#how was this going to eventually lead to a first kiss?

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Hi India, sorry if this comes like I’m looking for reassurance or anything… I’m just going through the first stunts after being away for a long time.

When McDomilson started, it was a little rough, but I brushed it off pretty quickly and didn’t give it more weight than it deserved because I was like, “Louis is gay, this isn’t real.” And it’s always been that way with Louis, even when bng happened, I’ve always felt sure about him.

But with Harry, it’s different. Like, when I saw that recent video, I swear it hit me harder. At first, it just felt like an emotional ouch, and then my brain went straight to, “maybe he is with her, he looks happy dancing,” “maybe he’s not gay,” stuff like that. And I know it sounds absurd, especially because I’ve been around since at least 2014.

And I thought it was just me — but I’ve seen a lot of people express this kind of doubt specifically when it comes to Harry. I guess it’s because a big chunk of Louis' fandom is queer and sees right through the bullsh*t, but Harry’s public image is so shaped by the media — 90% of people either project the “boyfriend fantasy” onto him and see him as a womanizer. That image holds more weight, and now that Harry’s gotten so famous, it creates even more distance between the people who’ve been here a long time and him.

And I just feel really bad for doubting him, India.

So I wanted to ask: why do you think that happens ? And have you ever had doubts about Harry? And what would you recommend I do when I feel like this? Thank you for your time💛

Hey, love!

I've written about half a novel's worth on think pieces regarding the perception around Harry - both by the public and by the fandom - but I'm a terrible archivist so of course I can't link anything, so I'll make this short and sweet. (Famous last words.)

You said you've been away for awhile, and I don't know how long that is, but personally, after having lived through Olivia Wilde, I'm pretty numb to Harry stunts. That was suuuuuuuch a shitshow, and she was so infuriating, and the narrative around them was so cringe that my tolerance for anything less than whatever that crapshoot was just skyrocketed.

But, if you're asking for a more wholistic answer (which I think you are), I think you and I fundamentally disagree on two things:

1) Harry didn't look like he was having fun to me, and honestly, he never does. That kiss - faces as distanced as humanly possible and completely upright to make sure everyone got a clear view of who he was, and eventually, who she is - screams 'sigh. Another day at the salt mines.' That is not how you kiss a budding romantic interest. That's not even how you kiss a drunken one night stand. He looks like he's a breath away from counting Mississippis out loud.

And that's the thing - the only time I've seen Harry truly enjoy his time with women is when they're clearly in a platonic relationship. Family, friends, co-workers, creative collaborations, artists he looks up to... I mean, the guy bought a dulcimer to be more connected to Joni Mitchell. With that amount of passion, you'd think he could muster enough strength to cross a bridge in Civita without looking like he wanted to fling himself off it.

The truth is, we've seen Harry be so interested and in the moment with so many women, just not the ones he's supposedly in relationships with or the ones the tabloids/GP are interested in. And that's what sets us apart from the GP -- we actually have fifteen years of data, and it should mean that it's easier for us not to have such difficulty with object permanence when it comes to Harry.

Which leads me to:

2) Harry is so steeped in queer culture, it's hard for me to even fathom him as straight. From the dedication to flying the rainbow flag at his concert every single night, to wearing a rainbow pin in his off time, to the people he chooses to spend his off time with (Alessandro Michele) to his taste in art (David Hackney) to his fashion references (Keith Haring, Christopher Kane) to his collaborations and investments (Harris Reed, SS Daley) to the movie he actually fought to be in (My Policeman) -- and these are only surface level, because I, myself, am not as knowledgeable in art and queer culture as he is -- I just can't view Harry the way the GP views him anymore.

There's so much context to who he is and what he chooses to do with his free time and how he interacts with queer culture that to view him as straight is to take him so far away from fifteen years of context that it flattens him to a one-dimensional person. A snapshot in time, which, incidentally, are what all his stunts are: one-dimensional.

Because, let's face it, at the end of the day, all those stunts have one thing in common: they ended. Always. No matter how many tabloid articles talk about how serious he is, and whether he's met their family, this, that, and the other, all those women end up in the same place -- the past.

You know what never ends, though? Talk of him being queer. That is continuous - whether it's debating his fashion choices or whether or not he's queer-baiting (he's not, real people can't queer bait) or who he's dating or his songs (hi, Medicine, miss u so much girl) or whether or not he's with Louis - his proximity to queerness, the questions around it, is what always pops up and stays present. Sometimes, it gets drowned out by the GP and the tabloid articles about the female orgasm or whatever, but it never really goes away, does it?

Because Harry doesn't let it.

So, yeah. I think this fandom has always had an object permanence issue with Harry specifically, and I have no idea why that is because I don't share in that issue. I look at him, and I see a guy with a pretty solid sense of self, who has matured over the years and made concessions for his circumstances like all adults have to do, but who has only become more and more himself in his art and his queerness, and that's why the stunts don't bother me. Because I don't think they're reflective of his values, the same way I don't think Louis' stunts are reflective of his values.

I trust them both to be good people, not because I'm blind or I can't adjust to nuance or change my mind, but because I have fifteen years of context and data, none of which has ever led me to believe they're not good people, even after all this time.

And no one has to agree with me on that, but if you're asking how I keep sane, it's that. I trust them. That's all.

[munipe]

omg how about the reader and saiki going out to a festival maybe... and then they are watching the fireworks... and the weather is cold so the reader uses saiki's hand to warm their nose and face (thank god for psychic abilities).... and then they kissed his hand...and then the reader cant stop themself from showing more affection (saiki does nothing to stop them) which then eventually leads to the first kiss... HOLY SHITTTTTT WAAIITTTTTTTTTT🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯

FIREWORKS ARE RED AND WARM, LIKE YOU

A/n: I don’t know much about Japanese festivals, so bear with me, we’re going off the episode we saw of it and my very, Westernized idea of what it would be.

IF IT HADN’T BEEN FOR YOU, Saiki wouldn’t even had thought of being here at this festival. Everyone thought it would have been fun, because everyone has to have fun at these festivals. Everyone clumped together like water droplets. First it was Nendou and Kaidou suggesting it, then Teruhashi joined in because clearly if they made the plans, Saiki must be going. Then Yumehara joined because what girl would she be without accompanying Teruhashi? Finally, Hairo invited you—for better or for worse, Saiki had thought. Maybe for the better, he figures.

He definitely thought ‘for the better’ when you two sit on the grass, staring at the fireworks they always put on, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. He never minded when you got close—you knew when not to. He would often let you hold onto his sleeves in crowds or to guide him. Maybe you would interlock pinkies to calm yourself. You would adjust his glasses or his uniform when they would check the students outside the school gates (he was always perfect to a T, but he always let you). Call it casual intimacy, he said it was just being good friends (Yeah right).

He wonders how he was able to escape with you for the fireworks. Typically, everyone would be all up on him, loud and buzzing like mosquitoes, but not today. It seemed, all of the universe had conspired to land him with you, with the twinkle of the stars and bright orange fireballs reflecting in your eyes, like glitter does on black poster paper. Beautiful, he had thought for a moment. It was perfect. He knew the show ran for a little more than five minutes, it always did. He didn’t mind the loud noises just once, because it was for you. He could watch the show in your eyes if you wouldn’t mind.

“My face is cold.” You mumbled while grabbing his hand. You place his palm to your cheek, and sigh at the warmth. In truth, Kusuo preferred to keep his body at a cooler than average temperature. Though, he soon noticed you always got cold faster, so he adjusted his body temperature to be warmer for you.

He glances down to you as you use his hand as a heating pad, nuzzling different parts of your face in his palm to warm it up. He found it reminiscent of a much more tolerable, and endearing cat. The way you sought warmth in his palm, almost as if you were in a deep winter. He didn’t mind, never did he mind you. He would let you nuzzle into his body and sink into his skin— creeping into every crevice until he was warm enough for you.

Kusuo, for one, never knew just how appreciative he should be of his telepathy until he had to speak to you without a hint of embarrassment. ‘Come closer, then.’ It rung in your head like any normal voice. He swore, if he was speaking, he would’ve possibly stuttered.

Especially at the feeling of your lips on his palm. It felt like its own form of sacred prayer; how gently your lips graced his palm like he was something fragile. Gentle wasn’t something he knew well. Of course, his mother was as bright and motherly as she could be for a boy who was all-powerful, but that was her son, after all. You had once said you valued gentleness, so he softened up. He’d been fighting off weird dilemmas in the world and dealing with voices and living without surprises for years, but nothing prepared him for such a sweet kiss on his skin.

He watched as you sit a little closer, curling for his warmth right under his arm. He wraps it around you, humoring these feline-like tendencies. If he could describe you now, you’d be a lovebug. You were getting close and cozy under the sound of the fireworks. Everyone was too enamored by the light show, the big booms and rainbow splatters in the sky. Simply, he couldn’t care less about the damned fireworks when you were curling next to him. Just subtly, did he warm himself up a little more—unwillingly, as blood flowed through his body, and to his face, giving color to his cheeks.

You had never been this clingy, he realizes. Was it the need for warmth? Was it the fireworks that had you in a lighter mood? Was it him? He didn’t know, but he let you get as close as you wanted, breathing him in, and exhaling his affection. If he was as clueless as he made himself seem, he wouldn’t have noticed that look in your eye—the one that yelled ‘look at me’. He glances down to you, staring from the corner of his eyes.

Oh he was a dead man.

Your smile lines imprinted on the sides of your mouth, deep and a record of your joy. He felt his heart flutter, only for a bit. He rubs your shoulder. ‘Still cold?’ He watches as you shake your head and bury in his chest. You were like a bashful, smiling baby now. He hums. ‘What is it?’

Oh how deeply did he wish he could listen to your thoughts. Festivals were one of the few places his telepathy was useless in—there was too many people to discern a single thought. But, the element of surprise worked in his favor today, when he felt the shock of your lips on his.

Your lips were soft, sweet, and gentle on his. You pressed them only together at first, not wanting to pressure him into an actual kiss. He was stunned for a moment, before he sought the chance to actually hold you dear. Like he’s seen his parents do, like how he’s seen in peoples imagination, he tilts his head to slot your lips together for a second. He was cool about it externally, but he was sure somewhere in the world, a skyscraper just became a cruise ship. If he wasn’t a man of self-control, everything would’ve blown up. Your lips were divine, he thought. How beautiful you were under the warm lights when he pulled away. He was sure his face was flushed with a hue of red. As he looks to you, he sees the light of his love in your eyes.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

my trick to writing fanfiction is to never expect it to be shakespeare levels of writing—satisfaction is key to leisure work.

[swaps55]

That ask about Shiala made me remember a thing I often thought and giggled about - One night the Yang crew went out drinking and dancing and competing over who could get the most people to give them their number (contact info, comm frequency or whatever) and obviously Sam won.

Please enlighten me! How?! Did he actually flirt? Did he make the people think that he flirted? Did he bully them into giving him their number? Did he let them know about the bet and made them play along?

And what did Kaidan think about it? Did he even try to win or did he sulk about Sam charming people all over the place?

And what about Sam? What did he think about Kaidan flirting around?

Ahaha, I have actually tried to write this a couple of times - including as a first kiss AU - and just not been successful. This is in part because Kaidan did get too sulky about it and the tone wasn't right for something that was supposed to be stupid, idiot, squad fun, and part of it because I do not know how to write about hitting on people in bars. XD

But I can tell you this: Sam wins because he doesn't try. He's not interested in anyone but has a lot of confidence and is insanely comfortable in his own skin. So he's a magnet for people who want to get in his pants. All he has to do is turn off the death stare that he uses to repel people.

Aslany is too hostile. If anything she probably winds up with a one night stand and no phone numbers. Clay doesn't win because he he's a quality over quantity kind of guy. At some point, Kara resorts to flashing people and probably nearly gets arrested, which further slows down Clay (though he probably manages to get the number of the person trying to throw Kara in the brig).

And Kaidan is just...not built for this, lol.

Eh, what the hell. This is what I wrote for that abandoned first kiss AU based on the Phone Number Contest:

~

“You know, this may be the first time I’ve been hit on so kindly by someone who would clearly prefer to be hitting on someone else.” The brunette woman sitting at the bar swirls the toothpick in her martini, eyebrow raised as Kaidan sighs and leans an elbow on the counter.

“Sorry.” Someone bumps his elbow trying to get to the bartender, and Kaidan shoots them an irritated look. The Space Bar is flooded with people tonight. Between the asari pop cover band on the stage in the back – humans shouldn’t cover asari songs; it just doesn’t sound right – and the overlapping conversations getting louder with each drink, it’s quickly becoming his least favorite place.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” the brunette asks, lip curving in a smile. She is attractive. No denying that. Beaudoin would be interested. Aslany, maybe.

Interested isn’t the point, he reminds himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shepard laughs as the woman he’s talking to across the room at a high-top table drops her shoulder and leans in closer. Kaidan takes a long, deliberate sip of his drink. The brunette follows his eye.

“He’s quite handsome, by the way.”

“I’m sorry?” The damn music is way too loud.

She nods towards Shepard. “He’s not into men, I’m guessing?”

A flush burns Kaidan’s neck. He’s not into anything, Kaidan almost says, but isn’t so far gone on the whiskey to let that thought slip out into the open. Though, if he drinks much faster, this damned game isn’t going to end with a winner – it’s going to end with someone peeling Kaidan off the floor.

He steals another glance at Shepard, who has parted ways with the woman and is now on his way back to the bar, pausing to waggle a subtle eyebrow in Kaidan’s direction before settling in to wait for the next one. He’s the only person Kaidan knows who can wear BDUs like they were tailored to fit him.

How the hell is he good at everything? Never in Shepard’s life has he wanted to pick someone up in a bar, yet an hour into this fucking game he’s had six people try and pick him up, and those are just the ones Kaidan’s seen.

“It’s, uh. It’s not. He’s not….” Kaidan clears his throat. “What did you say?”

At least she looks genuinely amused rather than ready to throw a drink in his face.

Kara Pendergrass chooses that moment to run up and practically barrel into his lap, nearly spilling his drink. “I fucking got one, can you believe this shit? People will do anything to see a pair of tits. Sex is so fucking weird.”

The brunette’s eyebrows nearly arch off of her head. Kaidan inserts himself between Pendergrass and the brunette, and apologizes. “Please don’t mind her. She means well.”

Pendergrass looks from him to the woman, then leans over Kaidan’s shoulder. “He’s a nice guy who puts up with a lot of shit, and you should give him your phone number. Because if you don’t, Beaudoin is going to win and I’ll have to watch him gloat about it for a week.”

Kaidan sets his drink on the bar, grabs Pendergrass by both shoulders and steers her away, apologizing over his shoulder to the wide-eyed brunette. They bump into at least four people before they find an open pocket that’s even closer to the dance floor and the crooning band.

“Why?” he demands.

“Come on,” she says with a grin. “She was gonna give it to you.”

“Hardly.”

She slugs him in the shoulder. “People like you, LT. Think it’s your face. If you tried not looking miserable, you might have more luck.”

Elsewhere in the bar, someone shrieks. Kaidan looks over his shoulder, fervently hoping he doesn’t know the cause, and sees Aslany standing over a very dismayed serviceman who is now wearing his drink.

“Fucking hell,” Kaidan mutters under his breath, already moving towards her, but Beaudoin gets there first, like he’d been keeping tabs on her the whole time. In the blink of an eye, Beaudoin is buying him a drink, escorting him away, and probably gets his phone number in the process.

…Did they plan that?

Are they a team? His competitive side flares up a little. Maybe more than a little.

[simpforboys]

Frat!Rafe teaching his sweet tutor how to kiss before her date…

warnings: kissing, suggestive(?)

"Hold on - you're telling me you've never kissed anyone?"

You nervously shake your head, chewing on your bottom lip.

You've been tutoring Rafe in statistics for about three weeks now. It's been going okay, mostly him flirting with you and you shyly laughing, thinking he's just messing around.

But now that you told the popular frat boy you have a date tonight with some Braden Langford, Rafe is curious to know what else you have or haven't done.

He's laying on your twin xl bed, making himself comfortable in your dorm room. You sit across from him in a crisscross, stats textbook on your lap with papers and a graphing calculator next to your thigh.

"Are you making fun of me?" You mumbled anxiously, starting to pick at your fingernails.

Rafe was the first boy to ever be in your room, technically the only person you've ever had in your room since you lived in a single and didn't really have other friends.

"No, baby. 'M jus' surprised," he murmured in disbelief.

It's quiet for a moment before he speaks up, something off in his alluring blue eyes. "Ya said you're goin' on a date t'night?"

You nod, doe-y eyes meeting his.

"He might try t'kiss ya, y'know," Rafe warns, trying to hide the jealousy building in his chest at the thought of his girl tutor going out with another guy.

You remain silent for a moment, blinking at the tall boy on your small bed. But then before your brain could process it, you were blurting out the request.

"Teach me?"

He looks at you for a moment, completely stunned, but also a small smirk curled onto his lips. You quickly tried to backtrack.

"I jus' mean that you kiss girls a lot and you have sex all the time and I don't know anybody else and --"

"Baby, shhh," he cuts off your rambling, the smirk now bigger.

"I'll teach ya how t'kiss, sweet girl. But y'gotta listen t'everythin' I say, mkay?"

You nod, face hot as he grabs the textbook off of your lap. You were already nervous enough as it is about going on your first date, now Rafe Cameron is going to teach you how to kiss?

"’M gonna put my hands ‘ere, kay?” He tells you softly, big hands moving to hold your hips.

“Eyes. Want those pretty eyes on me, pretty girl.” He commands firmly yet gently, not wanting to startle you.

Your eyes flicker down to his, heart pounding in your chest. Butterflies filled your tummy as you stared at him, subconsciously licking your lips.

He lets out a small hum, leaning in slightly to brush his lips against yours. “Lemme take the lead, yeah? Jus’ follow me.”

He gently presses his lips to yours. You instinctively flinch at the new contact, but eventually your eyes flutter shut as you melt against Rafe.

His hands grip your hips a bit better, helping you onto his lap. He moved his lips with yours, fitting together perfectly as he swiped his tongue over your bottom one.

You gasped into his mouth, causing him to slip his tongue in and slide it perfectly against yours. Your own hands move off of your lap, but stay in the air, not knowing what to do.

He takes your hands and guides them onto his shoulders, pulling back so you can both pant together.

“Good girl, baby… doin’ s’good.” He murmurs breathily, before capturing your swollen lips with his again.

As the kisses went on, you continued to melt against him, your body burning from his addictive nature.

Your hands slid down his chest, fingertips gently squeezing in to feel his pecs as you sat perfectly on his lap and made out with your tutee.

Eventually, though, you had to pull away because your lungs were burning with the need for air.

His eyes flutter open against yours again, staring at each other as he rests his forehead against your own.

“Y’okay?” He asks softly.

You nod, breathless and mind a little fuzzy that your first kiss was that good, the type of good that’s only seen in those romance movies.

“Good.”

[spidey-webz]

bucky barnes + missionary

summary: you love to be trapped under his weight and he loves to see you writhe underneath him. warnings: smut, p in v, dirty talk, allusions to choking, hair pulling 18+ ONLY word count: 800 a/n: just a small something, because i need bucky to do this with me

masterlist

There is something so intimate about the missionary position in Bucky's eyes. He can't decide if it's the view he gets, being able to see every small change in your expression, every ounce of pleasure in your face, or how close he can feel to you.

He loves to have your tits brush up against his chest with every thrust or just have your nails dig into his back.

Bucky loves to spread your legs apart first, taking a good look at your wet pussy. He loves to run just the tip of his cock through your folds, relishing in the warmth of it. His tip always looks red and angry already, desperate to be buried inside you.

Seeing you so spread out in front of him, with that desperate look in your eyes and your hair sprawled out on the pillow, was enough to make him feel just as desperate to finally feel you around him.

"Can't wait to be inside you, doll." His words are always a mumble, his deep voice making goosebumps rise on your body.

Bucky's hands lay on the insides of your thighs, keeping them spread apart, before he plants a kiss or two to your knee once he lifts your leg up a little.

He sets your leg back on the mattress, keeping eye contact with you as he positions his cock properly at your entrance. He moves closer as he sinks between your folds. A groan escapes Bucky as soon as he feels your tight walls around him. You always fit him so perfectly and he loves when you eventually wrap your legs around his waist.

Once he was buried to the hilt inside you, he bent down to capture your lips in a kiss. Another reason why Bucky loved this position so much. He could kiss you at will, brush his thumb over your lips or even lay his hand gently on your throat.

When he slowly starts to thrust into you, he can watch your tits jiggle and if he leans down a little more, they will be pressed against his chest.

Oh, you love this position too. It allows you to see Bucky in all his naked glory. His chest feels hard against your own and he seems so tall when he's above you.

You can feel him so deeply inside you, filling you out perfectly. You can watch his biceps flex when he places his hands on either side of you or moves his hands over your thighs. It's eye candy when the sweat starts to gather on his abs, his happy trail leading to where you are both intertwined with each other.

Bucky has his pleasure written onto his face too, his lips slightly apart once he starts thrusting into you.

His beard always feels rough against your soft lips when he leans down and sometimes you let your hand snake from his strong back to his soft hair. Bucky groans against your skin when you pull on it, giving you another sharp thrust in return.

When he moves back a little, his thrusts speeding up even more, and his hands grab your thighs tightly, keeping them spread apart as he's pushing you closer and closer to your climax, he looks like a greek god between your thighs. His abs are flexing, a few strands of hair fall into his face and soft groans escape his lips over and over.

"Look at you. Taking me so well." His voice is a deep rumble, but it's shaking all the same as he's coming closer to his own release. You feel so good around him and the sight in front of him, seeing your writhe and moan underneath him while you take him so deeply inside of you... it's enough to make him go crazy.

Bucky knows you're close to and this position allows him to slip his hand between your legs with ease, find that sensitive nub between your folds and circle his fingers around it. Your clit is already so sensitive and it just adds to the tension until another sharp thrust of him pushes you over the edge.

He loves to keep thrusting into you, watching your orgasm roll over you as he looks down, your hands either clawing at him or at the sheets while he lets out a moan when he's so close.

And then he hits his high, feeling your walls squeeze around him and you get to watch Bucky throw his head back. The veins at his throat stand out as he comes, his metal digits digging into your soft thighs.

Then he bends down, grabbing your face with his hands and kisses you softly, with so much love. There's nothing he loves more than this.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 35: October 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…You okay?” he asked, cautiously.

Belle sniffled. “He’s so small.”

“He’s the size of a sofa.”

“Emotionally, Max.”

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

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

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

“That’s a trauma response.”

“Belle.”

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

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

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

“I think she has to be.”

There was a long pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle gave a watery laugh.

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

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

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

“You won’t be,” he said. “Not ever.”

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

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

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

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

Belle looked back, teary again.

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

“I’m not even mad about it.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

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

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

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

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 OH MY GOD

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilie: she projects, max. let her project.

Max: i think she meant herself

Emilie: oh.

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

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

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

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

Emilie: duh have you MET her

***

Max had been up before sunrise.

Not for training. Not for the simulator. 

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle stared. “You bought five copies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST | October 2024 Edition

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

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

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

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

The Soul of a House

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

Enter Belle Verstappen.

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

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

Quiet Luxury, Lived In

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Courtyard, Reimagined

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

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

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

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

A Designer Coming Into Her Own

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

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

That transition wasn’t without weight.

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

Designing for Emotion, Not Aesthetic

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

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

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

What’s Next?

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

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

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

This isn’t just a space someone lives in.

It’s a space that lives with them.

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

***

Instagram Stories: @/maxverstappen1

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: But you saw it. You always do.

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

Belle: I love you.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: UM. HELLO. EXCUSE ME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner

Max: Did you see the AD article?

Christian: The what?

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

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

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

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

Max: I married an artist.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Did you read the part about the courtyard?

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

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

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

Jos: You’re very lucky.

Max: I know.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: have you seen belle’s AD article?

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

Max: okay good just making sure

***

Group Chat: RBR STRATEGY & OPERATIONS

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

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

GP: Max.

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

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

Christian: She’s very talented.

Helmut: What is Architectural Digest.

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: Oscar. No.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: Your apartment actively resists adulthood.

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

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

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

Lando: You’re a genius.

***

Pascale Leclerc hadn’t planned to read it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The house gave me the courage."

"Homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle: …yes?

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

Belle: I know.

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

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

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

Belle:  

Thanks, Maman. That means a lot.

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

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

Belle: MAX.

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

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

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

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

Lando: Oh we’re starting early today.

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

Franco: what is architectural digestion

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

Yuki: Wait so like… Belle designed a house?

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

Pierre: Bro he’s yelling.

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

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

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

Lance: Can she do race trailers?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando: And I, for one, welcome him.

Yuki: Can we all go live in the Provence house

Max: Get in line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max: Funny you mention that. Check your mail.

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

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

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

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

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

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

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

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

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

Yuki: You said that with your chest

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar: Lily said it changed the texture of her soul

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

Kimi: what are you all talking about

Zhou: Architecture But like. Feelings.

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

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

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

Yuki: You should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Charles was the one who broke the silence.

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

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

She inhaled slowly.

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

The words landed like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

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

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

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

She looked at them then — really looked.

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

Charles looked gutted. Pascale was blinking quickly.

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

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

Belle nodded.

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

Pascale finally spoke. “I’m sorry.”

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

Belle didn’t reply right away.

But she didn’t look away either.

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

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

“You didn’t ask,” she said.

That was the part that always hurt the most.

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

Then she looked at the others.

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

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

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

Charles looked pale.

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

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

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again.

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

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

Belle swallowed hard. Her voice was quieter now.

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled faintly at the memory.

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

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

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

A long pause.

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

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

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

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

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

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

Camille didn’t interrupt. No one did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle didn’t speak. Not yet.

But she didn’t look away either.

Camille waited a beat, then gently shifts the focus.

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

Charles exhales like he’s been underwater.

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

He stopped himself. Winced.

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

He nodded.

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

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

Charles flinched. “I know.”

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

Everyone turned.

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

Belle blinked. “What?”

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

There’s a long silence.

Belle’s expression softened — just a little.

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

Lorenzo finally spoke.

“You do.”

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

Camille gently stepped in.

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

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

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

Arthur nodded. “Me too.”

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

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

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

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

Belle exhales, slow and shaky. But she nodded.

***

It was late.

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

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

Belle shifted slightly. “Max?”

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

She nodded. “Just… thinking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My middle name,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked fast. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

[zepskies]

Headcanon: Wearing His Clothes

Pairings: Dean Winchester x F. Reader, Beau Arlen x F. Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

AN: I haven't done one of these in a while! This one was requested by the lovely @luci-in-trenchcoats. 💜

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, spiciness/implied smut

Headcanon: How Dean, Beau, and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to you (getting caught) wearing his clothes.

Dean Winchester

Ugh, what a cocky SOB. 😆 (And yet, not the cockiest of them all.)

You've been doing it for weeks now, without comment from him.

But every time he sees you in one of his undershirts, getting ready for bed, it's always accompanied by a little once-over. A curve of his lips. A smirk, if you will.

He likes the look of you.

He likes that you're his.

And he likes the fact that you feel comfortable enough to steal his clothes.

He also likes welcoming you into bed next to him, with a hand running up your back, or venturing under whatever undershirt you've decided to slip on to feel the warmth of your skin.

"'S this mine?" he asks. You give him a quirking smile.

"You know it is," you say, with playful challenge.

Dean accepts that with a hum and leans in for a kiss as payment.

Sometimes that one stolen kiss leads to another, simmering with heat. And he’ll take great pleasure in taking back his shirt, casting it to the floor and rolling you underneath him on the bed.

But it doesn't stop at his undershirts. You steal his plaid ones if you want something to comfortably drown in when you're doing research, or just lounging in the bunker. The material is soft from several hundred washes. (The red and black one is one of your favorites.)

Rare though it is for him to wear hoodies, it's rarer still, because Dean can never even find one in his side of the dresser.

That's because you're keeping it hostage on your side, buried under your lingerie. (Even if he tried to find the hoodie, odds are he’ll get distracted.)

It gets to the point where he can hardly find anything of his.

His brows furrow as he rucks through his drawers for something clean to wear, while clad in only his most threadbare sweatpants.

"Damn it, woman. Where are my shirts?" he grouses.

You bite your lip and pretend to keep reading your book. You're already safe in bed, covered up to your chest by the blankets.

"I don't know. Have you done your laundry?" you ask, smiling to yourself. Dean catches you, with a suspicious brow raise.

He climbs into bed and snatches the covers away from you. You yelp at the suddenness and try to grab at them, but it's too late.

He discovers that you're wearing one of his newer shirts, which he had to buy to replace the ones he just can't seem to find.

"Are you kidding me? This is Theft in the First goddamn Degree!" he exclaims, even though he's close to laughing at the way you're already giggling. He manages to pin you underneath him on the bed, and he has half a mind to take this shirt back as well, by whatever means necessary.

And yes, tickling is one of those means.

"Sweetheart, for the love of God. Why do you keep taking my shit?" he asks, in a way that's half-serious in his frustration, but also half-teasing.

You shrug shamelessly, still smiling. You run your hands up his bare arms and shoulders, and back down his chest.

"I don't know. It's comfortable," you say. But your eyes lower as your face begins to warm with a blush. "Makes me feel safe...like you're always with me."

At that, the tension in Dean's shoulders eases. His smile can't help but soften around the edges as he looks down on you, now with fondness. After a while, he lets out a deep sigh.

"All right," he says.

You grin, because you know he's given up. You lean up for a kiss that successfully distracts him.

Dean still gets annoyed sometimes when he can't find a specific item of clothing in his drawer, but now, all he has to do is go over to your side of the dresser.

There he knows he'll eventually find what he's looking for.

Beau Arlen

Heh, in this episode of “Whose Hat is it Anyway”...

Beau's wardrobe reminds you of a cowboy in modern times.

Lots of browns and beiges, lots of slacks and buttoned-down shirts tucked in with an army of belts to choose from (even though the man only owns a few pairs of boots). Not to mention a slew of jackets that often pull the look together.

But being that he's new to Montana (specifically, Montana winters), you like to buy him sweaters. Cable-knits and soft ones in earth tones that you think bring out his eyes.

Beau accepts whatever you get him and graciously wears them. He trusts your judgment on what looks good on him, and he appreciates the way you think of him.

It's just one of those ways, however small, that you show that you care and that you're looking out for him.

One night while he's working late, however, you find yourself trying to reorganize the closet. The man is "organized chaos" at best, and you find one of his sweaters on the floor. It's a nice burgundy one that you bought him recently.

Ooh, so soft, you think, while feeling the fabric between your fingers.

You don't know what possesses you, but you decide to slip out of your pajamas and try it on yourself.

SO damn soft, you realize, as you practically drown in the sweater. It hangs about to mid-thigh.

Then you see one of his beige Stetsons hanging on the wall. A sneaking smile curves your lips, before you slip on his hat.

To complete the ensemble, you dig into the recesses of your closet and find a pair of your old cowboy boots. You go out into the bedroom and check yourself out in the mirror with a growing smirk.

"Hey there, darlin'," you try to impersonate your boyfriend's subtle Texan twang, and even his mannerisms by winking at yourself, tipping the hat forward.

You giggle at your own silliness in this moment, but alone in your own house, who freakin' cares? You should feel free to dance naked through the whole damn place if you feel like it.

So you spin on your heel and do a little twirl in your boots.

"Who's the sheriff now, huh?" You mime a pair of guns with your hands and shoot at your reflection. "Psh, psh!"

But that's when you catch sight of one Beau Arlen, leaning against the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed. An amused grin is plastered to his face.

You freeze in shock, still with your "gun hands" held up.

"Oh, don't stop the show on my account," Beau says slyly. He gestures at you. "Please, continue."

Your hot blush spreads from your cheeks and quickly begins to travel down your neck. "Uh...I was just...you know, cleaning the closet. You're very messy, you know!"

Beau snorts and draws closer. Those green eyes of his take in the full sight of you, down your bare thighs and cowboy boots, and back up to your embarrassed face. You bite your bottom lip on reflex.

"You know, I like what you got goin' on here," he says, waving a hand down your form. "But it's just...it's missing something."

He takes his badge with the gold star off his belt and pins it to your sweater.

"There you go. Perfect fit," he says, even as his hand slides up the slope of your back. You find yourself pulled further into his orbit as you try (and fail) to stamp down a smile.

"You're late, you know," you remind him. Beau bows his head and presses a kiss into your neck. You feel his smirk there.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff. Gonna arrest me, or let me off with a warning?" he teases. His other hand comes up to adjust the hat on your head. You smirk and cling to his arms over his dark brown jacket. It's one of his nicer ones.

"I think I can let you off," you play along. You lean up to skim your lips across his cheek, and closer to his ear. "But only for good behavior."

He has to chuckle then. "I can accept those terms..."

Beau's hands slip under your stolen sweater and begin to slide it up your body, inch by inch.

"Though I'm gonna need you to keep the boots on," he says lowly, just before he claims you with a searing kiss.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Oh, here we go. 😅

As with most things, it's a point of pride for Ben.

He'd prefer you be too fucked out to move, let alone put on clothes after he's finished with you.

On the rare occasion that your body doesn't feel too much like warm molasses after a few hot rounds with your boyfriend, you like to at least grab one of his discarded shirts to cover yourself.

If he still has energy, he'll take that as a challenge. He'll try to slip his hands underneath whatever shirt you've found and divest you of it, so he can start devouring you again.

However. Ben does like seeing you in his clothes, in a possessive, claiming way.

There are days when you just want to be swallowed up in one of his large, comfortable shirts as you lounge about the house.

Ben sometimes watches you putter around, cleaning, working, cooking, reading, or watching TV in nothing but his clothes. He wonders if you're even wearing panties. You could be bare faced with a severe case of bed head, but his eyes will still occasionally follow you.

His expression doesn't reveal too much, but he likes it. (And because you know him, you know it too.)

Maybe he'll catch you as you pass by, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You startle with a yelp, but then you grab onto his arms and smile.

"Can I help you, sir?" you tease.

"Think you can just walk by me, looking sexy as fuck?" he remarks. He steals a slow, thorough kiss. You cup his face and bring him back in for more, tenderly stroking his cheek.

"You know why I like wearing your stuff?" you ask. Your smile hints at teasing.

Ben arches a brow. "Why?"

"Because it keeps you looking," you reply. And you reach a hand around to slap his ass, for good measure.

Then you saunter away from him to get back to what you were doing.

Or at least, you try to.

Ben grabs your hand and pulls you back towards him, back into the cage of his arms, where he falls back into the trap you've so often laid. And he finishes what you started.

AN: Well, then. 😂 I hope you guys enjoy this! Who had your favorite reaction: Dean, Beau, or Ben? 😘

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Big Sky Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean, Beau + Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1)

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@xxlaynaxx @beskarfilms @tmb510 @iamsapphine @roseblue373

@lacilou @jackles010378 @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse

[maybanksprincess]

seven minutes in heaven

warnings: suggestive but no actual smut, mature themes, dry humping, tongue kissing.

summary: a game of seven minutes in heaven leads to reader and jj stuck in a closet together.

pairings: childhood!bsf!jj x childhood!bsf!reader

requested by this ask (thank you anon!) i dont know much about the game, so if i got one of the steps wrong, im sorry in advance.

you and the rest of the pogues gathered together on a saturday night to drink beers, smoke weed, and play spin the bottle. typical pogue shit.

all of you were sat in a circle on the carpet in the living room floor of the chateau. there was a glass beer bottle in the middle of all seven of you.

for a half hour, the game was spin the bottle. everyone's facial expressions quickly grew bored. John B, and Sarah were talking about something totally different, Pope and Cleo gone to grab a new crate of beers.

After a few more moments of all of you staring at the wall blankly, Kiara's the first to break the awkward silence. "hey what's that game we all used to play when we were sophmores?" she asks, twirling a piece of her curly hair around her pointer finger.

after kiara speaks, jjs facial expression changes to one of interest. he thinks for a moment and then speaks, "the one where you get locked in a closet for like ten minutes?" he asks

Pope rounds the corner with a few beers tucked in his arm. Cleo not far behind him "seven minutes." he corrects, pointing a finger at him.

jj rolls his eyes at the correction and mimics a mouth with his hand, mocking his words "seven minutes" he says, trying his best to sound as much like pope as possible.

you flick the back of jjs neck, mumbling a shut up to him. he lets out a high pitched ow and rolls his eyes, but ultimately he stops his mocking.

John b turns back towards the group at the mention of the new game. "are we finally gonna play something other than spin the bottle? im kinda tired of landing on Sarah." he teases

Sarah shoves him playfully, and then turns back to the topic of conversation. "Yeah we should play, it sounds fun. how does it work?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Pope speaks up this time, "we spin a bottle for two people, whichever two people it lands on, they go in a closet together for seven minutes to do whatever they want." he adds with a hint of suggestion at the end of his sentence.

jj smirks and turns to look at you, memories of the last time you two played this game when you were fifteen, when you shared your first kiss.

it was the first kiss for both of you, so it was sloppy and had a lot of teeth and tongue, it was sickening to think about, but never forgotten.

jj pipes up next, "yup we can play. this games borin' anyways." he says with a shrug.

everyone else agrees and shifts themselves back into a circle on the carpet. Pope places the bottle in the middle, then darting his eyes from one pogue to another.

"so whos first?" pope speaks

jj doesn't waste a second in volunteering to go first. "me! uh- ill spin first." he says, clearing his throat. everyones eyes fly to jj, giving him a questioning look.

"dude you answered that way too fast." john b says with a growing smirk on his face, his eyes now flickering between me and jj sitting beside one another.

"dude shut up!" jj says, before reaching forward and spinning the glass bottle, he crosses his arms and sneakily crosses his fingers hoping, praying, that it lands on you.

everyones eyes are glued intensely to the bottle, the tension in the small room palpable.

eventually the bottle comes to a stop, the tip of it pointing right to your knee. jj has to hold back from jumping up and saying something like hell yeah!

he instantly stands up, holding his hand out for you to take. "cmon m'lady." he teases, and looks at you with his typical shit eating grin.

you roll your eyes and take his hand, standing up and walking to the closed closet with him.

"i bet everyone can guess what they're gonna do in that closet." john b says with a smirk, as he watches jj open the closet door and enter.

"gross! i dont even wanna think about it." kie adds on, then everyone starts to whisper about both of you in the open circle.

as you both get in the cramped closet, jj takes a seat on stacked boxes that clearly say "fragile" but he obviously doesn't seem to mind. he looks up at you still standing there awkwardly in the dimly lit space.

"seems oddly familiar, doesn't it?" he teases. your brain floods with memories of you and jj in the same situation back in sophomore year.

you both had been in this exact crammed closet, deciding you could both share you first kiss together. it was sloppy, uncoordinated, and you both were trying to figure out a comfortable spot to place your hands. it was an awkward and uncomfortable kiss, but it was stuck in your brain nonetheless.

"yeah, really familiar." you chuckle nervously, looking around, and tapping your foot on the ground. you avoid eye contact with the blonde, hoping this seven minutes would pass by quickly.

he notices your shift in mood, and he smirks. he spreads his legs and moves his arms behind his head as he speaks.

"you know, were in here for a whole seven minutes. we should put it to good use, right?" he was enjoying making you nervous, and teasing you.

when he doesn't get a response, he gently pulls you onto his lap so your straddling him. he looks up into your eyes in the dimly lit closet, with something you cant quite describe.

before you know it, your both leaning in slowly, jj is the one to connect his lips with yours. the kiss was gentle and chaste at first, your mouths moving passionately against one another.

jjs hands find their way to your waist, gently caressing the flesh. you take that as a sign to move your hands up his torso, then settling your arms around his neck, all while continuing to kiss him passionately.

the kiss grows more intense over time, your tongues fighting for dominance against one another. eventually you catch yourself grinding your hips against his, as you both makeout.

minutes go by, and he finds himself lost in your kisses and the way your grinding your hips against his. his cock doesn't take long to stir in his cargo shorts.

when you feel his buldge press up against you, your hips move a little faster, the kisses becoming more desperate. before you know it, a light is shining in the closet and the sound of the door creaking fills your ears.

you pull away from jjs lips briefly to look at who opened the door.

"seven minutes are up, lovebirds." john b says with a jerk of his head, motioning for you two to get out the closet with a smirk.

[bkgsangel]

⋆˚࿔ ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏᴜ + ᴘᴅᴀ. ✩˚⋆

✧ hellooo!! the unexpected support on my first lil drabble made me want to write another one!<3 This one’s just a little longer though

✧ fluffy fluff, suki loooves youu, gn reader

During the early stages of yours and Katsuki’s relationship, when it came to being publicly affectionate, furthest he would go would be hand holding.

You didn’t mind however. His hands were always comfortingly warm, and despite his explosive, even deadly quirk, would always hold yours firmly, yet ever so gently. Such a simple gesture, though it always brought a feeling of safety.

Besides, Katsuki didn’t seem like the type to go past handholding beyond closed doors to begin with. You knew what you were getting into, and you were completely content with just that. You simply took it as a silently set boundary of his, and you didn’t want to force your boyfriend out of his comfort zone.

Which, you realised overtime, even if you wanted to, you didn’t have to.

It was like he was exploring his own boundaries, pushing his own buttons. The more steps he took out of border, the further his hands wandered.

They went from your own, snaking their way to your shoulders, waist, anywhere on your back. The fleeting touches eventually leading to sweet, careless hugs and kisses. Becoming second nature to him.

Walking down a street? You’re not walking unless you’ve got a hand around his bicep, your head on his shoulder.

In a crowd? His arm is not leaving your waist.

Waiting in line? Your impatient grump of a boyfriend is hugging you from behind, leaning his head on your shoulder as he grumbles complaints into it.

You think about it every once in a while. How he went from having the tips of his ears burning at your hand nestling in his, to having his arms shamelessly around you at all times. You don’t know what is it that gave him the push, just happy it’s you he feels comfortable with to such extent.

All the while, Katsuki wishes he could put it into words for you.

Falling for you, then falling in love with you has taught him a lot. The kind of love you showed him has helped him realise things, look at them from a different perspective. It made him yearn for and want everything he never thought he would. Being publicly affectionate a small, nonetheless great example of that.

Katsuki used to think there was no need for not just you and him, but anyone to be all lovey-dovey in public. He used to think it was completely unnecessary, obnoxious even. That is, until the small sense of longing surfaced from the depths of his heart.

Katsuki thinks it grew stronger the deeper he fell. It wasn’t long before he’d decided to act on it, languidly at least.

It was weird, kind of a newfound feeling for him. He quickly pinpointed it to, pretty much, wanting to show your guys’ love off. He wants to show off how good he is to you and how happy you are with him. To the whole world, preferably, because he loves you that much and more.

In Katsuki’s head, he notably matured for this. Something he did next to, and thanks to you. But he guesses that’s just part of being in love.

[tsuyalovebot]

don't make me wait forever.

pairing: xia yi zhou / caleb x reader (love and deepspace)

cw: sfw. semi-prominent reader characterization (spoiled, occasional use of she/her pronouns, referred to as a "little sister" once). kisses. casual touches. throat holding (both by reader and by caleb). use of "older brother" to address caleb (not by reader). pipsqueak as a term of endearment. reader wears makeup. some spoilers from tender moments, memoria, and bond story. caleb typical warnings (manipulation if you squint).

wc: roughly 3-4k words. unnecessary word vomit.

author's note: a man who yearns is a man who EARNS. hi, it's me again! i had an idea and had to bring it to life. enjoy! ( ^ -. ^ )

Caleb wasn't lying when he said he spoiled you too much as children.

You didn't quite get it at first—he was nothing but sweet with the occasional menace during childhood, sure, but he didn't spoil you spoil you.

You were leaning into his chest, eyes closed while listening to the TV in the background as his large arm wraps itself around your waist. Tucking you against him, feeling his lips against the crown of your head.

"I baby you too much," he sighed, a mellow cheeriness beneath his words.

"And yet, you sound so happy over it," you grumbled. Sleep is so close yet so far, and you'd been squirming around in search of the closest boarding gate. His touch delicate as he pulled you onto his lap.

You snuggled closer on instinct. Picking up on the faint smell of sandalwood and something finer, richer. There was movement on your back, Caleb's palm stroking up and down, while the other held you by the back of your neck like an infant.

"I spoiled you, too."

You frowned, looked at him blearily. "Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh." He pushed your head back onto his shoulder. "Go to sleep."

Sure, Caleb took extensive measures to ensure your comfortable upbringing with him. But you weren't spoiled.

Right?

But you go on your first date with someone that isn't him, and it kind of hits. Making an offhanded comment about how the water temperature was more cold than warm—you asked for room temp—doesn't result in your date immediately requesting another glass or them buying you bottled water from the convenience store across the restaurant.

Instead, you're told, "they probably forgot, it's fine" and the date continues. You watch the condensation form on your glass quietly. Every rational droplet is speaking to your acrid gut feeling—it's just water. It'll be room temperature eventually.

Later on, your date messages you. They asked if you got home safely, all the while you'd been drinking a glass of lukewarm water in Caleb's dining room. You pressed block once you heard his familiar, curious voice asking how the date went.

"It was meh." And you asked for another glass.

Another time, you'd been hanging out with old high school friends as a simple gathering. Though, you hadn't expected that it would lead to seemingly endless anecdotes in relation to you. Over fruit smoothies and café pastries, they'd all been exchanging stories once the conversation turns over to yourself in high school.

"Remember when she would always ask us to do stuff?" One girl laughed, cutting into her french toast.

Another cleared her throat, exaggerating her voice into a falsetto, "hey, can you get me a bun from the cafeteria? Oh, there's no more? Then, a banana milk and whatever pastry they have."

It earned a crackle of laughter along the table of five people. You, the object of discussion, smiling at the head of the table. Rather awkwardly, too, as you sipped on your drink.

"You forgot to add on the "you can do that at least, right?" at the end!"

"Oh, oh, the sulking too, if you don't do it!"

"She'd always complain about our fans, too."

"Oh my God, yeah. "Why does your fan battery run out so quickly? Did you not charge it?" Like, hello?"

One of the girls face you amidst the active exchange, grinning. Despite the recollection of your nature in the past, they weren't mad. Simply taking the entertainment value in it.

"Don't worry," and she said your name, placing a hand over yours on the table.

"You've got an older brother, right? It may have been annoying, but we're friends. You were like, our little sister."

A muscle in your jaw ticked. His face popped up in your face and you wanna punch him, despite him being nowhere near you at the time of this event. But, you laughed and nodded; acquiescing to her reassurance was easier this way.

It slipped out once more when you go out for movies with Tara. It's the same theater you and Caleb always frequented before. You already swiped your card for payment of movie food, and had besn walking to the screening room.

"Tara, can you check the bucket? Make sure it has enough butter on it?"

"Hm? Okay," she replied. While you scrolled on your phone, you heard the plastic lid of the bucket pop open.

"Seems good to me. You check."

When you move your attention over to the bucket, you're met with mediocre-looking buttered popcorn. The golden syrup of butter scattered over the pieces. You frowned. Since when were they so shy about buttering literal corn?

You stopped walking, brows furrowed. "It's so... pale. Let's go back and ask for more, I didn't pay for that."

"Huh? Oh, okay?" You didn't really register Tara's confused tone of voice until after you had a spat with the person at the popcorn station.

It was some moody teen probably working minimum wage. He was scowling while you talked about the butter portioning.

He sneered, "over some popcorn? Really? Were you that spoiled as a kid?"

It winded you. Tara was pulling at your arm, seeming to try and hold you back despite you being frozen. The manager came out once the commotion seems to stop, only because you were gobsmacked.

He'd been apologizing profusely to you and Tara upon recognizing you both as hunters; his eyes had landed on you with so much familiarity. He's probably been working here for a decade or so. Long enough to have previously seen you and Caleb at movie screenings.

Tara's at the butter dispenser of the self-service station—something they closed over half a decade ago apparently, but frantically opened for today, coincidentally—with you behind her when she finally spoke

She was a bit bewildered, but it was easy to pick up the lighthearted tone. "I didn't take you for the pampered type. That was the normal amount of butter on popcorn for most places."

You shook your head. "No, it wasn't. I was a regular here in the past. Every time we got a bucket of popcorn, they were always so generous with the salted butter."

"By yourself?"

"No, with my friend."

There'd been a pause between you two. She pressed the lid back into place and begun shaking it, the popcorn rattling. Then, she turned to you, like she knew something that you didn't.

"And you never once thought this friend scared the employees into putting extra butter for you back then?"

It always went back to him.

Whenever you'd go to a colleague's place and bore holes into the crooked cuts of the apple slices on a plate, you found yourself recalling Caleb's expert cuts. These ones weren't even red delicious apples.

You're a bit peeved when the food from the monthly catering service at the Association doesn't taste the same way that Caleb makes it, even though the food is the same kind and recipe.

Your next trip to Skyhaven is definitely highly anticipated. You're been exhausted and haggard for the past few days. It only amplifies as the day stretches on, grimacing when Caleb opens the door. He's surprised to see you, panting and sweaty in his white tanktop. Fresh from a workout, most likely. It makes you a bit, a tiny bit, mad.

"Pipsqueak? What's the occasion?"

"You," you hiss, releasing your hold on your suitcases. You kick off your shoes as you push your way into his place, pointing an accusing finger to his chest.

Caleb's confused. It's clear in the furrow of his brow and frantic blinking that his synapses are doing rapid fire checking of what today is, what he's said or done recently, what stores are on sale, and what snacks you need.

Despite being the one who said he himself spoiled you, he clearly has no idea how it's manifested in your life, and it pisses you off even more.

"I'm the occasion?" He squawks, confused. "It's too early for my birthday—"

"You and your stupid past self. I should have your head on a stake," you bark, slamming your fists onto his pecs, pushing him further into his own home.

He laughs a bit, still completely in the dark, but his voice gets a bit more pitchy.

He leans down, cranes his gargantuan ass down to your height. It's polite. You know this, he's done it countless times. But your gut speaks to you. You're going to throttle him.

"Huh? What did I do?"

"You piss me off!"

His face softens with concern. His hands come up, ghosting over yours. He murmurs your name—

Then you're gripping him by the neck. You get to drink in the way his eyes widen to saucers as your fingers delicately wrap around his throat, palms on either side. You don't squeeze, and instead, aggressively shake him. "Pipsqueak?"

"You spoiled me!" You shriek, voice shrill with accusation.

Frustration, the buildup from the past couple of weeks comes to full fruition in this very moment. It's only for a split second that you see realization dawn on Caleb's face before you continue yelling.

"I relied on others to get me snacks because of you, I complain over batteries because of you, now I want specific water temperatures, I can't stand pale popcorn because you demanded extra butter, I'm picky over food—"

"Hey—"

"Don't you hey me, mister!" You jut your finger up at his face, and he shuts his mouth instantly. "I'm like this, because of you!"

You don't miss the glitter of mirth in those stupidly ethereal eyes of his, and it's wholly unreal how your anger amplifies when you notice his twitching lips. He found this funny.

"You're laughing?" You whisper, low and indignant. You squeeze his throat, feel his breath pass under the skin. Adrenaline riveting and real in the low thrum of your heartbeat.

"I'm here, devastated over the effect of your stupid actions on my life, and you're laughing?"

"Devastated?" Caleb echoes. The idiot sounded delighted over this. Like he was finding a great deal of validation in your admission.

A grin quirks his lips into its signature, charming curve, and he's leaning down into you some more. One of his hands sliding over yours with a gentleness only he could emulate. Your resolve stutters, and he's quick to take advantage of that.

"Oh, please, pipsqueak." He chuckles. "That's not true and you know it."

His fingers gently slide between the gaps of yours, making room for himself and filling the emptiness. Effectively peeling them away from his throat, and doing the same to the other hand. You relent, letting your arms hang loosely at your sides.

Caleb's still smiling when he takes a step forward, crowding your space now. It doesn't register that he's cornered you until your back is flat to the closed door and you're surrounded by him and everything about him.

The very man who's fed you every granule, acquainted you with the taste of having the world at your every whim. A charged zap runs up the base of your spine when he lifts your chin.

"If you were really devastated, you'd have come here cryin' instead. You'd be on your knees, weepin' over how I've ruined you. Not yelling and screaming and accusing me," he coos, sickly sweet. His thumb rubbing below your lower lip.

"Are you done? Do you feel better after getting it all off your chest?"

His gaze feels abysmal. Two pools of an oceanic depth, spatial and intergalactic and beyond your comprehension. Hungry.

Something darker lurks there. That one look that flickers in and out of conversations whenever you're close to him, or when the topic tilts into something that you know you shouldn't be touching. Like he's satiated, but still craving more and more. You feel small under it every time.

"Even a kid knows how to manipulate their guardian into givin' them what they want."

The double meaning, one of comparing you to an immature brat, isn't lost on you. Heat crawls up your skin as your cheeks round with the scrunch of your nose. Ready to retaliate with equal venom, even if his words weren't inherently insulting.

But, before you even could, the expression on his face stops you in your tracks.

It's like looking at the colonel. Caleb cocks his head to the side, expression clinically cold. "When someone is speaking, we?"

He stares. He's waiting for a response, you realize.

You finish his sentence, pacified. "We listen."

"Good. Seems you still have the manners I taught you."

Your face heats up.

That stupidly patient smile on his lips was grating on your nerves, far more than any revelation of his ingrained presence in your every action, thought, word, and emotion.

His thumb is soon pressed flush to your lips. He isn't prying it open like he did before, instead rubbing the pad of his thumb along your lips, caressing the divot of your cupid's bow. He's playing with the glossy texture and film of your lippie, smearing it past the corner of your lips.

The first thing you want to do is push him away. Shove him, hard, and make space between the two of you so that your train of thought could return. Yet, the softness that decorates his grape-colored irises was making you hesitate. He's an annoying guy, someone who gets on your nerves, with featherlight caresses and an admiration so sincere.

Rouge stains the pad of his digit when he draws it back. He's curious, his gaze thoughtful as he examines the pigment. Then, you're watching as he lifts it to his mouth with a deliberate kiss. Lashes fluttering over his cheekbones.

When he drops his hand, the scarlet pigment is smeared over his lips like a brand.

You're burning alive. You reach up, immediately trying to wipe it from his lips. "You—"

"Weirdo? I know." Caleb catches your hand with ease, beaming with half-lidded eyes. "Buuut, you're just as weird as me for lettin' me do that, y'know."

He's making a point. You're going to gut him alive, you think to yourself. In stealing an indirect kiss from you, he's replicating every scenario you've ever bared yourself to him. How easy it is, to melt in one's earnest wonder and affection, unable to say no.

In an attempt to regain your composure, you scowl with all the feigned vitriol you could muster. "You're even weirder for condoning my every action."

He cocks his head, like he was reloading a couple memories from the past. The countless times he let you get away with things.

"It's... not that easy for me, pipsqueak."

"Yes, it is." You huff and free your hand from his grip. Settling your palms flat over his chest, fingers curling into the stretchy fabric. "Telling me no couldn't have been that hard."

"Yeah?" He teases. "You think it's that simple for me?"

"Grandma could handle me."

Caleb deadpans at your mention of her, his face relaxing into something like bemusement.

"If Gran or I took away your stuffed animal to clean it, you'd kick and scream and cry. If I denied you of your favorite food or a candy apple, you'd say you hate me."

You blink. That wasn't the response you were expecting. All of a sudden, you feel like someone's wiped your mind of everything you've ever known, and redefined your recollections of childhood. Embarrassment crawls up your face in burning streaks.

"Gran could handle you?" He repeats, shakes his head with a sad look.

There's a pained aspect to his current physiognomy, the furrow of his brow, the deepened set of his mouth. "That's because it's her. Of course, she wouldn't mind your cries. But I did."

He crouches, and for a moment, it was as if he was falling. The sunlight filtered in through the glass of the door behind your head, catching on the nutty brown strands of his hair. Cradling his head against the junction of your neck and shoulder, hiding away his face.

"I didn't want you to hate me." He admits, the words fanned over your throat. You inhale deeply, and his familiar scent invades your senses. You hope that stupid central organ wasn't too loud, or else he'd hear the beating of your pulse working double time.

Caleb's a constant in your life. He was a pillar, from youth 'til now, that never failed to offer you assistance regardless of the circumstances. You knew him to be reliable, persistent, generous. Perhaps it plays into the way he's coated your teeth in sugar, nipping at your enamel in a thick film that tastes of sweetness.

Yet seeing him like this, frustrated and amused and annoyed—it was unfounded.

"I didn't know much." The vulnerability was low yet blaring. "I just knew I didn't want you to hate me. I knew I loved seeing you happy. And if I denied you, you weren't happy."

It's too black and white. So childish and simplified. It's an easygoing description of his feelings toward you during early youth, one that could easily be swallowed up and consumed by the nasty nature of the world.

Yet, you card your fingers through his hair. Press your lips to his temple all the same, and listen to his utterances.

Your bottom lip is jutting out before you can stop yourself. And in spite of his own admissions, the uncomfortable nakedness that comes with it, you mumble a pointed, "you made me high maintenance."

"You're only figurin' that out now?" He snickers against your skin and the subsequent vibrations make you jump. "Pipsqueak, everyone's known you're high maintenance."

You protest, "that's not true."

"Yes," he says, amused. "It is."

Peeling away from your neck, Caleb's face is less grave now. Relief floods your senses and you cup his face, smoothing over the corners of his lip to wipe away the frowns. There's a weight behind you that isn't the door, his palm a welcome touch as his fingers splay over the small of your back.

His other hand resting on the side of your throat, fingers resting on your nape and thumb rubbing the ridge of your jaw. The motion is soothing, and you close your eyes to memorize its rhythm.

"Even if you're high maintenance, I'm the one who caused it. Allegedly."

You bristle and your eyes fly open, "allegedly? There's proof—"

"Ah-ah."

Caleb's brows are raised on his forehead as you pipe down, amused by how quick you were to correct your behavior.

"Much better. As I was saying."

Despite the extra firmness to his voice, his touch on you was nothing short of gentle. Like your body was carved from marble, reinforced by a fragile porcelain, he does that thing where he tilts your head with the hand on your neck. His thumb rubbing your earlobe.

But the most violating part had to be those intense, smoldering eyes that beheld you with utmost priority. How did you ever think he didn't care for you?

Caleb's tone of voice is chiding. "You're high maintenance because of me, and that makes you mine to maintain."

He's talking down to you. Treating you like one would to a child learning how to tie their shoelaces, his voice chiseled with the vines of condescension. Heartbeat speeding in your chest, distinguishing your heartbeat from your rampant thoughts became far more difficult.

The little smile that's on his lips seems manic. Far away, distant, as you slide your hands over his pecs. A shudder ripples over your skin.

"After all, it's my fault for making sure you're comfortable. It's my fault for prioritizing you above all else, as children and as adults." He starts, chillingly calm. He shakes his head to himself with a deep sigh, and tilts your head back against the door. Examining you with an unblinking, almost detached visage. Yet, his words were anything but, thick with emotion.

You breathe slow, torturous inhales and exhales, feeling Caleb's hand wrap itself around your throat. Alarms ring out in the back of your mind—loud, incessant, disturbing, yet you close your eyes and let him hold you there.

He won't hurt you. He never would, intentionally.

Quietly, like a forbidden fruit to not be consumed or heard, he mutters, "it's my fault for wantin' nothing but the best for you, because it's what you deserve. Nothing less."

Oh, you breathe out.

There's absolutely no pressure to the way he holds your neck. His palm wasn't against the column of your throat, instead, the pads of his thick digits were clasping the skin with a touch so invisible it almost felt nonexistent. When you swallow, the flexed skin presses itself up to his touch.

"Do you really want me to take it back?" Caleb asks, breaking the momentary silence and taking you out of your thoughts.

You blank out for a moment too long. "What?"

"You came over to let me know I've spoiled you beyond reversing repair, without wantin' me to change?"

Why did you come over? Why did you decide to come up to Skyhaven one day, literally days away from your regular times of visiting him? Over something like this? Literal outdated information that you've only recently discovered.

Why? You don't know, but you're rushing to speak, holding onto his top. "That's not what I—"

"It's not what you what?"

He tilts his head down toward you and every coherent thought exits your headspace instantly. God, his eyes. They're darker now. Frustration brimming in the burning fuchscia, the indigo of his irises all-consuming.

"I can stop pamperin' you starting today." He offers.

The surfacing ache in your chest is abrupt, disruptive.

"Starting today, I won't buy your favorite snacks. I won't ever pat your head again. I'll leave you to fend for yourself in every fast food line, and you can get your own stuff when we go shopping. You can even do your shopping alone. Is that what you want?"

No. No, it's not what you want, but how do you express that? An entity, so puissant and arresting, is crawling up your esophagus, scraping at the backs of your teeth, trying to pry your mouth open, and wail its truth into the minimal distance between you and Caleb. It's an ugly feeling, one stripping you down to your base needs.

Pain bleeds into his expression, his eyes only softening as a thought crosses his mind. "Are you gonna tell me you don't need me again?"

"Caleb, no," you manage.

"If not, then what's the problem? It's too late. If I've ruined you, you've destroyed me."

You destroyed him? When? You've never... When have you ever—?

Your chagrin spikes in time with your bewilderment. "I never did anything like that."

Caleb peered into your eyes. Your soul. Questioning, a bit disbelieving. Like he can't really believe your own blindness. An incredulous laugh slipping through his nose when he realizes you weren't lying.

He takes a step forward. You're fully sandwiched between him and the door now, and one of his arms come up to rest above you on the surface. "Caleb–"

"I can't go through the grocery store without thinking of what you want for dinner." He admits, the revelation so tender and tied with candor. Your words die on your tongue and dissolve.

"I can't do my laundry anymore unless it's with your brand of fabric softener, since it reminds me of you. Every time I try on a new jacket, I wonder how it would look good on you."

The information comes pouring out of him like a geyser. And his voice is full of nothing but love. You press your hands to his chest with more force, but he won't budge. Your ears are scalding and you're avoiding his gaze now, his face.

"You dedicated a journal to me. You came to every basketball game." Caleb laughs, breathless. A little in awe of you, so full of adoration. "You always visited Skyhaven when I moved out. You pretended to be my girlfriend. You didn't want me to get a girlfriend. You kissed me at my graduation."

He stutters over himself at the end, sighing deeply and it's making your stomach do flips. "God, you kissed me."

Really? You're burning. Did he have to bring that up?

He's pulling you out of your thoughts yet again, using his hold on your yielding neck to find your gaze once more. You could crumble into ashes right now. In fact, you hoped the floor underneath you would just swallow you whole and leave nothing behind for Caleb to dissect.

"You're think you're spoiled, pipsqueak?" Another laugh, and it's mixed with raspy agony and disbelief, shining in his stare. "I'm rotten."

In Caleb's home, you never really heard much commotion. Simply the low hum of the television in the background, the living room a few paces away. Yet, your heartbeat was the soundtrack to his life, and he's made it his favorite ringtone.

You could feel his own racing heart under your palm. He looks defeated now, conflicted. Oh, Caleb.

"You never wanted me to take it back." He says it to himself. Like he's trying to get himself to believe it.

"You just wanted reassurance that I'd never leave you, no matter how coddled you are."

The heart that's thudding rapidly against your ribcage was so fickle, so naïve. It might jump out of your throat at this rate—God, Caleb could probably feel your pulse like this.

Your mind's racing. There's only one way you could resolve this rift formed from these series of revelations and confessions. You weren't going to lose him again. He has no right to leave after this.

"You're so quiet now. Don't tell me you're thinkin' of runnin' away, pipsqueak." His voice is lighter, more in jest now. The first sign of distance, denial.

You clasp his wrist, and whisper, "I'll take responsibility."

"What?"

"I'll take responsibility. For ruining you. In exchange, take responsibility for me too." You declare, louder. You sound more sure.

He's blinking at you now. Then, his brows furrow and a bewildered laugh leaves him. Before he could reply, you push forward, not allowing him any time to recover.

"I'm in your hands now, aren't I? You said so yourself. You did this to me. I did this to you. I'm yours to deal with."

You wind your arms around his neck, hearing how his breaths stutter and feeling his hand leave your throat. You're on your tippy toes, pulling him down so you could settle back against the door, feeling his grip settle over your waist. It's a lovely sensation. One so right. It cements your resolve.

"The only ones who can handle us are each other. Nobody else."

You don't know what you're saying anymore.

But you know you like the rising determination, you like whatever this is. You like the hope that swims in his gaze. The fear that's within them, terrified of this being one of your pranks. It wasn't; you'll prove it to hom.

"You can't make all these promises and leave me alone," You speak in a hushed tone, finality thick in the waver of your voice. You're leaning in before you can stop yourself and whispering, "I won't let you."

You can't help but feel like whatever game you two are playing now, you've lost. He's won yet again. Yet it doesn't quite feel like a loss this time around, not when Caleb's face is smoothing out into one of relief. One of contentment as he closes the distance.

The breath that fans over your mouth is hot and his voice is full of yearning, "I never planned on it."

[munsonsmixtapes]

Just One More

virgin!eddie x fem!reader

You literally fall into Eddie's lap and after doing you a favor, you somehow become his first.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v)

The party is in full swing when you get there. This is the first one you’ve gone to alone since your messy break up and it feels weird but oddly freeing to not have anyone by your side. You had no one to answer to, to wait on and you didn’t have to worry about being abandoned so he could go talk with his friends and pretend like you didn’t even exist. 

But because you have the most terrible luck, you spot him in the kitchen, flirting with the exact guy that he always told you not to worry about. This all has to be some elaborate joke that life has decided to play on you, that’s the only thing that makes sense. Well, good for them. They deserve each other. 

You swear you see Johnny look your way and hurry into the living room, backing up as quickly as possible to make sure that they can’t see you, but of course, because this is all still some joke, you end up falling onto something, or rather, someone. A cute someone at that. He’s got curly, dark brown hair and the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen. 

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize quickly. Instead of being offended like you assume he would be, he just smiles and it’s pretty. 

“I’m not,” he says, his voice taking on a flirty tone. Maybe life is actually starting to be kinder to you. 

“You’re not?” You ask, sitting up and the stranger just smiles wider. 

“Not at all. It’s not everyday a pretty girl literally falls into my lap.” Your cheeks heat at his compliment and you shyly turn away, only seeing that Johnny’s eyes have locked on yours. 

“Can I ask a huge favor?” He doesn’t even know you but is sure that he’d do whatever you asked. You’ve already bewitched him and he doesn’t even know your name. He always falls fast and hard and it never seems to get him anywhere. His heart always gets broken in the end. 

“Anything,” he breathes, not even caring how desperate he sounds. 

“My ex is over there and I really need you to kiss me,” you say, leaning closer and Eddie is standing to wonder what kind of dream he’s entered because surely something as perfect as this wouldn’t be real life, right?

“Sure,” he nods, his lips parting, and you slot yours between them as your arms wrap around his neck. One hand rests against your waist as the other cradles the back of your head. 

The kiss is soft and sweet, everything you could have ever hoped for. It’s like what you’ve seen in the movies but didn’t think was real. There’s a spark there and you already feel sad knowing that you’re going to have to break the kiss eventually. 

You stay like that for so long that you completely forget why you initially asked him, so caught up in his lips that you forget about everything else but him. And Eddie’s not even sure how he’s able to kiss you back since his mind is so fuzzy, no thoughts going on besides your lips. 

You’re straddling his waist now, kissing his neck and all he can do is whine, wanting more, needing more. You’re whispering the most filthy things into his skin. He wants to do everything you’re asking of him. He wants to fully submit to you. To be your good boy. 

“That’s a nice sound,” you tell him, your lips finding his again. “You wanna make it again? Maybe somewhere more private?” 

He wants to, he really does. But he’s never done that kind of thing before. Hell, he’s barely even kissed anyone before tonight so he’s sure that he’d have no idea what to do. You clearly seem to be much more experienced than him and he wouldn’t want to disappoint you. 

So he’s not sure why he agrees and lets you lead him up the stairs to an empty bedroom. His heart is pounding as you close the door then push him onto the bed. He knows he should say something, but his mind goes blank as you start to undress, your lacy bra making his cheeks flush. 

He just stays there, staring up at you as you move onto your jeans, giving him his own personal show and he’s not going to dare to tell you to stop. Especially not when he feels his pants getting tighter. 

He’s adorable, you think. He’s staring at you with drool practically falling from his lips and you wonder why he’s here alone tonight when any woman would be lucky to have him. He’s sweet and kind and you feel so grateful to have fallen into his lap. He’s unlike any guy you’ve ever met and you just know that he’ll be nothing but a gentleman when he finally gets you into bed. 

He’s staring intently, his pupils getting bigger so that his eyes look almost black and you decide that you need him and you need him now. and he needs you too considering how hard he is right now. 

You’re now just in your bra and panties and you make your way for him, placing yourself on top of him, kissing him until he’s breathless. Your hands slide up his shirt as your lips move to his neck again, pushing the shirt up slowly until you can get it over his head. 

“I-I’ve never done this before,” he says breathily. You’re quick to pull away, reaching for your clothes, but he stops you, taking your hands in his. “But I want you to be my first.” 

“You do?” You ask. “You don’t even know my name.” 

“I’m Eddie,” he replies with that pretty smile and you swear your heart melts for just a second. 

“Y/n.” 

“Y/n,” he repeats, putting emphasis on each syllable and it sounds so pretty coming out of his mouth. ”Now I do know your name and I still want you to be my first…if you want.” 

“I’m not very good, just so you know.” Those were the exact words that Johnny had said to you every time 

“How would I know?” He lets out a laugh and it makes your heart flutter. God, he’s perfect. He’s perfect and you’re probably never going to see him again. That’s why you’ve got to make tonight count. So you pull him in for another kiss, sticking your tongue into his mouth this time and he moans, loudly, a sound he’s only made when he was by himself. 

You begin to grind against him and now he’s whining into your mouth and the sound is intoxicating. You need more. You need to ride him until all he can get out is your name, screaming it until he can’t anymore. 

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” You ask as your hands slip between your bodies, feeling around for the button of his jeans. 

“God, yes,” he breathes. Once they’re off, it’s much easier to see his bulge and how much of an effect you’ve had on him from giving him your little show plus your kisses. He’s never wanted anyone so badly and he’s prepared to do whatever, be whatever you ask of him. 

He sees you pulling something from your purse and immediately realizes that it’s a condom as soon as comes into view. You slowly pull down his boxers and he should be shy about you being the only girl to ever see his cock, but he’s not. 

“I’m gonna put this on you, okay?” You tell him and he nods as his boxers finally come off and your eyes widen at the size of him. You roll the condom onto him then quickly remove your panties before straddling him. 

You settle on top of him nice and slow to get him used to it and the moan that falls from his lips is enough to make you soaked. He’s already coming undone so you’re going to take your time because you know he’s not going to last very long. 

“God,” he whines. “This is far better than using my hand.” You’re moving slowly, your hands pressed against his chest as you continue to move. 

“Yeah? You like that? How about this?” You begin to bounce even faster, moving your hands to grab onto his hips, pushing them against yours until he’s able to do it on his own, mimicking the movement perfectly. 

“Fuck,” he whines again. “Does it always feel this good?” He’s moving slowly, trying his best to keep up with your pace and you watch him come completely undone underneath you, his body pouring sweat as he pushes in and out of you, his words quickly slurring by the second.

“To be honest, not really, but with you, it feels just right. You’re such a good boy.” Those seem to be the magic words because not long after, he’s reaching his orgasm and you feel so smug because of how loud he’s being. You did that and you feel even more confident that you made him feel that good. 

When he comes down, you turn to leave because that’s what you’re used to, but Eddie grabs hold of you and pulls you down to lie beside him. You turn to face him and his eyes are pleading. You know what he wants and even though it’s programmed into you to leave, you just can’t. Not when he’s been so sweet and not when he made you feel so good. He’s not like the others that you’ve slept with. He actually cares what you’re into and isn’t interested in using you just to feel something. 

As you pull him into another kiss, you just know that you’re going to go for another round and you give in. You let him take the lead this time, only with a little guidance and he’s nothing but a good boy. He doesn’t even have to ask to know what you like. He just does. As he makes you orgasm, you just know that you won’t be able to sleep with anyone else after that. And with the way he pulls you into his arms after you come down, he tells you exactly that.

Pretty much everyone is gone when the two of you sneak downstairs and out the door. You head outside hand in hand and Eddie walks you to your car. Kissing you again and again, stalling going to his own vehicle and only leaves when he gets your phone number and plans to meet again for one more, but you both know that it won’t be just one more. Not if you can help it, anyway.

[ramonathinks]

gojo and geto would actually be the type to slowly coax you into a poly relationship and you wouldn’t even realize it. 

they are best friends and they’re just plain rich assholes who do what they want and flaunt their money all over the place and somehow you end up doing something minor like spilling coffee on gojo’s expensive ass pants or something and now you’re trying to repay the debt and he’s making you do just a bunch of stuff for him like his laundry, groceries, cleaning his apartment, etc.

he thinks it’s hilarious and cute.

geto convinces gojo to let him borrow you from time to time but instead of cleaning he just wants to talk to you, at first. he is asking you how you feel about gojo, implying that gojo likes you and you’re suprisied but doubtful. he tells you to try to be sweeter to gojo and the more you listen to him, the more you start to like him. he even wins you over by buying a few expensive gifts just so you’ll be nice to his friend.

one day geto comes over and try to get you to come to this party with him and gojo, which would lead him to adding that your arrangement and you’d just sigh and decide to go. getting tipsy isn’t the best and you’ll learn that soon when you end up dancing against both of them. grinding all over while you’re sandwiched between them and gojo is kissing the back of your neck and geto is now kissing your lips.

you wake up with a headache and in gojo’s bed in the middle of the both of them. you’re blushing and you see that you’re only barely clothed, you hurry to leave before they wake but before you’re even down the stairs they’re calling out to you.

you get a few text messages from them saying they need to talk to you and to meet with them. you don’t reply eventually they have to come to you. they confess that they’ve been trying for more than a few months to get you to see how much they wanted you and with the coffee incident it just helped more.

blah blah blah and then they just pitch the idea and you’re just like “i guess we can try.” nervous and such.

they wouldn’t even straight up get to having a threesome they’d ease it in by one on one sex then ease you into it by one of them starting to watch while you and the other are engaging and then after about a few months of taking turns then they’d finally get to it.

Like they’re kissing your neck and hands are just everywhere and all over. You’re losing your mind and at the same time everything is coming together.

no part two. no fic. don’t ask.

[l0vergirlv0mit]

domestic caitvi ୨ৎ

caitvi x reader

cw: pet names, kissing, hickeys, biting, gets a little hot and heavy but idk what else.

a/n: I love writing domestic scenes this brought me joy:)

You met Caitlyn first when you got into the training academy to be an enforcer. She quickly took an eye to you watching you train combat when she would do walk throughs in the facilities. Meeting eyes through the window that goes into the hallway, she gives you an approving smirk. You smile back at her your face covered in sweat and chest heaving.

After that she made sure to bring Violet with her to show how good of a fighter you were. Violet was greatly amused watching you drop a man on his head. She leaned up against the glass becoming more invested in watching how your body moves with every hit you land. Caitlyn looks over at Vi and Vi looks back at her sharing the same look of understanding and excitement.

This leads to you getting called into her office for outstanding work and being taken out to lunch for it. Which leads into you meeting Vi and eventually being invited to outings having nothing to do with work. You were quick to accept their offer of going out as an item after building steady tension filled friendships with the both of them.

Caitlyn’s poise and Vi’s playful demeanor contrasted so beautifully. But you soon learned that wasn’t the truth about them, this only furthered your intrigue with the two women. They took care of you in a way you never thought possible. Making past relationships feel like a distant nightmare. There was only Caitlyn and Violet.

That’s what brought you to the present. Waking up in Vi’s boxers and Caitlyn’s silky tank top with the bed empty. You groaned at the sun hitting your eyes shoving a pillow over your face. There’s a depression on the side of the bed and the sound of a cup being place on the night stand. You feel two strong arms pull you and man handle you.

Vi’s dopey face looks down at you as you lay limply across her lap. “Good morning sunshine.” She giggles as you huff out an annoyed whimper not yet opening your eyes. “I know I know~” she pushes hair out of your face and litters kisses all over your cheeks in an attempt to pull you into consciousness. When your eyes finally do open your met with a beautiful vision of a backlit angel that is your girlfriend.

You smile sleepily and sit up to wrap your arms around her neck, pressing your face into her skin. She scoops you up holding you with one arm her other holding her coffee as she walks you to the kitchen. Your legs wrap around her waist and you place a kiss to her jaw inhaling deeply to fill your lungs with her scent. Caitlyn hears heavy footsteps looking over her shoulder. She abandons her place at the stove coming to rub your back.

“Are you hungry my love?” She whispers softly fixing the strap of your tank top. Vi let’s you down to your feet softly. “Very.” You move stiffly to go sit at the kitchen table eyes squinting from the light. Vi can’t wipe the dumb smile off her face as she makes you a cup of coffee. Her and Caitlyn giggle to themselves and you perk up. “What.” You ask plainly looking up at Vi as she hands off your cup to you.

“Nothin’ your just cute.” Her tone is sweet and low it’s like honey coating your ears. She winks at you before turning away. You sip your coffee watching Vi hold Caitlyn’s waist as she cooks. She hums to herself swaying the both of them. Watching them like this fills you with warmth. The way Vi whispers sweet nothings into Caitlyn’s ear. You overhear Caitlyn tell her, “It’s only 9 am.” And you roll your eyes resting your head against your palm.

“Do you need help Cait?” Calling to her she shakes her head. “No I’m almost finished honey.” She sweetly calls back you to.

“I’m not talking about the food.” You smirk smugly your eyes shifting from Caitlyn to Violet. Caitlyn laughs and Vi looks at you as she kisses Caitlyn’s shoulder smirking back at you. “You just stay put where you are sweet stuff, you’ll get your loving in just a second.” You throw her a fake pout bating your lashes in exaggeration.

Caitlyn plates up your food bringing you an almost mathematically perfect omelette. They sit down on either side of you talking about the plans for the day. That and internal affairs you probably shouldn’t be hearing. Not that you actually pay attention to all the technical stuff. You ramble on about your coworkers in the lower ranks. Being well on your way to being an esteemed officer Caitlyn listened intently while Vi cackled at the the shit you and your coworkers do during training.

Once breakfast was finished you join Caitlyn in the bathroom to get ready for the day. Leaning closer to the mirror to do your mascara you feel her come behind you, both her hands caging you in against the counter. Her hips pressed against you and you stand up straight with your back against her chest. Turning to be face to face with her, her tall figure looms over you. Caitlyn’s slender fingers move hair from off your neck and she presses a trail of kisses from your jaw to your collar bone. “So pretty baby.”

You smooth down her silk robe and bite your lip looking up at her. “Speak for yourself.” She raises her brows at you. “Yeah?” She questions her eyes trailing down your figure.

“Yeah.” You replied nodding as you spoke. Vi was watching in the doorway not daring to make a sound. That is until Caitlyn was pushing herself between your legs and kissing you deeply. Already messing up your makeup, when Vi pipes up. “It’s only 9 am!” She said in a mocking playful tone. Caitlyn continued even after hearing her only breaking away to to give her a short reply. “Well it’s 10 now actually.” Caitlyn retorts and you giggle but quickly stifle it seeing Vis change in expression.

“Somethin funny pip squeak?” She walks over and leans against the counter its hard to focus with Cait kissing and nipping at your neck. “N-no.” VI’s eyes reading darker than usual didn’t make you feel like challenging her. She smiles at you sweetly, “Didnt think so.” joining Caitlyn in attacking your neck.

“So pretty isn’t she?” Vi mumbles to Cait. “Mmm that’s what I said.” Caitlyn and Vi talk about you like you aren’t even there going back and forth. “Her skin is so soft.” Caitlyn adds. “I could just take a bite.” Vi says softly biting your shoulder. You were almost limp from all the affection, all of your senses stimulated at once, whimpering and lulling your head back. After they’d been torturing you for a little Caitlyn smiles into your skin moving to kiss your cheek. “Need a break sweetheart?” She asks stroking your cheek. You shake your head no but she stops anyway looking at the time.

Vi doesn’t get the memo instead taking up the space Caitlyn left. Her arms wrapping around your waist and her lips finding yours. Caitlyn rolls her eyes fixing her hair in the mirror before deciding the both of you had enough and pulling Vi by the belt loop. “What! It’s 10 am.” Vi remarked hand still gripping your waist.

“Go put your shirt on and finish getting ready we need to get going.” Caitlyn sets her straight and Vi backs away with her hands up. “Aye aye Captain.” Caitlyn looks at you with a soft annoyed smile and does a double take at your neck. “Shit.” She spins you towards the mirror with a look of utter shock. You were covered in small red marks except for one especially deep purple mark Vi left on your shoulder.

Both were equally guilty but Caitlyn was unfortunately right there to take the blow. You looked back at her in the mirror unamused your arms crossed. “Your covering this up.” Caitlyn nodded her lips in the thin line.

“Of course. You do look cute though.” She teases you one last time before you huff at her. She kisses your temple and pulls out her makeup again.

Thank you for reading!

[alg3a]

auspicious (pt. 1)

jayce x f!reader x viktor / jayvik x f!reader

4k, sfw for now, no use of y/n

description: Viktor and Jayce’s new lab assistant is the hottest topic at a council gala. After defending herself all night, an accidental confession leads to tension in the workplace.

warnings: suggestive content, brief and light misogyny (don’t worry), manipulative reader, lab assistant dynamic, basically the last third is foreplay.

a/n: This is my first ever tumblr fic! If you guys would like, i will add an nsfw second part.

Update: second part added!

Say what you will about Councilor Salo, but his galas never disappointed. There must have been three hundred of the city’s most influential people scattered about the grand ballroom, which stretched further than you could see with your naked eye. It was the first you’d ever seen of these exquisite parties, and you silently hoped that it wouldn’t be the last.

You’d been the lab assistant of the two Hextech partners for around three months now. With the public eye being enthralled with the activities of the two intelligent scientists, it wasn’t long before the spectacle included you, their pretty new lab assistant. You were in your final year in the academy’s undergraduate program and had been a promising enough engineering student to be hired by Viktor and Jayce. Your name was a prevalent one in every inventor’s competition and innovator’s fair, so naturally they had heard of you before your interview. From what you heard, there were nearly fifty other applicants (mostly girls) and yet they hired you on the spot. Naturally, once this story aired, the press was obsessed with you. Piltover Gazette did an entire piece on you about a month into your employment.

With all the attention, Jayce thought it might be a good idea for you to tag along at galas and parties as the plus-one of both men. They never brought dates, so the position was always wide open. Although, Jayce did usually leave with a plus-one.

You wore a deep red sleek gown with a plunging neckline and an absent back. The men matched their ties to your dress, but the rest of their outfits were mostly black and ivory. It wasn’t long before you were whisked away to the dancefloor by influential older men, who talked your ear off about how lucky you must find yourself to be shadowing two promising young inventors. You cringed each time you heard it. You were certainly lucky to have landed the position, but the way they phrased it made it seem like you were some teenage girl who was asked to the school dance by the two cutest boys in school. It wasn’t as trivial as that. Each day, you worked tirelessly alongside their genius minds to find solutions to real world problems using Hextech. You and Viktor spent countless nights asleep on opposite ends of the worn lab couch so that you could continue working at any hour.

Eventually, you grew tired of the misogyny from older male benefactors. You’d done enough socializing for the night, now it was time to patronize the open bar.

You found a spot between a woman in a gold dress and a man in a white tuxedo and asked the bartender politely for a whiskey sour. Once you finished speaking, the man in the white tuxedo turned to you.

“I recognize you,” he said, the scent of his aftershave mixing with the alcohol on his breath. “You’re the Hextech girl, aren’t you? I read your article in the Gazette.”

You sighed as the bartender handed you your drink, pressing a polite smile to your lips with the exhale. “Yes, that’s me. It’s a pleasure.” You hold out your hand and he brings it to his lips with a kiss longer than you would have liked.

“The pleasure is all mine, dear,” he said, setting his glass down. “You know, it’s very uncommon for an undergraduate girl to land such an auspicious spot amongst lead researchers at the academy.”

Here we go again. In the time it takes for him to finish the same spiel you’d heard all night, you finish your drink in one continuous sip. You punctuate the end of his sentence by putting your glass down roughly on the counter.

“Yes, I’m incredibly lucky,” you say, your polite smile turning vaguely murderous. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Viktor approaching the bar.

“Enough prattle from me,” the man says and holds out his pasty hand once more. “I think it’s time for a dance.”

“Are we interrupting?” Jayce asks, his usual charming smile adorning his chiseled face.

“Not at all!” The man in white says, jovially. No doubt feeling blessed to speak to the men whose egos he spent the last five minutes stroking.

“In fact you came at the perfect time,” you say, smushing yourself between Jayce and Viktor, and wrapping your arms around their arms, emboldened by the alcohol and desperate for a way out of this conversation. “We were just discussing how positively fortunate I am to be working for two accomplished, ambitious, handsome young inventors.”

Viktor furrows his eyebrows at you, then looks back up at Jayce. “Is that so?” He asks, suspicion dancing in his eyes.

“Yes,” you nod emphatically, then bring your attention back to the man in white. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry I’ll have to decline your offer to dance. But I’m sure you understand. When a young woman like myself is called upon by men so far above my humble station, I simply must recognize how—what was the word you used earlier—how auspicious my position is.”

The man seems lost in your rambling, but you notice Jayce and Viktor smiling at one another and avoiding the man’s gaze.

“Ehem, well alright,” the man says, finally. “You three have a pleasant night.”

“Thank you,” Jayce says, his smile becoming a smirk. “We will.”

Jayce places his hand on your lower back and guides you away as Viktor follows, now placing his weight on his cane.

“Are we missing something?” Viktor asks.

“We came to check up on you,” Jayce said. “That guy at the bar was eyeing you like you were his next cocktail.”

“Gross,” you shudder at the thought. Jayce’s hand rubs the exposed skin of your lower back gently. Your eyes dart toward the ground at the sudden awareness of the intimacy of the touch. You shrug off the chill heading up your spine. “Please, never invite me to one of these again. I’ve heard enough old men insinuating that I’m the lab’s little piece of ass.”

“They’re saying that?” Viktor said sharply, stopping in his path as he turned to face you, his hand on your shoulder.

“Well, not exactly that, but practically every conversation is monopolized by my male counterpart lecturing me on what a privilege it is to spend my days ogling at you two.”

Jayce snickers a bit, but Viktor shoots him a stern look.

“That’s highly inappropriate. I’m terribly sorry you experienced such a blatant display of the antiquated beliefs these upper houses hold.” Viktor shakes his head as if he is shaking off the experience like a dog drying off.

“Vik and I were just talking about leaving, anyway,” Jayce says, his hand resuming its ministrations on your back. “We can call a car and go, just say the word.”

You look around the room and remember the reason you’re here in the first place. Galas are the primary way for the two inventors at either side of you to network and receive funding for their projects. Jayce abhorred the politics and the whole reason exhausted, introverted Viktor even bears the social tedium of these parties when he’d rather be slaving away in the lab is because he knows none of their ventures can be broadened without doing the dance. In a singular moment you realize that if they can stomach the routine dreariness of the social game that these parties provide, so can you. You are their prized assistant after all.

“It's okay,” you shake your head. “It’s really not that bad.”

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks, his head tilting.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nod. “I just have to get used to the manner at which these sorts of events go on. But I can do it. If you’ll recall, adaptability was a strength on my resume.”

This earns a laugh from both of the men. Jayce removes his hand from your lower back to rub your shoulder softly. “I think we glossed over that part.”

Viktor stops laughing suddenly, which elicits a raised eyebrow from you.

“What?” You ask, your eyes darting between Viktor and Jayce. Jayce’s lips press together in a tight seal as if he caught himself letting something slip. “What do you mean?”

Just in time to save them from the obviously impending awkward situation, a man in an all black suit approaches.

“Gentlemen, if I may borrow your lovely assistant for a dance–”

You felt your cheeks growing hot with every word he spoke. You were so incredibly tired of old men here thinking they could just ask politely and receive your body to use in whatever stupid waltz they wanted to try their hand at. “Gods, I don’t–”

“My apologies,” Jayce said, interrupting what he was sure would be an outburst on your part. “I’m afraid our lovely assistant is spoken for, for the rest of the night.”

Viktor punctuated his sentence with a nod and a gentle squeeze of your upper arm.

“I see,” the man said, his face betraying his civility. “Well, find me if that changes.”

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Viktor released your arm. “Call that car, Jayce.”

“On it,” he said, already beginning to make his way to the front of the ballroom.

“I’ve been where you are,” Viktor said, his nimble fingers trailing downward from where he had been squeezing your arm. He lifts your hand and places it on his wrist so that you cling to him as the two of you walk toward the exit together. “When I was Heimerdinger’s assistant, I was often undermined. Although, I had the distinct privilege of not being a beautiful young woman. While I can relate to your frustration, the misogyny and objectification you’re experiencing aren’t exactly things Jayce and I have experienced. But we’re going to do our best to quell it for you.”

You look up at him and find his hardened expression fixed on the door. “Thank you.” Those two words will suffice for now, but Viktor’s promise warms your heart in ways that a simple thank you cannot express.

Jayce finds the two of you as you exit into the grand hallway. “Car’s waiting outside.” He takes his coat off and drapes it over your shoulders, not paying much attention to your hand on Viktor’s arm.

The three of you pile in the back of the limousine. You sit sandwiched between the two men, relishing in the warmth radiating from their bodies after the few steps outside in the cold night. Viktor stretches his leg outward in the spacious backseat while Jayce leans back and groans. Clearly you aren’t the only one exhausted from the antics of the night.

“Where will I be taking you three?” The driver asks, his eyes visible in the rearview mirror.

“Two stops, if possible,” Jayce speaks up, leaning forward once more to be heard better. “The laboratory block of the academy and the East Dormitories.”

“You guys are going to the lab? It’s almost midnight.” You ask, turning to Jayce before realizing how the proximity of the backseat brings your face so close to his.

“Always work to be done,” Jayce says, glancing over your face before giving you a little more space. “But don’t worry, you’ve had a long night. You don’t need to do any assisting again until tomorrow morning.”

You look over at Viktor momentarily, to see him staring out the window as the car begins to move.

“If it’s alright, I think I’d like to go to the lab, too,” you say, softly. You can’t help but feel as though you’re inviting yourself to some clandestine meeting, as if you don’t have as much of a reason to be at the lab as they do.

Jayce looks over at Viktor, not for confirmation but for something else. Humor, maybe?

“Of course,” Jayce smiles softly. He shifts his attention to the driver again. “On second thought, just take us to the labs, please.”

The driver nods as he picks up speed and peels out of the driveway. For some reason, your heart pounds. It isn’t abnormal for you and the two men to stay ridiculously late at the lab. In fact, it’s more common than leaving before midnight.

You become suddenly aware of the long slit that opens your deep red dress, and you cross your legs.

“Jayce I wanted to ask you something,” you say, mustering up the courage to recall the slip-up from earlier. “What did you mean when you said you glossed over my resume?”

“Well…” Jayce looks over at Viktor, which makes you do the same. Now he’s definitely paying attention, his eyebrows two firm lines scrunched above his angular nose.

Viktor finally decides to chime in, and you know exactly why: Jayce isn’t a good liar.

“We had lots of applications,” Viktor said. “You know that.”

“Yeah, but…then why did you hire me?”

“You had a very promising interview,” Viktor says, now avoiding eye contact.

“You’re lying to me,” you say, more accusatory than you meant it to be.

“We should just tell her, Vik,” Jayce mutters, almost under his breath. In response, Viktor’s hard expression softens. Perhaps out of relief?

“Tell me what?”

“Fine,” Viktor says, finally, with an exhausted sigh. “I’m too tired to persuade you against it.”

Jayce puts a hand so low on your thigh that it’s almost on your knee. “First, it’s important that you know that we would have hired you regardless. You’re so incredibly talented and you’ve been such a good assistant; we have no doubt in our minds that you’re the perfect person for this job.”

“Regardless of what, Jayce?”

“A little help, Vik?” Jayce asks after a sigh of helpless frustration.

“We sent everyone else home after your interview,” Viktor said, still looking out of the window, his arm resting on the ledge of the door, fidgeting with the handle. “When we saw you for the first time, we decided we wanted to see you more often.”

“What?” You feel your face growing hot. Anger? Something else entirely?

“The first note I wrote during your interview just said ‘beautiful,’ and I don’t think I wrote anything down after that,” Jayce admitted.

“You can’t be serious,” you say at a volume so low it might be a whisper. Anger. Definitely anger. “All night…all night I was swatting away guys who were objectifying me…accusing me of just being your pretty little assistant. I thought it was just misogyny. I thought they just couldn’t believe a girl was capable of keeping up with you two…but apparently they were right.”

“That’s not the case, at all,” Viktor said, louder than you’d ever heard him. “It couldn’t be further from the truth. We weren’t objectifying you. You deserve respect for your accomplishments, and those accomplishments are numerous.”

“He’s right, it’s not like we just hired you to look at,” Jayce said, trying to reconcile the situation. “And it’s not like I didn’t write notes during your interview because there wasn’t anything to write. I stopped writing because I was captivated by you.”

Suddenly the weight of the situation falls onto you, all at once. These men, your bosses, your best friends, the two smartest, most accomplished scientists in Piltover…they were attracted to you.

“For three months?” You ask, softly, more to yourself than to them.

“Yes,” Viktor answered. “We understand if you’re upset with us.”

The car slowed to a stop against the curb of the laboratory building of the academy.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go into the lab anymore,” Jayce said, beginning to lean forward and opening his mouth to address the driver. “Hey, sorry, could you–”

“No,” you say, your words final. “I’m going into the lab with you.”

Your lips are a deep red firm line. Your eyes are unreadable, and neither of the boys can tell what you’re thinking. Even you hardly know, but one thing is certain: you find yourself in an auspicious position. You didn’t need the two boys to validate you for everything listed on your resume. They knew you were intelligent, and more importantly, you knew. What you didn’t know is that they found you beautiful. So much so that they hired you just to see you more often.

You’d spent the whole night trying to defend your own honor, being shaken by men with accusatory, wandering hands. More than that, you’d spent the night wandering awkwardly for the benefit of your bosses. Now, it was time to return the favor.

“If you’re sure,” Jayce said, pushing open the car door and stepping out onto the curb, holding it open for you as Viktor exited through the other door. As you brushed past Jayce, you let his coat fall delicately down your shoulders, revealing the deep backline of the dress.

You turn over your right shoulder, just enough for your face to be past profile, and narrow your eyes at him. “I’m sure.”

Once Viktor is out of the car, the three of you walk toward the large glass doors that lead to the lobby of the laboratory building. You stop in front of the keycard sensor and watch as Viktor pats down his pant pockets in search of his key card.

“Sorry, one second,” he says.

You approach him, with no sound but the clicking of your heels on the cold pavement below, and slide your hand into his coat pocket. You watch his jaw clench, never taking your eyes off his face as you pinch the plastic card between your pointer and middle finger. You pull it out like a cigarette before waving it in front the boys’ faces and tapping it against the small metal sensor. It beeps with a green flash and you hand the card back to Viktor. Neither of them says a word.

You enter through the glass doors, but at the lack of footsteps behind you, you turn around. The men still stand, staring at you, mouths slightly agape.

“What?” You ask. “Aren’t you coming?”

Jayce coughs, as if fighting something in his throat, then takes a few steps forward and follows you.

You press the call button on the elevator and wait as the boys stand on either side of you.

“If you’re upset with us, please say so,” Viktor said, his voice bordering pleading.

“Upset?” You tilt your head to look up at the man beside you. Even in heels they were both taller than you. “Do I look upset?”

“I–uh well, I am not sure. You look…focused.”

You were definitely focused. Yes, you were playing with them. Wasn’t it only fair that you return a bit of the awkwardness provided by their sudden confession in the car? This was you getting even for that embarrassment, and you’d soon be getting even for the long-kept secret, as well.

“Strange,” you say as the elevator door opens before you. You step in and turn to face the door. “Jayce, press four.”

He does as you say.

“And how do you think I look, Jayce?” You ask, your eyes shifting toward him in the confined space of the elevator. He repeats that same little choked cough from before, except now it sounds closer to him clearing his throat.

“I think you look very good.”

You smile at him. Not a kind one, but the sort of condescending smile one gives a child who gave the wrong answer. A cute answer, though.

“Thanks,” you say, your eyes returning back to the door. “But I was asking if you thought I looked angry.”

The door beeps open and you are the first to leave. As you walk down the long hallway, you hear the boys walking a yard behind you. They’re nervous, that much you can sense on the cold bare skin of your back.

You stop at the lab door at the end of the hall and wait for the boys to catch up. It’s the biggest lab on the fourth floor.

Viktor now has his keys at the ready and unlocks the large wooden door, then holds it open for you to enter before the two boys. How spoiled you are.

You saunter into the lab, letting Jayce’s coat fall all the way down your shoulders before draping it on a stool next to the counter. They attempt to ignore you, bee-lining toward their desks in the lab but you catch each time their eye wanders to you on the opposite side of the room. Often they alternate, glancing over while the other is talking about the equations they're working through or the tools they need to assemble something. Every so often, they look over at you at the exact same time, following whispers you can’t quite make out, and when they do it is absolutely silent.

Meanwhile, you’re pouring the wine that you’ve been stashing in the cabinet meant for volatile chemical solutions. You’ve laid out three glasses, but you only fill the one in the middle. You sip from it slowly, your eyes peeking out from above the glass rim so you can catch them every time they look over at you.

“What are you doing?” Jayce asks, exasperatedly, finally.

“What do you mean?” You ask, and continue to sip your wine.

“We said we were sorry–”

“No, actually you didn’t.” You finish your glass and set it back down between the two empty glasses. “You said you understood if I was mad. And you tried to explain yourselves.”

“We are sorry,” Viktor said. “Terribly sorry. For lying, and for…objectifying you.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t objectification?” You said, still bitter despite the joy you extracted from teasing these poor boys.

“It doesn’t matter what we think we did or did not do,” Viktor said, the thickness of his accent swallowing his nervous words. “What matters is that you are hurt, and that we are terribly sorry.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Eh…you’re not?” It wasn’t often that Viktor sounded confused, so you relished the question.

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Jayce asked.

You poured wine into the two glasses on either side of your own and smiled as you looked down at the liquid filling them. You pushed the glasses toward them and raised your eyebrows expectantly. As if well trained, they walked over to you at the counter and picked up their glasses, taking small sips each.

“You could call it disbelief,” you said. “Or plain shock.”

“I understand that we sprung a lot on you all at once–” Viktor started to say, but you raised your hand.

“I’m not in disbelief because you’re attracted to me, Viktor, I’m far too self-assured for that.”

Jayce stifles a laugh.

“I’m in disbelief because I’ve wasted three months pretending not to be attracted to either of you,” you say, coming out from behind the counter and going to sit on the couch in the center of the room. You’d done an excellent job decorating their lab and had managed to make it feel like a home rather than a detention room.

“What are you saying?” Jayce asks, setting his glass down and stepping toward you. Viktor follows his example.

“I’m saying that if you had just told me ages ago that you two felt that way, I’d be laughing at the men who asked to dance with me tonight instead of clenching my fists. I’ve spent three months pushing aside any thought of you two outside of professional settings because I didn’t want to be the naive little lab assistant fawning over her bosses.”

A strap of your dress slips off of your left shoulder, and you let it.

“What a waste,” you scoff as you lean back into the cushions of the couch. You pick your hair up so that it falls over the cushions and cascades like a waterfall.

“So…” you watch as the gears in Jayce’s genius brain turn, “if we had told you sooner then–”

“Then you could have had me sooner.”

NSFW PART TWO????

[innerfare]

Playing With Your Nipples 

Summary: how they play with your nipples

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: pure smut

CW: NSFW // nothing too explicit, Sanji is sweet, Kid is merciless

——— 

Luffy:

This is an act in and of itself. He can be pretty insular in that he only does one thing at a time because he gets so lost in it, and playing with your nipples is no exception. That being said, he can’t actually hold back, usually tweaking them slowly for what feels like ages but is really only a few seconds before finally going in with his watering mouth. Has a habit of talking with his mouth full, muttering things against your tits like, “could do this for hours.” When he does eventually move further down your body, he’ll keep his fingers on your nipples.

Zoro:

Very casual in the way he goes about it. Often lets his intrusive thoughts win when it comes to your tits. If you’re wearing a low-cut shirt or he can see your nipples through the sports bra you’re wearing while the two of you work out together, he’ll reach down your shirt or pull down your bra and play with your nipples. If he sees you in the shower, he will be reaching in to squeeze your tits and pinch your nipples a few times. But he doesn’t often escalate in these scenarios; that’s on you. Really likes having you on top during sex so he can reach up and lazily play with your nipples. 

Sanji:

So sweet, so gentle, takes the privilege of seeing you topless very seriously. Never misses an opportunity to bury his face between your breasts, which inevitably leads to him tugging your top down and placing sweet kisses on your nipples, keeping his eyes open because he wants to see them grow erect. When he eventually starts sucking on them, he’s moaning and taking breaks to tell you how perfect you are. He treats your nipples like they’re delicate, too, like they’ll break if he goes too hard on them. If you want teeth, you’re going to have to ask. 

Ace:

The king of feeling you up. Has literally never gotten into bed beside you without sliding his hands beneath your shirt. This inevitably leads to him thumbing your nipples, his fingers making slow circles around the sensitive nubs before he starts pinching and pulling, eventually going in with his mouth. If he catches you in a hallway or empty room and wraps his arms around you from behind, this also typically escalates to him reaching beneath your shirt to play with your nipples. But it’s never so casual that it doesn’t escalate. If he gets his hands beneath your shirt, he’ll be fucking you, and he’ll be pinching your nipples the entire time. 

Sabo:

The sight of your naked tits is almost bewitching. His eyes zero in on your nipples and his lips part. He goes in tongue first, licking them in much the same way he licks your clit, all thoughts leaving his head as you tangle your fingers in his hair. When he takes breaks, it’s to pinch your nipples while he leaves hickeys all over your tits; no sooner do the marks fade than is he back at it again. Probably his favorite thing is when you give him a blowjob in a position that allows him to play with your nipples while you work; he pinches them very hard when you make him cum. Has definitely tied you up and tortured you with a feather before. 

Law:

When he starts palming your tits, he takes so long to get to your nipples you think you’re going to die. He can be a bit rough with your tits, but never with your nipples, hardly ever biting or pinching, just thumbing and kissing. Probably one of his favorite naughty activities is stripping you down in front of a mirror and kneading your tits, eyes pinned to your nipples. If not that, then he likes holding you in his lap while he works, one hand beneath your shirt. He’s really into spanking, too, and that includes your tits. He’ll smack them while he fucks you, leaning down to kiss your nipples after every three or four times. 

Kid:

Feral in general, but especially when it comes to your nipples. He’ll chew them raw if you let him, saliva running down your tits and abdomen because he’s so ridiculously messy about it. And when he’s done a number on your nipples with his teeth, he insists you allow him to suck on them to make them feel better (don’t let him, it won’t work). Has pierced them and takes it upon himself to decide which barbells you wear. Will definitely magnetize the barbells to pull you into his lap. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[ram-bles]

Hello! Is it okay if you can write mouthwashing headcannons of how the crew members would react to the reader randomly attacking them with kisses? If you want to stick with one person, then I was thinking, Anya? (If you want someone else, then that's okay too!)

Have a great day/afternoon/night

tulpar crew x gn!reader

smooch attack headcanons.

⚠️ pushy jimmy. everything else is chill. not proof read.

[note: sorry I've been out for long everyone! I had some stuff come up but I'm doing some progress on the things you guys send! I hope you enjoy these imagines]

[ Anya ]

🟦 giggling mess if done right

🟦 if you do it, please don't jump her.

🟦 sth like swooping in first before kissing her. small signals that it's you.

Her eyes were glued onto the shelf, searching for that one book she needed. It was usually there. Did I misplace it? Her thoughts were immediately silenced by a hand taking hers, swift yet carefully. Her body tensed up by instinct but when she realized it was you, it had her giggling as you planted soft kisses on her knuckles. You raise the book that you hid from your back while you entered. "Sorry! I was reading it earlier." "I don't mind at all, don't worry." Anya shakes her head with a smile and cups your cheek and you beam. That was one of the small signals she gave that says she's fine with this. She brushes your cheek for a moment as you lean into her touch, then you feel her carefully tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. You immediately wrap your arms around her waist and lean in for a kiss- kisses. Lots of them. You start off on her cheek, then her nose, her eyelids, her forehead, then a peck to her lips and she was softly laughing the whole time, both from the affection and how ticklish it was.

[ Curly ]

🩹 Not a fan of PDA either. you gotta do it when you both get privacy.

🩹 So you do it with every chance you get.

You spot Jimmy lingering back at the lounge without your beloved Captain? You're beelining towards the cockpit. Alone in the kitchen? You're on him. Hallways? Oh, Captai—in! Even if he scolds and chastises you for it, he loves it. He does the same anyways. One time though, you were both in the lounge reading together when you eventually got bored. You peek at your partner who was heavily invested at the article when suddenly the item gets pushed away and replaced by you on his lap. Before he could even warn you, you grabbed his face and showered him with kisses. Curly gives in and hugs you, it should be alright since no one's here, right? He'll let it slide for now. When you part, he had a stupid grin on his face. "Darling, have I ever taught you how to aim?" With a chuckle, you shake your head and you both lean in for a kiss. "How does a lesson tonight in your quarters sound, Captain?" "Perhaps we could reschedule for an earlier time. How does right now sound?" "Perfect."

[ Daisuke ]

🌺 Usually, it's him who does the guerilla attacks. It's a little game you guys play. The more of a surprise kiss streak you have, the better.

🌺 So far he's on the lead, but not for long.

You had to borrow Anya's lipstick for this. Carefully planned this siege (it only took like 10 minutes). Daisuke had just finished doing inventory, Swansea's back in utility and you're by the storage closet by the hallway and you hear familiar footsteps. In approximately 5.0224 seconds, your target is going to pass by the said storage room aka your location right now. You brace for it, nervous. You push your doubts that it was another person for now and just go for it. Slamming your partner onto the wall as he squeals, you shut the door and yank on the string to turn the light on. It was dim but you could see the look on his face and you burst out laughing. "Dude, I thought we had some psycho hiding up in here! I thought I was gonna die!" "Yeah, you will." "Fuck you mean by tha— mpFfF?!" Your lips smash against his and you could tell some of the lipstick smeared. His awkward tense pose loosens up and his hands move away from the walls to your hips as he returns it and you part as he tries not to chase after you. "Got ya' good, huh?" "Whaaaaat?" He drawls out with a voice crack, looking away. "I don't know man, you gotta do that again so we can find out." With a pffsh, you start kissing him everywhere, his beauty marks, his lips, cheeks, jaw, neck, probably even on his collar. Next thing you know, you both pop out the storage room, Swansea looking like he almost had a heart attack while he stares at the both of you in judgement. Daisuke had a lovestruck expression while his face, neck, and shirt collars were filled with lipstick marks and yours were smudged on your lips.

[ Jimmy ]

🔪 he hates it. he likes it so much he hates it.

🔪 prefers doing it himself though.

Shitty day as always. He wasn't in the mood and he can't bother you which made his day a whole lot worse. It's stupid, why was he so dependent over your attention. It should be the other way around. Once you were done with your shift, you decided to find the co-pilot. At his usual thinking spot, chewing on a toothpick. God, he needs his nicotine. You were silent, only walking towards his way, too busy with his thoughts to even notice you. Not until you plant a kiss on his cheek and his head whips to your direction, almost bumping heads. You smile and peck his lips this time. "You okay?" Were you pitying him? "Fuckin' peachy." Suddenly, you were pressed up against the wall, caged in-between his arms and you look up at him confused. He flicks the toothpick somewhere and he starts peppering your face with kisses. It was all soft at first, not until he nips at your lip before kissing you roughly. Your lips would probably bruise later on.

[ Swansea ]

🦢 this can be interpreted as romantic/familial honestly

🦢 he seems annoyed by it but in reality, he thinks it's sweet. never admitting it though.

Wake rock was softly playing in the background. You were busy cleaning up in the utility room while Swansea was repairing some wires when he suddenly flinches and cusses loudly, shaking his hand. He got grounded. Now he's grumbling over where Daisuke was when he needed him to do the work. Probably needed to release his frustrations elsewhere by light-heartedly shit talking his intern. You knew he didn't mean it. Tilting your head curiously, you moved closer, peeking over his shoulder to watch him work for a moment. And just when he moves his hands away from the box, you hug him from the side and kiss his cheek repeatedly. "Jesus! Warn a man will ya'?!" "I'm done cleaning! I'll go on break now, boss!" "Yeah, yeah." He huffs. Unbeknownst to you, he had a small smile on his face as he continued working. Seriously, who does this to their mentor? Kids these days.