as she opens her tongue, looking at you very naughtly. "All of your cum belongs to me; are we clear?" she asks. "Yes," you answer her as Irene licks the last drop of cum that fell into the table.

"That's it, baby," Irene says. "You have been a good boy, but you already gave me all I wanted. After you feed me that cum in my pussy, you are no longer useful to me," she finishes, giving you one last kiss that sucks your soul out of you until you fall completely unconscious.

You wake up the next day still completely naked. But this time, it's not Irene that is there, but a bunch of cops, who give you some clothes as they take you out off her dungeon. It's all over the news now that the men kidnapper has been arrested.

As the cops take you to jail for an inquiry, you briefly cross paths with Irene, her now handcuffed as she's taken to her cell. They briefly ask you. "Is this the woman that kidnapped you?" "Yes," you answer, taking your revenge on Irene for her not finding you useful anymore, although deep in your heart you still have feelings for her, and just seeing her ethereal beauty in front of you gets you hard again.

"Ok, you can go home now," the cop instructs you, and you do just that. You check the news. Irene is all over it, but you're so bad at it that you start touching yourself and jerking your cock off to her pictures and videos on the TV and other sites, searching for every story about the kidnapper just to see her one more time.

The next morning arrives, and you come back to the jail, but as you get there, nobody receives you. The room is quite dark, and you can feel Irene's devilish energy all over the building. No one is around, making you quite scared. You go towards the cells with the prisoners, finding the guards unconscious on the floor, their pants unzipped, as you get closer to an open cell, the silhouette of a small, seductive woman appears in your sight as she takes her jacket off and gets herself naked in front of you.

"Did you miss me?"

#irene smut #red velvet smut #female idol smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #male reader smut

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studiogrimm810 · 2 months ago

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Yes, Ma’am

// Est. Dean Winchester x afab!you

summary: after a night out with dean, someone gets a bit touchy with him and you need to reassert yourself in his eyes so he knows exactly who you are to him // 2.7k //quick content: MDNI!!! smut, submissive dean, car sex, kinky sex, dominate woman, eventual praise, make up sex, pwp

A/N: this was a request!! based off of the songs miss possessive and sports car, pleeeease i LOVE submissive dean and i love getting a man to his knees, that is ALL

p.s. im back bitches :]

You knew better than to bring him here. Really, you did. But all you wanted was to dance with your man in a sea of drunk people having the time of their lives. You loved clubbing in your college days- the beat in your chest, dancing until you’re breathless, meeting new people, drinking your paychecks and when you were out of cash, you’d get some poor fucker to buy you a drink under the guise of getting you naked. You knew the moves and it’s easily recognized as the tiny thing with pretty blue eyes, and an outfit you wouldn’t necessarily sport yourself, slithers up to Dean’s side with a pearly grin.

A building bubble of annoyance pressed against your sternum as you wait for the bartender to get done with your drinks. The girl is definitely here on spring break and is using a classic girl-move on your man.

Dean seems unimpressed but he isn’t shooing her away, damn his charm and people-skills. You know he isn’t intentionally flirting, but with a face like that, any attention will be taken as a praise of itself.

With drinks in your hand and a confident posture, you walk back to your shared table and set down his drink in front of him.

“Oh hey, are you lost?” You ask with a head tilt while fingering the straw of your martini to your vibrantly painted lips. The girl seems to deflate some but you can tell she’s persistent.

“Gabby here was just telling me about some friend of hers who saw a ‘monster’,” Dean emphasizes and you squint slightly at his insinuation of a case.

“Yes! Okay,” the girl, Gabby, takes a spare stool and slides in, her chest on full display as she leans in. Honestly you can’t blame her, the dress you chose hugs your ass just at the crease and the breast support in the damn thing could stun a room of men. Under different circumstances, you could see having a fun night out with Gabby, but for the introduction she had in your night, you’re already done with her presence. “My friend swears she saw some crazy shit. Now I haven’t taken shrooms myself, but I was there and when I tell you she was totally freaked!” Gabby laughs, moving her hands as she talks- hands that end up on Dean's arm casually, as if they’re close like that or something.

Dean rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his old fashioned, realizing the girl was just full of it.

“Right,” he nods, giving you a look that says ‘girl is a waste of time’ but you barely acknowledge it as you stare daggers at Gabby- her hand not moving.

“You two ever take any crazy stuff? Most I’ve done is a line that barely made it up my nose, shit burned,” she groans as she pouts, looking up at Dean. “You look like you could take it though.” She bumps him softly, pressing into his side.

“I don’t need substances to act irrationally,” you say before you mean to, alcohol making you overly confident. Gabby just gives you a ‘wtf, girl?’ look but your stone doesn’t shift. Dean just chuckles, seemingly oblivious to the girl’s advances, which pisses you off you may add.

“That’s my girl,” Dean hooks his arm around your waist, bringing you in and kissing your jaw. The height difference of your heels and him sitting on a barstool is just enough to give you a guard-dog mentality. Your lips lift into a claiming smile as Dean kisses your skin, your eyes still locked on the girl.

She sighs, starting to get the hint that maybe she can’t win this one, but damn is she confident.

“You guys could join me and my friends? We know some cool spots, we always come to the city when we’re out of school,” she suggests with a small shrug that hugs her cleavage tighter. Her eye contact remains on its priority of Dean’s emerald gems.

“We’re fine,” you decide, looking down on her, your heel advantage letting you loom over her as well. She looks frustrated at this point and you can tell Dean is enjoying the dominance you have over the situation. It makes you wonder if he entertained her attention just so you could intervene.

“He can speak, yaknow,” Gabby cringes as she folds her arms over her chest.

“Oh, she speaks for me,” Dean plays into it, leaning back and taking another sip of his drink. Gabby works her jaw, squinting up at you.

“Whatever,” she stands, “you both seem toxic anyways,” she scoffs, slithering back into the crowd of nameless dancers and forgotten faces.

Dean chuckles into the rim of his glass, his breath fogging the crystal. You take another sip of your drink, a ring of your lipstick stained to the straw.

“The hell was that?” You ask, setting your drink down and looking over at him, your frustration finding its second victim. He looks over at you, sweet mossy eyes shimmering as he takes in your form, a lazy smile showing sharp canines.

“She was harmless,” he shrugged simply, warm eyes relaxing in your shine.

“She was a pest,” you bite, eyes carrying back to where she vanished to make sure she wouldn’t reappear.

“She’s gone,” he sets his glass down, grabbing your waist and pulling you between his knees. “Relax, baby, she’s just drunk and I thought she would bring us a case,” he says, looking up at you, club’s lights reflecting off his eyes like fireworks.

It’s hard to just forgive and forget, to move on like the jealous rage in your chest didn’t scream at you to assert your claim over your man. I mean, the audacity she had to just come out of nowhere and touch him. She pouted up at him. She was trying to get him to fawn over her and take her home or offer her a drink. You don’t realize the grip on Dean's thigh is just about bruising until he speaks up and brings you out of your graying cloud veined with lightning.

“I’m all yours, baby,” his fingers dig into your hips and he wets his lips. Your eyes draw to his lips, heart racing and throat full. You’re pissed.

You grab the stem of your martini and discard the straw, downing the drink and grabbing Dean's hand. He gets the memo pretty quickly so he finishes his drink swiftly, letting you drag him out of the club.

The bumping music blares from the now abandoned building as you make your way back to Dean's Impala that’s parked along the street. Dean maneuvers in front of you to open your door and help you in. He rounds the car and settles in the driver's side. He looks over at you to gauge your mood and your folded arms as you look out the window doesn’t prove his innocence in your mind, but he can’t help but drool a bit at the skin puffing over the neckline of your dress.

He opens his mouth to speak but you instruct “just drive”. He listens.

Music plays and the engine purrs as Baby runs the paved roads to take you far away from her. God, you just couldn’t get the situation out of your head. The overstepping, the butting in, the pouty face, the touchy hands.

“There,” you point to an empty parking lot behind a closed breakfast spot. Dean raises a brow but follows your instructions. You don’t even know what your plan is- yell at him? Yell about her? Have him explain himself? He didn’t really do anything wrong though, but fuck you just felt misplaced by the whole thing. Like you need to reinsert yourself back in his eyes.

Like you just needed to…

“Is she still bothering you? Sweetheart, I promise you, I don’t have eyes for anyone else,” he leans over after putting Baby in park. You look over at him, arms still folded and a scowl still contorting your features.

Before he can try and speak again, you pounce, grabbing his collar and claiming his lips back. It was unexpected by both of you, that much is obvious, but Dean still melts into your kiss, his hands roaming your body. You slide closer, kicking off your heels and straddling his lap. Your ass hits the horn and Dean chuckles into the kiss but it only pisses you off more. He leans down, hissing along your neck and down your jaw as he reaches for the lever to move the bench back.

Once the seat is shifted back, your manicured nails grip the roots of his dirty blonde hair and he gasps in surprise, his sharp teeth glinting as you take in his gaped mouth.

You bring him back to you, scooting closer and taking his lip between your teeth and he… whimpers?

Did Dean Winchester just whimper under you?

Your fury mends with something darker and it only fuels your need.

His hands hold your ass, running up the curve of your back and right back down, squeezing hard and keeping you close. You can feel him try and settle you on your back but you’re locked on top of him and refuse to move. You can feel his dick pressing into your barely clothed core and the hem of your dress rides up as you grind into him to show the hooks of your thong resting up to your waist. His fingers mess with the strings.

Your grip in his hair reforces and tugs him back so you can kiss along his jaw. The kisses are wet and sloppy, leaving a glistening trail of your mark. You make your way back up to his ear, whispering warm breath over his sensitive flesh.

“That was ridiculous,” you deem softly, taking his earlobe between your teeth and pulling another whimper out of him. God, that sound really melts that anger deep in your chest, but it isn’t enough just yet.

“Sweetheart-.”

“Don’t,” you warn, dropping your hold on his skin and pressing your lips to the other side of his neck as you force his jaw to open for you. He holds back another whine. “Don’t hold back, show me who you fucking belong to,” you demand before biting the skin just under his ear, sucking in his scent and pulling a low moan from him.

You can’t stop your lips from claiming him over and over again, especially as his trapped cock can only barely feel the brush of your distant lips, he can only rely on memory to ease his need.

“Look at me,” you push up, letting your ass rest on his dick with your full weight and his head is thrown back in a loud, whiny moan. You grab his jaw, pulling him back to you and the pressure parts his lips and his eyes are wide and observant, ready to listen.

“Apologize,” you instruct, your face a stone of foreshadowed repercussions.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he rushes out shaking his head and digging his nails into your hips to press you into him more. His eyes dip down to your tits as they threaten to spill past the low-v of your dress at any moment.

“I didn’t say look there, I said look at me,” you tighten your grip, a drunken haze puppeteering your limbs like an Irene Adler wannabe. You lean in like you’re about to kiss him but you stop, watching as he tries to arc forward to meet you, “I don’t believe you.”

A small, pathetic whine tugs out of his throat and he swallows, looking up at you again. You maneuver your body off of him enough to push him so that he’s laying down in the front seat. He stares up at you, his hands finding any opportunity to hold your hips.

“Baby, I promise, I only want you,” he pleads, looking up at you, panting and flushed. You straddle his waist, running a teasing hand up his chest and latching it between the buttons of his shirt. You manage to rip it open completely and trace your fingers down his chest.

“Those are just words,” you point, your eyes following your fingers but you can still feel his eyes on you. “I need something else,” you meet his gaze again and he practically melts with anticipation as you finally look at him again.

Your eyes on him makes him feel like the most powerful man in the world.

“Anything, gorgeous, anything you want,” he quickly abides, making you smile down at him. It’s a smile that makes him warm inside like he’s done something right.

“Scoot,” you flick a finger for him to move down as you lift off him to do so.

He listens without hesitation, even if his legs don’t have enough room on the driver's side.

“You’re gonna do me a favor and prove to me that I’m the only woman you see,” you reach a warm hand to cup his cheek, speaking softer than you have all night.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks, his eyes still wide and lustful, panting and so fucking ready for whatever you have in store.

You pierce an acrylic stiletto through your thong to snip off the fabric that you can easily replace later. He watches your movements, trying to guess what you’ll do next. You reach behind you to unfasten his belt. It’s a little tricky to do without seeing it, but you manage. Dean eyes stay glued to your tits as they ripple with your movement.

He groans as his dick springs free, throbbing in the steamy air of sex in the Impala. He wants so badly to reach down and touch himself but he’s guessing, based on your current control over the night, that it wouldn’t end well for him.

You stuff your shredded thong in his hand and scoot up closer and closer.

“You’re gonna take care of yourself while you take care of me, you got it? Show me how you live to make me happy,” the words leave your lips like a sweet commandment, like a vow he’d happily plead to to keep you smiling.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, repeating the only words he can think of besides your name.

He lets out a low groan as you hook yourself over his shoulders and plant your pussy right at his lips, trapping him between your heat and the squeaky leather seat.

When you decide enough has been enough, you settle fully, allowing him to bury himself in your lips. He’s needy and hungry but he knows your body and knows what you need to feel pure ecstasy. He’s holding back and you can tell.

“Good boy,” you ride, digging your nails into the leather and bracing your left arm on the dash. The praise sends a shiver to his dick as he strokes himself with your thong still in hand.

He moans into you, the hum prickling your sensitive skin and warming you up just right. His nose presses against your clit but he holds still, letting his tongue build you up until you’re right there.

Right on the edge, he waits until he can feel the tremble in your thighs and the squeak in your moans. Right until you grip onto his roots and show him you're ready. His tongue keeps steady and consistent as he now moves his face to circle his nose around your clit, ripping a melodic moan out of your throat.

The feeling is unlike any other and you don’t think you could ever even think straight enough to attempt to put it in words that would never give it justice.

Your body wracks with quaking pulses, and your senses are overstimulated as he moans into you with his own release and you can’t help but grind into him to spasm just right.

You settle back onto his chest, legs still hooked around him and thighs flooding along his face like a lonely island.

His lips shimmer with you and his smile basks under your eyes. His face is hugged by your plush skin and his cock is emptied onto your panties.

This man is yours.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>> check out my other works here

#supernatural #fanfiction #fandom #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean x reader #dean winchester imagine #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester smut

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woso-dreamzzz · 1 month ago

Text

Ballers II

Leah Williamson x Sister!Reader

Summary: The National Championship game

“Bueckers to Fudd. Fudd to Williamson, back to Fudd. Fudd…Williamson with the rebound! You bet!”

It’s an awful stream.

It’s of terrible quality and kind of glitchy and definitely on a bit of delay but it’s the best Leah could find. Her first two, high quality streams were flagged for copyright and she’d scrambled to find another one on the internet without missing too much of your game.

Leah thinks the team must think her mad as she paces back and forth, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as she glances up at the tv screen she’s co-opted for the next few hours.

Grace had tried to change it to something else but Leah had accidentally shouted at her so now the team were looking at her like she was about to pop a fuse or something.

“It’ll be fine,” Keira says dismissively,” They’re already leading. You’re worrying for nothing.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Leah hisses as you set up a screen and Azzi Fudd sinks a bucket,” Just…” She takes a deep breath. “Just…No one mention anything about the score. About the opposition. About…About anything.”

Tooney raises a hand. “Can we talk about how well she’s playing?”

Leah thinks for a moment before she delivers a curt nod. “We can.”

You’re leading the team in assists and currently are battling it out with Azzi for the most amount of points too.

But, most importantly of all, you’re smiling.

You’re having fun.

And you’re dominating.

“Williamson with the steal and the three points!”

“Williamson fouled and to the free throw line!”

“Wow, what a block by y/n Williamson!” Your name is on the commentator’s lips.

You might as well be skipping on air, Leah thinks. You're in cruise control and for some reason, it makes Leah's stomach bubble with unease.

It's been your flaw since childhood. Once you're in the groove, once you've started dominating, you start to think no one can touch you. You start to think that no one can stop you.

You grew up with Leah and Jacob as older siblings though. They always knew how to smack you back down to earth.

Leah knew she was an annoying older sister. She liked to ruffle your hair when you were both little. She liked to lord her height over you when you were still tiny.

You grew up with her and her antics and you rose to each challenge she set on you.

You got a bit cocky after that. Cocky like you are now as you sink a three and practically go skipping back to the other end of the court.

The grin on your face never disappears and Leah hopes that no one on the South Carolina team are looking to smack you down.

This is your last college game.

Not of the season.

But of your life.

You'd already told Leah during one of your late night catch up sessions that you were going to declare for the draft, that you were done with college.

This is your last game as a Husky, your last college game ever.

Leah wants you to go off on a high.

"I know you said not to mention the score-"

"Don't mention it!"

Keira ignores her. "But they've got a healthy lead. A ten point lead before the third quarter. It's looking good."

Leah buries her head in her hands as she falls back into her seat. "Don't jinx it," She groans," You're going to jinx it."

"I'm not jinxing everything. As if y/n is going to let that team lose. She and her girlfriend-"

"She doesn't have a girlfriend."

"Yes, sorry, I meant girlfriends-"

"She doesn't have girlfriends either!"

Keira snickers and Leah knows she's only doing it to try and redirect the nerves. "I'm just saying, when you've kissed half the team-"

"I should have never told you that."

"You didn't tell me anything. I got it straight from y/n."

Leah rolls her eyes fondly just as her eyes focus back onto the screen where you stand giving an interview before you return to the locker room.

You're talking. Your lips are moving and the smile is still on your face even as you try to catch your breath. You're definitely speaking but it all fades away in Leah's ears as she smiles up at the screen.

She knows how much this means to you. She knows how much you want this championship, probably more than you've ever wanted anything before apart from, maybe, when you were six and you wanted those new school shoes with the little doll in the heel.

Apart from that, you want this championship more than anything you've ever wanted in your life.

You're smiling and you're laughing, out of breath, with the woman interviewing you.

But Leah can see it in your eyes.

She can see your hunger. She can see your drive. She can see the way that you're about to grasp this game by its neck until it gives you that trophy you've been craving.

There are levels to this game, Leah realises as you come out for the third quarter like you haven't just poured your whole being into the first two.

You're playing like you've been rested for two days. You're playing like you've had the best night sleep. You're playing like you're against a bunch of your kid cousins at home.

"And there's the buzzer!"

Leah can barely see you in the crowd of your teammates, all of you jumping and screaming and celebrating.

She's thankful that her own teammates haven't brought up the fact that she's crying. She's thankful none of them even look at her strangely for doing it.

They seem to realise how much this means to you and, in turn, just how much it means to Leah.

"Leah! Leah!" You say on the phone to her barely thirty minutes later," Leah, did you see?"

You're walking on clouds as you show Leah the trophy. You don't look like you've stopped smiling since the moment you stepped foot onto the court.

Leah's sure that tomorrow morning your cheeks will hurt from the grin that seems to have a permanent place on your features.

"Of course I saw!" Leah laughs," Look at you! A national champion!"

"National champion and most outstanding player!" You brag," But Paige won't let me wear the net."

"I'm sure she'll give it to you at some point."

"I'll make sure of it. She can't hog it forever!"

The joy on your face is infectious. Leah knows your smile reflects on her face.

"I'm proud of you," She says," So proud of you."

A crack shows on your face, brows pulling together for a moment before a much shyer smile appears on your features.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Leah says," I'm so proud of you. You deserve this more than anyone."

#woso x reader #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso

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chrissssssmut · 24 days ago

Note

Hi hello sir, I kindly ask a story with popular girls Asa and Ahyeon asking shy+nerdy mreader for help studying. No smut obviously and no need for yandere. Just fluffy stuff

Perks Of Being The Nerd

Asa & Ahyeon x Nerdy Male Reader

You didn’t expect much out of sophomore year.

Not fame. Not a girlfriend. Definitely not two.

Your goal was simple: survive AP Chem and keep your manga collection hidden from the occasional hallway tormentor. You were painfully good at blending in—until they happened.

Asa and Ahyeon.

The reigning queens of the junior class. Known for their looks, wit, and tendency to dominate literally every school event. Asa was sharp-eyed, tomboyish, and had a habit of chewing gum like it owed her money. Ahyeon was sweeter, mischievous, and occasionally so charming it felt like she was glitching the simulation.

And somehow, through some cosmic joke, they were now sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your perfectly highlighted notes like they belonged there.

“Okay, so explain covalent bonds again,” Asa said, squinting at the textbook like it had personally wronged her.

“They’re the ones where atoms share electrons,” you muttered, pushing your glasses up and refusing to make eye contact. You could feel both of them looking at you.

“That’s so cute,” Ahyeon said suddenly.

You blinked. “...Covalent bonds?”

“No,” she giggled, “you. When you explain things like you’re afraid we’ll break.”

“I—I'm not afraid,” you said, then immediately regretted it. “I mean, not of you. Just, like. Talking. In general.”

Asa smirked and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “You talk more when you’re passionate. Like, just now. You went full anime professor mode.”

Your heart skipped.

You were going to die. Right here. In your kitchen. Surrounded by girls way out of your league and a stack of flashcards.

It all started three days ago when Ms. Kim paired you up for peer tutoring. Apparently, Asa and Ahyeon were “slipping” in chemistry. You’d expected them to blow you off immediately.

But instead—

“Hey, you’re that smart kid, right? The one with the cute notes?” Asa had said, cornering you after class.

“You have the best handwriting I’ve ever seen,” Ahyeon added, eyes twinkling. “Can we study at your place?”

You said yes before your brain could stop you.

Which brings us back to the present.

“You make this stuff sound easy,” Asa said, tossing a pencil up and catching it. “I swear, if teachers explained things like you do, I wouldn’t be failing.”

“I-it’s not really hard,” you mumbled. “Just patterns and logic, mostly. Like code.”

Ahyeon tilted her head. “You code too?”

You nodded. “A bit. Mostly games. Visual novels, sometimes.”

“You’re like, the most interesting guy here and no one knows,” Asa said, stealing one of your erasers.

“Maybe because he’s hiding behind his bangs and hoodies,” Ahyeon teased, leaning toward you slightly. “We’re gonna fix that.”

“Fix what?”

“You,” they said in unison.

Somehow, “study sessions” became a regular thing.

They always brought snacks. Ahyeon liked lying on the floor with her feet up on your bed, whining about reaction rates. Asa always claimed the desk chair and spun in it until she got dizzy.

You tried to stay professional.

Tried.

But sometimes, Asa would lean over your shoulder and ask about a formula, her breath warm against your ear. Sometimes Ahyeon would rest her head on your arm while you explained things, and it was impossible to focus when your heart was beating like a drumline.

“You’re blushing again,” Asa said one afternoon, grinning like a shark.

You immediately buried your face in your hoodie.

“No fair,” you mumbled. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“But it’s cute,” Ahyeon chimed in. “And you never tell us what you think.”

“I—I do!”

“Okay,” Asa leaned in, eyebrow raised. “What do you think of us?”

You froze.

“I—I think you’re both…” You swallowed. “Very…good at learning?”

They stared at you.

“Wow,” Asa said, snorting. “That’s the nerdiest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“I love it,” Ahyeon said.

You peeked up at them.

And found two girls smiling at you like you’d just given them the moon.

“Hey,” Asa said quietly, after a silence. “You ever think about, like…dating?”

You choked on your juice box. “W-what?!”

“Not like that!” she added, laughing. “Okay, maybe like that. It’s just—we were talking, and you’re…kind of great?”

You blinked.

“You help us study, you’re smart, you make the best snacks, and your dog loves us.”

“And,” Ahyeon added, sliding closer to you on the couch, “you make me feel calm. Which almost never happens.”

Your face felt like it was on fire.

“Are you saying… you like me?”

“We like you,” they said in unison again.

“I—I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Ahyeon whispered. “Just let us hang out with you more. Maybe hold your hand sometimes. That okay?”

Your voice came out small. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

So that’s how it happened.

One minute you were the quiet nerd with an anime wallpaper and a carefully curated pen case, and the next you were dating the two most popular girls in school.

Well. “Dating” might be a strong word. It started with long tutoring sessions that turned into movie nights. Hand-holding during breaks. A cheek kiss here, a forehead bump there. Soft “good luck” messages before tests and chaotic selfies from their classrooms.

Sometimes you caught people whispering when you walked down the hall with them on either side.

But then Asa would glance at you, bump your shoulder, and smirk.

Ahyeon would flash you a grin like you hung the stars.

And suddenly, you didn’t care what anyone thought.

Because somehow, impossibly—you were their favorite nerd.

End.

(But they definitely make you teach them anime intros next week.)

#kpop fluff #fluff story #fluff scenario #fluff stuff #fluff #asa babymonster #ahyeon babymonster #fluff stories #fluff x reader #fluff fic #fluff fluff fluff #fluff fanfiction #fluff for once #fluff fanfic

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vettelsvee · 10 days ago

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CAKE TESTING | Lando Norris

PART OF ONCE UPON A WISH SERIES ˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ 2K FOLLOWERS EVENT ✧ F1 ROYAL AU

⋆ PAIRING: Prince!Lando Norris x Baker!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: During a cake testing, Lando reveals to you that he not might be as ready as everyone thinks he is to get married. To his surprise, that's exactly what you've been suspecting ever since you and your mom where force to provide the royal family for the royal wedding ⋆ WARNINGS: Curse words, mentions of death, physical aggressions ⋆ WORD COUNT: 2863 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: First fic of the 2k event! Hope you like it and, if so, reblogs and comments are truly appreciated! Thank you so much for reading <3 ↳ LET'S TALK/REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

“Remember what I’ve told you: smile constantly, bow every time you interact with someone unless you’re told otherwise, and only speak when someone speaks to you. And, for the love of God, darling, don’t you dare bringing up what happened to your father…”

You nodded, suppressing both a sigh and the urge to lash out at your mother.

The grand doors to the palace's hall creaked open, full of portraits of long-deceased monarchs whose painted eyes seemed to judge you the moment you stepped inside.

The Crown Prince of Vermora, Lando Norris, entered the room confidently, head held high, greeting the guards who lined the path leading directly to where you and your mother stood waiting.

You’d seen his face before. Actually, who hadn’t? Like every other girl in the kingdom, you had to admit he’d caught your attention too much. It started with his face being minted onto the kingdom’s currency when he came of age, and not long after, it dominated the covers of the few government-approved magazines allowed to circulate. They sang praises about how his studies in Caelondrose were shaping the future of the realm. Though, truthfully, most people were far more interested in the secret parties and illegal races he allegedly held with Charles Leclerc, fellow prince and heir of the neighboring kingdom.

As he came to a halt before you, you were just about to greet him until your mother stomped on your foot. Hard. Instead, you simply looked him in the eye, fighting the timidity creeping up your spine, and smiled as best you could before glancing toward the table overflowing with pastries you had spent the entire night baking alongside your mother and other staff members who offered to help you.

"Good afternoon."

He looked at the both of you, and you responded with a polite bow while his gaze lingered on the pastries, as if he were contemplating a life-altering decision… and maybe, just maybe, he was.

Your curtsy was clumsy, and had your mother not grabbed your arm at the last second, you might have toppled over.

To your surprise, Lando seemed to notice.

"Are you alright?" He asked with a barely contained, amused smile, his eyes subtly scanning you from head to toe.

You figured it was the uniform. It was, definitely, too small, though the royal seamstresses had assured you it was the most "flattering" cut available, specially for a shape like yours.

Flattering, your ass. You couldn’t even breathe in it.

"Of course," you lied quickly. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

Your forced smile vanished as your mother’s foot connected with your ankle again, this time so hard you nearly lost your balance. Thankfully, you only staggered slightly.

"I’ve gained a bit of weight, Your Highness," you added after steadying yourself. "You know, a baker doesn't just work on pastries… I have to taste them too, to ensure they're done right..."

This time, your mother’s fingers pinched your arm sharply, but you kept smiling through it.

To your surprise, Lando’s grin only widened, and his eyes sparkled, like someone rediscovering hope for a wedding you were fairly certain he wanted no part of.

"If it pleases Your Highness, we should begin the tasting," your mother interjected, cutting through the moment with a polite cough.

"Yes, yes… of course."

You moved quickly, placing a knife beside each cake and arranging plates across the table to help with the serving.

Lando stepped closer, casually standing beside you, his hands clasped perfectly behind his back while playing with his fingers. You glanced at him again, more shyly this time. That mischievous gleam in his eyes hadn’t faded.

"You know," he said, leaning in just slightly, "I think I already like you."

You didn’t read too much into it. You know he was just being polite with you. Still, that didn’t stop your cheeks from burning, as red as the strawberry ganache on the cake you were currently slicing.

The tasting began a few minutes later, once Lando’s parents arrived. After the requisite bows and formal greetings, your mother and you focused entirely on serving plates and cutlery, closely watching the royals’ expressions as they sampled each dessert.

Despite your attention being split between reading the royal faces and avoiding your mother’s glares, Lando kept drawing your focus back.

"So…" the prince spoke again, catching you off guard while you cleaned a few plates. You turned to face him instantly. "You’re the famous pastry chef everyone’s been talking about."

You shrugged, unsure how to respond.

“Baker, actually,” you corrected him. “But… depends. Are they speaking well of me?”

"Ever since you and your mother arrived," he confirmed. You sighed in relief. "Though I've been told you’re a little scary, you know? Apparently, your croissants are better than the palace kitchen’s, and now my parents are obsessed with them. Did you change maybe changed them?"

"If I’m being honest, I regret nothing," you replied.

He laughed, really laughed, and it was the first time you’d heard anything from him that wasn’t steeped in formality. It was genuine, disarming, and completely unlike the tight, polite chuckles you’d been taught to mimic in royal ceremonies ever since arriving at the palace, ever since you and your mother had, quite literally, become property of Norris’ Crown.

You chose to let the conversation end there. It wasn’t your place to speak so casually to the future king, especially about things unrelated to the wedding. Saying too much could cost you your job… or worse, your life. Just like it had cost your father.

Instead, your eyes shifted toward the tallest cake on the table: your favorite and the one most fitting for a royal wedding, in your opinion. It had seven or eight tiers, covered in smooth white buttercream. But it was the sugar flowers, cascading down the side, that made it truly breathtaking.

"It’s perfect," Lando murmured beside you. When you glanced at him, he was staring at the cake too, but with a distant look in his eyes, touched with sadness. "I guess my parents will choose that one. It’s the kind of wedding cake everyone loves."

"Everyone except you, maybe?"

You didn’t know why you said that. Regret hit instantly, and you prayed it wouldn’t put a target on your back, or even draw your mother’s attention to the boldness you knew you weren’t supposed to show.

Lando hesitated. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, ignoring the royal decorum he had so carefully maintained until now, he slumped into one of the chairs beside you and gestured for you to sit in the one next to him.

Obviously, you couldn’t refuse.

So, you obeyed.

"Do you want the official answer from Norris Crown, or the honest one?" the boy asked, running a hand through his hair even though it was already perfectly in place.

"The honest one, if possible," you whispered quickly, before your mother could interrupt.

Lando took a breath, then said what you had more or less already guessed.

"I don’t want to get married."

"Well…"

You didn’t want to laugh, not when he seemed so genuinely vulnerable. You thought of the right words, something to comfort him in a moment that mirrored your own: a future set in stone, unchangeable, no matter how much either of you wished otherwise.

"I guess it’ll be a bit awkward when you get married and cut the cake alongside your wife, huh?" you said at last. And this time, you didn’t regret the words, especially when you saw Lando’s crooked, bittersweet smile.

"You’re not wrong," he replied.

He nudged your chair a little closer to his, enough that your arms nearly brushed. It was comforting, the way he seemed to lower his guard, letting you see something real. So you matched his energy: you pushed aside the plates on the table and leaned forward, adopting an air far too casual for someone whose life, quite literally, was at risk.

"You know, it’s not like I’m thrilled to be here either, chosen with my mother to make all this," you said, gesturing at the cakes that surrounded you both.

Lando looked at you, really looked at you this time, with what it felt like pity. He didn’t give you an answer. Instead, he went back to sampling pastries, fulfilling his royal duty and clearly trying not to dwell too much on what you’d just shared.

A quiet fell between you. Somehow, without noticing when it started, you found yourselves tasting slices side by side, exchanging brief, half-whispered comments. They didn’t seem like much, but they were enough. Enough to learn just a little more about the prince, just enough to start seeing him as something more than as someone from the royal family.

Your mother remained busy with the king and queen, but when she looked over and caught you seated so close to Lando, chatting with him as if you were lifelong friends and not worlds apart, her face nearly lost all color. You weren’t just crossing a line. You were running straight past it.

This wasn’t appropriate, not when the prince was days away from his royal wedding, and you were just the hired help, a tool to ensure everything went perfectly.

"I think this one’s too sweet," you said, judging yourself, offering him a bite of vanilla cake from your fork. He didn’t hesitate to accept it.

"It’s cake," he replied, chewing. "It’s supposed to be sweet."

"Sure, but this one’s trying too hard. Like… it’s forcing itself to be sweet, more than it needs to. Like it’s pretending to be something it’s not. You know what I mean?"

Lando stared at you. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin.

"You’re terrible at metaphors," he chuckled. "And you’d make an awful therapist."

"That’s why I bake," you said with a smirk. "Pastries are edible therapy, didn’t you know?"

He paused, then dropped his voice.

"Have you ever thought about running away? Leaving everything behind and just… I don’t know, starting over?"

The question hit harder than expected, especially coming from him.

You’d only met a month ago, barely exchanged words until now. He was a prince, a future king, someone untouchable. And you… were a nobody. A baker. Someone whose future could vanish in the blink of an eye.

You looked around nervously at the cakes, your mother, the royal couple, the ornate palace walls, half-expecting a hidden camera to expose the whole conversation.

"Yes," you admitted, eyes still on your mother. "Since I was little. Since my father disappeared…"

You stopped yourself. You couldn’t go there, not with him. Especially not when he and his family might have had something to do with it, directly or not.

"Honestly," you continued quietly, "I’m not sure anymore if it would be better to start over… or just disappear entirely. If that makes any sense."

"It does," he whispered, cutting you off.

You met his gaze. And for the first time, you saw it, really saw it. He was tired too. Trapped, just like you. Maybe even more so.

You always thought he had everything. But what good was everything when none of it was what he wanted?

You barely had enough to survive. You were, technically, property of the Norris family now. But at least you had baking. At least you did something that made you feel alive. Lando, however, had lived in a golden prison since birth, and now he was being handed the key to an even tighter one.

"You know," he said, retreating into humor again, "if I fake a severe allergy to all the cake ingredients, we could cancel everything. I mean, all the cakes have the same stuff, right?"

"You’d really pretend to have an allergy, which could actually kill you, just to get out of a wedding?"

"I’d fake my own death if it meant I could blow this entire shit up."

He leaned in closer. And what he said next made your heart skip:

"Especially if it meant I could start over with someone who actually wanted this as much as I do."

You weren’t sure what shocked you more. His honesty, the hint of flirtation in his voice or the fact that some part of you was already imagining what that life might look like.

But before you could dwell on it, a sharp, deliberate cough snapped you back to reality.

You looked up and there was your mother. Arms crossed, eyes blazing.

Instinctively, you shrank away from Lando and lowered your gaze.

"I believe His Royal Highness has finished here," she said, her tone sharp as a blade. "Their Majesties are leaving, and I think it's time the prince did as well."

Lando, despite technically outranking everyone in the room, nodded respectfully. He stood, brushed the crumbs from his jacket, and apologized for the delay and "distraction." He turned to go.

But just before stepping away, he looked back at you and said softly, words only meant for your ears:

"Don’t disappear."

And you knew exactly what he meant.

"At least not until I figure out how to cancel this wedding and blow up this whole place without killing my family in the process."

You nodded. You didn’t know if he was joking or serious, though his body language suggested the latter.

"I won’t promise anything," you replied, playing along. "But if you need help creating a bit of chaos… I do know how to start fires while baking. You know, forgetting the oven is on with lots of cupcakes and stuff…"

He laughed again, and this time turned around and walked toward the exit of the room, not looking back at you. You didn’t mind, though. It felt like the beginning of something new… or a disastrous end.

The guards waiting near the room scattered, which was enough of a signal for you to start cleaning up. That’s what you did, all while replaying Lando’s words in your mind and trying to decipher any hidden meaning behind them with no success.

While you focused on cutting a few pieces and packing them into small boxes to later give to the beggars who lingered around the palace kitchens, something you loved doing daily, despite it being illegal, your mother suddenly grabbed your arm tightly and forced you to look at her, ignoring your protests at the pain.

"Have you lost your mind or are you just stupid?!" she hissed at you, shaking you. "Flirting with a prince? A prince who’s getting married in a few months? And doing it in front of the king and queen?!"

"He told me he doesn’t want to get married, mother," you whispered, trying to hold back tears from the pain she was causing you. "Besides, the king and the queen didn’t even notice Lando and I were talking—"

"That’s not the point!"

Your mother took a deep breath. She finally let go of your arm, and you could only sigh in relief, though it still hurt.

"You’re not here to start a royal scandal that becomes well-known not just in the kingdom, but throughout all of Euphion," she snapped harshly. "Do you know what this could lead to? Are you aware you could end up like your father?"

"I…"

"Just smile, don’t speak, and design a cake good enough so they won’t want to kill us for not being up to their standards."

You nodded, but you didn’t have the strength to answer. You didn’t even have the courage to stay there and finish cleaning up. Instead, you ran to your room, caring little about whatever punishment might come later.

Only one person mattered to you in that moment: Lando Norris. The way the prince had looked at you, as if you were more than just a possession of his family, stirred something inside you that felt a lot like the hope you once had as a child: that maybe you could make something better out of your life.

The final straw was when, upon entering your room, you found an envelope.

It had no sender, no seal that might give away who it was from.

Afraid, but dying of curiosity, you opened it:

Go to the second hallway on the third floor and pass the portrait of my great-uncle, the one with the fox hat that almost covers his entire head. Knock three times. Don’t bring your mother or let her suspect what you’re doing.

The note wasn’t signed, but you immediately recognized the elegant yet slightly clumsy handwriting from those gossiping social media accounts that posted everything related to him.

It couldn’t be from anyone else but Lando, especially after the strange conversation you’d had.

Uncertain but determined, you took a step to the door, ready to follow the instructions, when you suddenly heard weird, loud noises coming from the other side of it.

You froze, panic beginning to rise in your chest.

You held your breath and stepped back instinctively. The note, still in your trembling hands, slipped to the floor.

"Don’t trust the prince. No matter how much you want to, or what he tells you: don’t trust Lando Norris."

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thecoochiefairy · 1 month ago

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slim pickens. toji.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 10.9K words. blackfempregnant!originalcharacter, toji fushiguro, husband!toji, countryboycoded!toji, snakewrangler!toji, grumpy!toji, sweet!toji, dominant!toji, nasty sex, sweet sex, black woman, vaginal penetration, rough, lil bit of sweet talkin’, creaming, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, condomless sex, fingering, kissing, spanking, violence between characters, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ this one is a heavy trigger warning, okay? i missed toji too, and just wanted to truly tie the loose ends to one of my favorite stories, the snake wrangler, so this would be pt 3 after lovesick. be warned, if that last tw might be uncomfortable for you, please don’t read! it’s cutesy for the most part, but tackles important subjects. hope y’all don’t mind more of the storytelling rather than smut. i love y’all.

visual.

A FIT OF GIGGLES CONTINUOUSLY BOUNCED OFF THE WALLS, THE SCENT OF RICE MILK HUGGING HER NOSE AS THE AROMA WAFTED FROM THE RUSTIC BATHTUB. It was similar to an oversized bucket, stainless steel as the clawfoot design curved at the top, Stoney’s name carved within the metal—her husband had designed it just for her.

She couldn’t help to return the giggles of the child beneath her, the eight year old smiling as bubbles collected within her wet coils.

“Mommy, I told you I could wash my own hair!”

She sighs, “I know, Sai. But mommy isn’t ready to be without you just yet, yeah? Give me a couple more months?”

She blows a bubble into the girl's cheek, “Maybe even a few more years?”

“I’ll always need you, Mommy— I’m just growing, like a plant—Like the flowers in our garden!”

Stoney hummed, a smile following after. She loved this little girl more than the stars combined within the earth.

“Of course. You’re right, as always. C’mon, flower— Let’s get you cleaned up so you can finish your chores. Help mommy up, yeah?”

She huffs, a palm rising against the swell of her belly—the stretch marks painting across her skin remind her of the excitement she felt when finding out that she was pregnant for the second time—but being pregnant with twins? That was another story.

“Thank you, pretty girl.”

Chores wasn’t the definition Stoney would use, as that was something kids didn’t necessarily enjoy doing. One year of being engaged, two years of being married changed her life. She didn’t expect to be living in her dream home so soon—A coquettish design, pointed at the top as bricks replaced the smooth walls that would’ve been on a modern house. And in the backyard—a farm, essentially. Two acres of land—Seven chickens, two pigs, and one cow. It was a domesticated life, as her husband always wanted to make her happy.

Stoney learned against the fence, watching as Sai tossed grained corn onto the ground, flushed pecks sharply nibbling at the ground as the chickens ate their dinner.

“You’ excited about your birthday, baby?”

Sai hums her nod in acknowledgment. But as her age increased, her curiosity might’ve peaked more than when she was only five.

With that being said, her next question was hesitant.

“Is Daddy gonna be at the party?”

Stoney’s eyebrows falter a bit. She pulls her hair behind her ear as she replies, “Of course, baby—um, why wouldn’t he be?”

Sai shrugs carelessly, “I know you two fight, Mommy.”

She was definitely intuitive. Sai may have been just seven, but she was smarter than most. There were things that Stoney wanted to be able to explain once her baby girl got older—she wasn’t supposed to know any of that now.

Not to mention, Sai’s words had reminded her of the text she’d received earlier that morning.

Stoney gives a weak smile, “How about you go wash up and set up the dinner table, yeah?”

Sai’s eyes flickered up to her mom. She wondered for a moment if she’d made her mad, but when Stoney gave her that smile, she couldn’t help her own.

“Yes, mommy. I’m hungry!”

With a sweet kiss on her momma’s belly, she walks towards the house, her small ponytail bobbing with every step. When the soft click of the back door closes, Stoney sighs.

Finding her way to the miniature barn behind the chicken coop, she presses her fingers into the maroon painted outhouse for the cow—her choice of color, complimenting the browns mixed within the red wood.

Her eyes find him immediately—onyx tresses hidden beneath a backwards cap, his equally dark eyebrows furrowing as he continues leaning into scrubbing the animal's fur. Each muscle within his arm flexes— his olive skin coated in tattoos from the ankles to his neck. The deep cuts on the sides of the loose top show off the sculpt of his inked abdomen, serpent slithering on his arm each time he curved his bicep.

She pulls the curl of her hair behind her ear, watching him for a while.

Her voice is soft as she then greets, “Mochi only sits in silence when you clean her. She must have a crush on you.”

He never stopped his hand from carefully scrubbing down the animal, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle as he chuckles.

“She must,” his deep voice carries into the ceiling, “I told her ass I’m happily married.”

Her fingers absentmindedly trace to her stomach as she questions, “Did you have a client this morning? You left pretty early.”

“Yeah.”

His gaze finally turns, Stoney’s figure standing in the doorway—the red sundress compliments her tatted brown skin and honey freckles, her dark hair shaping around her face that flushes from pregnancy—Her skin glowed under the light, pretty as she could be.

“Job went quick as hell—somebody asked me to transfer a bearded dragon to the lab by the Zoo. How you’ doing, momma?”

That name—It always brought her a sense of comfort. Toji could be worrisome, constantly at her aid as she was carrying two of his children for eight months now, yet, she still tried to keep herself in the same loop she always had been—working a couple of days at the pottery shop, helping around the house, even venturing out to the backyard at times. He’d rather her sit on her feet all day, but Stoney had never been the type. He knew that.

“I’m okay,” she says softly, “Was a bit nauseous after you left for work, but I’ve been trying those kale chips the doctor recommended—they’re gross,” she scrunches her nose.

Here’s the thing—she’d now been with Toji for about three years, getting eloped instead of a wedding, spending their honeymoon in Prague as she’d always dreamed—he was willing to give her the world, but she’d come to learn a side of him that wasn’t always her favorite. He could be frustrating, stubborn, and set in his ways. When he felt a way about someone, there was no fixing it—and that person was her ex-husband. Any conversation about him didn't go well.

“I wanted to come ask you something.”

He was silent as he listened to her, but his motions stopped—a brow raising on his expression. This behavior was almost always a precursor to something—disagreeable.

“What you’ need, baby?”

Okay, his eyes might’ve had her back down on what she really wanted to bring up. Her voice is sweet, “Come lift up my belly? Like they taught us in the Mommy and Me classes? It feels heavy, baby.”

His brows relaxed at her question. He chuckles as he reaches for a hand towel in the bucket of water next to him, patting his hand dry.

“Yeah, baby. I’m comin’.”

He comes around the cow, Stoney smiling at him with a warm greeting. She had her arms open, Toji cupping her soft cheek and pulling her into a rough kiss. He grunted— but as expected, their intimacy was cut short as Mochi moo’d impatiently.

“Okay, okay, Mochi. Relax, lemme’ show my woman some love.”

Stoney giggles softly as she pecks the sharp of his jaw, turning to press her chest along his back as she guides his hands beneath her stomach.

She softly rambles, “Been tryna’ find ways to get these stretch marks off my belly. They look hideous.”

“Here you go, talkin’ yourself into a coma. You love sayin’ bullshit, huh?”

His hands cup beneath her belly, “They’re beautiful.”

She can feel his full lips against the shell of her ear as he’s pressing his fingertips into the bottom of her swollen flesh, elevating the weight of it with him. The relief is instant, and she moans—low, long, just the way he likes.

“Oh—Toji,” she sighs sweetly, a squeal of his name following suit, “Thank you, baby.”

“Now you know I can’t handle all them’ sounds you’re makin’. Keep that shit up, I’ll have you bend you over this fuckin’ hay—“

She giggles again, laying her hands over his as she begins to softly rock from side to side.

“Must you be nasty, Fushiguro? Can’t you just gimme’ love?”

“I give your ass plenty of love, that’s why you’re in the state you’re in now.“

She shakes her head, accepting the kiss he gives the side of her throat. Toji falls deeper into the flush of her skin, Stoney raising her hand up, snaking it around to tug at his hair beneath the cap he wears. The rocking of their bodies continue, making her more comfortable to get on with the conversation she actually wanted to have.

“Sai asked if Nathaniel was coming to her birthday party.”

He doesn’t still against her, but his grip on her belly becomes more weighted.

He pauses, before letting out his next question.

“Is he?”

Stoney turns her head a bit to find his face, “He is her father, Fushiguro.”

“I know that.”

That was all he said before he removed himself from Stoney’s back, her stomach falling. He reached for the bucket, preparing to return to his chore of cleaning Mochi once more.

“That’s all you were tryna’ tell me?”

Stoney holds back her sigh, the absence of his body feeling a little cold as his energy now feels dismissive. Her arms crossed as she continued, “Well—he said he wants to pay for the whole thing, even after I told him that you were covering the cost of it. He insists that he’s her father, and should be responsible for her party.”

He doesn’t look at her, “You gonna’ let him do that?”

“I—“

Stoney does sigh, “I don’t know. He asked for all of us to go out to lunch tomorrow to discuss how everything’s gonna go—“

She sees his face, continuing anyways, “I think it might be good for the two of you to find some common ground.”

“Yeah, you think we should braid each other’s hair too? Gossip?”

“Fushiguro.”

“I’m good on’ that.”

“You’re good on’ that? That’s how we’re ending this discussion?”

“It was a discussion?” he finally turns to look at her.

Okay, Toji wasn’t a big fan of Nathaniel—it was clear as day. Meeting Stoney as he did, seeing the way he treated her after being divorced, it made him think of how he treated her when they were married—nothing good, he was sure. It made him angry, and he wasn’t trying to take himself to that point.

“I’m not gonna’ be an ass, so like I said—I’m good off that.”

“Do you think I’m doing this for me? Or because I want to?” She frowns, “I’m doing it for that little girl who loves her father and thinks he’s a superhero—but she loves you too, Fushiguro. You’re just as important to her, and the both of you coming together would make her happy.”

He doesn’t say a word—because she’s right. His lack of understanding towards Nathaniel was more than his dislike for the man, and it was clear. But he loved Sai like she was his actual blood.

“I heard you, Solaya.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Now I’m Solaya? So you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” he shakes his head, “I haven’t even said ‘nothing. I’m listening.”

She can feel this man like no other. Dealing with the tension between her ex-husband and new husband wasn’t always easy— But Toji was protective of his wife, and he wasn’t willing to deal with Nathaniel if he didn’t have to.

Stoney lowers her arms, “Seeing him outside of drop offs and pickups doesn’t sound exciting to me either, okay? But Sai’s getting older and—“

She releases an exhale, “She said that she knows me and him fight, Fushiguro. And if being cordial with him will make her happy—then that’s okay with me.”

Toji’s jaw flexes. His brows furrowed as he looked at Stoney, his eyes boring into her. Sai was extremely perceptive, and to hear that she knew the relationship they carried with her father—that wasn’t good at all.

On the other hand, his wife’s selflessness could be frustrating—Stoney was always so—forgiving. It was the reason why her and Nathaniel stayed together as long as they did. But that wasn’t the point of this, the point was to come to a solution.

So he settles for, “If we’re supposed to go to this lunch, what time is he comin’?”

That changes Stoney’s energy. She tries to hold her smile, her head tilting as her teeth dig into the plump of her lip, “So, you’ll go?”

She kneels her face into the top of his back.

He rolls his shoulder, his hands moving to grab her front as she leaned into him.

“If it’ll make you happy,” he mutters, “I’ll play nice, Momma. You know I’ll do anything for Sai.”

She pouts, giggling a bit as his palm finds the flesh of her ass, “What about me? The love of your life? The one bearing your children?”

He smacked, Stoney squeaking into his back at the unexpected contact. His hand smooths down her thigh, his thumb tracing circles into her skin as he murmurs, “The love of my life don’t’ need to ask for shit, I’ll do it regardless.”

She kneels her nose in the muscles that flex at the nape of his neck. “I love you, Daddy. You’re so sweet.”

He hums at her words—that name came from her lips like a sweet spell the moment she wanted to butter him up—and it worked. His fingers trace along her thigh, his grip pulling her even closer.

“You tryna’ show me how much, huh? It’s a little while before dinner—“

“Nuh-uh, boy. You still have Mochi to finish washing, and Buttons and Bows need to eat!” She reminds him of the pigs, “You’re easily distracted, farmer.”

“You say easily distracted, I say motivated—if your ass didn’t distract me in the first place, I would’ve been done with Mochi hours ago.”

Stoney giggles once more before she releases him, “Can you come rub some more cocoa butter on my belly before dinner?”

“Anything to make you and the babies more comfortable, Momma. Go start up dinner before I make you the fuckin’ meal.”

“You’re nasty! You gon’ watch me walk away?”

“Am I gonna watch you waddle away? I always do.”

“Oh wow—rude!”

“I love you too.”

𝓐ᥫ᭡

OF COURSE HE WAS LATE.

The crease in her brow hadn’t left for the past hour, as her ex-husband was being a little too accurate—he was late, having the couple sitting within this restaurant with no food and only drinks on the table.

“You sure you don’t want anything to eat, baby?”

Stoney blinks—her eyes fall back on her husband, his legs spread as his attention is on a beer—he tried not to drink around her or Sai anymore, but he needed a distraction.

She shakes her head, “I don’t think the little one’s took too well to breakfast this morning,” holding her belly with a soft frown.

Toji watches her with careful eyes, his thick brows furrowing as he looks at the pout on her face. He could tell by now that Stoney was nervous more than anything, and less that she was simply nauseated.

Being on time never seemed to be high on Nathaniel’s list of priorities, at least not since he’d met Toji. He was always late—picking up Sai, dropping her off, recitals, important events—it had been three years, and nothing had changed.

“Maybe some soup?” He offered.

“Don’t think I’m in the mood to throw up liquids,” she briefly glances over the menu, bringing her hand to his thigh as she apologizes, “I’m sorry—I don’t want you to be late to work.”

“I got employees, baby.”

He turns over his hand, threading his large fingers with hers, “How are you feelin’?”

“Sai’s birthday is already a pretty difficult time,” she pressed her lips together, making a face with a smile, “But I’m fine. Just—glad to have you here with me.”

Just as Stoney knew her husband, Toji knew his wife. Something felt—off in those words.

She reaches for his ear, rubbing at it comfortingly as she dismisses, “What client do you have today?”

He was silent for a moment, wondering about her behavior—he didn’t want to push, as she wasn’t exactly the most open when it came to her past. Toji hums softly as she plays with his ear, his head tilting back to lean in closer.

“Takin’ that bearded dragon from the lab back to the Zoo’s terrarium, then I gotta’ go visit an old employee—he wants me to bring this Boa over to his son’s apartment as a birthday gift—Easy ass money.”

Stoney’s nose scrunches, “ And you’re gonna put that demon in your truck?”

Toji chuckles, “Momma, you say that like my truck ain’t already been full of reptiles. I’ve kept a Boa in the backseat plenty of times—you think this one is finally gonna take me out?”

She flicks his ear, “Fushiguro, don’t say that. I will actually vomit on you.”

His laugh is low as he places a kiss on her knuckles, “I’m playing, you know that.”

The moment she gives him the smallest smile, her attention is pulled at a familiar voice coming increasingly closer—he’s talking into the phone, bullshit consisting of some stocks he prepared to sell. No surprise there.

Nathaniel had finally appeared. He never looked any different each time he came around, a button up suit covering his caramel skin, brown eyes empty, waves shining beneath the lights of every room he walked into—he was handsome, always had been—but his unattractive spirit took that all away.

Their eyes flicker over the man as he continues talking into the phone, sitting across from them without a greeting.

When he finally hangs up, this is the first thing he says, “A beer, huh? What’re we celebrating?”

Toji being a man of no nonsense, he replies with, “You should greet my wife first and apologize for bein’ late.”

Nathaniel’s eyes flicker over to Stoney as if he’d just noticed her.

“Hello, Stoney,” his eyes moved down to her stomach, “You look beautiful—Pregnancy suits you, even if it’s the second time around.”

Toji’s eyes narrow.

Stoney quickly squeezes his hand, dismissing the sailor language she knows her husband can spout, “You’re late, Nathaniel. You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Nathaniel’s smile is easy, “Business calls. You were with me long enough to know all that—how far along are you?”

She knew he had no intention of apologizing.

Her voice is gentle, “I’m almost nine months, but I’m not here to talk about my pregnancy—You wanted us to meet you here, so what did you want to talk about?”

“My daughter’s birthday party, of course,” he reaches for the wine glass on the table, “I insisted that I cover all of the charges, since I am her father.”

Father.

He has an emphasis on it, flicking his gaze over to a leg bouncing Toji.

Stoney’s voice is pensive, “I understand that. But before you called me to ask about plans, Toji had already planned to cover all costs. With him being her step father, I didn’t have a problem with it.”

“It’s my responsibility to handle anything that has to do with Sai, Stoney,” Nathaniel reminds, “Step-father is just a title. Don’t make him any different than just your new husband.”

“You can both—“

“‘The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Toji raises an eyebrow, “I provide for her just as much as you do, if not more.”

“Don’t get too offended, man. I’m not speaking on how much you provide for her—“

“You’re right. You can’t speak about that because you don’t know,” Toji cuts off.

“Fushiguro—”

“What?”

His voice is clipped, Stoney closing her mouth as she tries to avoid a potential argument between the two of them. Toji keeps going, “You want to celebrate Sai as her father, I’m not tryna’ that shit away from you,” his leg is still bouncing, Stoney’s eyes flickering towards the beer bottle he could potentially break in his hand, “I take her to school, take her to ballet—I’m there at her recitals, sitting at the edge of her bed if she’s sick. I’m there for her. So if we’re really here to talk, we need to be going half on this shit.”

“Half?” Nathaniel repeats, “For what?”

“I think it would make the most sense, Nathan,” Stoney agrees, “You’re both trying to make sure she has the best celebration, I think what matters is what would make our daughter happy.”

Nathaniel’s gives a chuckle.

“What is it that you planned for her?”

Toji looks at Stoney, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“A party at the science museum—it’s her favorite subject. They do a kid’s birthday package, and I plan on renting out a couple of the main galleries for her,” Toji explains.

“And you think you can afford that by yourself?”

Toji’s face is cold.

“Money ain’t shit for me. But that ain’t the point— I’m more than willing to split if it means you’re willing to actually spend time with your daughter. You think you can afford that, or should we be checking on your finances too?”

Nathaniel’s face drops.

He looks to Stoney as he questions, “You gon’ let this nigga talk to me like that?”

Stoney’s voice is still gentle, “He’s not talking to you in any type of way, Nathan—Okay? Can you calm down? Please?”

Her face. It’s a face that Toji had never seen before, almost as if she was—scared?

“Baby,” Toji lowly calls, hand reaching beneath the chair to tug her closer, “You okay?”

When Stoney turns back to him, she relaxes her face a bit. Almost as if she didn’t mean for that expression to slip—Stoney slides her hand back into his as she brushes off, “I’m fine. Look—You both have an impact in Sai’s life. So you need to be able to come together simply for the sake of her, and going half on her party is a way to show some type of mutuality. Can we do that?”

She’s too good. Her heart is too big for her chest. Toji sees this, but as much as he loves her for who she is, Nathaniel’s a different story.

“I’ll split for it. Shit was never a problem for me in the first place,” Toji finalizes.

Nathaniel doesn’t say a word in response, which has Stoney clutching along her stomach, “Nathan?”

“Yeah, we’ll split it.”

Stoney let’s out an inaudible sigh of relief, but the moment quickly shifts as her ex-husband stands from the table, his harsh movements having the booth shake as he stomps off—it makes Stoney jump a bit, a heavy breath pushing from her lips the moment she hears the door of the restaurant slam behind him. Stoney’s lashes flutter as she blinks, feeling the warmth of tears glaring at her vision.

“Hey, hey—momma, what’s wrong, huh?”

Toji’s already clutching her face, pulling her forehead against his—it makes Stoney awkwardly giggle, pulling herself back a bit as she wipes under her eyes, “I’m okay—I promise. Can we go home?”

She wraps her arms along his neck, burying herself within his larger frame—she’s shaking.

Toji’s eyebrows lower as he’s pressing his lips against her forehead, his large hands tracing up her back, “Of course we can.”

His voice is soft, “C’mon—I’ll pick up some ingredients to make them’ lil’ popsicles you like.”

“The raspberry ones?” she nearly gasps, which makes him chuckle.

“Anything you want. You eatin’ for three now.”

He leans down to kiss at her belly, Stoney tugging at his hair as she sighs, “Let’s have like four more after this.”

That’s when Toji halts his movement.

“Four?”

“So you hate me? Okay.”

“Woman.”

Here was the thing—two days had gone by, and Toji couldn’t keep his mind off the discussion that happened nearly forty-eight hours ago. He knew that her ex-husband could be childish, but he couldn’t stop thinking about their specific interactions, wondering how much he missed when she talked to Nathaniel by herself, or when he wasn’t there to protect her. He always tried to stay in his place as her husband, but this was his woman.

His mind still wandered as he slid another box closer to the front door, planning to pick it up and take it onto his truck—he was currently helping Serena move out of her apartment and into her new home, Stoney and Sai currently out shopping for her birthday outfit.

“I appreciate this, brother-in-law. But I told your ass to bring that cute employee of yours—I wanted his number!”

She holds a glass of wine, watching as he effortlessly moves the boxes by himself.

Toji chuckles, his shirt sticking to his sweat, “He’s married—got two kids and a pregnant wife, remember?”

She sighs, “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

Serena takes a long sip of her wine, “How’s my sister doing?”

Toji hums, carrying another box, “She’s good. She seems a little exhausted lately—I keep telling her to stay in the house, but you know how that goes. Still accepting bookings at the shop, trying to put together Sai’s birthday alone—you know she had me and that dumbass ex-husband of hers play nice, huh?”

“Yeah, well—Stoney’s been that way since she was younger,” Serena’s eyes lowered, “She’s always been the one to put her needs on the back burner for everyone else—that’s why you gotta get on her ass sometimes.”

Serena takes another sip, “And I’m not saying it to go against you or nothing—but that man has been in her life since she was a young girl. It almost makes me wish she didn’t have a kid with him, but Sai is the only blessing to come out of that relationship.”

Toji’s eyebrows lower as he listens. It makes Serena ask, “You’ve never asked her to go in depth about that part of her life, have you?”

He’s quiet for a moment, the air a bit tense. It was true. Toji knew whatever his wife told him, but he often got nothing when wanting to know everything about her past relationship.

“She doesn’t like talking about it.”

Serena makes a sound, finishing off her wine before she answers, “Stoney’s more dependent than she tries to admit, which includes accepting comfort from those who love her. Her and Nathan’s relationship—it wasn’t good, you know? It hurt me to see my sister going through what she did.”

Toji’s stopped moving now, watching Serena as her expression falls.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure—yeah?”

“Nathaniel—He never put hands on her, did he?”

Serena’s eyes flicker to him, her lashes batting a bit.

She doesn’t answer.

Toji’s blood grew cold at her silence, “Serena—“

“Don’t ask me to get in the middle of my sister’s relationship with you.”

She wasn’t looking at him, but her tone had risen a bit. A warning.

“Just keep being good to her. That’s all I want, Toji.”

“Serena.”

And right on cue, her phone rings. She presses the phone to her ear as she leaves him with, “Finish up carrying those boxes so we can go—yeah? I’m tired as hell—would you excuse me?”

And with that, she closes the door behind herself to the bathroom.

Toji had never been an easily angered man. He prided himself on his ability to remain calm and collected, especially for the sake of his family. But this was different.

He’d found a new conversation to fixate over, the scowl on his face stuck for the next couple of days—he wanted to bring it up to his wife, but not only had Stoney been driving herself crazy with party planning, she’d also had been dealing with early on contractions, and although the doctor said that was entirely normal in pregnancy—it didn’t make it any less painful.

Stoney laid sideways along the bed, her fingers clutching at the duvet as she released deep breaths, eyes scrunching as she continuously squeezed the ball between her thighs as some type of relief—it didn’t seem to be helping.

“They talked about this peanut ball in class, this shit isn’t even—agh, helping,” she huffs.

“Just focus on breathing, Momma,” he murmurs, “You’re doin’ so good, I know it hurts.”

Toji’s large hand held her waist, digging into her hips, which made her release the smallest moans. His face is close to hers, watching as sweat beaded along her forehead.

Stoney turns her head towards the crook of his bicep, huffing along his skin, "These are pretty strong for Braxton hicks."

She makes a whimper, clutching his wrist as she squeezes the ball between her thighs. He knew it must’ve been feeling intense now.

“Did you feed Mochi?” Her eyes squeeze shut, panting, “And everybody else?”

“I told you don’t worry about that,” he mutters, his hand tracing to the nape of her neck, his fingers massaging the base of her spine.

“But I did. I watered the garden, too,” he hums, a bit amused at her mothering, even in the state that she’s in, “You just breathe, baby. You want me to get the hot pack?”

“It broke this morning,” she whimpers again, “Forgot to tell you.”

She squeezes the ball tighter beneath her thighs, “Should I try another position? This isn’t helping.”

Stoney presses her knees into the sheets, leaning her upper half against the ball now—she’s rotating forward every few seconds, arching her back up with heavy breaths. It does something—not much, but the low moan she releases tells otherwise.

Toji’s hands trace along her hips, his head lowering to press an open mouth kiss along the small of her back where her shirt rises.

She releases another whimper—she’d always been sensitive even when she wasn’t pregnant. His deep voice carries, “How’ that feel, baby? Talk to me.”

When she feels his palms continuously grinding into her sides, her eyes nearly roll as she feels him rocking her back and forth himself—the pressure he puts on her body is like no other, and she softly whines, “That feels sooo good.”

He chuckles at her reaction, his lips trailing along her side before he murmurs, “You sound pretty, baby.”

He loves it when she’s vocal, and he’d be lying if he wasn’t tempted to do more—not to mention, the feminine pheromones releasing from her constantly had his dick throbbing, but he was far more worried about her comfort than his own. He missed her like hell, though.

She keeps her hands touching the opposite end of the ball, moving her body with the rotation of it as she questions, “How’s Serena doing? I told her I’d come by to see the house since she works on Sai’s birthday—I hope she isn’t upset with me.”

His fingers dip beneath the hem of her shirt, brushing against the soft swell of her belly as he presses another kiss to the side of her stomach.

“She’s good. Didn’t have that much stuff to move in anyways,” he pauses, “I don’t think she’s mad. But she said if you ask her how much you owe for making Sai’s cake one more time? She will get upset.”

Stoney shakes her head, “She keeps tryna say that she doesn’t need me to pay her—you know I’d never do that. It’s her business, you know? Being related doesn’t matter to me.”

“That’s what I said,” Toji mutters, “Even after I talked to her about it, she still wants to do it for free,” he chuckles, “Your sister’s a stubborn one—just like you. I can see how you’re related.”

“She’s so irritating.”

As Toji watches her— he wonders if he should bring up the conversation between him and Serena. He’d been worried about this for the past couple of days, and he wasn’t sure if he could hold it in any longer.

“Baby,” his voice is low, “You don’t regret being with me, do you? Feel like we moved too fast on getting married, having kids—anything?”

Stoney halts her exercise. She turns towards him, holding her belly with a soft huff as she frowns, “What? No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“I know I’m the first man you’ve been with since him—And I want you to be comfortable in talking to me about anything—including your past relationship. That’s all. You know I’m always here to listen, right?”

She releases a soft exhale at his words, feeling a sense of tension rush over her body.

“Not now, baby.”

“Stoney, I’m tryna’ be patient—“

“Fushiguro, I don’t want to do this right now. Okay? I have these painful—“

“I’ll keep massaging. I’m your husband, Stoney. I need you to talk to me—Shit is becoming frustrating as hell,” he admits, a small harshness to his voice.

That’s when Stoney raises an eyebrow, “Or what, Toji? You’re gonna leave me if I don’t tell you every single thing about my past relationship?”

Toji frowns, “Don’t say shit like that, Solaya. I would never leave you.”

His words have her eyes flick up to him—she can now see the scowl on his face, and a part of her feels bad. She just didn’t want to drudge up the past.

“I just—I can’t,” she admits, her voice soft.

She pulls him closer, feeling her hands under his black tee, her fingers warm against the flesh of his abdomen, “I’m sorry.”

He could feel that it was a genuine apology. Toji’s voice drops as his hand traces to her wrist, his lips brushing the soft of her forehead, “You never have to apologize for not being ready,” he mutters, “But I can’t help you if you don’t let me, alright?”

He lowers himself, his lips meeting hers, not wanting to upset her. Toji keeps his voice soft, “How about you get more comfortable? Let me put on your favorite show, and I’ll start dinner,” he kisses her again, “You’re hungry, yeah?”

She could see how patient this man was with her. It made her feel guilty. Her fingers brush at his tattooed bicep, nodding as she reminds, “You know you’re my heart, right? You know that?”

“‘Course I do,” he mumbles, “And you’re my world—shit is no different.”

And in that moment—Stoney feels a nudge. She gasps, “Baby—they’re fighting again!”

She yanks his hand, pressing it along the swell of her stomach, “They like hearing you talk to them.”

He leans forward, his cheek pressing against her belly as he murmurs, “Quit all that playing around in your momma’s stomach. No wonder she has cramps and shit—“

“Language, Fushiguro.”

At that moment, the door bursts open to their bedroom—Sai greets them with three popsicles in her hand, “I got everybody a treat!”

Stoney smiles, “Hi, baby. That’s sweet—you came in at the perfect time, you wanna come feel mommy's belly?”

Sai’s face lit up. Her brown eyes flicker to Toji, scurrying over and climbing onto his lap as she presses her hands to her mother’s stomach, “Are they fighting?”

“Yeah,” Toji hums, “They’ been bullying your momma all day. Told ‘em they gotta chill—but you know they don’t listen. Think you can help me out with that?”

Sai nods, “I’m their big sister—they’ll have to listen to me,” she pats along Stoney’s stomach, “Hey, stop being mean to mommy!”

Toji watches the way her face changes as she feels a kick, and Stoney makes a soft sound.

“Woah!” Sai giggles, “That was a hard one!”

“I think you might’ve made them angrier,” Stoney playfully pouts, “Mission failed, big sister! The court grants tickles as punishment!”

A fit of giggles fills the room as Toji playfully picks up Sai, throwing her onto the bed as he tickles her sides.

These were the moments that mattered.

Their good energy lasted up until the day of Sai’s ninth birthday. It was perfect—the sun was shining brightly against the blue sky, the wind blew

cool air to lessen the heat of the sun, and miniature bodies scattered the marble flooring of the science museum—giggles bounced along the walls, doe eyes currently preparing to go to the next exhibit—they’d already seen the butterflies greenhouse, seen the stars within the planetarium—now, all the children waited excitedly in line for the terrarium, where Toji would be able to give them a small show of the reptiles.

Seeing the smile on her daughter’s face as her friends gathered around her, it couldn’t have made Stoney any happier. Sai giggled as she swung the frill of her green tutu left and right, showing off the outfit that her mother had made for her. She was happy.

Stoney leaned against her husband— blood orange bandeau top rubbing against his leather jacket, the material showing off the beauty of her belly—her hips and ass had grown tenfold with her pregnancy, matching skirt flowing down to her woven sandals.

“The girls are loving this,” she stands on her toes to kiss at his jaw, “I’ve never seen Sai so happy.”

“She deserves it.”

His fingers dip along the sides of his wife’s waist, making sure her body stays close, “I think I might’ve had just as much fun as she did today—but you should’ve let me bring Lily.”

Stoney shakes her head, “Hell no, you keep that tennis python where she belongs—in her cage!”

“You mean ball python?”

“That too!”

Toji chuckles, “Chill. You’re gonna go into labor doing all that.”

Stoney rolls her eyes, pulling her attention back towards the front of the museum—Here was the small issue of the day—Nathaniel was nowhere to be found.

“Did Sai tell you where she wanted to go eat?” she distracts herself, tugging at her husband's jacket.

“That pizzeria by our house—that’ll give us time to mentally prepare for six little girls in our house,” he chuckles, “I’m gonna cry just thinking about it.”

Stoney gives a weak smile at his words, too distracted to laugh. That’s when she hears the little girls cheer, an employee of the museum beginning to unlock the doors to the terrarium.

She turns, “How about you head in and start the show? I’ll call the pizzeria, yeah?”

His brows furrow, “You sure you don’t want me to do it before I go in there?”

“I got it, baby. No worries.”

“You’d tell me if something else was wrong, right?”

“Mhm.”

Toji’s frown deepens, “Stoney—“

“Go, Fushiguro. I’m fine.”

“Did I tell you how pretty you are?”

Stoney rolls her eyes, laughing softly as she feels his palms circling around her hips, finding the weight of her ass to squeeze. She hums, “This is the thousandth time today, I think. Can you stop being so worrisome, grandpa?”

“You have jokes,” he chuckles, “That’s cool. Imma’ show you old, later.”

Stoney giggles as he lifts her body a bit, pecking her lips in repetitions. At the moment Sai’s name is called, Stoney gives her husband a playful push, “I love you, dork. Go be a kid in there.”

She watches as he walks backwards, his smile genuine, “I love you,” he calls, giving her a small wave before he turns to head towards the exhibit of the show.

Making her way into the next hallway, she feels a bit winded—She felt bad for her daughter, and she feels helpless at the fact that Nathaniel promised he’d show up to her birthday, but was nowhere to be found. To make matters worse? The money he promised was never given to her, and to keep Toji from breaking her ex-husbands neck, she took the small profit she’d made from SAI’S, playing it off for Nathaniel’s money. She actually hadn’t heard from him since the lunch they had.

She’s dialing, dialing, and nothing. She could feel the heat starting to rise off of her body. Nathaniel was a lot of things, had done a lot of things—but this took the cake. Going awol and not showing up for a time that mattered the most—she was pissed.

But nothing pissed her off more as she held the phone to her ear, watching as a familiar frame turned the corner into the quiet hallway—there he was, Nathaniel, in that goddamn suit. He wasn’t in a rush, and he was of course—on the phone.

“You can’t be fucking serious right now, Nathaniel. You just can’t be.”

“Hold on, I’m putting you on hold—“ he lowers his phone, his eyes flickering back over his ex-wife, “What’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem? The problem is that you’re three hours late to your daughter’s party that’s damn near over—where the fuck have you been, Nathaniel?”

“I got held up. I was going to meet you at the restaurant—Why are you nagging? I’m here, aren’t I?”

He then holds a finger up as he raises the phone back to his ear, “I’m back, yeah.”

Stoney’s blood was boiling.

“Did you forget you were supposed to go half with my husband on’ this party, Nathan?”

“Half,” he chuckles, making Stoney’s brows furrow with irritation, “I was going to pay for everything—but I had to pay off my divorce lawyers—your new nigga said money ain’t shit to him, right? What’s the problem?”

Stoney had to completely dismiss that this man was on his second divorce, “What don’t you understand? It’s not about the money. It was an effort to show how much you care about your child, to show me that you actually want to be in her life!”

“What do I have to prove to you?”

Stoney blinks, “What?”

“You’re even more stupid than you’ve ever been if you think I care about proving myself to you?”

His voice is cold, “I don’t have to take care of Sai. But I do,” he reminds, “I’ve been trying to do the right thing because I don’t need your ass taking me to court. I’m not doing this for you, or him— yet, you’re still finding something to bitch about. Can’t you ever say thank you?”

Stoney’s eyes widened. She’s disgusted, completely and utterly disgusted. To hear this man talking to her like this—she wasn’t surprised, but she still couldn’t fathom it. She’s in disbelief, and the fact that he was acting this way with their daughter in the next room—it had her seeing red.

“You’ve lost your mind. Thank you? Thank you?” Stoney’s voice raises, “I have been nothing but civil with you since the divorce, putting everything personal aside for my daughter,” she holds her stomach, trying to keep herself calm.

“I’ve always wanted you in Sai’s life, no matter what happened between us, no matter what you did to me—but you failed her. Again. Eight years, and you’re still a selfish fucking idiot.”

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Stoney,” Nathaniel snarls, “That husband of yours ain’t here to protect you.”

“Fuck you!” she fires off, “I don’t need anyone to protect me! I learned that when the man I loved threw me to the side— said things to hurt me, left me!” She can feel her vision blurring, “All because he wasn’t the man he wanted to be!”

Hearing herself say those words out loud, they hurt more.

Nathaniel’s eyes narrow, and Stoney jumps at the sudden bang of his palm against the wall— right beside her head.

“You’re not some fuckin’ victim,” Nathaniel mutters, his voice low, face hovering hers closely—Stoney can feel the heat of his breath against her skin, “You should’ve been a better wife. Instead, you fucked a mover and tried to replace him with me.”

Stoney could admit something to herself—years of trauma with this man, and she still couldn’t shake the fear that rushed through her body when he got like this. Being pregnant and alone in this hallway didn’t make it better. Her body shudders as she holds her belly, tears hot as they drop from her eyes, “You don’t scare me, Nathaniel.”

The thing is, he knows that he does. He gives a dark chuckle, Stoney unable to react quick enough as his palm latches onto her throat, squeezing so hard that the bottom of her face instantly throbs—Stoney whimpers, gripping onto his wrist to attempt at pulling him away, “You’re hurting me, Nathan—“

“You should be lucky that I haven’t killed your ass yet,” he mutters, “Imagine what that man would think of you if he knew how you really were? A manipulating, lying, whore.”

His grip on her tightens, and Stoney could barely breathe anymore—Nathaniel’s large frame has her small body held against him, and her hands can’t get a good grip along his arm to pull him away. She thinks about her daughter, the last ten years of her life, Toji.

But everything changes in that second.

Nathaniel turns, but not before the harsh punch of a fist cracks against his jaw. His body is thrown back against the wall, stumbling before he falls—a body is already atop of him, swinging, pummeling his face in. She could hear his bones breaking.

Stoney’s already latching onto the back of his jacket, “Fushiguro—stop!”

There’s blood everywhere—along the halls, the marble floor of the museum, even the front of his white shirt. Nathaniel can’t stop the man on top of him, his face barely recognizable any longer— Stoney cries as she begs for her husband to stop, pleads for him—her arms are wrapped around his waist as she tugs his shirt, “Toji, please! You’re gonna kill him!”

But Nathaniel’s already unconscious, the hits halting as Toji’s blood covered body towers over him. His shoulders rise and fall quickly with every huff, his teeth clenched, eyes wild and dark with hatred—security from the museum nearly rips him in half as they tug him onto the wall, already attempting to put him him cuffs—Stoney grips at the front of his shirt, shielding him as she whimpers, “Calm down, baby. Please.”

To make matters worse—the group of girls are flowing into the hall, curious at the noises they hear. Stoney’s deepest fears come to life— her child stares at the scene in front of her.

“Mommy? What’s going on?”

She sees the blood, “What happened to Da—“

“It’s fine, baby. Can you let the tour guide take you guys back into the butterfly greenhouse?” her voice is urgent, wiping her tears as she keeps her face away from her daughter, “Please?”

Sai’s eyes are wide with shock, her birthday dress that pretty green, her feet covered in a pair of sparkly white sandals—she’s staring straight at her step father drenched in blood, eyes flickering to her unconscious father in fear.

“Mommy? Mommy,” her bottom lip trembles when she asks the question, “Is that—“

“Go inside of the butterflies, Sai.”

Stoney can’t even look behind herself as an employee escorts the children out the hallway. Toji hadn’t said anything in the past five minutes, having the energy of a monster. He tugs out of the security holding him back, snapping, “Get the fuck off me. I’m good.”

Security questions, “What happened?”

“I was—arguing with my ex-husband and he—“

Stoney didn’t even have enough time to really come to terms with what he did. Her mind flashes back to memories of the past, and she can’t stop her body from shaking.

“He attacked me,” she admits, the tears rushing down her face, “I’m so sorry this happened at your establishment—my husband was just defending me—“ she throws her hands over her face, crying as she can’t finish her words.

“He did more than that,” Toji’s words snapped, “He threatened to kill her—I heard him. He threatened to kill my fuckin’ wife.”

“We’ll have to call the police, ma’am—You’ll need to explain to them what happened.”

“Please don’t,” she begs, “I—“

“It has to be called in, ma’am. We’ll need to review the cameras and have you file a report. This was a physical assault.”

Hearing those words, everything sinks into Stoney right in that moment. She sniffles as she nods, allowing the employees to call the police. Everything moves quickly after—they put Nathaniel within an EMT, Stoney explaining the entire conversation from the moment they began arguing to the moment he put hands on her. The police offered Stoney the option to press charges, to which she immediately said no, and that might’ve caused a tension between her and Toji.

The next hour felt unreal—Stoney was able to call all of the girl's parents and explain the situation, hoping this wouldn’t ruin Sai’s sleepover. She was thankful enough that everyone was empathetic of the situation, allowing all the girls to stay as a distraction for her daughter. All the girls rounded up in her Princess themed bedroom, giggles and yells consuming over the silence of the other part of the house.

But Stoney couldn’t help it—the moment the door closes to their bedroom, her voice cracks as she whimpers, “Why would you do that?”

Toji hadn’t said anything since the incident—he’d been silently seething, trying to keep it all in. Even when he was questioned, he’d give short, clipped answers.

“Why would I do what?”

“You could’ve killed him, Fushiguro. You could’ve gone to jail! You put yourself in jeopardy—my daughter in danger!”

“HE COULD’VE KILLED YOU, SOLAYA!”

His voice nearly rumbles the entire house—scaring the shit out of Stoney.

“Do you think for a second that he would’ve gotten off of you if I hadn’t come? I should’ve fuckin’ killed him.”

“Stop,” she whimpers, “We—we can go to court about this, Toji. We can—“

He cuts her off, “You should’ve pressed charges. You’re gonna let him walk after what he did to you—after what he said? Allow him to still see your daughter? I’ll be fuckin’ damned. From what I saw today—that wasn’t the first time he’d put his hands on you, Solaya! Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Stoney feels her chest tighten, crying as she covers her face with her hands, “Stop yelling at me.”

She can still feel the way her legs shake, not being able to control it—and he notices, he always does, “Baby—calm down, you’re shaking. I’m not angry with you.”

“Yes you are,” she trembles, her hands nearly vibrating against her face, “Y—you hate me…”

“Stoney.”

Toji’s eyes soften, and he huffs as he takes a few steps towards her—he cups her cheeks, pressing their foreheads together, a gentle move that he hadn’t given her within the last couple of hours. Her body tenses at the touch, and he instantly pulls back.

“I’m sorry,” he grunts, “I’m not angry with you, and I’d never hate you, momma. I just—How can I protect you? How can I make things better if you don’t even trust me?”

“I do trust you,” she sniffles, “I do—“

They hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Mommy?”

The small voice interrupts the two, Stoney wiping her face and turning herself away from her daughter's entrance into the room.

“My friends asked if they could see the farm—is that okay?”

“Of course, baby. I—“ she takes a deep breath, “How about Toji grabs those popsicles from the freezer for your friends to eat downstairs—Can I talk to you about something?”

Sai smiles, and nods. Her eyes then flicker across her mother’s body—the reddened skin along her neck, the way she’s trembling.

“Okay.”

Sai watches as Toji leaves, “I’ll be back up to get you in a little bit, pretty girl.”

When the door shuts, silence is back to consuming the room. The nine year old’s voice is soft as she approaches Stoney’s side, “Mommy,” her fingers trace her mother’s neck, “Who tried to hurt you?”

Stoney’s soft breath halts when she feels her daughter’s fingers tracing the same spot Nathaniel’s hand had been pressing only moments ago. But she couldn’t keep doing what she’d done for the last couple of years—shielding her daughter from the truth of her father.

“Your father did this,” she admits, wiping under her eyes, “I’m—I’m so sorry I haven’t been honest with you, baby girl.”

Sai blinks up at her mom’s words. Her father? Her superhero?

Her hand reaches for Stoney’s belly, as if trying to comfort her.

“Is it my fault?”

“No, baby. It will never be your fault. It—“

She exhales, “It’s nobody’s fault but his.”

“Why’s he so mean to you?”

The question haunts Stoney.

Her voice is weak, “I don’t know, baby. I don’t.”

That’s enough for Sai. She nods, her hand tracing along Stoney’s belly. She doesn’t want to see her mother upset, “Okay. Then we just won’t see him anymore?”

She didn’t expect her to say anything close to those

words.

Stoney frowns, “That’s what you want?”

There’s no expression on the nine year old’s face as she confirms, “He hurt you, Mommy—That’s what I want.”

Stoney wasn’t expecting that, but in the way her daughter was staring at her, she didn’t think she was changing her mind—But right now, there was a sleepover to enjoy, and this was too much for a child to carry.

“How about we um—talk about this tomorrow, huh? Mochi needs to eat, and I know the girls will just love giving her apples,” Stoney giggles, pressing her index finger against her daughters nose, “I hope you enjoyed your birthday today, LoveBug. You mean the world to me.”

Sai finally smiles, “I had the best day,” she hums, “You’re the best Mommy ever.”

The warmth that Stoney felt in her chest, the love she felt from her daughter was like no other. She squeezes her into a hug, allowing her to run out the room at the call of her friends downstairs.

She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep for four hours. Her mind wandered—her relationships, her strengths, her weaknesses, her child, her upcoming children—could she handle all the new things within her life?

It was nearly midnight, and Toji had run himself mad dealing with little girls. He was able to get them all settled for bed, making his way back upstairs to find the bedroom in complete darkness. The box fan masked the silence, Toji able to hear the soft intakes of Stoney’s breath.

She feels the dip of the bed, softly adjusting her body with an exhale. He’s sitting along the edge, rubbing his palm along the arch of her foot beneath the duvet.

“Did the girls make you cry?”

Toji chuckles, “Almost. One of them said they were gonna steal my kneecaps if I didn’t make ‘em a snack before bed.”

He can hear her soft giggle, keeping his palm moving along her foot. His voice is low, “How are you feelin’, baby?”

She gives herself time to think on that question. Her face tucks more into the pillow as she softly replies, “I’m okay. I um—I just wanted to say thank you for keeping me together in all this.”

He rubs along the arch of her foot, “I’ll always keep it together for you. You and the kids,” he means that.

A beat of silence.

“I want to talk to you,” he grunts, “About today—“

“Sai’s birthday was something that was always really important to me, you know? I—“

She doesn’t expect herself to admit this—to admit any of this.

“I um—it was actually a year before I’d met you—Sai’s fifth birthday, and she was so excited to be having her first sleepover. Me and Nathaniel weren’t on the best of terms as I’d told him I wanted a divorce—but we were trying to keep up appearances for the sake of our daughter. We had the smallest disagreement—and it just—it happened so fast—I didn’t even feel the moment he hit me.”

Stoney could feel Toji tense, but he doesn’t stop rubbing her feet. He listens.

“I was so scared. I was too afraid to say anything because it was our daughter’s birthday—so I just smiled and pretended like everything was okay. Sai was too focused on showing off her room to notice that my face was bruised—and as long as she was happy, I was okay. That’s all that mattered to me. I figured that it was a mistake, that it wouldn’t happen again—It just didn’t feel important to tell you, because I thought I was fine.”

She feels herself becoming emotional, swallowing down the heavy lump in her throat. Her voice is returning to shakiness, “I’m just—I’m so sorry that I never told you, Fushiguro.”

“Baby.”

He can feel the heat of her body rising, he knows the tears within her eyes. This woman hurts, and it angers him to see the pain she’s been put through.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he mumbles, “Understand that I’d never hurt you, and I’d kill for you,” he grunts, “I love you. So goddamn much. Can I hold you, baby? Can I touch you?”

Stoney releases an unsteady breath, “Yes.”

That’s all the permission he needed.

She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer than she ever had before. Her face is within his neck, shoulders slumping as she sobs, releasing everything she’d ever been holding in.

This was a woman that had been holding her pain in for years, and now, she’s letting it all out—a weight had lifted off her shoulders. His large palms caress her back, her hair, pulling her as close as he possibly can. He loved her.

She does it without thinking—Stoney’s lips lift to his mouth as she kisses him within the darkness—It’s warm, passionate, digging her fingers into the dark tresses of his hair—she needs him.

His body looms over hers, breath hitching the moment his mouth equally finds every part of her skin—her lips, her throat, her shoulders. He’s everywhere.

Toji’s grunting, already pinning her ankles against the headboard, hovering himself above her body to keep him from putting his weight against her stomach. Similar to her—he can’t wait, he needs her even more. He tugs his bulge from beneath the material of his sweats, Stoney whimpering as he slaps his tip against the slick of her folds.

The sound of Stoney’s gasp trembles within his ear, digging her nails within his back as he sinks inside—her legs shudder, face burying into his neck as she softly whines, “Toji…”

Toji groans when her voice gives in his ear, his large palms traveling beneath her body, cupping the arch of her back as much as he possibly can—she fits into his hand perfectly.

His hips are already grinding into her—Stoney can feel him sucking along her collarbone, that rough hand tugging on the back of her neck, “I’m impatient, baby. Need you to open up for me. C’mon.”

He’s holding onto her legs, her ankles, pinning her down, and she’s squirming beneath him, “Baby, I’m gonna be too loud—“ He cuts her off with a harsh spank against her ass, Stoney turning her face within the pillow, mewling into it to mask the sound.

“You gotta’ let me take care of you, baby. “

She hears him, and her body thrums in pleasure.

The way he says that, and the way his eyes glare down at her—it makes her thighs throb even more.

“I know what you want.”

His voice was low.

“Come make my dick creamy, it’ll look so pretty after you’re done with it.”

His words make Stoney’s breath hitch—it sounded crazy, but he knew allowing her to pleasure herself on top of him was all she needed. All she wanted.

His tongue drags along her neck, her head kneeling up as she whimpers a breathless, “Fushiguro—”

“You know that’s all you gotta do, baby.”

Another spank.

“Just come bounce for a little.”

She pouts within the darkness. Toji could get away with murder, his words proved that every time. The balls of her feet laid against the plush of their king sized bed, fingers along his chest as his arms are stretched atop the pillows—Stoney’s going, bouncing her hips onto his dick, down to meet the glare of his face, her lips screwing into a frown as she whimpered defeatedly.

“There you go, baby.“

He puts his larger hand on her lower back for support. Toji’s breath becomes slightly deeper, but his eyes stay on her face, admiring her through the moonlight casting in the window.

Stoney’s hands slide around the clench of his jaw. Her thighs are quivering, eyes rolling as she pouts deeper, “U—Ughn…”

Her hair shadows the frame of her flushed face, head leaning into his body as she just. Kept. Going.

“Put all that noise on my mouth, baby. You know I like that shit.”

She’s becoming more dazed as the seconds pass. But she listens, dragging her mouth up to reach his, centimeters apart as she breathily whines in the softest way.

She admits, “Love you, Fushiguro.“

“I love you.”

He kisses her. His mouth swipes her lower lip, taking her whole.

Stoney’s arms cradle along his shoulders and neck, eyes flickering to his hands that go back to the pillows beside him, never planning on moving themselves. He loved seeing her this way, barely having to touch Stoney in the process as she lost herself on top of him.

She tried to cover it, but she exhaled another whine, one of her fingers slipping between her lips as she moved above him—her thighs clapped against his abdomen, the sticky cream of her arousal beginning to collect between their skin. She moans, “Fuck.”

His eyes narrow.

“Do you hear how good that sounds?”

His abdomen slants from the way he lays beneath her body. The sculpt of his muscles, his tattooed frame—the sight makes it all the more worse—including the way he talks to her.

Stoney nod, “It’ssoogood, baby.”

He grunts, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

His large hands come down to her hips, where he begins to guide her. It’s rougher, lifting and tugging her down like she weighed nothing. Her hands find placement on his knees behind herself—curls draping as she knocks her head back, groaning, “Ohmygod, baby…”

She wraps her fingers around to find the nape of his neck, tugging him forward in a way that he sits up against the headboard—they’re both grinding to meet each other, breathless, panting—whimpers pull from the both of their lips, Toji unable to find a place for his hands to go— he’s dragging his fingers into the flesh of her back, circling and guiding her hips down, fucking her in a way that she feels him.

Toji’s palms swipe along her hips, his large hand grabbing at her hair, tugging back gently. Stoney’s moans echo

within the large room.

“It feels good, huh?” Toji grunts, “You hear me?”

Stoney’s head kneels back—her chest arching forward, a soft cry in her throat.

“Ye—yeah, baby. I—I can hear you.”

She’s dipping her hips lower, taking a deep breath as she admits in a soft whine, “My stomach feels a lil’ heavy, baby…”

Toji groans at that—his fingers gently go along her jaw as he leans down, kissing her deep—it’s messy, and it’s hot. Stoney cries a whine into his mouth, his muscles flexing with each movement, his thrusts deep, hitting the spot within her pussy makes her body vibrate.

“Let me hold you—“ he huffs, “C’mere, Momma.”

The discomfort decreases the moment he takes full control. She’s wet, folds gripping onto his tip each time his balls schluck in contract with her arousal.

“T—Toji…I’m…” she gasps, “Sensitive, baby. I’m cumming,” she whimpers to him, shocked by the intense waves within her body already.

“I know,” he grunts, “Cum, baby. Need to see how pretty your pussy looks after. Want it all, give it to me.”

Her fingers dip back into the nape of his hair, tugging him into burying his lips within her neck—she gasps as pleasure rips through her body, tears blinking within her vision as she quivers. She tucks her mouth within his shoulder, other hand clawing the skin of his back.

Toji moans when she buries her face in his shoulder, equal pleasure coursing through his body as he cums inside of her. Stoney’s body was warm against him, her fingers gripping at his hair—he felt her body spazzing, holding onto her in a way that made her feel safe—his tongue dips along the crook of her neck, his other hand caressing along her cheek. She’s panting, and it makes him press his nose against her cheek.

Her face is flushed, keeping her eyes hidden within his shoulder as she softly whispers, “…You think the girls are asleep?”

He hums, “They better be,” Toji grunts, a smirk on his face as he turns, his gaze flickering to her messy locks.

His fingers comb them, Stoney pulling her head up so that their noses are pressed together. Her lashes flutter, and he chuckles.

“Don’t laugh,” she softly whimpers, “Think I might be getting those cramps again.”

“What do you need?” His voice is immediately concerned, his large palms cupping her cheeks to give her his warmth, “Wanna’ take a bath? Go back to sleep after?”

She nods, “Some warm water and that milk rice soap would be perfect. Will you come sit with me?”

Before he could answer, a small voice carried on the other side of the door—it’s Sai’s, “Mommy! One of the girls threw up!”

Toji leans his head into Stoney’s, hearing her soft giggle as he smacks his lips, “After I go handle that.”

The moment he gets up, Stoney’s eyes follow him—tattoos, muscles, dark hair, frown and all—he was hers.

She reaches up for his hand, tugging him a bit as she questions, “You know something?”

“What is it?”

He’s already pulling his gray sweats on, not yet meeting her eye.

Stoney’s fingers cup his jaw, pulling him back to meet her gaze. Her eyes twinkle, her voice soft, “That I love you.”

Toji stares at her for a moment, feeling the warmth of her fingers along his face—her eyes tell him the very same words. He smiles, his larger hand cupping hers.

“I love you too, Solaya.”

“Promise?”

“More than Mochi loves apples, woman.”

Stoney giggles, “You must really love me.”

“Always, you know that shit.”

And he meant it. Always.

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