#it could be a way to kind of tie him back into his character in the books?

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 36: October 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

Belle had always known that Lorenzo loved Charlotte.

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

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

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

That’s how she knew something was up.

She didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just waited.

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

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

Belle blinked. Once. Twice.

Then smiled softly. “You think?”

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

He looked down at his mug.

“I want it to be right.”

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

“And what does right look like to you?”

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

Belle smiled wider, something warm unfolding in her chest.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s build it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle’s heart softened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle smiled down at the notepad, heart full.

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle nodded. “I know.”

“Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come.”

Belle looked down at him.

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

His voice was quiet. Honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle smiled. “You have GP.”

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

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

“Obviously. It’s good luck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together.

Until they weren’t two anymore.

But three.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

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

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

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

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

Belle: 👀

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles: No. I know you. Absolutely not.

Arthur: 😤

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

Belle: Anytime. Now go be nauseatingly in love.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle opened her mouth, closed it again.

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

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

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

The joke slipped out easily.

The silence that followed was harder.

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

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

“Maman,” she said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at her mother.

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

Pascale looked stricken.

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

Silence.

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

And Pascale, for once, said nothing at all.

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

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

He rose immediately. ***

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

Max followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

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

“Belle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She won’t change.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

No one spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pascale blinked at her oldest son. “Lorenzo—”

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

“I wasn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pascale had a hand pressed to her lips now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

***

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

Then she heard the second pair of footsteps.

Lorenzo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle blinked at him, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

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

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

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

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

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

Sophie: Oh? What happened? Are you okay?

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

Sophie: Oh no.

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

Sophie: Good for her.

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

Sophie: She finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sophie: Oh, sweetheart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max: Good. Because she deserves better.

Sophie: She has better now. She has you.

***

Victoria hadn’t meant to stay long.

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

Specifically, the Leclercs.

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

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

Sophie hummed. Calm. Neutral. Terrifying.

Victoria sat back a little.

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

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

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

Victoria blinked again. “Oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“She said that in front of everyone?”

“In front of Belle. At the table.”

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

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

Victoria’s jaw tightened. “And Pascale?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Victoria swallowed. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.

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

Victoria felt something lodge in her chest.

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

Victoria swallowed.

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

Victoria sat very still.

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

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

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

Sophie nodded. “So am I.”

“She deserves better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they would.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

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

Max: …oh no what kind of “words”

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

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

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

Max: oh god

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

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

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

***

Instagram DMs: @sophiekumpen → @charles_leclerc

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

Charles:Bonjour… of course. Is everything alright?

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

Charles: ... Is this about dinner?

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

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

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

Charles: Noted.

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

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

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

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

Lorenzo: …what did she say?

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

Arthur: holy shit

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

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

Arthur: did you give her the number???

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

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

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

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

Lorenzo: Maman’s not ready.

Arthur: nobody’s ready.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

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

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

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

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

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

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

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

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

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

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

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

Victoria: she’s going to do the quiet voice

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

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

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

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

Charles: Oh no.

Max:

I’m 95% sure this is about Sunday.

And your mother.

Charles:

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

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

Charles: How bad are we talking?

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

Charles: …she’s going to kill Maman.

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

Charles: Oh god.

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

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

Max:

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

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

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

Arthur: Okay but what does that mean exactly??

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

Arthur: …should we warn Maman??

Charles: That’s what I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lorenzo: …well.

Arthur: Should we do something?

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

Lorenzo: Rude, but fair.

Arthur: I vote we hide.

***

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

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

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

And that, of course, was the point.

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

The door opened.

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

“Sophie?”

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

“Oh, I—of course, come in.”

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

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

That told her everything she needed to know.

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

“Always,” Sophie replied.

There was a moment of polite silence.

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

Pascale blinked. “From Belle?”

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

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

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

Pascale didn’t answer.

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

Pascale went quiet.

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

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

Pascale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

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

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

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

Pascale flinched.

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

Sophie folded her hands delicately around her coffee cup.

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

She let that sit between them. Let it sting.

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

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

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

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

“Belle is more than Charles’ sister. More than a Leclerc. She’s a woman. A professional. A wife. A soon-to-be mother. And you made her feel like the understudy in a family performance that never had room for her.”

A pause.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not an oversight, Pascale. That’s a statement. And she was right to make it.”

That landed.

“She didn’t marry Max because of who he is on the grid,” Sophie went on. “She married him because he saw her. Because he made her feel like she mattered. Because he never asked her to shrink.”

A long pause.

“She loves you, Pascale. That’s obvious. It’s why it hurt so much. It’s why she stayed quiet for so long. But she’s not going to beg anymore. And you don’t get forever to fix this.”

“I’ve watched Max fall in love exactly once,” Sophie said softly. “And it was with her. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.”

That stopped Pascale. She said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means, Pascale?” Sophie asked. “Max is not an easy man. He’s brilliant, yes. But he is intense. Demanding. He grew up in a house where love was conditional, where you earned praise by winning. And then Belle—your daughter—walked into his life, and everything changed.”

“She softened him,” Sophie continued. “Not by shrinking herself, not by appeasing him. But by loving him exactly as he is. By never making him feel like he was too much. She steadies him. Sees the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else see. And because of her, he’s gentler. Happier. Kinder.”

A beat.

She met Pascale’s eyes. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how much it means to me, as his mother, that the person he chose makes him feel safe?”

Pascale looked down at her hands.

“She is so good for my son,” Sophie said. “She sees him as Max, not a trophy. And he sees her—really sees her. Your daughter. Your brilliant, kind, fiercely steady daughter.”

She picked up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. “You may not get many more chances to prove you see her too.”

Pascale rose slowly, still blinking.

Sophie reached the door, paused, and turned. “It’s not too late, Pascale. But it’s getting close.”

And with that, she left. Silent, measured, devastating. Like a queen who didn’t need a crown to be feared.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur:ok but like who’s going to check on Maman

Charles:not me.

Arthur:not me. Enzo, you’re up. 

Lorenzo:you’re both cowards. you’ve driven at monaco in the rain and you’re scared of a 60-year-old woman in linen this is above my paygrade

Charles: this is above everyone’s paygrade

Lorenzo:i’m not a diplomat. i can’t emotionally reparent maman.

Lorenzo: if i don’t text back in 20 mins assume the worst and tell Charlotte i loved her

Arthur: Also… maybe don’t bring up Belle for a bit.

Lorenzo: She already said, “I was trying my best.” I didn’t know what to say.

Arthur: Maybe: “Then your best wasn’t good enough”? 😬

Charles: Jesus Christ. Do not say that.

***

Belle was already seated at their usual table at Le Petit Marché by the time Sophie arrived—linen blouse perfectly pressed, sunglasses still perched on her head like she’d walked out of a silent film set in Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour, sweetheart,” Sophie said, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks before taking the seat across from her.  “You look glowing.”

Belle laughed, a little breathless. “I look puffy.”

“You look lovely,” Sophie corrected, settling across from her. She flagged down the waiter with a tilt of her chin. “Still sparkling water?”

Belle nodded. “You remember.”

“I remember everything,” Sophie said lightly, but her eyes lingered on Belle for a second too long to be casual.

They ordered—salads, tartines, nothing too heavy—and by the time the drinks arrived, Belle had finally let herself exhale.

It was easy, being with Sophie. It always had been.

Max’s mother had never made her feel like she needed to be louder, or smaller, or clever in a way that didn’t come naturally. Sophie simply saw her, and for Belle, that was still something of a quiet miracle.

They talked about everything and nothing. It was only when their plates had been cleared and coffee had been brought that Sophie said, in her most casual tone, “And how are you doing? Truly?”

Belle blinked. “I’m… okay.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“Some days are harder than others,” Belle admitted. “But Max makes them better. Always.”

Sophie stirred her coffee once, twice, then set her spoon down with precision. “He’s different with you, you know.”

Belle smiled, ducking her head. “I know.”

“I’ve watched that boy drive through everything—noise, pressure, fire. And still, you’re the first person who made him slow down.” Sophie’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful. And it scares him.”

Belle was still smiling when she looked up and saw Sophie watching her. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… looking.

“I had coffee with your mother this morning,” Sophie said, tone gentle but deliberate.

Belle blinked. “You did?”

“I did. She didn’t know I was coming. I like the element of surprise.”

Belle set her fork down carefully. “Was she…”

“Wrecked? Defensive? A little of both.” Sophie shrugged. “But I said what I needed to say.”

Belle was silent, unsure if she wanted to ask what that entailed.

Sophie didn’t make her. “I told her that I have a son who drives a Formula One car. And a daughter who has spent most of her life in his shadow. Just like you.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t forget my daughter,” Sophie continued, voice calm and precise. “I didn’t ask her to shrink so her brother could shine. I didn’t treat her love as smaller just because it wasn’t in a headline. And I certainly didn’t make her feel like the supporting character in her own life.”

Belle looked down at her water glass. Her eyes stung.

“I told her,” Sophie went on, “that my son saw your worth immediately. From the first moment. ”

Belle swallowed, hard. “Sophie…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sophie said. “It was overdue.”

“She loves you, I think,” Sophie said. “But love without effort is just sentiment. And you deserve more than sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Belle whispered.“I’m really glad you’re here,” Belle said softly.

Sophie smiled and reached across the table, brushing a piece of hair from Belle’s cheek. “You are my daughter now. I will always show up.”

Belle blinked fast. “If I cry in this café, Max is going to blame you.”

“He already does,” Sophie said breezily. “Now then we’re going shopping. I saw a pair of flats that are very you, and you’re not leaving without them.”

 Which meant Belle left the afternoon with a pair of maternity jeans so well-tailored she could cry, a cashmere cardigan in the softest dove grey, and a little knit hat for the baby that Sophie claimed she couldn’t walk past without buying.

“I spoil the people I love,” she said, like it was obvious.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Your mother’s intervention has resulted in our mother questioning all her life choices.

Max:Good. She should.

Charles: She’s been sitting on the balcony for an hour Just… staring at the sea Like she’s in an existential French film. Alexandra brought her tea and she whispered "Am I a bad mother?"

Max: Sophie works fast. And thoroughly.

Charles: She didn’t even raise her voice.

Max: She never does. That’s how you know it’s serious.

Charles: Do you think she’s available for hire? We could send her to FIA meetings.

Max: I’ll ask.

Charles: No but seriously I think it got through to her. She hasn’t deflected once today. She’s just… quiet.

Max: That’s progress.

Charles: She’s still herself, don’t worry. She asked if Belle wanted a proper wedding And Arthur started choking on his juice.

Max: Tell your mother our wedding was already perfect. No upgrades needed.

Charles: Tell your mother she might be the only person who’s ever successfully made our mother reflect. It’s like watching a glacier move.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: And has your mother-in-law survived Mom? 👀

Max:

She’s still breathing. But I think she’s in a mild existential crisis.

Victoria: Mild?

Max: She spent twenty minutes staring at the ocean in silence. Then apparently asked Charles if she’s been a bad mother. Then actually listened when he answered.

Victoria: Oh damn. Mom really unleashed the linen-trousered therapy nuke.

Max: She just sipped her espresso and dismantled a whole family system. Belle doesn’t know the half of it.

Victoria: She doesn’t need to. Mom did what moms are supposed to do: Protect their daughters.

Max: I know. And Belle’s glowing today. She had lunch with her and came back with a cardigan, a hat for the baby, and suspiciously expensive flats.

Victoria: That’s the Sophie Kumpen Experience™ Phase 1: espresso. Phase 2: emotional reparenting. Phase 3: light shopping spree.

Max: Tell me you’re related without telling me you’re related.

Victoria: Tell Belle I said she’s now Mom’s favorite. Also tell Pascale not to test her again unless she wants a sequel.

***

The room felt softer this time.

There was no cold weight in her chest, no sense of armor laced tight under her ribs. Belle still sat close to Max, still had one hand resting over her bump, but for once, it wasn’t to brace herself. It was just—her hand. On her stomach. Because their son had been active all morning, and she could feel the light nudges that reminded her, constantly, of the new chapter ahead.

Camille gave everyone the same calm nod as she sat. “Thank you for being here again.”

They all murmured polite hellos. Belle caught her brothers’ expressions—Charles quiet but attentive, Arthur slightly wary, Lorenzo composed as ever. Max, steady and grounded next to her, nodded at Camille. She always liked how seriously he took this.

But it was Pascale who surprised her.

Her mother looked tired—but not defensive. Not braced. She looked… resolved. There were faint lines beneath her eyes, the kind that come from crying. Her hair was pinned back neatly. Her hands folded in her lap. Belle didn’t recognize this version of her. And somehow, that made it harder.

“Before we begin,” Camille said gently, “Pascale mentioned she had something she’d like to say.”

Belle tensed automatically. Max’s pinky brushed hers in silent reassurance.

Pascale looked at her daughter.

“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly.

The words landed like a stone in the water. Clear. Heavy. Real.

Belle didn’t speak.

“I didn’t come here today to justify anything,” Pascale said. “I’ve spent too long doing that. Dismissing things. Telling myself that good intentions were enough.” She exhaled. “They weren’t.”

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Pascale continued. “About you, Belle. About how many birthdays I missed. How many quiet accomplishments I treated like background noise. I thought I was being fair. Letting everyone find their own way. But I see now—I see that I didn’t give you the same space I gave the boys.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

Pascale looked down, voice softer. “I told myself that because you didn’t complain, you were okay. That you were independent. That you didn’t need as much.” Her voice cracked. “But you did. Of course you did. And I wasn’t there.”

There was a moment—brief, flickering—where Belle’s heart stuttered. She tried to breathe through it.

“I was a good mother to Charles,” Pascale said. “And Arthur. And Lorenzo. But I wasn’t a good mother to you. And I want to say that out loud. I need you to hear it. No excuses. Just truth.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I am so proud of the woman you became anyway.”

That broke something in Belle. She didn’t cry—but the tears burned hot in her chest, where all the old silences used to live.

Pascale looked up, eyes glassy. “Your work is brilliant. Your marriage is strong. And this baby—this baby is so lucky. Because he’ll be raised by someone who knows how to see people. Truly see them.”

Belle exhaled shakily.

“I want to earn my place again,” Pascale said. “Not as your mother by name. But as someone who supports you. Who shows up. Who listens, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Max stayed quiet beside her. Charles had his hand loosely over his mouth. Arthur blinked hard. Lorenzo watched his mother like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Belle’s voice was small. “It hurt.”

“I know,” Pascale whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

[seumyo]

the art of loving bakugou katsuki’s name.

You loved his name.

You remembered the first time you had heard it—Bakugou Katsuki. It wasn’t an uncommon name, but it was his. His name was easy to remember, sharp on the tongue, and impossible to forget.

And that’s the funny thing about names, isn’t it? No names were ever truly the same. It could be written with the same characters, spoken in the same pronunciation, but the person behind them made it unique.

His was different.

His was his.

Getting to know Bakugou’s name had been one of the most exciting parts of meeting him. The way it rolled off your tongue the first time you said it out loud. The way he grumbled at you when you got too familiar too quickly, scowling at you and scolding you—telling you to say it right or don’t bother at all.

You grew to whisper it in the quiet of study halls, writing it absentmindedly in the margins of your notes when you were too exhausted to focus. You had yelled it across battlefields when you were still young and reckless, had murmured it in moments of vulnerability when it was just the two of you—when the world felt smaller, safer—because he shared the world with you.

It softened over the years, how you said his name. How he let you call him Katsuki when no one else could.

You loved his name.

Because it had been yours to say back then.

And now, he shared it with someone else.

It was a cruel thing, really. To love a name, to cherish it, to include it in a solemn prayer every night just as you’re about to fall asleep, only to have it slip through your fingers.

The wedding was beautiful. Grand, as expected for someone like Bakugou.

The kind of celebration is fitting for a man who had always been larger than life, someone who fought hard and loved even harder. The bride—his wife—was stunning, radiant in a way that made you feel something you didn’t want to name.

“Do you, Bakugou Katsuki, take your—“

His name sounded different now.

You had imagined this moment before, once, a long time ago. Not like this—never like this.

You forced a smile when they exchanged vows, when they kissed, when the crowd erupted in cheers.

You lifted your glass when it was time for the toasts and laughed when it was appropriate.

You played the part of an old friend, a guest who had long since moved on.

Because today was all about him. Not you.

But when the celebration stretched into the late hours, you found yourself stepping out, out into the quiet of the evening just outside the reception hall. You had too many thoughts and too little drinks acquired at the mini bar to drown out this incessant feeling.

You closed your eyes and whispered his name once, just to hear it. Yours.

“[Last Name]?”

Your breath hitched.

You turned, and there Bakugou Katsuki was—standing at the threshold, half in shadow, looking at you the same way he always had. His tie was slightly undone, and his suit jacket draped over his arm. He looked tired. But more than that, he looked at you like he still knew you.

Like he still saw you.

That version of you that only he met and got to know well.

“Hi,” you greeted. “Congrats on getting married, by the way. All my congratulatory messages are in your gifts.”

He scoffed, though it’s quiet, barely audible.

“Right.”

. . .

His gaze lingered, searching. Searching for something that he will never find.

“You okay?”

“Of course. It’s your wedding day. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The answer was too quick, too . . . prepared.

Bakugou didn’t retaliate right away. Instead, he stepped closer, just enough that you could see the way his brows furrowed, the way his jaw tensed.

“[Last Name]—“

“Katsuki.”

His name left your lips before you could stop it, like muscle memory. Like a prayer.

You had intended to call him by his last name. A formality. A distance.

Bakugou stiffened.

You had spent years getting to know his name, understanding every way it could be spoken. The anger in it, the laughter, the quiet tenderness in the dead of night.

And now, for the first time, you didn’t know how to say it.

Because words shouldn’t hurt, they shouldn’t feel like your throat’s being repeatedly stabbed.

. . .

“I never wanted things to end like they did.”

You let out a slow breath. “Neither did I.”

But it had ended. And you both knew why.

Careers. Distance. Bad timing.

Then it all just got too much to fight for.

Because love, even if it’s meant to fight for, gets exhausting when you can no longer love that person the way you used to.

And no matter the reason, endings were still endings. It can’t be erased and rewritten. It isn’t a story on paper that can be edited with a simple pencil and eraser.

“You ever think about—“

“I don’t.” Not anymore, at least, you wanted to add.

Because thinking about it now—on his wedding day—is like disregarding all that he made for himself after you. Disregarding his wife, the one he vowed to love ‘til hell freezes over and whatnot.

“You should go,” you smiled once you heard his wife calling his name.

He lingered for a second longer, as if debating whether to say more. Then, with a nod, he turned and walked away.

You watched as Bakugou joined his wife, the woman who now shared his name, the name of the person you had loved with every fiber of your being.

The name you thought you’d share with him—and once dreamed to keep as yours.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[eufezco]

CAPTAIN AMERICA: BRAVE NEW WORLD SPOILERS 👇🏻

ARE YOU JEALOUS? 𓂃 𓈒 ❀

congressman!bucky barnes x fem!readwr

synopsis – bucky finds out that you're jealous about those comments that woman madd about him.

a/n – i hate her and her stupid fucking character better stay away from bucky. free palestine 🇵🇸

joaquin had taken a bad hit during a mission with sam, bad enough to need surgery and land him in the hospital for a few days. being in congress meant bucky had access to that kind of information, and as soon as he saw joaquin’s name in a report, he knew what that meant.

bucky walked into your office without a word, you barely had time to look up before he dropped a file onto your desk.

—good morning to you too, —you teased, raising your eyebrows and looking at the papers he just placed on your desk. then, you looked at him. —not even a kiss for your sweet girlfriend?

he looked ridiculously good in that black suit, broad shoulders filling it out perfectly, the fabric hugging his frame in a way that was almost unfair. his tie was just a little loose, and you had the sudden urge to tug on it and pull him closer. bucky sighed and stepped forward. his metal fingers brushed your cheek before he leaned down and gave a quick kiss to your lips.

you hummed and nodded. —thank you, —you grabbed the papers and opened the file. —you left earlier this morning, i wanted to have breakfast with you.

—yeah, sorry, this came up.

you glanced down at the folder, your eyes scanned the first few lines and then stopped. torres, joaquin – injured in action. bucky exhaled, finally moving. he sat on the edge of your desk, fingers drumming against the wood. —mission went sideways. he took a hit.

you stood up from your chair and went to sit next to him, close enough that your knee brushed against his. —how bad?

bucky sighed. —fractured ribs, concussion, some internal bleeding. they got to him in time, he’s stable but...

—and sam?

—got here this morning.

you closed the file, inhaling slowly to steady yourself. bucky was watching you, waiting for your reaction. you met his gaze and nodded. —then let’s go

before you stepped into the private room, you paused, standing in front of bucky. his gaze was fixed ahead, his jaw tight, he hadn’t said much since the moment you arrived at the hospital. he was trying to figure out what to say to sam.

—you're good, —you said quietly, —sam is our friend, he'd appreciate us being here. —your hand gently coming up to rest on his chest, fixing his tie, —you'd know what to say when you see him.

bucky nodded, his eyes met yours, but you could see the how his gaze softened as he let your words settle in. you stood up on your tiptoes and placed a quick, soft kiss right in the middle of his lips.

you weren’t wrong. as soon as the door opened, sam’s eyes landed on both of you. he looked exhausted, like the weight of the world had been pressing down on him, but the relief in his eyes when he saw you both was undeniable. he also looked at your fingers laced. last time you three were together, things were... complicated. bucky didn't know if he deserved a relationship and sam, being sam, wanted to be supportive but didn't want to rush things between you two. now, seeing you both standing there, so... together, sam felt relief that bucky had come to terms with his own feelings.

you hugged sam and then bucky hugged him. you asked about joaquin's state as you watched through the glass how the surgeons worked.

bucky and sam had the sweetest interaction, you let bucky talk as you stood next to him, holding onto his arm. as you predicted, bucky said exactly what sam needed to hear and by the end of their conversation you noticed how sam felt more confident. then, the phone in bucky's pocket buzzed breaking the moment. he checked the screen and sighed,

—i gotta go, —he said quietly. before he stepped away, he pulled sam into one last hug, holding him tightly. —take care of yourself, alright? —he murmured. once bucky pulled back, he turned to you, his fingers brushing your arm gently before he kissed you on the lips. —see you at home.

sam raised his eyebrows and looked at you when bucky left. —kissing in public, living together, that way he looks at you... you've got him wrapped around your finger.

you laughed and shook your head. you were going to say something but in that moment someone else entered the room.

—future congressman james buchanan barnes.

you frowned. who was talking about your boyfriend? leaning slightly, you peered around sam. standing on the other side of him was a small woman, sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed, exuding authority, but what did she have to say about your bucky?

her gaze was still fixed on the spot where he had just walked away, head tilted slightly like she was noticing something only she could see. wow, were you missing something?

—he's taller in real life. nice smile too, good amount of teeth. great posture.

—he's a 110, —sam added.

—and taken.

the woman finally turned to look at you, her expression unreadable, but there was amusement. she studied you for a second before offering a knowing little smile. —noted.

you got home before bucky did. you figured you’d cook something nice for dinner. you couldn’t share breakfast with him, but you’d make the most of dinner but even as you chopped vegetables and stirred the rice you were preparing, those words echoed in your head. great posture, nice smile.

you scoffed, gripping the knife just a little too tightly. yeah, no shit he has a nice smile. you’d spent enough time staring at it to know that. and his posture? sure, the man stood like he was built from granite, all strong shoulders and perfect stance—but why the hell was she the one noticing it? you wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to get jealous. it wasn’t like you were insecure—you trusted him completely. but still… something about another woman noticing him, talking about him like that...

you took a deep breath, shaking it off. it was fine. you were fine. you had no reason to feel this way. bucky was yours. he came home to you, kissed you, held you when he thought no one was looking.

bucky called your name, shutting the door behind him. —i'm home.

—i'm in the kitchen! —you said trying to sound casual, even though you were still thinking about that damn conversation from earlier.

bucky approached you and wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin rested on your shoulder, his beard tickled your skin as he murmured, —smells amazing.

you smiled, proud. —figured we didn’t get breakfast together, so i’d make up for it with dinner.

he hummed in appreciation, planting a kiss on your shoulder.

—how was your day? —you asked as he watched you cook. his presence stopped all the overthinking you'd been doing since you got home for a minute, his touch was reassuring enough to almost make you forgot completely about how the words of that woman made you feel. the way his exhausted body was molding into yours, like he needed you to keep him steady, it all made you feel just a little better.

—long, —he admitted, kissing your shoulder again. —meetings, calls and a whole lot of people telling me what i should be doing.

you hummed in response, —sounds frustrating.

bucky noticed the stiffness in your body almost immediately. you let him hug you, you acted like nothing happened, you even seemed to be glad for his touch yet your body told a different story. but he didn’t let go. instead, his metal hand slid lower, fingers splaying over your stomach while his flesh hand found your hip. —what’s going on in that head of yours? —he murmured against your skin.

—nothing, i was just thinking... it was nice seeing sam, wasn't it? we should invite him over sometime, hang out with him in another circumstances.

bucky wasn't convinced, there was something else, but he agreed with you. —yeah, it was good to see him. it’s been too long since we’ve had a proper catch-up, just the three of us.

you hummed. you couldn’t shake the feeling. you tried to push it down, but you knew you needed to ask. you couldn't hold it in any longer. —did you know that woman? —you asked, trying to keep your tone casual. —the one that came in when you left?

bucky paused for a moment before responding. —yeah, she's head of security of thaddeus ross.

you raised your eyebrows, bucky was looking at you, his chin still resting on your shoulder, yet you were focused on the rice. —she seemed a little too interested in you.

he frowned. —how so?

—oh, she mentioned your nice smile and great posture.

bucky was quiet for a moment, then you felt his chest shake against your back. he was laughing. —you're jealous, —he realized.

you pulled away from his hold and turning to face him, arms crossed, almost offended, not because he wasn't right but because he had figured it out so easily. —no, i'm not.

he smirked as he watched you with knowing eyes. those deep blue eyes. had that woman noticed them too? had she seen how they darkened under the dim lights of the office? or how they became even more shadowed after a restless night? you clenched your jaw.

—yes, you are. you’re jealous over a comment about my posture.

you scoffed. —that’s not— you huffed, shaking your head. that smirk remained on his lips, waiting to see how you tried to explain yourself. —it’s not just that! it’s the way she was looking at you, like she was mentally taking notes. and i know what you're gonna say, she was just doing her job, but she was not just doing her job when she called you well-built with a nice smile like you were some—some political snack.

bucky raised his eyebrows and then couldn't help a laugh escaping his lips at that, shaking his head in disbelief. ugh, he did have the nicest smile. —political snack?

—shut up, —you muttered, your cheeks warming.

he reached for you again, this time catching your waist and pulling you right up against him, his laughter dying down into something softer. —you’re so sexy when you’re jealous, you know that?

you narrowed your eyes at him. —not jealous.

—oh yeah, totally jealous, —he teased, grinning as he leaned closer, lips barely brushing against yours. —and so possessive.

before you could complain again, he pressed his lips against yours. your lips moved in perfect sync, this was exactly what you needed.

his mouth tasted like fruit, sweet and familiar. that damn tropical gum he always chewed. would that woman know that? would she know that he liked it because it reminded him of the time he spent learning himself again, reclaiming parts of his life he thought were lost? that he once moved heaven and earth just to find gum that tasted like plum? would she know that when he chewed peppermint gum, his lips turned pinker than usual because he was so used to the soft, sweet taste of fruit-flavored ones?

you sighed into the kiss, relieved to think that you were the only one who knew these things about him. your hands sliding up to grip his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

bucky chuckled against your lips, the vibration sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. he pulled back just enough to murmur, —you’re telling me this death grip on my shirt isn't possessive and jealous?

you refused to let go, using it to pull him into a kiss again. —it’s not.

his metal hand curled around your waist, sliding down until it cupped your ass. bucky pulled back again and you whined, annoyed. he murmured, —so if that woman from earlier showed up right now, you wouldn’t throw something at her? —his smirk was downright smug now, he was enjoying this way too much.

you rolled your eyes. —i wouldn’t throw something at her. i’d throw something near her. just to remind her what’s off-limits.

the smirk never left his lips. he slowly let go of his grip on your body, his metal hand dragging over your skin just enough to make you shiver. then, he took a step back. and another. his eyes never left yours, the challenge clear in them. —and if i walked into another room right now, —he tilted his head, —you wouldn’t follow me to make sure no one else was looking at your man?

you groaned. before he could take another step, your hand shot out, grabbing his tie and yanking him back toward you. he stumbled, his body colliding with yours. his hands instinctively landed on your waist to steady himself. —i wouldn't even let my man walk out of here.

your lips met in another heated kiss, his breath mixing with yours as your fingers tangled deeper into his hair. you felt him shiver slightly under your touch, his grip on your hips tightening as he pressed himself closer. his hair was getting longer. you could feel it, the way your fingers sank into the thick strands, how easily you could grab and tug at it. and god, you loved it like this.

he's taller in real life...

bucky’s hands gripped your waist firmly as he effortlessly lifted you, guiding your legs to wrap around his body. his hands shamelessly moved to your ass as yours went to the back of his head to deepen the kiss. he placed you on the edge of the table, the cold surface pressing against your thighs as he stood between your legs, his hands resting on your hips.

you started to lean back, pulling at his tie and guiding him down with you. his body followed, towering over you. his hands were on either side of your body, holding himself up just enough to keep from fully pinning you to the table.

—you really like this, don’t you? —he murmured against your lips.

you smirked, your fingers kept on tightening his tie, —like what?

his metal fingers squeezed the bare skin of your thighs, a low growl escaped his lips. —being a little brat, —he muttered, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.

you shivered, your head tilting to give him better access. —maybe.

—you’re lucky i like it, —he dragged your pajama pants and your underwear down your legs with ease.

—lucky? —your hands slipped down to the knot of his tie, loosening it and sliding the fabric through your fingers. then, you skillfully unbuttoned his white shirt with urgency. you couldn’t help but moan a quiet fuck under your breath as you pulled his shirt open, your fingers grazing over the defined lines of his torso. perfectly sculpted muscles tensed beneath your touch. your gaze traced the scars along his shoulder where the metal met his skin as you pushed the shirt down his arms.

—very lucky.

... nice smile too, good amount of teeth...

bucky unzipped his pants as you squeezed his body with your thighs. he pushed himself inside of you without warning, you let out a loud moan and held onto his biceps as you felt how he bottomed you.

he smiled, watching your reaction. he then hid his face in your neck. —you really think i don’t know who i belong to? —his voice was lower now, rougher. his hot breath against your skin spiked goosebumps on your body. —you think anyone else could ever touch me the way you do?

... great posture.

you held onto his strong and broad shoulders while your head was thrown back, eyes closed shut, lips parted letting out the most sinful sounds. his flesh-and-blood hand moved to the back of your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. his back was a bit arched, just enough for his hips to hit that sweet spot inside you every time he trusted into you.

you connected your lips with his as you swallowed his moans. your hands, without any shame, traveled down his muscled and tensed back until they reached his ass. you squeezed it, enjoying yourself and helping him to push into you.

—say it, —bucky said in between moans.

travelling up his tensed back, your fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head, tugging just enough to make him groan, you encircled your legs around his body and locked your ankles over the swell of his ass. you felt that burn sensation in the pit of your stomach. —you’re mine.

he exhaled sharply, pressing a slow, claiming kiss to your throat. his hands traced up your thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go. you felt his metal fingers closing a bit tighter, —and you’re mine.

you came digging your nails into his back, your legs around his body squeezing him and bucky let more of his weight settle against you once his orgasm hit him. his pace became faster and harder when he was close, his metal hand on your hips tightened, pressing you firmly against the surface of the table, and you knew that by morning, you'd see the imprint of his fingers on your skin. and you could't complain because you loved it.

even though you knew he’d hate. he never liked seeing the marks he left on you. he’d frown when he saw the faint bruises his grip had left on your hips, running his fingers over them with something like regret in his eyes. he’d mutter something about being too rough, about how he should be more careful. but the truth was that you craved it.

but as much as bucky hated to mark you, he loved when you marked him. it was a reminder that everything was real—that you were real. that it wasn’t some dream he’d wake up from, alone and lost. that he wasn’t the ghost of a man wandering through a life that didn’t belong to him anymore. and when he saw those scratches in his back in the mirror tomorrow, when he felt that sting as his shirt brushed against them, he’d know—he wasn’t just existing. he was living.

you pushed the strands of hair that were falling over his face and some that were sticking to his forehead as you both tried to catch your breaths.

—would you think i'm crazy if i say i don't want her anywhere near you?

bucky huffed a laugh, pulling out of you and letting you sat up on your elbows. —i’d think that you’re, in fact, jealous.

you rolled your eyes. —whatever. but if i heard her talking about your posture again, i swear i'll...

before you could finish the sentence, bucky pressed his lips to yours, cutting you off. his kiss was soft, but there was a quiet intensity behind it, a reassurance that you didn’t need to say more. —maybe there's a touch of craziness, yeah.

[xxsinisterbunniexx]

✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙ Creepypasta general NSFW headcanons ✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, BEN drowned, X Virus

Thought I’d kick off with some NSFW headcanons for the most popular characters (plus X virus simply because I adore him)

Jeff

☠︎︎ need to be on permanent birth control with him, does not pull out and does not care

☠︎︎ he would just be oh so mean

☠︎︎ lots of degradation

☠︎︎"come all over my cock like the fucking slut you are”

☠︎︎ spits in your mouth

☠︎︎ knifeplay!

☠︎︎ generally very rough: choking, slapping, general manhandling

☠︎︎ BUT

☠︎︎ every once in a while he has a bad day and he becomes just so soft

☠︎︎ takes his time with you, touches you gently

☠︎︎ “you know I love you so much”

☠︎︎ fav position is doggy in front of a mirror because he can watch your face while he fucks the shit out of you

Toby

✘ also need permanent birth control with him, but unlike Jeff he would try to pull out if you asked him to but he’s only like 50% consistent about it

✘ but if you didn’t ask him to…

✘ lowkey has a breeding kink so he’d come inside every time

✘ his family is broken so he lowkey wants to have one but do it right

✘ bites you, bites you!!!

✘ cannot feel pain so this man is a SADIST!!!

✘ he would be so intrigued with watching how you react to pain

✘ slips into German if he’s really getting into it

✘“Du fühlst dich so gut an, mein Mädchen. Du wirst so schwach für mich.”

✘ big on marking you (both with bites and hickeys)

✘ talks you through it

✘ “gonna come for me, pretty girl?”

✘ loves eating you out and gets really sloppy with it

✘ and when he’s receiving he’s a head pusher, hair puller, face fucker

✘ loud as fuck, this bro will moan and growl in your ear without shame

✘ his fav position is mating press cause he gets to watch your face while he bruises your cervix <3

Eyeless Jack

⛥ major breeding kink

⛥ would come in you, tell you to keep it in, and when it inevitably starts to seep out he’d breed you again

⛥ also fingers his cum back into you

⛥ “look at how wasteful you are. Guess I’ll have to fill you up again”

⛥ this man is a demon so he’s so feral oml

⛥ can smell when you are ovulating and it drives him WILD

⛥ makes a shit ton of demonic ass noises

⛥ I’m talking growling, groaning, may even purr a bit (in like a demonic scary way LOL)

⛥ ummm SpongeBob why is it in a cage

⛥ because it growled at me

⛥ jk you could not cage this man

⛥ he has multiple tongues and he’s gonna put them to use

⛥ like eating your pussy until you are BEGGING for him to stop

⛥ knows a lot about human anatomy so….

⛥ fav position is mating press (for obvious reasons)

BEN drowned

⚠︎ he’s a little shit and this would translate to the bedroom

⚠︎ teasing you 24/7 it’s like torture

⚠︎ won’t just eat you out, he’s gotta bite your thighs and then get real close and let his breath fan over your clit just to make you tremble

⚠︎ would love to tie you up so he can torture you even more

⚠︎ likes to hear you beg

⚠︎ edging to the max like bro loves orgasm control

⚠︎ “aw, you wanna come? Better ask real nicely”

⚠︎ plays ur titties like a video game controller LMAO

⚠︎ corruption kink

⚠︎ loves to use toys with you because he can use his influence~

⚠︎ fav position is anything where you’re on top

X Virus

☣︎ so meticulous about it

☣︎ like has precise control over your body and commands it so well

☣︎ also loves orgasm control but less in an edging way and more in a you come when I want you to come kind of way

☣︎ “don’t you dare come without permission. I control when you come”

☣︎ experimentalist, for obvious reasons

☣︎ like bro will genuinely try anything once

☣︎ so when he comes to you with that special look in his eye you know you’re in for it

☣︎ especially if he’s been holed up in the lab for a few days before

☣︎ because you just know that means he’s made you an extra special drug he wants you to try

☣︎ loves giving head but lord when he is receiving…

☣︎ like jaw goes slack, soul leaves his body, he can only run his fingers into your hair and squeeze a little when you tease him too much otherwise he is OUT

☣︎ keeps in control for 95% of the act while he fucks you until the very end when he’s close to coming and then he’s erratically thrusting into you and his voice is cracking

☣︎ his fav position is anything where he can see your face because he needs to observe your reactions

These are my general thoughts on the characters :3 I’m gonna start writing more headcanons and also cross posting my other fics little by little but until then hope you enjoyed <3

[wcnderlnds]

carried away | choi seung-hyun (t.o.p)

・❥・ summary: getting to film a movie with seunghyun is all fine until you have to film a kissing scene ・❥・word count: 1.1k ・❥・warnings: n/a ・❥・ authors note: saw a video of tazza behind the scenes and was inspired 👀

Choi Seung-hyun was one of the most interesting people you had ever met. Not only was he a complete sweetheart but he was one heck of a talented actor. He could switch between himself and the character he was playing almost seamlessly. Not many actors had that kind of talent — some opting to stay in character through the whole shoot to not lose focus but not Seunghyun. When he was in character, he was locked in and when he was out of it, he was the fun, sweet guy that you had come to know over the last couple of months. It amazed you every single day.

When you’d first got the job to star alongside him, the nerves you’d felt were probably the worst you’d ever experienced. He was an icon, part of one of the biggest bands in the world. It was daunting knowing you were going to have to be face to face with one of K-Pops biggest idols. Turns out there had been no reason to worry whatsoever because he was the nicest person you’d ever met. The very first day you’d met on set he’d introduced himself politely, made sure you were comfortable and did everything he could to make it easy for you. It wasn’t your first job. You were pretty well known in the industry but every set was different. All the different actors and crew; sometimes you didn’t know what to expect. So far, this had been your favourite movie to work on. Did most of that have to do with Seunghyun? Absolutely.

Today was the day you had been dreading the most, though. Intimate scenes were always daunting to film but now you had to film one with Seunghyun. Oh, you were so screwed. Over the last few weeks, you had developed a little crush on your co-star. Not a word had been uttered to him but you were fairly sure you weren’t hiding it very well. The giggles at his every joke, the way you’d hang on to his every word, find any reason to be close to him — it was like you were a kid again with your very first crush and didn’t know how to act.

“You ready for this?” Seunghyun asked as the two of you stood waiting for the director to start the scene. He stood there, tie loose around his neck, his white shirt unbuttoned slightly showing off some of his chest. If you weren’t so nervous, you’d definitely be staring right now.

“Yeah,” you nodded, hands flexing at your sides. “I'm a little nervous but I’m ready.”

“I’ve got you, okay? You want to stop at any time just tell me and we will. We don’t even have to do this if you’re not comfortable with it. I’m sure we can think of a way around it,” he reached out to give your arm a reassuring squeeze. Even just a simple touch like that made your heart beat ten times faster so what the hell was going to happen to you the moment his lips met yours? 

“It’s okay, I promise. I’m glad it’s with you. I trust you.” A genuine smile adorned your face making Seunghyun smile, too. Was he blushing as well? Surely you were imagining that.

It wasn’t too long after when the director yelled action and it was all hands on deck. Before you could even prepare yourself (which you’d had plenty of time to do if you hadn’t been so nervous), Seunghyun’s hand was on the back of your head and his lips crashed against yours. The second his soft lips began to move, your head turned fuzzy. Your hands fisted in the shirt he was wearing as he backed you up onto the bed. As you laid back, he settled on top of you, his tongue tangling with yours. You knew you were supposed to be acting, that this was your character and not you but it didn’t stop you from getting lost in the way his lips fit so perfectly against yours. Or the way his body slotted between yours like a puzzle piece.

It wasn’t until Seunghyun pulled away — breathless and with red tinted cheeks — that you realised the director had shouted ‘cut’ over five minutes ago. You could feel the flush of your cheeks as the embarrassment coursed through you. Without a single word, you ran off the set to hide in your dressing room. If that wasn’t the most mortifying moment of your life, you didn’t know what was. How could you have gotten so lost that you didn’t realise the scene had ended? How unprofessional. 

It was five minutes later when you heard a knock on your door. You barely mumbled a “it’s open” when the handle turned and in walked Seunghyun. You had your head in your hands but as you heard him clear his throat, you looked up. There he stood looking as gorgeous as ever. 

“Can I…?” He gestured to the spot next to you on the couch. You nodded your head, resting your hands in your lap. He sat beside you, twisting his body slightly so he could look at you. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m embarrassed and mortified and really wish the ground would swallow me up right now.” The urge to hide your face again was strong but you fought against it. You had to be an adult and own up to what had happened. “I’m so sorry, Seunghyun. That was so unprofessional of me. I…I’m really sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, don’t apologise. I could have stopped it sooner but… uh, I didn’t want to.”

Did you hear him correctly? He didn’t want to stop kissing you? 

“…what?” You asked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he let out a low chuckle, shrugging his shoulders. “I like you. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make a move without it being weird for a couple weeks now but nothing seemed right. But then when I kissed you and you didn’t seem to stop, I couldn’t help myself. If anything it was unprofessional of me.”

“Just a couple of unprofessionals then, huh?” You joked, gently nudging him with your elbow. “I like you too, by the way.”

“I know, you’ve been pretty obvious.”

“Shutup.”

He laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and bringing you into his side. “Want to get dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” you smiled up at him, his eyes catching yours. It was so easy to get lost in him. Everything about him was so perfect. 

“For the time being, we have a lot of kissing to do because apparently we were too intense for the scene or something,” Seunghyun jokingly rolled his eyes, holding his hand out for you as he got to his feet. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”

If work meant you got to keep kissing the handsome man standing in front of you then you were more than happy to get back on set.

taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 4 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: Are you really his girl? He needs to test you to find out. All the while you're slowly slipping deeper into your trauma and his world.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, mentions of murder and rape, threatening, choking, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, hinting at depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, gun usage, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

Something was really fucking wrong with him, but what was far worse, something was really fucking wrong with you.

Obviously you had known that and you could tell, it wasn't all your fault. Your mother had played a great part in messing with your mind, your character, your self-perception. Then there was the man whose hands you still felt sliding up your waist.

God, you hated when someone touched your waist.

And then there was the bane of your existence. The nameless motherfucker with the soulless eyes and the briefcase.

You weren't particularly angry, like he was.

You weren't especially cruel, like she was.

Most of the time you were simply afraid.

Sometimes it were small tasks that ended up overwhelming you. Saying hello to a cashier or putting gas in your car. Getting up to brush your teeth. Eating. On some days, all these things felt entirely impossible.

On other days, you gathered your belongings, sat down in the aisle seat of a plane and flew all the way to South Korea. Just like that. Like it was nothing.

So you never really understood how your mind worked and how someone could be so broken, yet still function in some way. After all, you went to work, earned money, got at least a few things done.

The thing you hated about yourself the most was your constant fear of everything. But the thing you were most ashamed about was that other thing.

His calm voice forced your thoughts away.

"How did you sleep?"

You slowly looked up, your expression guarded as you thought about the question.

How did you sleep?

After your dramatic, almost romantic declaration that you belonged to him, he did nothing. No torturous experiments, no water bowls on the ground, no apology cakes. He simply got up, wished you a good night and went to sleep.

You lied awake all night, expecting at least some kind of reaction. Of course you didn't expect him to believe your words. So far he hadn't. Why would he now?

"I didn't sleep." You said truthfully.

He hummed softly while he poured a cup of white tea and handed it over to you. You held the cup so tightly that your palms burned against the heat of it.

"That explains why you look the way you look."

How charming.

He smiled, almost teasingly. He seemed so awfully...content.

"Can we talk about yesterday?" You murmured.

"What was yesterday?"

You felt your own expression darken, something that didn't happen often, especially not in his presence. But somehow you couldn't help yourself. You felt like he was making fun of you.

"Well, I..."

What was yesterday? How were you supposed to answer that question?

You looked down at the tea cup in your hands and stayed silent. Maybe your mind was playing tricks on you again and nothing had indeed happened yesterday.

You slowly looked up and saw the shards of the shattered vase on the floor. The sight made you frown.

"I want you to do something for me today." He said matter-of-factly, while he adjusted his tie.

You looked up at him, your expression questioning. Then you slowly set the cup down on the coffee table.

"I want you to call your work and tell them you moved back home. To England.”

You froze. He couldn't mean that.

"I...What?"

"You heard me." And with that, you were forced to catch the phone he tossed your way. It was your phone. Your fucking phone. Had it been here all along?

"I can't do that." You gasped out.

Instead of answering, he slowly pulled out the gun he kept with him and looked down at it. The sight made your heart clench.

Maybe something did change. Maybe today was your last day on earth.

"I can't hear you dialing." He said calmly, as he played with the gun in his hands.

You looked down at the phone in your hands. They were shaking as you carefully unlocked it. Three messages, all from work. Just like expected.

You swallowed thickly. If you did this now, there was absolutely no hope left for you. Your life - or whatever you might want to call it - was over. He'd have his alibi and you'd be gone. Buried under a pile of dirt in some Korean forest, so many miles away from where you were actually home.

Tears stung your eyes and you slowly looked up at him, but he still wasn't looking at you.

You knew if you didn't call, you'd die anyways.

Any way.

You'd die anyways.

You choked back the sob that threatened to escape and dialed the number of your workplace. After a few seconds, you heard the voice of your boss pick up. "Hello?"

You took a shaky breath. If you just screamed your name, gun, gun, he's pointing a gun at me, maybe then at least your death wouldn't be so pointless. Maybe it would be investigated further and maybe, with all the little hope you had left, he'd get caught. You had to hope. It was all you could do. He’d get caught.

And fucking executed.

But before you could say anything, you felt his weight press you down into the couch. His weight on top of you and his gun pressed against your temple.

It cost you all your strength not to gasp. Your phone was still tightly pressed against your ear, with the difference that your hands were sweaty now.

"Hello? Who's this?" You heard your boss's impatient voice ask.

He pressed the gun harder against you, his expression furious.

"Me." You croaked out. "It's me."

After a tense silence, then the voice finally snapped: "What on earth is going on with you? Where are you, girl? Do you think you just get to stay away like that? Don't you know the goddamn rules?"

You choked back another sob while he slowly slid the barrel of the gun down along your jawline, pointing it up at your head.

"I went back home." You whispered. "I'm back in England. And I quit."

After another long, confused silence you heard your boss's voice again, but before you could make out what he was saying, he snatched your phone back and hung up.

"Good girl." He purred, before he pushed the phone into the cup with searing hot tea.

"No!"

The moment your lips parted in a desperate plea, you suddenly felt the cold metal of the gun press against your lips, demanding entrance. Your eyes widened and your chest heaved in rapid breaths.

"Keep being a good girl. Open up for me." He whispered.

When you still hesitated, he pushed the gun forward even harder.

"Don't make me say it again. You won't like what will happen then." He said between gritted teeth.

Hot tears streamed down your face as you slowly parted your lips and teeth. God, this was it. You had made a mistake, a grave one. Maybe the fact that you pushed him away last night. Maybe he was still angry about your outburst the other day. Whatever it was, now you were going to pay the price for it and the price was your life.

A quiet sob escaped your lips when you felt the gun push forward into your mouth. It felt cold against your skin, making cold sweat break out on your back. You tried to push it back using your tongue, but he only ever pushed harder. So hard, until you ended up gagging against it. That was when he stopped and held it still.

"Are you still my girl?" He hissed.

You tried to swallow, but the gun in your mouth made it impossible. Only then you realized how hard you were shaking. And all the while you never took your eyes off him. Tried to memorize him. Maybe, if you were lucky and got to Heaven after you died, maybe you could tell them who he was and what he looked like. Maybe you could beg them not to let him in.

"Are you?!" He nearly yelled and bruised your throat with the gun when he gave a rough push forward.

You coughed up another sob and nodded. A frantic movement.

He kept staring down at you, his eyes wide and crazed.

He would pull the trigger. He would kill you.

But instead he did something else.

You had no idea what was going on, all you felt was how you could suddenly move your jaw and tongue again, but instead you felt your fingers curl around something. The gun. He pressed the gun down into your hand and pulled it up against his temple. His expression was even more crazed than before and all you managed to do was watch in a mixture of indescribable fear and something like horrified fascination.

"Kill me." He hissed.

You stared at him, your eyes wide, frozen in fear.

"I told you to fucking kill me!" He yelled. "You will never get out of here, never and if you don't shoot me, I'm going to break every fucking bone in your body, before I kill you myself!"

Your fingers clenched around the gun, but nothing else changed. Your index finger, shaking like a leaf, didn't even come close to the trigger.

He growled in fury and wrapped a hand around your throat, squeezing hard. Hard enough for you to immediately gasp out in horror.

"I will make your life a living hell." He growled lowly. "You will spend every waking moment wishing you were dead. I'll fuck you so hard, you'll never stand up straight again, I'll punch you so bad, your organs will give up at once, I'll break everything there is to break and before all that I'll cut your fucking tongue out, so you can't even scream! Kill me!"

Every word made your chest tighten more. You could already see it. Already feel it. You could tell he was capable of these things. You knew something just wasn't right in his mind. You knew. But something still held you back.

Was it the fear that you wouldn't get out, even after you killed him? That maybe you needed a code oto leave? Was it the fear of what would happen if you got out? That people wouldn't believe you and you'd end up in Korean prison? Or even worse, back home?

Whatever it was, you lowered the gun.

With a frustrated growl, he yanked the gun back and pressed it against his temple. He gritted his teeth. And pulled the trigger.

"No!" You screamed in such a desperate manner, that your voice cracked and your body gave in. He might as well have shot you. The pain that struck your body was the same.

But, oh God, it wasn't loaded. It wasn't loaded.

Your body was shaking and you were covered in sweat, your eyes glistening with tears and sobs dying on your tongue. You held your breath. And he stared down at you with a look that almost mirrored your own.

After the insane, tense silence stretched out above your heads for what felt like eternity, he finally lowered the gun. With a soft thud it landed on the carpet. His hand shot out and he held your cheek. His touch wasn't cruel. It was a soft caress. The gentlest touch you had ever felt.

"Don't cry." He breathed.

Were you crying? You couldn't tell.

In your mind, you were dead. Unable to process that you were indeed alive and...no, probably not all too well.

"God." He whispered. His brows furrowed in thought and he slowly, carefully trailed his fingertips down until they met your neck. Soft red marks covered it where his fingers had tightly squeezed before, cutting off your air supply. You had hardly even registered them, until you felt his gaze and fingers following the marks in quiet contemplation.

"It was a test?"

Your voice didn't sound like your own. Not even human. Just a soft breath of the wind, barely audible, if there had been anything louder than your breaths mingling in the air.

"Yes." He whispered. "I needed to know."

God, you wanted to be angry. You were angry. You wanted to fight him, punch his godforsaken, pretty face, beat him to a pulp. You wanted to hit him with the gun and make him swallow a bullet. Or ten.

But all you really did was release a soft, shuddery sob.

He seemed just as exhausted as you were, because he collapsed on top of you. His harsh breaths fanned over your neck, while he buried his face in your hair, his body on top of yours pulling the remaining air from your lungs. But that wasn't what you felt.

What you felt was his body on top of you, warm and almost comforting. What you felt was his skin against yours, a mixture of salty sweat and perfume and also something that was uniquely him.

You wanted to scream. Shriek. In anger, frustration, fear and disappointment.

But what you did instead was even worse.

Your hands, soft and careful, moved to his back and remained there. Your arms, weak and exhausted, wrapped around his form and embraced him. You didn't care that you could hardly breathe. You felt him.

You hugged him.

And you felt him stiffen on top of you. Of course, you were sure, had you hit him, his body wouldn't have gone as tense.

But that didn't make you stop.

Instead you simply tightened your arms around him and buried your face in his chest, breathing in his scent and trying to calm your nerves. And to your great surprise, he let you.

"The rules are simple."

Of course there were rules.

"When you're outside, you don't talk to other men. You don't even look at them. If I catch you doing that, I'll cut off your hair."

You nearly scoffed. As if you would ever come back to him, if you ever made it out on your own.

He seemed to read your thoughts, because he narrowed his eyes and smiled slowly.

"Don't worry, sweet girl. You won't go out until you're ready. And when you are, you'll come back to me. You'll always come back."

You tried to school your expression, but the unease was obvious.

He leaned closer and whispered: "And if I find out you're deceiving me or betraying me, I'll cut off far more than your hair."

A shiver ran down your spine and not the good kind. You nodded.

"Anything else?" You whispered.

He hummed softly.

"The foundation of our relationship stays the same, my sweet, darling girl." He murmured as he gently played with a strand of your hair. "You'll get punished when you step out of line and rewarded when you're good for me."

Of course. What else did you expect?

"As for the physical part..."

You stopped breathing. And you were sure you could hear your own heart, pounding in your chest like it was begging you to stop it from beating. To rip it out.

He hummed again and ran his fingers down to your shoulder, where he absentmindedly fidgeted with the straps of your dress.

"I have needs, sweet girl. Many of them. And they're not easily satisfied."

You stared at him.

When he didn't continue, you forced yourself to whisper: "What kind of needs?"

That made his lips curve up into a predatory grin, baring his teeth in the process. One of them was slightly crooked, you suddenly realized. Not much and it didn't do anything to his attractiveness. He was still the most handsome, soulless monster you had ever met. But something about that tiny little imperfection comforted you.

Reminded you that he was still human, instead of the devil, trapped in human form.

"You can't tell?" He purred and you shook your head.

Then he sighed softly and leaned close enough that you felt his hot breath against your ear.

"I think our needs match quite well, yours and mine."

That made your face flush in a deep crimson. No. He wouldn't use that against you, would he? Not even he  could be that cruel.

He had used every mind game he played with you to find out more about that shameful thing you hated so much about yourself.

Of course he was pushy about it.

But at some point, whenever he tended to get ahead of himself, he suddenly stopped and the game was over. And he always called you a good girl afterwards. Something that made your insides tingle in a way that was pleasant and unpleasant all the same.

"Don't look at me like that." He said calmly and took a sip of his whiskey. "Did you think I wouldn't catch on that, huh?"

You averted your gaze. Yes, he was cruel like that. You didn't know why you expected him not to be. Especially after he used every opportunity to prove to you how twisted he really was.

He wasn't capable of feeling. You knew that. Except for maybe anger. And satisfaction. But that was it. No sympathy, no love, no compassion.

Pure malice.

"What I need to know though, why does a sweet girl like you have such twisted fantasies?"

You nearly choked on your water. You hadn't told him about your fantasies. Not per say. All he knew was...

"Being used."

"Used for one's pleasure."

"Not caring about my own."

Was that enough for him to know what the hell was so messed up in your head? And if he knew, could he maybe explain it to you?

It was your deepest, darkest secret.

Yes, you had mentioned it to the psychiatrist once and he had half-heartedly told you that you weren't the only one.

He had also given the tiniest hint of an explanation, why you were the way you were. But you had shut him off, before he could finish.

You quickly pushed the thoughts away. You couldn't think about that.

That had never happened. It wasn't reality. Your mind agreed with you, which was why it suppressed all the memories from back then.

"I don't want to talk about it." You nearly hissed out. That earned an amused look from him and he held up his hands in surrender.

"Calm down. And don't forget your place again. Did you forget what happened last time?”

You sighed deeply. "Will I always have to fear for my life when I speak up my mind?"

He regarded you with a long, thoughtful look.

"It depends." He said calmly. "Some things you say will merely annoy me and I can try to keep myself from punishing you for your sake. And the sake of your pretty face. I do tend to get ahead of myself sometimes. Other words could get you killed, sweet girl. So, try not to gamble too much."

You swallowed thickly. Sometimes you'd forget who he was, what this was and that you had no rights here. That you were no one, except for maybe his little pet, his toy, his...his girl.

"Okay." You whispered.

"Now, now. Don't be so timid. There's no fun in that." He raised a brow and smirked.

You took a long, shaky breath. Maybe the conversation could end here and you'd finally call it a day and-

"Were you abused?"

You froze. It felt like the worst, the lowest hit he'd ever thrown at you. You didn't feel uneasy, you felt straight up nauseous.

"What?" You whispered quietly.

He nodded. "Did someone touch you? Against your will? Except the little fucker at the train station."

"Aside from you?" You clenched your jaw.

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't ask if somehow hurt or hit you before. I know that your bitch mother did. I'm asking if someone touched you."

As much as you wanted to scream at him or jump out of the window - It's locked, honey. Don't bother. - all you could do was sit in silence and feel as the ability to move and speak left you.

He sighed. "That explains your desires. I should have known."

He took a breath and took another sip of his drink, blissfully unaware of the way your body slowly froze solid. The way you couldn't breathe. Just enough to keep you alive. But not enough to live.

After a moment he seemed to realize that something was off, because he did something that he normally didn't. He frowned.

"Are you well?"

Your throat felt tight. Suddenly you realized, while he was choking you, you could still breathe easier than whenever this feeling came up. This chokehold. The way it pulled you under the cold water surface. The way the hand slowly slid up your bare waist and...

You gasped for air and wrapped your arms around your torso, trying to keep yourself from falling apart.

"What the-"

You hardly even recognized him or the way he gripped your arms tightly, trying to shake you back to your senses. You were slowly drowning. The light was fading. All you saw was that one spot on the wall. You couldn't look away. It was your safe haven. Your lighthouse, your beacon. You couldn't cast your gaze away, even after he cupped your face in his hands and spoke to you.

His frown was deep. He seemed genuinely confused. Confused. Was that the right word? He was in a frenzy, almost desperate to bring you back. Get through to you.

"Look at me, goddamn it, look at me." He hissed and grasped your chin tightly. He considered slapping you, but for some reason he seemed to fear that would only make you dissolve deeper into yourself. So, instead he did something else, Something that was so not at all like him, it was nearly ridiculous. It was hard to believe. It was...

"Please." He whispered. His palms gently caressed your cheeks. "Please. Come back to me."

You blinked slowly. You were still under water, but instead of the wall, you could make out his face. Under lots and lots of pain and disgust, resentment and hate for yourself, there was his face. And his eyes were soft. So much water and you still saw it. His eyes were soft as he looked at you.

"It's okay." He whispered again and nodded.

The tightness in your throat slowly gave way to a few, slow breaths.

In. And out. In. And out.

And least you could breathe again.

You briefly closed your eyes. Everything came back to you very slowly. The train station, the handsome stranger. The way his eyes darkened. And suddenly they were soft.

After a minute or so, you slowly blinked your eyes open and the sight before you was confusing as hell. He looked...so...

Concerned.

But no, that couldn't be.

It were your mind games again.

You wished so badly for someone to love you, to care about you, to be kind to you for once, that you started making up scenarios.

As if on cue, he quickly forced his gaze away and cleared his throat.

"Here. Drink." He held your water glass to your lips and slowly tilted it up until you felt the wetness of the water wash over your dried-out mouth.

You were sure. You had imagined it.

You tried to focus on your breathing and that's why you missed that he didn't look at you again. The whole evening, his eyes avoided yours like a pest.

At least you could breathe again.

Tags: @ayieayee @eviebuggg @fictionalmen-dilflover

If anyone else wants to be tagged in Part 5, let me know 🤍

[cybrasigilism]

NSFW alphabet with Player 388 (Kang Dae-ho)

warnings: smut and all things of the like | not proofread! | lowercase intended | these are my headcanons for this character, please be respectful even if my opinions on the character differ from yours

character: kang dae-ho (player 388)

A/N: you already know the second i got a request to do a NSFW alphabet for my fav, i had to do it. sorry for the spam, i just have way too much free time right now :’) anyways, as always i hope you enjoy! trust this is only the beginning of the dae-ho works i plan on writing

MDNI! 18+ content ahead, reader discretion is advised

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A= Aftercare what they’re like after sex

↳ if dae-ho isn’t the king of aftercare, then i’m santa clause. he will cuddle, draw you a bath, offer you a massage, the whole nine yards. he wants to make sure that you’re not only comfortable, but that you also know how grateful he is that you felt you could be vulnerable with him.

B= Body part their favourite body part of theirs and of their partner’s

↳ his favourite part of his is easily his arms, mainly because of how many people tell him how good his hugs are. as for his partner, he would ask how he could choose one favourite thing about someone who he loves so much. he’s a thigh man

C= Cum anything to do with cum, honestly

↳ would much rather to cum inside mainly because this man 100% has a breeding kink, but if his partner specifically says they don’t want him to cum inside, he will gladly oblige and pull out

D= Dirty Secret a dirty secret of theirs

↳ likes to be edged I MEAN WHO SAID THAT—

E= Experience how experienced are they? do they know what their doing?

↳ he’s definitely not got a massive body count, but trust he does know what he’s doing. you guys aren’t finishing until you cum twice

F= Favourite Position this one speaks for itself

↳ for him, it’s a tie between missionary and reverse cowgirl, it all depends on who wants to take charge in the moment

G= Goofy are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous, etc.

↳ he tries to be light hearted about the whole thing, especially if it’s your first time together. he’s still serious about sex in the sense that he’s determined to make you feel good, though

I= Intimacy how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect

↳ he’s big on praise, so he’s super intimate, kissing his partner all over and telling them how perfect they are are both staples in the process for dae-ho

J= Jack off masturbation headcanons

↳ he’s tried to use porn to masturbate before, but he finds it too artificial and performative and it actually takes him out of the mood rather than get him in it. he’s the kind of guy who thinks of his partner to get off

K= Kink one or more of their kinks

↳ breeding, praise, back scratching, overstimulation

L= Location favourite places to do the do

↳ the bedroom of course, and the shower x)

M= Motivation what turns them on? what gets them going?

↳ confidence. he loves it when his partner knows their worth

N= No something they won’t do

↳ hate sex, no explanation necessary

O= Oral preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.

↳ he loves getting head just as much as the next guy, but face-sitting? he’s happy for you to just sit on his face the whole time, no penetrative sex needed

P= Pace are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.

↳ he is a firm believer that sex is more than just the action itself, but it’s about being as close to the person you love and trust most as physically possible, so of course he’s gonna take his time with his partner. after all, why rush a good thing?

Q= Quickie their opinions on quickies, how often?

↳ he’s down if you’re down, but again, he would rather take things slow

R= Risk are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.

↳ again, he’s game to experiment if you are. however he is still solid on his limits, and he wants you to be firm with yours too. he would never forgive himself if he felt like you only did something because he wanted to

S= Stamina how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?

↳ as previously stated, dae-ho will not be through with you until you cum twice. he will go as long as he needs to for the job to get done, whether he’s already finished or not. the training in the marines has certainly helped his stamina, so this is no trouble for him

T= Toys do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or on themselves

↳ i doubt he has toys of his own, however he has no problem with using any toys his partner chooses to bring along

U= Unfair how much they like to tease

↳ jokes on you, he’s actually the one getting teased double jokes on you, he’s really into it

V= Volume how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.

↳ he’s not obnoxiously loud by any sort of means, but he definitely does moan. remember though, he will praise his partner and assure them that theyre making him feel great. think something along the lines of “yeah, making me feel so good baby” or “that’s it, that’s right..oh god yeah, right there.”

W= Wild Card a random headcanon for the character

↳ i’ll say it once and leave it here: he talks you through it

X= X-ray what’s going on under those clothes?

↳ thanks to the marines training, he’s got quite the muscular build. when he’s hard, he’s above average, somewhere around 6 1/2 - 7”

Y= Yearning how high is their sex drive?

↳ he doesn’t have a crazy sex drive, but when he’s in the mood it completely shifts

Z= Zzz how quickly they fall asleep afterwards

↳ he refuses to fall asleep before you do. he will do whatever it takes to stay awake, because he feels it’s rude to fall asleep before his partner does

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thanks so much for reading! you know the drill, advice + constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing are appreciated and requested! hope you guys like this as much as i had fun writing it :)

[shortnfreaky]

Please I need a one shot of Bucky as a boy dad, I did a survey on Twitter and the option of a girl dad is winning but I think Bucky looks better being a boy dad soooo please please <3

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a/n: omg, i'm so undecided, i feel like i could see him as both.

warnings: the word "mama" is mentioned once

word count: 1k

masterlist ✶ requests are open!

The Softest Soldier

The sound of giggles breaks through the sleepy quiet of your apartment.

You glance up from your spot on the couch just in time to see Bucky sprint past the doorway, a toddler in footie pajamas slung under one metal arm like a sack of potatoes. Your son is shrieking with laughter, legs kicking wildly, fingers trying to pry Bucky’s arm loose.

“Help, Mama!” he squeals, breathless between giggles. “Daddy’s being a villain!”

Bucky peeks back into the room, eyes bright. “Don’t help him,” he warns you, mock-serious. “He’s committed crimes against bedtime.”

You try not to smile, failing instantly. “What’s the charge?”

Bucky adjusts his grip, tucking your son’s little body snug to his chest. “Conspiring with a known accomplice—his stuffed dinosaur—to escape bedtime. Again.”

You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees solemnly, then blows a raspberry on your son’s cheek.

Your boy lets out another high-pitched squeal, squirming like crazy.

It’s a scene that shouldn’t look natural—an ex-assassin turned supersoldier wrestling a three-year-old while wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that says #1 Dad (your Father’s Day gift, cheesy and perfect). But somehow it fits. Completely.

You’ve seen Bucky in a lot of roles. Friend. Fighter. Fugitive. Lover. But this one—boy dad Bucky—is your favorite by far.

He’s all softness with your son. No trace of Winter Soldier in the way he kneels down to tie tiny sneakers or sits cross-legged in the living room building Lego towers. He’s not afraid to get messy, to get silly. To be the kind of man who reads bedtime stories in character voices and carries a sippy cup in his tactical bag “just in case.”

He doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. That he’s healing. That every moment like this is proof.

“Alright, punk,” Bucky says now, swinging your son gently into his arms and cradling him against his chest. “Say goodnight to Mommy.”

Your son twists toward you, lip wobbling. “But I’m not sweepy…”

“You can not be sleepy in bed,” you say, brushing a hand through his hair. “That’s allowed.”

He considers this. “Okay. But Daddy has to cuddle me.”

Bucky kisses the top of his head. “I was gonna do that anyway.”

And he does. You follow them to the bedroom and watch from the door as Bucky settles your son beneath the covers, adjusting the nightlight just so. He lays beside him, metal arm stretched protectively around his small frame, voice low and gentle as he starts telling some made-up story about a boy and his dinosaur on a mission to save the moon.

You watch until your son’s eyes drift shut. Until Bucky’s voice trails off.

Later, when he eases out of the room and closes the door behind him, you’re waiting in the hallway with a smile.

“What?” he says, pretending not to notice the look on your face.

You just wrap your arms around his waist. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what?” He rests his chin on your head.

“Being a dad. Being his dad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second, and when he finally answers, his voice is soft in a way that hits something deep.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever have this. A family. A kid who looks at me like I hung the stars. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

You tilt your head up, hands cupping his face. “It’s real.”

He kisses you like he believes it.

You kiss him back, slow and sure, and when you pull away, he still looks a little dazed — like he’s not quite used to having this. To being this.

“Come on,” you say gently, lacing your fingers through his. “Let’s sit for a bit. He’s out cold — you earned at least one couch snuggle.”

Bucky lets out a breathy laugh and lets you tug him back to the living room. He drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, sprawling out and tugging you down with him. Your head ends up on his chest, his arms around you like he never wants to let go.

“You ever think he’s too good to be real?” he murmurs after a while, his fingers drifting idly over your back. “Like, he’s this little perfect human and we somehow didn’t mess him up yet.”

You smile into his shirt. “He tried to put a jellybean in the outlet today. So… maybe not perfect.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Okay, reckless. Like his mom.”

You poke his side. “Excuse you. I have never attempted to electrocute myself with candy.”

“No, but you did try to climb on top of the fridge to hide the Halloween stash from me.”

“That’s called strategy.”

“Dangerous strategy.” He kisses your forehead. “Just like him.”

You fall into comfortable silence again. The kind that comes easy with Bucky now. No tension, no guarded edges. Just warmth and the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath you.

Then, softly: “Do you ever think about having another?”

Your head lifts slightly, just enough to look at him. His face is open, unsure. He’s not pressuring — just wondering. Hoping, maybe. You think about your son’s laugh. His stubbornness. The way Bucky looks at him like he hung the damn stars.

You smile. “Yeah. I do.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. He needs someone to share the Halloween candy with.”

Bucky grins, that crooked, boyish thing that still knocks the breath out of you. “I can’t believe I get to do this with you.”

“I can. You’re kind. You’re patient. And you do all the bedtime voices.”

“Yeah, but the dinosaur gives me a sore throat.”

“Worth it.”

He leans down and kisses you again — soft and slow and full of promise.

You fall asleep on the couch together like that, tangled up in each other, the quiet sounds of your home wrapped around you like a blanket. In the next room, your son snores lightly, the nightlight casting gentle stars on the ceiling. And Bucky, boy dad and bedtime villain, smiles in his sleep like maybe — just maybe — he’s finally home.

[mangostarjam]

scarlet ink — blue lock, yakuza boss!itoshi sae x f!reader, arranged marriage, estranged childhood friends, aged up characters, mentions of violence typical for yakuza but nothing graphic, smut, piv sex, oral f!receiving, virginity loss for f!reader, (unrealistic) first time sex, squirting, alcohol consumption, semi public (car) sex, reader is referred to as "my wife" and "greedy girl" and "good girl", honestly a pwp that ended up having some plot, 10.1k words

collab fic for cherry velvet run by @iwaasfairy

Itoshi Sae may be a high ranking member of the yakuza, but you have a foolproof plan.

Step 1: marry him.

Step 2: kill him.

Perfect. Genius. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

"You can drop the act, now," Sae says mildly, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them up his forearms. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his irezumi, at the indisputable fact that he belongs to the underworld. Cold teal eyes meet yours and you swallow.

This is not the same man you grew up with.

"Will we consummate our marriage before you try to kill me?"

"Haha…" you laugh weakly. "What do you mean?"

He raises an eyebrow. Drags a hand through his hair. You can't help but stare at his face, his hands, the way his shirt flexes with the movement. At least your new husband is hot.

Sae has always been attractive, but the years apart and… everything in between have made him hotter, somehow.

Too bad he has to die.

"You want to kill me," Sae says evenly. "So you forced your grandfather to offer your hand in marriage, to tie our families together. Once I die, you'll be able to seize control of my assets and reputation. But to do that —"

He takes a step forward, tilting his head so that he looks down at you with those cold, blank eyes. "To do that, we'll need to consummate our marriage. So what will it be?"

Well. Okay. Maybe you've fucked up.

How the hell does he know all of that? Your conversations were always behind closed doors — did someone spill the beans?

But — no, he doesn't know everything.

What are your options here? Deny it, and keep acting like you're deeply in love? Or do you — admit it, and see what happens? He knows your plan and hasn't hurt you for it. In fact, he even went along with it.

… But why?

"You still married me," you say carefully. It's not an admission to the plan, but it's close. It's kind of nice, having it all laid out. You've held these secrets for so long. Even your own family was kept in the dark. "Why?"

Sae pauses in the act of loosening his tie, lithe fingers still caught in the knot. It comes undone at his next tug, the expensive silk trailing down his chest. "… what about it?"

You splutter. You can't help it. Infuriating man.

"Aren't you — I dunno, worried about getting murdered or something?"

"If I took every threat to my life seriously I wouldn't get anything done," Sae says. "I'm aiming for the top. Anything else is irrelevant."

Heat floods your cheeks at the casual statement. It's annoying, but his confidence is… hot. You watch wordlessly as he undoes the top few buttons of his shirt.

"Well? I can still make this good for you, you know."

Ugh. It's a sudden, unpleasant reminder for what comes next. You've heard the stories from your friends in college — the pain, the fumbling hands, the discomfort of losing your virginity.

You raise your chin and meet his eyes. He suspects, but he still married you. Maybe you can drop the act, and his overconfidence will be his downfall. Maybe you can go back to your usual self. "We'll see about that."

Sae looks at you for a moment, those summer ocean eyes unreadable. For a blink, you think you catch the ghost of a smile on his lips, and oh — your heart does something traitorous at the sight.

He almost looks like he did all those years ago.

And then he's close, and his fingers grip your chin, holding you still as he leans down and presses his lips to yours.

Sae kisses you and it's warm. You thought he'd be cold like his eyes, but his hands and lips are warm, and soft, and carefully coaxing, until you can't help but kiss him back. Matching the movement of his lips and his tongue as he tilts your head, as you open up for him, reluctant to give in but forgetting your protests with every warm press of his lips and breath against yours.

He tastes like the sake you shared earlier during the ceremony.

The band around your waist loosens and you suck in a breath of surprise, but Sae keeps kissing you, both hands now working open your kimono until it hangs on your frame. You make a quiet noise of protest when he smirks into the kiss, but before you can object he's removed your hands from his shoulders — when did that happen — and the heavy fabric pools to the ground.

"Is that all it takes?" he asks, eyes half lidded. The way he looks at you makes you feel hot and shivery. "You're behaving already."

Asshole.

"Shut up," you bite out, stepping into his space and releasing a breath at the dense, solid muscle that meets your hands. Sae isn't as tall as other yakuza members you've seen, but he's sturdy, and still taller than you. It should make you feel small, being dressed in your underclothes like this while he's still fully dressed, but the sight of him just makes you want to ruin his stupid suit.

Sae lets you push him to the bed — your new bed, your marriage bed — and you almost think he'll let you get away with it, but as he gets close to the frame he turns, leans down to kiss you again, follows you as your back hits the mattress.

"Play nice," Sae murmurs, lips drifting to your ear. You shiver as he nips at the sensitive skin by your jaw. "You know how this works."

You do, in theory. But you're inexperienced. It was hard finding the energy for boyfriends when you were busy working all the time, trying to keep your family's debt at bay.

Besides, Rin and Sae always stared down boys who would approach you, offering cutting remarks within earshot until boys just stopped trying.

Sae makes you scoot up the bed, until your head rests on the pillows. The movement drags at your sheer under robe so that it hangs off your shoulders, open at the front, exposing your bare skin. You shiver.

He leans down to cover you immediately, lips pressing hot at your throat, your collarbones, the curve of your breasts. A funny sound escapes your mouth and he does it again, lips skimming whisper soft along your skin until he abruptly sucks your nipple between his teeth.

Your back bows as sensation crashes through you. "O-oh!"

Sae tugs your under robe the rest of the way off your body, exposing more of your skin to his touch. He huffs when you squirm, pins your hips still with his own. Your eyes widen at the hard outline of him pressing into your thighs.

"Be good," he murmurs.

"There's no way," you say, ache swirling in your gut. It's so hot. Sae clamps a hand on your thigh and guides your legs open, settles himself between them. The clear difference in strength makes you dizzy. "I-Itoshi-san…"

"Yes?"

What the hell. "Are you going to keep your clothes on?"

Sae raises an eyebrow. "Look at you. Begging already?"

You groan and roll your eyes. If this is how he's going to be, maybe you will ruin his stupid suit, after all. A glimmer of amusement lights up his eyes and he leans down to kiss you again. His breathing is steady and even, and you'd be offended except you can feel his fingers trembling slightly as they skirt the edge of your panties.

"Itoshi-san, this isn't going to work," you gasp, hips fidgeting against the hardness pressing on you. There's no way, right? How is he — even just like this, with your hips aligned — it just doesn't seem possible that he could — fit.

Sae huffs and his fingers catch at your waistband. "It will," he promises. You blink as he sits up to pull your panties down, shivering at the delicate grasp on your ankles as he maneuvers your legs up to slip them off you without moving from his spot between your knees. Your legs drop weakly back to the bed on either side of him. "You can hold on to me."

"Wh-why would I need to?" you ask, voice cracking as he slides a finger through your folds. Oh.

His gaze flicks up to yours as he does it again, something in his expression hungry and smug. You feel frozen, muscles tense, as he touches lightly at the bud half hidden beneath its hood and your curls, but the jolt of pleasure is so strong and sudden you cry out in shock.

Sae hums thoughtfully. You want to wiggle free, to get away from this touch that's driving you to madness, but he clamps one hand firm on your hip and pins you there. Heat rushes through you.

Beyond the sounds of your harsh breathing, you distantly hear the wet squelch of his fingers tracing leisurely patterns through your folds. Your thighs feel tight, your core wound up. You want — something.

Sae sinks down before you can protest, teal eyes steady on yours as he licks a stripe up your pussy.

You choke.

He seems to take it as a good sign, because he does it again. And again. And again — with a careful circle around your clit, his fingers leaving wet messy streaks as he pulls at your skin to expose the hard bud.

Once your clit is uncovered he pays special attention to it, careful about the pressure and sensation and heat. You squirm and wiggle and moan, unable to help it, wanting to escape and get closer all at the same time.

You can't even tell if you're saying words at all, but you know Sae hears you when he slides one finger into your tight walls.

He exhales, hard.

"Itoshi-kun, Itoshi —"

You feel full and empty all at once. Sae keeps his attention on your clit as he fingers you open carefully, reaching spots inside you that you didn't even know existed. You've never brought yourself to completion before — always too scared by the pleasure, too self conscious to fully let go.

But Sae is relentless and unforgiving, and your thoughts unspool into white noise. You whimper when he adds a second finger, but you moan when he adds a third.

Finally — full. Slick and wet and tight, but you're full, and your nerves are singing, and your core feels stuffed with lightning. Sae fucks you with his fingers, careful to graze that spongy bit that makes tears prick from the corners of your eyes. It feels — so good.

Good and scary. A rapidly rising wave of something so good it makes your head spin. You recognize the feeling vaguely and panic starts to set in, makes you grab at his wrist and dig into the delicate bones there.

Sae keeps going. Ignores your weak grip, keeps pressing up into that spot inside you, keeps sucking at your clit as you sob. He somehow manages to get your legs up over his shoulders, keeps you from wiggling away as he lays flat against the mattress.

"S-stop, Itoshi — Itoshi-san, please, stop," you gasp, voice wavering.

He doesn't listen. And then his other hand moves from your hip to your belly, presses down just as he fucks his fingers into you again, and you — crash.

Oh.

You go weightless. Pleasure courses through your body, and from the distant hazy reaches of your mind you hear Sae groaning.

He keeps you from collapsing and lowers you carefully back down on the bed, but you can't think. You barely remember to breathe.

The sheets are soaked.

"What the…"

"You've made a mess," Sae says, but he sounds… hoarse. You squint blearily as he wipes his chin with his forearm, your cheeks heating in embarrassment at the clear evidence that you've ruined his suit.

And the sheets. And your under robe, bunched up beneath your back.

He raises an eyebrow. Stupid stoic man and his stupid suit. You're glad it's ruined — who wears a suit when his bride is in a kimono?

"You can take another," he says, and he catches your ankle when you jerk and try to flail away.

"No, I can't, Itoshi-kun," you yelp, squeaking when he drags you effortlessly back towards him. Your muscles feel like jelly. He pauses, his face unreadable, but you squirm in discomfort. "Ugh, the sheets."

"I'll change them later," he says, and you stop struggling briefly to blink at him. Why would he do it when he has people taking care of his house? "Move over to this side."

Sae moves you himself, when it becomes clear that you're still recovering from whatever he just did to you. The easy way he lifts and maneuvers you shouldn't be hot, but you can't deny the simmering heat in your blood.

"It'll feel better if you cum again," he says quietly. There's no way you can let him do that again. You'll die.

You reach for him. Maybe if he's distracted with kissing you, he'll forget. Your thighs are still trembling.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, his lips. Sae huffs with amusement and nips at your lip when you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug. "My wife," he says, and the phrase curls hot in your gut.

He breaks the kiss to undress, efficient and methodical. You stare, wide eyed, as the intricate designs of his irezumi come into full view. They start at his forearms, curving around to his shoulders and back. The heavy ink stands stark against his skin, and you shiver.

Sae pauses once he's in his briefs.

"Look at you," he murmurs, grabbing your thighs and forcing them apart. "Still so wet for me."

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It's been ages since you last saw him, and it's like your silly teenage crush has burst back in full force. That, and he keeps rubbing circles into your ankle resting by his lap. It's distracting.

"Will you…" You can't say it.

Thankfully, Sae doesn't seem to care. He sheds his briefs and you swallow hard at the sight of his cock, leaking and heavy between his legs.

"Hold on," he says. You watch, entranced, as the dense muscles of his torso move as he reaches past you for the nightstand. You hear the distinct sound of crinkling and then Sae is back, gripping the base of his cock to roll a condom on.

He keeps his hand there as he leans over you. The head of his cock brushes against your folds and you suck in a breath, heartbeat rattling in your chest. "Itoshi-san…"

Sae keeps going, guiding his cock along your wetness until you can see the sheen and evidence of your arousal coating him. You're aching again, clenching around nothing, sensitive to his touch.

"Hold onto me," he instructs, and you reach up to loop your arms around his neck, biting at your lip with nerves fluttering in your stomach.

You brace yourself for the pain.

It just… feels funny, at first. Sae nudges the head of his cock past the tightness of your entrance and then stops, breathing out slowly. You squirm a little at the unfamiliar feeling, clenching hard at the pressure, and Sae pulls out.

He pushes back in before you can say anything, sliding a few inches deeper. You gasp at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders. Sae doesn't make a sound, merely fucks into you slowly, carefully, his hands bunched into fists by your shoulders.

He bottoms out.

"Oh!" You slap your hand over your mouth. How embarrassing.

Sae looks down at you, his expression blank, his jaw tight. His hips nudge yours, and the stretch to your thighs burns but it's nothing compared to the strange foreign feeling of being so full inside. His fingers earlier helped, but this is… different. "Does it hurt?"

"N-no…"

"I'm going to move," Sae murmurs.

A muscle in his jaw feathers as he begins to thrust. You get used to the feeling slowly, and the discomfort blends into pleasure, into sparks flickering behind your eyelids. Sae shifts and hits a different spot inside you and you gasp, dizzy, the ache in your gut intensifying with every wet smack.

"Nghh —" It's overwhelmingly good. You can't help but try to meet his thrusts, your hips shifting sloppily in search of that mind numbing heat.

"Greedy girl," Sae huffs, his tone still unnervingly even, but undeniably fond. You yelp when he grips your ankles, but the sound melts into a moan when he settles your legs over his shoulders, bending you practically in half. You can't move anymore — you can only take it, fingers twisted in his hair, holding on for dear life as he angles his hips to hit that spot over and over.

"I-Itoshi-kun I think I'm gonna — I'm — oh, fuck — please, please, please —"

You don't even know what you're begging for, because he's fucking you in earnest now, heavy, hard thrusts like he wants to mold your insides to the shape of his cock. You can feel your pussy squeezing around him, bearing down on the hot, hard length of him. Sweat drips from his face and lands hot on your cheek.

"Does it feel good?"

You're going to kill him, just as soon as you can form a coherent sentence. Sae slows down, his hips rolling languidly so that you can feel every inch of his cock dragging through you. It takes effort, but you manage to open your eyes against the onslaught of pleasure.

His eyes flicker over your entire face, as if he's memorizing every expression he wrings out of you. When he meets your eyes, he raises an eyebrow as if he has all the time in the world.

"Can you just — oh, you — bastard —"

Amusement lights up his eyes and he shifts, bracing himself on one elbow so that he can reach down to rub filthy wet circles around your clit. You choke on a sob, thighs burning at the stretch as he presses you down. "Is this what you wanted?"

Stars burst behind your eyelids as you cum.

"Hah — shit."

Sae's thrusts grow sloppy as he cums. You can feel him swell and throb inside you, but it only makes you squeeze harder around him, desperate to feel him lose it. After a long moment, he manages to remove your legs from his shoulders and leans down to kiss you.

It's more like breathing into each other's mouths than kissing, but he keeps close, close enough that you can feel the fast, thumping beat of his heart against your own skin. It's surprisingly romantic, to kiss right after cumming together, but you're too hazy and fucked out to think about it.

After what feels like ages, Sae reaches down to keep the condom in place and pulls out. You squint sleepily at the thick, milky liquid inside, watching with mild interest as he ties it off and rolls off the bed to toss it. You feel boneless, your muscles melted into the mattress, a steady, unfamiliar soreness between your legs.

"Come on," Sae says, but he scoops you up before you can figure out what he wants.

"Itoshi!" you yelp, arms coming up around his neck so you can hang on for dear life. Sae seems unbothered, carrying you to the suite's bathroom as if you weigh nothing.

How he can walk, after all that, is beyond you. If you try to stand right now, you'll definitely collapse like a newborn deer.

Sae sets you down on the wet bath's stool and puts the detachable shower head in your hand. You stare down at it, bemused, until Sae hums. "Want me to bathe you, too?"

"Fuck off," you mumble, suddenly bone deep tired. Getting clean feels like the hardest thing in the world.

Sae disappears once you start to wash yourself off. The warm water is soothing to your aching muscles, and you take deep breaths as you rub soap into your skin. That unfamiliar ache between your legs is still there, but you slowly start to come back to your senses as you wash up.

You nearly drop the shower head when Sae reappears. He doesn't say anything, merely takes it from you and turns it towards his body. You stand on shaky legs with an exhale and exit, snagging a towel along the way to dry off.

He made the bed. He even left a clean pair of underwear and a large shirt for you to pull on.

You stare at it. The house is big for the two of you, even with some of his men staying in the detached buildings dotted around his property. Still, you don't want to go wandering for a spare room right now — who knows which men are out and about — and drowsiness washes through you in waves.

You pull on the clothes, climb into bed, and snuggle beneath the covers. It's a big bed. Even if Sae joins you, you won't even notice.

Besides. The marriage is consummated now. Divorce is out of the question. Your life is forever entwined with his, like it or not. You can handle sharing a bed.

He'll be dead soon, anyway. Just as soon as you figure out the easiest way to kill him. You sigh. You secretly have your doubts that it'll be possible, but you have to hold on. For the sake of your family, and for the sake of Rin.

Then this big bed will be yours, and you can take the house and his money and your family will never have to worry again.

You sense it when he pauses by your side some moments later. "Itoshi…? What're you waiting for?" You yawn widely and snuggle further down. "Come to bed."

The room is so quiet you hear it when he sighs. Is he annoyed that you took his side of the bed or something? Well, tough luck. You're way too comfortable to think about moving now, so he can either join you or find another place to sleep.

The mattress barely dips when he slides into the space next to you. You'll figure out the rest of your plans tomorrow. You still need to get ahold of his financial records to make sure your name is on everything.

You clutch the blanket and sigh. He smells like citrus and sea salt, sharp and clean.

The next morning, he's gone.

Gone. Days turn into weeks. Then… months.

You wander the grounds and snoop around the rooms of the house, hoping to find something good. But the rooms are bare of anything important — clearly he conducts his business somewhere else.

You find evidence of other things, though. Framed paintings on the walls from all of your favorite artists. Your favorite snacks stocked in the kitchen pantry.

You get a delivery every other week of a selection of the newest books and manga volumes you've been keeping track of getting for yourself. It's… weird.

Sae clearly remembers your shared past, and he's kept track of your current interests. Your courtship was short, and you didn't spend much time together before donning your wedding kimono and trading sake cups — but he remembers.

It would be sweet, maybe, if you didn't feel a bit like a tamed wildcat stalking his grounds. It's unsafe for you to wander the city freely, so a couple of his men are always around, but being followed is so creepy you end up spending most of your time on his property or at a nearby river walk.

The men never talk to you, though, and it makes you feel a little invisible. You call your friends, but they were friends of proximity, and you can't exactly tell them about your new yakuza husband. It's a little strange, a little lonely. You spent one night with Sae, but it was real, and you didn't have to hide anything about your circumstances because he knew it all already.

Besides, you'll never be able to murder the man if he's not around. And it could be better this way — if one of his rivals took him out, it would save you the trouble — but you still need to make sure you're the one controlling everything when he dies.

Where the hell did he go?

You stare at your phone and the dial tone droning through the speakers. Your husband won't pick up his phone, he won't come home — there's only one thing to do.

Your friends are delighted at your call, and they're especially excited when you tell them your plans for the night. Sae had given you a black credit card the day you signed your family registration papers, and you tuck it into your wallet before heading out on your mission.

"Hey — oh, are we supposed to call you Itoshi-san now?" Your friends laugh and welcome you back into the group. "Is this dress new? You look hot. Your husband lets you walk around like this?"

A few drinks later and you're on top of the world.

The club pulses and shimmers with light and sound. You can hardly hear yourself think, but that's good. There's no chance for conversation, so you bat your lashes and smile pretty and join the throng of dancers in the middle of the floor.

Your dress is more of a glittery scrap of fabric held together with string and dreams. It clings to your body, the hem resting just below the curve of your ass, the high neckline accentuating the slope of your bare shoulders.

It's almost funny, how quickly he finds you.

"Having fun?" His voice is low and even in your ear, but his grip on your waist is hard. "You should be doing your best not to piss me off."

"What're you talking about?" you ask, tipping your head back to rest against his shoulder. It's dizzying, being so close to him again so suddenly. Citrus and sea salt cuts through the haze, makes your thighs clench at the reminder of the last time you were so close to your husband.

Sae sighs, and then he spins you to face him properly.

It's so easy for him to move you. A shiver runs down your spine.

Sae narrows his eyes. "Don't play stupid."

"Dance with me?" You tilt your head and run your hands up his arms, swallowing at the shift of his muscles beneath your palms.

It's unfair, but now that you've remembered, you can't stop remembering — the feeling of his hands on you, of his tongue and fingers dragging you to the peak of pleasure. That feeling of fullness is the worst thing to recall, because now all you can think about is how empty you are.

A fizzle of pleasure washes down your back. Your plan to lure him out worked. And now —

Sae is dancing with you.

He's — no, he's not dancing, he's — bending over and hauling you off your feet, tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

"Ah!" you yelp, and the sound is lost to the dance beat. "What the — let me down!"

Sae wraps a firm arm around your thighs, keeping you balanced as he starts to walk. The crowd doesn't exactly part for him, but he moves smoothly through, and soon you're bursting out of the club and into the crisp midnight air.

"Put me down," you demand, slapping at this back. Your voice sounds loud in your own ears after the heavy beat of the music, but you can still hear Sae clearly when he snorts.

"No."

"I'll throw up on your suit," you threaten. Your stomach protests against the pressure of his shoulder, the alcohol you consumed earlier sloshing around alarmingly. Squirming doesn't do anything — his grip is too strong. "Or I'll — I'll scream for help."

"You can try," Sae says, and he sounds vaguely amused. "But I'm giving you what you wanted."

That makes you pause. A brisk breeze whips through and you shiver, suddenly hyperaware of how short your dress is, and how it's riding up steadily as he walks.

At this rate, you'll moon the whole city. You know you've sunk low, but fuck. You still have some pride. "Put me down!" you wiggle harder, but Sae just huffs. "I'll cut your balls off, Itoshi Sae, if you don't put me down right fucking now!"

Sae readjusts his grip on your thighs, his hand landing so high up you can feel his fingers nudging against the curve of your ass. He tugs your dress down. Heat shoots through your body like a lightning bolt and you feel your cheeks get hot.

"There you go," he says evenly. "Now keep still."

"Watch your hands, you pervert," you hiss. You can already feel bruises starting to form where he's holding you, his grip so tight it's now safer not to move.

"You're my wife," Sae says. There's a tinge of amusement in his tone that makes you flush. "Isn't it a little too late to act shy now?"

"You're the worst," you mutter. "Where are you taking me, anyway?"

"Somewhere private," he says. "Watch your head."

You yelp as you're suddenly tossed into the backseat of a shiny black car, scrambling backwards as Sae enters and shuts the door behind him. The overhead light glows for a moment, illuminating the leather interior and Sae's bangs, gelled back as usual.

Then the light clicks off, and your senses abruptly shift to focus on every stuttering breath leaving your lungs. You hear the shuffle of fabric rustling as he presumably takes off his jacket. "Did you hit your head?" Sae asks.

You can't see him yet, but you feel his fingers trail lightly up your bare legs. You are undeniably sober now. "Where have you been?"

"It's none of your business," Sae says, hands stopping at the edge of your dress. "Do you have a lot of clothes like this?"

You scowl in the darkness and shift to sit up more, dragging your legs away from his warm hands. He clamps a hand around your ankle, stopping you from turning to sit properly in the backseat. "Let go of me."

"You know exactly what you were doing," Sae says. He sounds bored. "Behave."

"Or what?"

Sae's grip tightens on your ankle. "Do you want me to show you?"

Your eyes widen in spite of yourself. The windows are tinted, but you're still in public. He can't be serious.

"Right here?"

"It's not much of a dress," he says. You flinch in the inky darkness, because his voice is much closer than you expected.

His lips graze your cheek. "What was so important that you went out dressed like this?"

"You were ignoring my calls," you mumble, shrinking into the seat and door. He moves with you, and in your slowly adjusting vision you catch a flash of teal before his lips are at your neck. "You disappeared for months! What kind of husband are — hey —"

"Did you really expect me to stick close to someone trying to kill me?" Sae asks, and his tone is so dry it makes you snort in spite of yourself.

"Who says I'm trying to kill you? And besides, I thought you didn't have time to pay attention to murder plans," you say. He sighs and nips at your skin a second later. You yelp. Pleasure sparkles down your spine. "How did you even find me so fast?"

Sae pulls back and you miss the warmth of his body immediately, catching at his shirt before he gets too far. He wraps his fingers around your own, the callouses rough, but — his touch is gentle. "Don't ask stupid questions."

Right. Of course his men told him.

"If I answer my phone, will you stop causing trouble?" Sae asks.

It would be a step in the right direction. But really… "I want to go with you. Wherever you're going."

You don't want to get left behind again.

Sae releases your hand and grabs your waist, lifting you onto his lap with ease. You squeak in surprise, your dress riding up obscenely as your legs spread to accommodate him, until it's practically rucked up your waist. "Itoshi!"

"Is that really what you want?" he asks. Your vision has adjusted enough now to catch the way he raises an eyebrow in quiet judgment.

You have to lean towards him to keep from hitting your head on the car's ceiling, but you brace your hands on his shoulders so you don't collapse too far forward. "Yes," you say, heat rising in your face as he sweeps his hands down to your butt.

"Even when I'm handling business?" Sae's fingers slip beneath your panties and you squirm at the rough scrape of his callouses against your skin. "When I'm dealing out punishment?"

"I want to be with you," you say, fighting for an even tone to match his own. His touch is driving you crazy. "I'm your wife."

"You are," he allows, and he leans forward to brush his lips across yours. "My wife."

Sae kisses you languidly, as if he has all the time in the world. You melt into it, already soft and buzzing with warmth from the alcohol earlier. You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss this, even though he's only touched you once before.

He licks into your mouth and you whine a little, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he pulls back with a huff.

"Fine."

You blink your eyes open, dazed and hot beneath your skin. "Fine?"

"Come along, if you want," Sae says. His voice is low, but in the inky darkness of the car everything feels magnified. He brushes a finger along your soaked cunt. "But don't run away scared at what you see. I won't run after you."

"I know what I've married into," you huff. You can't help your hips sinking, chasing after the feeling. "Why would I want to run?"

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the amusement is so clear in his voice you lean forward to kiss it away.

You forget you're in a car, parked who knows where in public, and that the windows may be tinted but that doesn't mean they're soundproof. You kiss him eagerly, slipping your tongue into his mouth and licking at his teeth, forgetting everything except that this is Itoshi Sae. Everything is hot, your core aches, you want something desperately.

Sae lets you take the lead for a few moments, swallowing down your gasp when he sinks two fingers into you without preamble. You're so wet he slides in easily, and his breath escapes in a huff.

"Ride my hand," he orders quietly, lips catching at your ear. You make a funny noise, heat and lightning twisting in your core.

He helps — his thumb catches at your clit and his fingers stretch open every time you roll your hips, the ache and drag of your soaked panties clinging to your wet folds only adding to the build up of pleasure.

You're clumsy, but you chase after it, quiet little gasps and moans falling from your lips as you press your face into his neck. Sae keeps fingering you, his other hand roaming up your back to tug at the little strings holding your dress together.

He tugs a little too hard and abruptly the front of your dress falls open, exposing your breasts to the rapidly warming air inside the car. You whine as your nipples graze the firm muscles of his chest, pressing closer to him as every nerve ending sparks with the movement.

"Look at you," he breathes, and his hand returns to grip your hip, guiding you firmly into riding his fingers in rhythm.

Fuck. It's unfair how easily he moves you.

The wet squelch of every thrust of his fingers sounds loud in the confines of the car. The leather seats creak with every rock of your hips, your breaths hot against his neck as you clench your eyes shut tight.

"I think — I'm gonna —"

Sae slides a third finger in.

And you cum. Waves of pleasure crash through you, whiting out your vision as a strangled moan tumbles from your lips. Sae keeps his fingers inside you as your pussy clenches hard around him, the ache in your core lingering even as you sob in relief at the release.

You collapse into his lap. Sae kisses you back when you seek his lips blindly, warm and firm and with a quiet little noise that almost sounds like surprise.

Now that you're pressed up fully against him, you can feel him, the hot length of him hard against your thigh. You can't help but grind on it weakly, giggling a little when Sae grunts.

"Behave," he reminds you, pulling his fingers out and watching you with half lidded eyes as he sucks them into his mouth. You flush at the sheen of wetness dripping down to his wrist.

"Don't you want to…?" You clench down around nothing and frown.

Sae raises an eyebrow. He finishes licking his fingers clean and reaches back down to adjust your panties to cover you up fully again. Your cheeks heat.

"We're in public," he says blandly.

Oh, you're going to kill him. "You just — but we just —"

Sae leans over and knocks on the window. "Take us home."

Embarrassment floods your system as the front door abruptly opens. One of his men slides into the driver's seat and turns on the car, punching a few buttons to begin defogging the windows.

Sae wordlessly pulls your dress back together but keeps you in his lap, deft fingers tying the strings together along your back as you hold the pieces up in the front. Then he grabs his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders, tucking you into it and wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you from climbing off his lap.

You remain silent during the car ride home, merely shooting him glares every time he catches your eye with the ghost of a smirk on his lips. You can feel him, still solid and hard and hot against your thigh, but he makes no move to adjust and lets you keep pressing against his cock.

Sae keeps you wrapped into his jacket once you arrive, merely settles his hands on your ass and carries you inside with your legs wrapped around his waist like a koala. You keep your face tucked into his neck to hide from meeting the eyes of any of his men, inhaling the citrus and sea salt scent of him as your fluttering heart fights to return to a normal rhythm.

"You've ruined another suit," Sae says evenly, kicking the bedroom door shut behind him. You blink, lashes tickling his neck. "Do you always get this wet?"

"I don't know," you huff, irritation furrowing your brows. "I've only ever been with you."

"Hm."

Sae leaves the lights off and carries you over to the bed before dropping you unceremoniously onto the mattress. You bounce a few times with surprise, scrambling to sit up. "What the hell?"

"Did I say we were done?" Sae asks. You blink quickly, trying to get your vision to adjust. Moonlight filters in through the windows and bathes him in a silvery glow, lights up his teal eyes like stained glass. The mattress dips as he climbs after you, and then you feel his fingers wrap around your ankle.

It doesn't scare you, though. Sae has had plenty of chances to actually hurt you, and he seems intent on making you see stars instead.

You aren't complaining.

"Are you… going to fuck me now?"

"Do you want me to?"

You want to shake him by the shoulders until he bites his own tongue or something. What an irritating man. You bite your own lip instead.

"You've been gone for a while," you say. In the darkness of the bedroom, with his lips trailing kisses up your thighs, it feels easier to admit this. You're not — repressed, exactly, but you grew up with no time for boyfriends, no space to experiment, to learn what feels good. And then you married Sae, and he makes you cum so hard you can still feel the echoes of pleasure sinking deep into your bones. Of course you're chasing this feeling.

And in spite of yourself, you trust him.

It's hard not to. He abandoned you and Rin while you were teenagers, showing up only once with the beginnings of his irezumi climbing up his forearms. After that, you never heard from him again, not until you forced your grandfather to make the offer.

He stayed away to keep you all safe. You understand that, now.

"And?" Sae's lips move against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh and you squirm. "Answer the question."

"Don't you want to?"

Sae sighs, like you've disappointed him, and you can't help but clench at the bolt of arousal that shoots through you. He doesn't answer, but he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pauses.

"Itoshi-san?"

"Did you ever wonder why I accepted your grandfather's proposal?"

"Huh?"

Sae rips your panties apart and you swallow hard at the rush of air over your soaked folds. "I could have married anyone," he continues conversationally. "Someone with better ties in the family, someone whose name would create a better alliance. But I accepted your proposal."

"Because… you think I'm attractive?" you guess. Sae snorts and leans down to press a kiss to the corner of your lips. You turn your head, chasing him, frowning when he pulls back.

"Guess again."

"Because…" You're distracted. Sae undoes the ties of your dress and pulls it off your body, leaving you bare, skin prickling with goosebumps as he sits back to pull off his own clothes. You blink, mesmerized, as his cock comes free of his briefs, slapping against his pelvis. He's so hard, and leaking at the tip.

"Too slow," Sae murmurs, and then he's grabbing your ankles again and wrenching your thighs apart. You yelp when he leans down to suck your clit between his lips, hips jumping at the sudden sensation.

"A-ah! Hey!"

Sae ignores you, slips two fingers in and curls them upwards. You choke on your next gasp, fingers clutching at the blankets in desperation. You're still soft and wet and hot from your earlier orgasm, greedy walls sucking at his fingers every time he thrusts. Your thighs clench around his head.

Sae eats you out like he's never tasted anything so good in his life, his tongue tracing along every dip and fold, his fingers pumping into you and forcing you to face the onslaught of pleasure. It's messy and wet and hot, overwhelming and too fast.

It's too much and not enough. You cum on his hands and tongue two more times, until your thighs are shaking and your brain feels like mush. Every inch of skin feels sensitive, wired and wound up tight.

Sae crawls over you to grab a condom and you try to remember how to breathe.

He grunts as the head of his cock breaches your entrance, his head dropping into the dip of your neck as he bottoms out. You clench around him, teary eyed and trembling, feeling like you're going to burst with how good it all feels.

"Itoshi, will you — kiss me?"

Sae hums and leans up to kiss you, rolling his hips just to swallow down your moans. You've abandoned all of your sensibility, lost in the haze of his touch. He's so big and hard and you're so full, you feel so good, you can't help sinking your fingers into his hair and keeping him weakly tucked against you, just so that you can keep kissing him while he fucks you deep.

He still smells like sea salt and citrus. He smells like home.

You moan into his mouth and his lips curve against your own. It's been so long since your wedding night, even longer since those late nights growing up together watching the ocean waves, but it all rushes back and you cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him close.

"I'm — I think I'm —"

"Go ahead," Sae's voice is even, if a little rough.

You sob, voice wrecked, back bowing off the bed as you cum. You lose track of time, everything collapsing down to your pulsing core sending out shockwaves through your body. It's so good you can't help the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, your moans echoing through the room.

Sae is still unnervingly hard when you come to your senses. You squeeze around him, breathless. "Seriously?"

"One more," he murmurs, brushing a kiss to the corner of your eye.

"You're going to kill me," you say flatly. Sae's lips tick up in the corners and he presses another kiss to your cheek.

"You're my wife," he says, like that's an answer.

He rolls his hips again and you sigh. "Missed you," you murmur, because — in spite of yourself — you did. It's been years since he left, but you never forgot the pressure of his shoulder against yours. And the house was filled with things he thought you'd like, but you had nobody to talk to, nobody to needle.

He pisses you off, and you know he needs to pay for what's happened, but you still missed him.

Sae pulls out of you abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. "Sae!"

He flips you over without a word, pressing down on the space between your shoulder blades to make your back arch. You let him manhandle you, his hands hard on your hips as he angles them up and presses into you from behind.

"Oh, fuck —" you squeeze your eyes shut at the new angle, stars dancing in your vision. Sae huffs, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and then the headboard creaks and he begins to fuck you.

You're going to die. That's what it feels like — an overwhelming pleasure, dangling you teetering over the edge, your body wound up so tightly it's a minor miracle he can even bully his cock back into you at all.

Sae fucks you hard, with deep steady thrusts that rattle your insides, his cock pushing insistently at that spot inside you that drives every thought out of your brain. The headboard keeps creaking but you can't see why — you can only feel his cock dragging at your walls, your face buried in the pillows as the wet slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

"Sae, oh — fuck," you gasp. "I'm gonna cum, Sae, oh please I'm so close —"

"Go ahead," he says, and his voice sounds rougher than before. "Let go."

You shoot off the edge with a cry, this orgasm somehow sharper and brighter than the rest. You barely hear it when Sae groans above you, but you feel his cock kick inside you, warmth flooding your insides as he fills the condom with his release.

You have the briefest moment of regret that you didn't get to feel it all inside you before you pass out.

This time, when you wake up the next morning, you find Sae standing at the open window, gilded in sunrise gold.

"You stayed," you whisper. You clear your throat and duck beneath the blanket pulled up to your chin, only peeking out with your eyes. Sae turns to face you, wearing only his briefs.

"I have work to do today," he says, eyeing the lump of your body beneath the blankets. "Are you going to come along?"

You nod, still watching him. He doesn't seem to care, turning back to the open window and giving you a clear view of his side profile, of the dips and ridges of his muscles on full display. His irezumi is stark against his skin, but you can see faint red lines along the swirling ink on his back from where you dug your nails in last night.

It's unfair. He's so hot.

Even with his bangs down, his hair sticking up slightly in the back — he's so attractive it makes you squeeze the blankets in your hands.

"Do you need me to carry you to the bathroom again?" Sae asks, crossing his arms over his chest to look at you. Amusement flickers in his eyes and you snort.

"No, I can walk."

At least, you hope you can. Your muscles still feel weak, like jelly. Sae must have cleaned you up last night, because you're wearing a clean pair of panties, but you can still feel the bruises and soreness lingering along your body.

You roll out of bed and groan, tossing the blankets aside to stretch your arms over your head. It crosses your mind a moment later to be shy, but Sae is your husband, and the way his gaze darkens at the sight of your breasts perking in the chill morning air makes you grin to yourself.

It feels like you've crossed some invisible threshold with Sae. Like the night before was a test, and you passed it, and now things will be different.

You manage to get to the bathroom and sleepily get ready for the day, brushing your teeth and staring at yourself blankly in the mirror. It's only after you've spit your toothpaste into the sink that you realize the marks on your skin aren't a figment of your imagination or a sleepy hallucination.

"What are you, Itoshi-san, a vampire?" you grumble, poking at the hickeys blooming along your neck and grimacing at the ache.

"It's too late for that," Sae says evenly as he enters the bathroom. He meets your gaze in the mirror as he wets his toothbrush. "I'm your husband."

"And husbands get to do this?" you wave your hand vaguely at your marked up skin.

"Itoshi-san," Sae says, pausing with his toothbrush by his mouth. He raises an eyebrow. "That's not what you called me last night."

You blink. What…?

Oh.

Heat floods your body and you take a step back, frowning as Sae begins to brush his teeth. He still manages to look smug and it makes you want to throttle him.

You retreat to the bedroom instead, getting dressed like you're preparing for battle. Sae said business, so you pull on something similar to what he usually wears — a button up shirt and nice pants and a suit jacket.

Sae gets dressed and meets you in the kitchen, where you've gotten started making breakfast. Rice and miso soup and rolled eggs and crispy fish — it's simple fare, but you fidget nervously as you set out the plates, suddenly hyperaware that he'll be trying your cooking for the first time since high school.

"It's good," Sae says, pausing after his first bite. Warmth fills your bones. "Thank you for the meal."

"You weren't worried about poison?" you ask halfheartedly, hoping it'll hide your nerves. Sae raises an eyebrow at you and pointedly gulps down his soup.

"Were you planning on poisoning yourself, too?"

"That would be way too much work," you say before you can stop yourself. Sae snorts and brings his cleared dishes to the sink. "Oh, Itoshi-san, you can leave those. I'll clean them — I'm almost done eating."

Sae just flicks on the sink. "Hurry up, and give me your plates."

You finish eating and hand them over, hovering nearby as you marvel at the vision of Itoshi Sae, yakuza boss, washing breakfast dishes. He wipes off his hands with a towel and turns, catching you before you can escape. His fingers are firm as he purses your lips together.

"Are you going to keep calling me that?"

You can't really talk with him holding your jaw like that. You shrug helplessly instead.

Sae watches you, but his teal eyes are sun warmed and careful. "Do I need to remind you how to say it?"

Heat blooms beneath your cheeks, and you know he can feel it because the corners of his lips twitch. "Are you always going to be this shy?" he adds, tilting your chin up so that you can't escape his gaze. "You'll get eaten up."

You pout. Sae huffs and captures your lips with his own, kissing you breathless until you melt into his arms. "Say it again."

"Sae," you mumble, dazed. You blink up at him and he kisses you again, pushes you back against the counter to press lingering kisses to your lips, your cheek, the edge of your jaw.

"Good girl."

You attempt to gather your wits together as he herds you out the door, but he keeps his hand resting on your lower back. It draws your attention like a magnet.

Luckily, your driver is a different man from the night before, and you settle into your seat with a fluttering heart.

It's finally happening.

You'll see him at work, you'll get a chance to find his records and files, you'll be able to secure the safety of your family.

And you'll watch him beat a man senseless.

The crack of bone meeting bone echoes in the cold, dimly lit room. Sae pulls back, flexes his gloved fist and swipes at a drop of blood on his cheek. "Explain."

His voice is so cold. You repress a shiver and stand firm against the wall, hands tucked into your pockets to hide the trembling. You thought you knew, but —

"You had three chances, you piece of shit," Sae says evenly. "Three chances, and you still fucked up something a monkey could have done. Explain."

"I'm s-sorry, Itoshi-sama! I really thought I —!"

You wince as Sae takes a step back. One of his men jumps in at his nod and launches a punch at the man groveling on the ground. You keep your gaze on your husband, tuning out the sounds of the man getting beaten to a pulp. Sae watches impassively, those teal eyes that had been glowing this morning now cold glacial pools.

"Take him away," Sae orders, finally turning towards you as the man whimpers. He gets dragged out without preamble, and Sae raises an eyebrow as the room empties. "Are you cold?"

"No," you shake your head, holding still as Sae hums and brushes his knuckle along your cheek. "Are you hurt?"

"No," a glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes and you breathe a sigh of relief as the cold teal warms into sunlit ocean. "You still haven't answered me, you know."

You blink. He pulls his gloves off with his teeth and you blink again, face warming at the sight.

"Sae?"

He tilts his head. "Let's go upstairs."

You follow him through the halls of the building, passing men in suits and armed with weapons along the way. In spite of the environment, you feel safe. Everyone bows respectfully as Sae passes with you, and nobody seems surprised to see you.

"What's this?" you ask, wandering into the office. Sae shuts the door and goes over to the heavy wooden bookcase set into the wall.

"This is why I married you."

You stare blankly at the thick ledger book he sets on the desk. He flips open the cover.

Inside is a polaroid photo strip, one you remember — the three of you had just finished exams, and you were itching to do something fun. You dragged the Itoshi brothers into a sticker photo booth and forced them to pose with you, making silly faces while they scowled.

"I thought I lost this," you mumble, fingers lightly tracing your younger faces. "What's this?"

You read the numbers and item descriptions on the next page, and the next, and the next. Sae waits, leaning idly against the desk.

"Sae?"

"What does it look like?"

It looks like — an impossibility. You blink a few times, as if that will clear everything up.

It looks like your family's debts have been wiped clean, little by little, through Sae's work. It looks like Rin's university fees, and also —

"He was targeted?"

Your voice comes out hushed. Sae looks bored. "They accepted me, instead."

"Sae."

"When you proposed, I thought it might be a trick," he says, his voice careful and even. "I was going to say no."

"Why did you say yes?"

Sae looks at you. "Why did you choose me?"

He's right. You could have picked any member of the yakuza to clear your family's debts — you know there were other options, other men who would've been thrilled at a young virgin bride.

"I trust you."

And you do. After all those years, you knew that at least — at the very least — Sae knew you. Yes, you were planning on killing him, but that was just to gain control of his assets. To protect your family.

To do the same thing he had done, all those years ago. He's been protecting you and Rin this entire time.

With the proof in this ledger, it's all over. You have no reason to kill him — and your heart feels light.

"Even after what you saw downstairs?"

"I trust you," you say firmly. "Sae."

"I've murdered people," he says flatly. "I'm not a good man."

"You're my husband."

Sae pauses, and then he shrugs, as if it doesn't really matter. You reach over and pinch his cheek, forcing him to look at you. A glimmer of amusement shines in his eyes, and you laugh.

"Sae," you sigh, releasing his cheek to rub your thumb along the smooth skin instead. There's still a little bit of blood on his cheek, so you wipe at it. "Why did you agree to marry me?"

"You chose me," he says simply. His gaze burns into yours, pulls you into summer ocean memories. "I was never going to let you go if you did."

He tugs you close and kisses you, hand cupping your jaw to tilt your head the way he likes. You sink into the warmth of him, fingers clutching at his shirt, reaching up to tangle in the sunset red of his hair.

Sae pushes you back against the desk and shoves his thigh between your legs, forcing you off balance so that you cling to him. "My wife," he murmurs, breaking the kiss to nip at your neck. You shiver as he sucks gently at the sensitive skin there, core aching at the memory of the night before.

Someone knocks at the door. "Itoshi-sama!"

Sae sighs against your skin. His fingers squeeze your waist once, and then he releases you and steps back. "Back to work."

You hum, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You've been working hard this entire time."

He tugs his gloves back on and nods towards the ledger. "You can stay here to look at it, if you want."

"You never told Rin."

Sae pauses at the door, his hand resting on the handle. "It's better that way."

You wrinkle your nose. "Sae, he hates you."

"Do you?"

You look at him. From this distance, his gaze is sharp, like glass. No longer worn smooth with time and affection — a mask as he prepares to work. "No. I'm your wife."

The air feels fresh and clean and bright, as you step back into your shared bedroom, where everything seems to come undone.

Sae shuts the door behind him and pauses. "You want to redecorate?"

"Yeah," you nod firmly. "This house feels like a showcase. Where's the stuff you like? We need to go on some dates and take photos together. Are you free next weekend?"

Sae comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, his lips resting on your neck as his hair tickles your ear. "I can't go to the beach anymore."

Right. His tattoos.

"Haven't you ever heard of skin cancer? It's important to wear protective shirts with long sleeves."

You think you feel his body shake slightly as he laughs into your skin. "You're really my wife."

"Yeah, and you're going to tell Rin everything, someday," you say. Sae's grip on your waist tightens briefly.

"Anything else?"

"You'll only be with me."

"No mistresses?"

"Only if you actually want to die."

Sae's lips curve against your neck. "Never. I can't die — I need to take care of my wife."

You have a new plan. This one is absolutely foolproof, and there's no chance an annoying childhood friend will sacrifice himself to save you all.

Step 1: fall in love with your husband.

Step 2: get him to fall in love with you.

Step 3: live happily ever after.

It doesn't matter that he's a member of the yakuza. Sae's eyes glow like sea glass, fond and warm, every time he looks at you.

Yeah. The plan will come true. You're already done with step one.

[pushinpieta]

“i think im falling for you” - weak hero class fluff (scenarios) pt. 1

characters: gotak, seongje, baku, baekjin

synopsis: the exact moment they realize they’re falling in love with you. no warnings!

a/n: i had way too much fun doing baku’s part. part 2!

GOTAK:

cooking class was always a hassle that drove you mad. you were always partnered with incompetent idiots who couldn’t even measure properly so when you got grouped with hyuntak, you were extremely happy. you knew he was a dependable partner because you saw how well he did in previous cooking classes and well— you had a little crush on him. he was a gentleman and kind, always making sure everyone was okay around him while being funny and friendly. you were relieved that you had him today.

gotak felt shy, he wasn’t as casual and friendly with you because he was intimidated by your presence. you were witty and polite with a edge that made him all the more curious. you smelled good and you were beautiful too. he couldn’t help but swing towards you like a cartoon character with heart eyes in his eyes. he watched as you tied the apron around your waist, caught off guard when you handed an apron to him. he took it gently from your hands with a smile.

today’s recipe was pizza, which was simple and something you both liked. you had agreed to making the dough and he agreed to making the sauce, dividing the task equally because you’d both cut the toppings together.

everything was going smoothly, perfect even, until you got to the part where you were kneading the dough with your hands. this very day, you forgot to bring a hair tie so you were working with your hair down the whole time. pieces of your hair kept getting in your face and it got in the way of your work. you uncomfortably shook around, adjusting your shoulder every few seconds but to no avail. you had to tire your hair but your hands were sticky and deep in dough.

furiously, you tsked and tutted to yourself in annoyance earning gotak’s attention.

“you okay? you’ve been grumbling to yourself for the last ten minutes.” he said, stopping what he was doing to watch you out of innocent concern.

you suddenly felt flustered and embarrassed when gotak neared you, his eyes searching yours.

“could you…do me a favor, tak?” you asked, voice embarrassed.

“of course, what’s up?” he said, putting down the wooden spoon he was using to stir the sauce on the pan.

“c-could you just hold my hair in your hands for a few minutes while i knead the dough? it’ll be short i swear. it just keeps getting in my way.” you spoke fast, not meeting his eyes.

gotak swallowed, feeling his heart flutter and his stomach churn with excitement and warmth from the opportunity of being so close to you. to touching you. he waited for you to finally look into his eyes saying a silent “please.”

“y-yeah, i’ll just uhm—“ he came up behind you to gently gather your stray hairs in his hands, “is this okay?”

goosebumps trailed up your skin from his gentle touch as he gathered the remaining hair from the side of your face, you nodded hesitantly “mhm, this is okay…thanks.”

“just let me know when you want me to let go.” he said but you didn’t want him to let go so you took your time kneading the dough.

gotak didn’t complain nor sigh. he stood patiently behind you, holding your hair as if you were a fragile little doll, making sure not to hurt you. he watched enthralled as you worked the heel of your hands with the stretchy dough. amazed by you skills, he hadn’t realized how happy and dreamy he was feeling at the moment— it all felt so domestic and calming. gotak started to picture you in his dream home, whisking batter as he came up behind you and kissed the back of your head and a wedding ring on your finger and a baby in your—

“gotak?” you broke him out of his trance with a questioning yet pleased look in your face, “the dough’s ready. you can let go now.”

he thought he did a good job at masking the obvious disappointment in his face but he let go of your hair, taking a step back. gotak was hopelessly in love and he just realized. just because he held your hair for a few minutes while you kneaded dough. he was pathetically in love with you.

“gotak!” you called out for him again, “let’s top the pizza!”

the pizza ended up being heart shaped.

SEONGJE:

seongje got bored easily. but not with the things he loved. he never got bored. he was loyal to a fault. he’d never say it with words or speak of it but it was always obvious with his actions. like now, when he agreed to go see the fireworks with you. he could be doing anything right now— anything.

yet, he was here with you.

“i can’t believe you actually agreed to come with me.” you laughed, ducking below a tree that bent unnaturally low “i thought you’d go to a PC cafe, leaving me out in the wild or something.”

“i may be an asshole but what i’m not is not a gentleman.” he shrugged, puffing out smoke into the air “anyway, why are we actually out in the wild?l

you insisted you knew the perfect spot to watch the fireworks, dragging the tall man along with you through a tunnel that lead to a grassy field in the middle of nowhere. this was the type of place where people got murdered but seongje followed anyway. it was all good as long as it was with you. he didn’t know why. but he knew if it’s with you, he’d go anywhere. maybe for the fun of it? it was a never a dull moment with you for sure. you were amusing, after all.

“we’re almost there…” you panted, running out of breath as you both walked through tall weeds nearing a railing facing even more emptiness. the sky looked the clearest in that angle though.

the railing was short enough for you to be able to climb over and sit on it but today, you wore a rather unfit outfit that made it impossible for you to climb up. seongje stood behind you as you struggled. without giving it another second, seongje stuck the half-smoked cigarette between his lips to empty his hands. swiftly, he grabbed you bridal-style, lifting you up over the railing.

“seongje— you can’t lift me— i’m heavy!” you gasped protesting as he lifted you high enough until you were over the railing, sitting you down on the rounder edge.

“too late.” he grunted, easily hopping over it himself to sit a little too close to you.

he took the cigarette out from between his lips to breathe out smoke to your face with a grin plastered across his face. you waved him away with a light cough, not looking away from his searching gaze. your stomach fluttered with a foreign shyness from his eyes that flickered to your lips every now and then.

“don’t look at me. the fireworks gonna start soon, look there.” you pointed to the endless sky ahead.

the blasts of colour bloomed loudly up in the sky lighting up the dark field. you turned away from him in excitement, watching the vibrant light of the fireworks consume the entire night sky. seongje didn’t even acknowledge the fireworks, his eyes stayed on you— glued on you.

he watched intently. warmth and an unnatural desire to hold you possessed him and he moved closer to you. relishing in the warmth radiating off of your body. you didn’t move away. there was nothing he could do. he felt helpless and held hostage by you— your excited eyes lighting up with the sky. he was falling. fireworks exploded in his chest with feelings he never knew of as he watched only you.

after this night, he’d willingly go watch many more fireworks with you if it meant seeing your eyes light up with that beautiful excitement over and over until he got bored. lf he ever did, that is.

god, i need a smoke he thought to himself while having his gazed fixed on you. his heart drumming in his chest.

boy, was he in trouble.

BAKU:

baku and you had been told to grab extra wood for the campfire by teachers after arriving at the camping ground you were to stay for the next two days for the annual school camping trip. the foresty campground was swallowed by trees and surrounded by creeks that echoed the sound of water. this place was rumored to be haunted— well, that was what you heard from the people a year ahead of you before your trip here a week ago and the stories stuck to you. apparently, a lady ghost haunted the woods, singing a melancholic tune that lured you deeper into the forest. you didn’t believe any of the tales. instead of being scared, you were rather entertained and kept it in mind.

baku on the other hand was easy to fool and there was nothing you loved more than to play around with the innocent.

the sun had already set when you both set out to walk a mile to where all the firewood was stacked. the path towards the area was narrow and surrounded by towering trees that waved along with the low summer wind. the only sound you could hear was the hooting of howls, the call of animals, and the crunching of gravel under your feet. a twig snapped and baku got in a defensive position, paranoid out of his mind. the poor boy next to you played tough and protective when the teacher first told you to go but you were the one who was tough.

sweat formed in humin’s forehead as he gulped. hard. he peered back at every little sound.

“humin, have you heard of the lady that sings?” you started, holding the flashlight ahead of you, rather relaxed.

“w-who’s that?” he asked, walking closer to you, your shoulder brushing the side of his arms since he was a bit taller.

“come closer,” you waved for him to lower himself closer to hear, “there’s a lady that haunts this forest at night…she sings a melancholic song to lure you in and then she…”

he gulped, brows furrowed in anxiety, “then she what?”

“then she…” you contort your face into the scariest thing ever, widening your eyes like a maniac and bearing your teeth like fangs, “CHOMPS YOUR HEAD OFF!”

baku screamed high pitched like a child, toppling a step backwards, eyes wide in horror at your face. you threw your head back in uncontrollable laughter at how easily he got scared. he placed a hand on his chest to gather himself.

“what is wrong with you?!” he complained, “that was not funny, yknow!”

“that was so funny!” you laughed harder, smacking him on the arm, “you should’ve seen your face, holy shit, i have to tell gotak about this!”

“oh hell no you aren’t,” he argued, flaring his nostrils.

“oh hell yes.” you teased, picking up your pace “i’m telling the entire class!”

you started running ahead of him.

“hey, you! get back here!!! don’t leave me here alone!!” baku cried, chasing after you.

“catch me if you can!” you giggled, running a little slower for him to catch up.

it was too dark for baku to see without the flashlight that you were running ahead with but he was an arms length away from you. he was so close— so close but a rock got in his way and he tripped— on top of you. you both fell in surprise, rolling onto the ground with pained yelps and groans. baku landed right on top of you, straddled on your hips. your breath caught in your throat when his face came centimeters close to yours. his breath fanned your cheeks.

you both stared up at each other in shock and in flustered silence. up close baku looked so handsome, staring protectively down at you. his worry for you made him all the more attractive. and to him, you looked just as good, laying below him in concern and amusement all at once.

baku swallowed, eyes trailing down your features to your lips and he stopped there for a long moment before wetting his lips with his tongue as if to contemplate. the moment of stillness and silenced lasted for what felt like eternity of just staring into one another. the darkness of the forest consuming you into a comfortable isolation from the others. in that moment of heat, baku accepted to himself that his crush for you just turned to something more. something deeper and forever. he fell for you. quite literally.

“a-are you okay?” he asked, pulling himself up. it was agonizing; he really didn’t want to get up because it felt so nice being close to you. you too, missed the closeness once he was fully off.

“i-im okay…are you?” you asked taking his hand he held out for you to hoist you up to your feet.

“i am…uhm…” he muttered, holding onto your hand for a second longer, “is it okay…if we uhm—“

“hold hands?” you asked, tightening your grip on his hand.

“y-yeah.” he scratched his head shyly, blushing red. although you couldn’t see it.

“yes, please.” you smiled.

you both happily began to walk down the trail, swaying your hands together when a beautiful woman voice caught your attention stopping you in your tracks. you turned to baku who was already in fight mode.

“baku…what was that?” you asked as the beautiful and melancholic singing got closer.

“y/n, run!”

you never got the firewood. but you did get a boyfriend. and a few laughs from your classmates who didn’t believe the either of you whom heard the woman singing.

NA BAEKJIN:

baekjin rarely smiled. his cold exterior stayed firm even in situations that made him feel like he was thrown into the scorching fires of hell. baekjin never wavered, he never melted, never let himself succumb to the warmth. he wouldn’t let himself indulge in that, especially nothing of joy, not with the life he chose in order to survive.

for him, everything went his way one way or another; he either ravaged and destroyed the very thing that got in his way or he found a way out through using others. nothing about what he did was righteous. he knew that better than everyone else, which was why he stayed lurking in the shadows. never letting the light in. afraid he’d lose the grip he had on himself.

when he met you, however, you were the very thing that got in his way. he couldn’t ravage nor destroy you. instead, he was backed into what he thought was hell because of its sickeningly sweet heat. with you, his obstacle, he couldn’t shoot ice shards from his gaze. with you, he couldn’t stay firm.

you drove him to the brink of embracing warmth— the thing he was most repelled from.

a wide-eyed look at him with a smile and he’s as good as dead. he was dead. you struck him dead with your murderous warmth.

why? why were you so good to him? he never knew. and he’d leave that question unanswered because of his own selfishness and greed. maybe he’d indulge. maybe he’d keep this one thing for himself. that one thing being you.

just a classmate he tutored— yet somehow the only thing he’d get all hot and bothered for.

you let out a frustrated groan, smacking the math workbook down on the library table “i really don’t get this, can’t we just take a five-minute break, my brains all fogged up?”

“it hasn’t even been two minutes…” he sighed, rubbing his temples in utter disbelief as to how one could have such a short attention span.

“two minutes too long,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

the library was empty since it was a sunday evening and also the only day of the week baekjin had time to tutor you for longer hours. you sat on a table on the secluded side of the library by a large window that overlooked a park. baekjin noticed you staring out as the sun began to set— painting the sky orange.

“again.” he tapped his pen on the desk to get your attention “exams start next week. don’t embarrass me.”

“tch, what’s it to you, prick?” you tutted, turning to him annoyed.

“i have to save face. the teacher expects good results from me through you.” he answered nonchalantly. combing his fingers through his gelled hair.

“yeah, yeah,” you waved off, yawning, “as long as i pass, we’ll be fine.”

“you need atleast a 90.” he said firmly “and to stay out of trouble.”

he referenced to the last time you got in trouble for playing games on your phone under the table during biology class. you rolled your eyes at him for remembering that (he was your partner). baekjin flipped to another equation on the math workbook for you to try.

“too late for that, the homeroom teacher yelled at me today…” you frowned looking away from him, speaking in whispers.

“what?” he questioned, eyes more on you than on the work ahead of you.

“i got caught fooling off…” you paused to see baekjin’s annoyed expression before continuing “by a parent.”

“by a parent? how? where could you possibly have gone?” this was the most he had ever sound interested.

“well, yknow my favorite comic came out and i really, really wanted it so i went to the comic shop and the shop owner was one of our classmates dad…” you explained “he kicked me out of the store to go to class and snitched. i was so close to getting the new volume!”

baekjin pictured you clumsily stomping out of the store protesting like a kid so clearly in his mind a grin pinched the corners of his lips upwards. and when you smacked your forehead in frustration, looking all defeated like a sloth, he finally— finally let out a hearty laugh. a genuine laugh. it was the pure, devious joy of imagining a friend doing something utterly stupid.

you gaped, beyond shocked at seeing the stoic, stone-carved statue of a man smile so wide in front of you. the dimples on his cheeks so deep and almost adorable made your heart patter in adoration. he looked childlike, innocent, eyes full of wonder as he laughed at you. the apples of his cheeks rose up, narrowing his eyes like a yawning kitten. at that, you giggled in amusement. it felt like sighting a peacock in the snowy wilderness of antarctica.

“oh my—“ you poked your finger into his dimple, “you have dimples?!”

baekjin froze under your sudden touch, smile slowly fading.

“wait no! don’t stop smiling.” you cooed, moving your finger away, “you should smile more often.”

baekjin was out of words. there wasn’t a single response he could come up with to a compliment he had never received ever in his life. he looked at you dumbfounded as if you spoke a different language.

“whatever,” you turned away, “he even smacked me with the volume, i was gonna pay for, me!”

he smiled again, unable to control himself. you broke him, truly.

“there it is, that smile” you pointed at his face again, pleased with yourself for making the na baekjin laugh.

“we should really get this done, y/n.” he said, the smile loud on his voice as he tried to look away from you.

“okay, alright.” you finally began to turn your attention to the workbook, “but i’m serious, baekjin. you should smile more. you have a nice smile.”

and again, he smiled. he knew then; he was falling for you. he also knew, he’d be smiling more from now on.

[psycholuvrgirl]

birthday sex

featuring... satoru! suguru! megumi! yuji! kento! toji! toge!

summary: how the boys do you on your birthday

warnings: NSFW content; p in v (all characters are aged up)

a/n: this is in honor of my recent birthday

satoru gojo — against the window

your birthday can’t be just a normal day, not when satoru is involved. not when he insists on grand gestures and outrageous theatrics every day, and especially on your special day. so you shouldn’t have been surprised when he pressed you against the floor-to-ceiling window of a tokyo high-rise, the city glittering far below like a backdrop.

your legs lock around his waist, clinging to him as his strong arms effortlessly hold you up. the cool glass presses into your back, his warm body on your front. the contradiction is something only gojo could make feel so right.

he kisses you like he owns you, moves in and out of you like he wants everyone down there to know that he does.

“view’s nice, huh?” he murmurs against your neck.

you don’t respond. you can’t. you’re all moans and whimpers, hard breaths as your head falls back against the glass.

“i think you look better.”

you open your mouth to retort, but he rolls his hips just right, stealing the words and your breath. 

suguru geto — lotus position

the room is quiet, bathed in the warm glow of flickering candles. everything is soft and slow, intentional. suguru sits cross-legged on the futon, arms resting loosely around your waist as you straddle him. your bodies are so close that it leaves no room for distraction.

you set the pace, suguru insisted, and he follows like a man in prayer. every movement is reverent, every breath shared between parted lips. his hands roam gently, not greedy, just adoring your body.

“you feel like divinity,” he whispers against your throat.

he continues to touch, softly. he’s thorough, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s grounding himself. his eyes don’t leave yours, not even when yours close in pleasure. 

megumi fushiguro — doggy style, chest pressed down

he doesn’t make a show of it, he never does, but it’s your birthday and something in megumi slips. that quiet storm beneath the surface is close enough for you to feel.

he takes you with your chest pressed to the sheets , one hand firm at your lower back, the other roaming your body. his hips roll with unrelenting purpose, deep and controlled, breath hot and uneven against the back of your neck.

there’s no teasing or playful banter. just the sound of skin meeting skin and the low, broken groans he tries to keep quiet so the neighbors don’t complain. but he can’t, not tonight.

he murmurs your name, soft and reverent like a prayer. his touch says more — that you’re his.

yuji itadori — missionary with legs pushed up

there’s no hesitation with yuji. just raw, radiant need. it’s your birthday and he’s all in. he’s wide-eyed, breathless, and determined to ruin you in the best way possible.

you’re on your back, legs pushed up around his waist as he leans in close, driving into you. he moans freely, praise tumbling from his lips. his hands never stay still. they grip your hips, thread through your hair, press into the mattress as he chases every reaction from you like it’s the only thing that matters.

“let me see you come,” he breathes out, eyes locked onto yours.

and when you do fall apart beneath him, he’s right there with you. his mouth is on yours, body trembling with the effort to hold back just long enough to make sure you come first. just like always.

he’s the kind of lover who needs to please, not just wants it. and afterwards he shows up with your favorite snack, still shirtless and grinning like he’s won the lottery.

kento nanami — bent over the table

nanami, punctual as ever, clocks out at 6:00 pm sharp. no meetings. no distractions. just you on his mind.

by 6:30 you’re bent over the dining room table, cheek against the cool wood, wrists held gently, yet firmly in one of his large hands. his tie is loosened, sleeves rolled up, and not a single wasted movement as he thrusts into you from behind. he’s controlled, efficient, and devastating.

at first it’s all precision. there’s a measured rhythm, deep strokes, soft praise spoken like gospel. it doesn’t stay that way, not when you fall apart beneath him and gasp his name out. that’s when his control slips, grip tightening, pace stuttering. then he breaks. he’s still a gentlemen, but he’s completely undone in a way only you get to see.

when it’s over he gathers you close, lips brushing your temple with a soft voice. “you did well.”

toji fushiguro — full nelson

birthday or not, toji fushiguro doesn’t do gentle. but for your birthday he makes sure you feel every inch of what he’s capable of.

you’re folded up, legs in the air, back arched, his arms locked beneath your knees. it’s brutal and consuming, your body being stretched open as your moans are punched out by every deep, relentless thrust.

toji’s breathing ragged in your ear, low growl vibrating through your spine. “look at you,” he murmurs, almost amused. “so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

he doesn’t hold back in the way he drives into you or the way his grip tightens when you start to come undone. he wants you ruined with trembling thighs, a blank mind, and a body wrecked enough to still feel him tomorrow.

when it’s over he lets your legs fall and leans in close, lips brushing your ear as he wears his trademark smirk.

“happy birthday, sweetheart.”

toge inumaki — spooning

toge doesn’t need to use his words to make you fall apart, he never has. his touch speaks all on their own, more precise than any language he could speak. and on your birthday? he uses every inch of that touch to unravel you.

you’re curled together on your side, his chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other guides your hips back onto him in a slow, deliberate rhythm. every thrust is measured, deep and intimate, his lips brushing your shoulder with warm breaths fanning your neck. 

he doesn’t speak, but you can feel everything he wants to say in the way his fingers tighten when your breath hitches, in the soft moan that vibrates against your skin. he lets that cursed energy hum through you in quiet pulses, making your body tremble in ways even he can’t explain.

it’s slow, intense. a kind of worship that doesn’t need a loud volume to leave you gasping. and when you finally collapse into him, blissed out and boneless, he holds you tighter than before. his forehead meets the top of your spine, a hand over your heart.

[zstartrixxx]

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 '𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐔, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍'.

ʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᵛᵃᵐᵖꜝʷᶦᶠᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: If being loved by a vampire means carrying eternity within you, what you have with Remmick is incarnate: his poison lives in your flesh, you are blood of his blood, a creature of his making. And because you are a part of him—a fragment that broke free and passed into you, sometimes even a sliver of his ancient soul trapped inside that dead body—everything you feel, he feels, and vice versa. Fleeing the imminent extinction of these lands, you and Remmick seek refuge in each other once more, bound together. Eternally, for he would never let you sever this tie—unless he were dead. Past and future memories knot inside you. Here, now—all blood and teeth—you fuse with your maker, your sacrament, your eternal groom. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: this particular piece was a deeply interesting and special writing experience for me: not only did i get to explore the hivemind concept, but i also played more freely with language and the essence of remmick as a character. so let me make one thing clear: it’s never my intention to distort the film’s canonical portrayal, but rather—through poetic license combined with the possibilities of fanfiction’s universe, PLUS the way i’ve absorbed and interpreted the character—my version of remmick (at least in my fics) might not be as literal as the original script. that said: here we have this scenario with a wife, which i initially imagine takes place before the film’s events, but the specifics of when, how, and where she was transformed are entirely up to your interpretation (before his arrival in the us in 1911? somewhere between the early or late middle ages? the modern era? europe, asia, or africa... let your imagination run wild ;) i’ve also paraphrased/incorporated certain very specific lines and moments from the film. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +16 CONTENT. i think there's a lot of angst here and reader melancholy, so keep that in mind. use of some words in gaelic, i had to resort to good old google, if there is something wrong please tell me. remmik here it's (super) protective, almost toxic; hivemind concept explored, lots of internal dialogue, some gore (explicit description of blood and bruises), vampirism (blood consummation), and a slight sexual innuendo thrown in. 𝐖𝐂: 6k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"turn to me, and love me like you lacerate; just hold me down like i don’t need air." (air, shedfromthebody)

Your skin burned like Hell itself, which was kind of funny to think about: back when you were human, you loved spending your days under the hot sun, lying on the grass in the late afternoon and gazing up at the cloudless sky, where strange shapes would form just for you. You wasted away the days at the lake, naked, floating between water and sunlight, between cold and heat, simply existing.

Now, all you could feel was the searing pain ripping through your skin, sizzling in your ears like meat in a frying pan. Weak, you tried to run, but your legs wouldn’t obey, and your feet tangled with every step across the dry land, scattered with dead corn leaves. The rustle of the leaves irritated you, but what truly drove you mad were the screams echoing from behind, drowning out any coherent thought, merging with the heavy air that entered your lungs that no longer breathed. And that felt like a death sentence: not only the sun was paralyzing you, but also the distorted sounds that confused you, like a wounded animal, utterly disoriented.

You stopped in the middle of the cornfield, glancing around, trying to stay grounded, trying to reconnect the thread of thought between the two of you, searching through the suffocating haze for Remmick’s voice, calling him with panic and urgency, desperate for him to come save you. You looked at your shoulders: raw, scorched, smelling the acrid scent of burnt flesh rising from your own body. You shut your eyes, trying to find him, your voice lethargic: “Remmick… Remmick.”

Your vision began to darken, your body no longer felt like your own—it felt like it was floating, detaching, as if your soul—or what was left of it—was slipping out of you. Just like you’d felt a piece of yourself dying the last time you glimpsed sunlight through your human eyes, maybe ceasing to exist in that land would feel the same. All you had to do was slowly close your eyes, embrace the darkness once again, surrender to the searing fire that would extinguish you—and that would be it. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the mighty sun before you: scorching, like your mother’s hugs, your grandmother’s kisses. Like Remmick’s grip when you were still human. Your entire body burned, tiny flames piercing through you, tears of blood trickling from your eyes. How long had it been since you felt even remotely human? All you had to do was give in, speak the one name that echoed in your mind, etched into your blood.

Remmick.

In poison and blood, within you. He was you and you were him. Remmick.

‘—Remmick, if you can hear me one last time, know that I—’

“Got you!” his voice came, rough and wounded, behind you. Firm hands grabbed you by the waist, your body partially covered by another, pressed against Remmick’s rigid frame. He whispered against your ear: “You’re safe, mo chroí (mu khree / my heart). Come with me.” He pulled you even tighter against his scorched body, shielding you like a protective shell, guiding you with quick steps into the heart of the cornfield. In the distance, the furious screams of some villagers echoed behind you. But despite the world turning into hell around you and everything seeming like the end, you felt safe in his arms.

Remmick looked back, staggering, using his sharp senses to search for any possible escape for the two of you. His left eye was swollen from the punch he took, combined with the sun’s deadly effect, and even with limited vision, he managed to find a way out from the horde chasing you.

You couldn’t stay upright. The sun’s weakness made it feel like your bones were nothing but dust beneath your scorched flesh. Tears of blood stung your eyes and soul, or whatever was trapped inside that immortal body, sharing a collective mind with Remmick and so many others before you. It longed desperately to escape this life and finally rest. But Remmick wouldn’t let that happen—oh no, let the pagan gods or the Christian God himself punish him with the harshest tortures if he did. You could feel that wrathful pain mixed with ancient rage flowing from him, harshly projected in flames and poisonous blood from him to you, as he nearly threw himself on top of you like a (scorched) leather jacket just to protect you. Madness. The voices grew longer, more indistinct, the hateful chorus fading, as Remmick, with his one good eye, searched for shelter.

Then, as if by magic, fate, or just the luck of some devil who still wanted to see you both wander through God's vast lands, there it was—a house beyond the edge of the cornfield. The perfect shelter. ‘Living food, darkness... —Remmick, don’t get your hopes up.—’ you thought back, replying to your creator’s voice with a sarcasm that didn’t quite match the moment. As always, he laughed—loudly, though the laugh came with dry, desperate gasps. He laughed. Even all fucked up, more than you, sizzling in pain and crying in despair to stay alive, he still found humor in his own misery.

“You’re getting real cheeky, huh, my little thing?”

“You’re the one who taught me to be like this, Remmy,” you managed to say, despite the bitter taste of blood rising in your throat—extremely unpleasant when it was your own blood boiling inside you. Remmick glanced over his shoulder, noticing for now that you were safe. He looked forward again, at what seemed like a mirage of a desolate wooden shack, dark, with the door and windows shut. It looked uninhabited to you. ‘—Love, don’t be so hopeless. Of course, there’ll be someone in there to be dinner. Or rather, lunch, given the time.—’ his voice cut through again, tugging you sideways, his hot and battered hand grabbing your forearm, where deep layers of your dermis were starting to show, making you let out a faint whimper. Remmick gave you an almost hurt look, immediately releasing his grip.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. What’s a squeeze compared to almost melting under the sun, right?”

“You’re something else...” he muttered in disbelief, though his voice was laced with distress and anguish—a soft hint of the pain he was enduring. —If he died, you’d go with him by extension, in the worst possible way.— That was what was running through his disturbed mind, making you wonder whether you’d ever have a happy ending under those conditions. Remmick quickened his pace, and you followed beside him, feeling like the path to the house was more of a road to Hell than a material refuge. You were starting to believe it was a mirage and the Devil was waiting on the other side to welcome you both into his lap. ‘—Pathetic, darling. Pathetic.—’ ‘—Just like you, sweetheart.—’

Remmick ignored your retort, dragging himself up the steps, changing his expression as he began to shout for help. A wounded animal, fatally injured, a hoarse rasp clawing out of his throat, begging for help, pounding on the door with force. The sun’s haze was poisoning him—and therefore you—draining what little strength was left, forcing your bodies to absorb the foul smell of rotting flesh; even if your lungs didn’t breathe, they still had the cursed privilege of smelling. And even as supernatural beings, defying all human logic, you were still condemned to be inside those fragile bodies, exhaling the scent of flesh, blood, bone, thick saliva, venom, and a unique perfume your walking corpses carried. Not decay, but something more… floral? And that specific scent, like night-blooming jasmine in a graveyard or a dried rose in your garden, grew stronger as the mortal flesh imprisoning your immortal soul deteriorated.

Remmick kept pounding on the door and maybe—just maybe—with a little more effort, he’d become the first vampire to break the universal law by forcing his way in without being invited. He looked at you, distressed, his expression one of real pain. You pulled away from him, walking to a window layered in thick dust, wiping it with your palm. The cold, gritty surface scratched your sensitive skin even more. You peered inside and confirmed: ‘—There’s no one. It’s empty.—’ Remmick looked at you, almost dumbfounded, hearing your inner voice. He turned to the door, where simply twisting the doorknob opened it. The air inside was cold and stagnant, dust and mold, old wood and moth-eaten fabric, with an unwelcoming scent—but still, it carried that unmistakable smell of an uninhabited place. No human warmth or familiar energy.

Remmick was so relieved he dropped to his knees, like a devout soul who, tired of resisting sin, finally accepts divine punishment in good faith—arms open, body surrendering as he let himself fall into the house. You stood beside him, watching with a mixture of mercy for the poor wretch who was suffering, and with that sharp pain—hating, in a way, to share with him the memory and the collective sense of it all, because his pain was also yours.

Remmick crawled inside. You followed him, on your feet—weak, but standing. You looked one last time outside, toward the distance beyond the cornfield, where, by some divine mercy, those who had hunted you seemed to have gone. Just above, the burning afternoon sun pulsed like a condemning god, seated upon his sky-blue throne, mercilessly casting down his punishments upon you, poor wicked creatures.

You shut the door with a long groan, echoing the moan of the vampire now lying delicately at your feet—a strange sound between a whimper and the whine of a frightened dog. His hands were stretched above his head, face pressed to the floor, writhing from side to side, somewhere between fragile and furious at being forced into such a wretched state.

Through your mind, you could feel him tearing:

‘—These monsters will pay. As soon as the sun sets, I’ll hunt them one by one, haunt them in their homes, show them my wrath and my cruelty. Blood, blood… blood.—’

Your mind was now lapsing into a time far older than you, to a moment when Remmick’s humanity had been broken by the vampire’s curse—when the strangers came and took his land, his name, his faith. His prayers were converted, and all he saw before him were silver crosses and plaster Jesuses while he was taught the Lord’s Prayer. All of it disturbed you deeply. He clung so tightly to his roots that it made you feel everything: the fire of the scorched land, the spilled blood, the faithful ones he later killed one by one, the lands devastated by plague and by gold.

You closed your eyes, trying to impose your memories over his—to interrupt the bond that was bigger than either of you. You tried to think of blooming gardens bathed in sunlight, lazy afternoons of picnics and reading under trees, nights of endless dancing and joy.

Remmick stopped thrashing. His shoulders stilled, and his whimpers faded as he was slowly filled with his own memories, gradually regaining his strength and sobriety. He propped himself up on his arms—once feeble and lethargic, with bones eroded and flesh still scorched by burns—then raised himself and looked at you, a crooked smile forming on his lips:

“You’re always taking care of me, a aingeal.” (ah ang-yal | my angel).

“I was just trying to make you stop with those nightmares disguised as memories. I’m aching all over.” Your voice was somewhat harsh, despite your weakness, as you leaned your body against the wall, between the door and the window, where dust managed to dimly filter the sunlight. You were safe from the condemnation of the light.

Remmick rested his head. A look of sadness, lit by the darkness in his pupils, stirred something in your heart that no longer beat.

“I can’t let go of who I once was… even after all these years, there are pains that scar between our flesh and our soul, binding us to them forever…”

“I know. I know—” you smiled, somewhere between honesty and levity, trying to stay upright, feeling your body pulse and bleed, crying for healing. Remmick was in considerably better shape than you, even in his sorry state—his cotton shirt filthy with mud and dust, torn and bloodied from burned flesh; his pants tattered, shoes worn through, one bruised eye set into cadaverous skin with a polished hunger. He was enduring. The dark gifts made him far stronger than you. “—I’m just not in the best condition to relive those pains with you, not when mine are a little too real right now.”

Remmick nodded, drinking in your words, staring at you with glowing, coppery-red eyes—dim yet luminous—finally seeing your pain. His face twisted with worry and a flicker of anger as he staggered closer:

“Mo ghrá geal” (muh grah gyahl | my bright love), “they really hurt you, didn’t they…”

Then, Remmick recalled the grim scene when one of the townsfolk had found your hiding place—a house just as old and decrepit as the one you now sheltered in. The two of you were lying there together, side by side, entwined like tragic lovers, waiting for death—and maybe that had been part of the attraction, for just a few more seconds in that eternal rest, and you would have had a truly tragic end. Remmick remembered the moment the light from a blocked-out window was smashed through and the burn that followed. He opened his eyes instantly. You were still locked in your unshakable sleep when they grabbed you by the arms. He had fought men wielding torches and harvest tools. Then you saw it through his eyes: your body being pulled away—a blur. And you felt his fear and desolation as he fought off the frantic villagers to try and save you.

Then the man’s voice rang out again, clear and strong, a wounded hand touching your face with surprising gentleness:

“We almost didn’t make it out of there… If it had been closer to sunset, not a single one of those bastards would’ve made it—”

“Remmick.” His name traced your lips and tongue, thorny like the man himself. “They’re not to blame for acting the way they do—just like we, flawed murderous animals, once acted. They too have the right to want to destroy us. Wasn’t it you who taught me that human truth? That’s how we lived before we perished. That’s how we’ll go on existing, as long as we do.”

“Existing.” He clicked his tongue, and a sudden shadow passed through his eyes. For a second, his mind grew too clouded for you to read, to hear—but the visceral rage boiling in his venomous blood, oh, that you felt, bitter as it burned your dry throat. Dryness began to crack your lips. It weakened your warm body even more and made you feel the dark delusions start to crawl through the corners of your mind; that’s what happened when you weren’t fed—no matter how exceptional your self-control was, and even if you could resist without the human liquor for days, when you were in that state of true death, your body nearly collapsed.

Remmick dragged his pitiful, suffering gaze across your face. Around your minds, words in ancient Gaelic spun like ancestral chants—he was thinking about something beyond you.

His hand slid up to your face, grabbing your hair from behind, gripping it as he gently pulled it back, exposing the soft, burned, but still velvety skin of your neck. The cradle of your sacred blood—from where he had once drawn your human warmth into himself and given you, in return, the venom that turned you into him. And even though your heart no longer beat as before, when he first heard it, and your blood wasn’t warm enough to quench his thirst anymore, it was the vampire’s opium.

Remmick always thought of that comparison when he grazed his fangs lightly against your skin before penetrating it to anesthetize himself in your ecstasy:

‘—Your blood was sweet and warm when your heart throbbed between your ribs. But now, with my lymph and the poison of my being, it tastes better—bittersweet, undead. Our blood.—’

It made you moan and whimper.

Your hands pressed against his chest, palms open, trying to push him away from you:

“Remmy, are you sure about this?” you looked at him uncertainly, trying to find in him the assurance for the act.

Remmick didn’t answer you with words—not the kind spoken aloud:

“As weak as we are, there’s no one here, my love. Either we drink from each other, or we die like strays in this godforsaken place. Feed on my blood before you cease to exist…”

It wasn’t a request anymore by the time he was already pulling you closer to expose your neck, pressing his rough lips and sharp teeth against you, piercing the skin like needles.

Remmick held onto this belief that he didn’t need to ask much of you, because as you were one mind, everything he wanted was what you desired too.

Your eyes closed as you felt your flesh torn by his fangs—hard against your skin, like a stiff piece of leather being pierced by a sharp knife—until it reached where the blood, crawling weakly through your body, began to emerge in thick sobs, filling his mouth with your syrupy, bloody liquor. You were consumed by the burning and the sensation of ecstasy the act gave you, your body floating in the hands of the man who groaned with primal pleasure at being nourished by your life source.

Remmick also held the belief that since you carried his seed—that divine-profane gift of eternal life within your blood—through the consummation of acts and the laws of an ancient soul, you were part of a whole that pulsed with life. His life, yours, and those who would come after you both, all connected through that cursed and blood-stained lineage.

You squirmed restlessly in his hands. His claws were already out, tangled in your hair, scratching your waist as he held you as close as possible, bound to his pleading kiss.

Remmick whispered to you in thought:

“Mine, mine, mo mhianta (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), my life, my blood…”

—like a prayer, a rosary he recited bead by bead, his body burning as he inevitably felt his venom enter you. 

“Remmick—” your voice was pure wine of death, your nose the iron scent of flesh, your mind a stupor of souls that preceded you, strange voices you had learned empirically, faintly recalling the vampire Remmick who crushed you between teeth and acid; “—I think that’s enough, my love.”

Remmick let out an exasperated groan that vibrated against your mark, sucked a final portion of blood vigorously, licked the flesh slowly, then rose, revealing his face intact and free of wounds, his chin smeared with your crimson iron honey, eyes shimmering like copper pearls between iron and bloodlust. He smiled at you—there was heavy panting from paused lungs, a fresh breath, an almost spiritual renewal of his being.

“You are so delicious, blood of my blood, that it’s impossible not to want to drain your last blessed drop.”

He laughed—cursed and amused—raising his wrist to his own lips, biting it as if biting a pomegranate that exploded between his teeth, flesh and juice dripping at the corners of his mouth already stained with your blood; he extended his open wrist to you like bread to the dying, an offering to his god, waiting with generous eyes burning in the insane passion of his soul for yours.

His mouth salivated with the yearning to take it for himself, to drink from that wine that intoxicated you once and every time you drank it—in nights of lust where you feasted on the delights of the flesh, it intoxicated you.

There were sparks in your chest that burned from Remmick’s venom in your body, making you remember when he took you for himself, forever; Remmick appeared like a chorus behind you, chasing you through the darkness of forests and ancient buildings, ruins of nights wandering without meaning, inviting you to let him enter you repeatedly, giving him what he wanted, feeding the beast with your youthful joy, the beating heart—that which he had lost centuries ago, perhaps millennia. Life.

And once, proving that his love for blood and pain was greater than all lust or pleasure given to you, he offered you his ultimate love: he penetrated you with teeth and curses, buried memories imposed on you, suffocating you, watching you die before him, rot like a flower once beautiful and vibrant, now dry and hardened. Watching you rise with bright eyes and his bestial thirst, laughing and dancing with him, celebrating your new self. Or was it a piece of him, while you were trapped between so many layers of the one who created you?

And yet there you were, looking at him with veneration and anguish, taking his wrist with your misshapen fingers, claws that extended in excessive knots, placing your mouth against the torn hole that poured that offering of his flesh.

Oh, Remmick had your flavor too.

Sweet death he exhaled, primal sex and poisoned wine.

Feeding you slowly, bringing through that damned mortal sap your salvation.

You felt yourself revive, whining softly against his wrist, looking with complicity as Remmick watched you with the pleasure of pleasures on his face: parted lips, arched brows, eyes sparkling with desire and ardor. You smiled back, returning that passion, a hiss escaping from his mouth, pleasure bending between the memories shared through blood. His mouth detached from the bite’s embrace, a dull snap of flesh pulling away, the vampire’s blood dripping in sticky, thick drops like a whip on the wooden floor, a small pool of that iron blood separating you both.

He tilted his head back, satisfied, with a jubilation of pearl-ruby teeth, saying full of himself:

“Now we’re better!” He laughed between his teeth, while you felt his blood slide through you, healing the stigmata on your skin, slowly and pleasurably renewing you—him crawling between your bones and flesh, burrowing deeper into you as he pierced you with those eyes.

Remmick drew closer, your hands returned to normal, fingers caressing your now-soft skin, leaning down to kiss your lips with the sweetness of his honey staining them crimson, whispering through your mind:

‘—All we need now is rest, and once night falls, we can celebrate this moment together.—’

Eternal promises. As always, typical of him.

You welcomed him with open lips, tongue caressing his, you and he merging—blood and saliva, venom and the growls from the depths of your thirsty throats, your hands tangling into each other, desperate grips of bodies that loved each other through finite eternity.

…

In your dreams — or in that cathartic state of complete darkness of rest — all you had in your mind were the outlines of dreams of humans who had wandered through the eternities beside Remmick. You were a peasant in Irish lands, an English priest with golden teeth, a mathematician in Arabia, a physician from Prussian soil, a single mother prostituting herself in the streets of Whitechapel; everything and everyone. You were a pagan elder turned faithful parish priest. A hopeful young woman turned the vilest of executioners. Everything and everyone — and him.

Him.

Emerging in red, blue, purple, and black, from the shadows, blood dripping from his chin, stealing souls and stories like a devoted collector, a historian digging through pages and pages for what might fill his own gaps. Remmick pulled you by the hand like a savior — or a beast. That blurred in the shadows and forms, as he brought you into the light.

The light of consciousness, of being awake, of knowing night had finally fallen and you could once again wander among humans.

You opened your eyes with a sharp blink, seeing through a timid penumbra lit by a single candle — who knows where the hell Remmick had found it — exhaling, while he gently caressed your face, the tip of his finger tapping lightly against your nose, a serenity on his face that, under the warm golden light, almost seemed human. You smiled, rubbed your eyes, and let out a vocal exhale — a human habit you’d kept not to feel so detached from your nature — wetted your lips, surprised by the nudity of the man sitting at your side on that old bed, hard mattress, rickety frame that had served perfectly for your rest.

At the window, beyond the drawn curtain, a few wooden planks nailed to keep sunlight out were now opened, allowing the pale-silver glow of a Full Moon to shine on you. Between the bluish-gray mingling with the candle’s yellow-red, his slender and muscular body — shaped by the years when he was just a man of the land, using his bare strength — stood naturally before you.

His face, smiling at you tenderly, was damp, drops of water clinging to his nose, ears, and chin. A scent of dried flowers and soap wafted from his pale skin. His voice was soft:

“Come with me, a aingeal,” (ah ang-yal | my angel), “let’s take a bath to wash off this infernal day.”

Laughter spilled from both your mouths — irony mixed with ease — as his hand gently pulled you up, guiding you barefoot across the wooden floor, echoing down a narrow hallway toward what must have been the bathroom. Remmick nodded toward the wooden bathtub. Beside it, atop a chair, several candles were stuck upright with their own melted wax, casting a flickering light beside the moonlight that poured silver through the window.

“I cleaned it a bit before using, fetched some water from the well, and luckily found some flowers and a dried-up bar of soap lying around. Seems like the people who lived here left in a hurry — there’s still canned food and clothes in some closets. Let me help you!”

He placed the candle on the chair and undressed you, slipping off your dress and tossing it aside, smiling at your nudity, placing his hands at your waist as if admiring a statue sculpted by his own hands — a creation of his creation.

“Sit down. I’ll bathe you...” he said in a velvet tone, guiding your body into the cold water, which wrapped around your skin as he began to rub it with water, fragrant flower petals, and diluted soap.

And there you sat, still, watching him care for you — though you knew well what he was thinking.

‘—The hunt, the revenge against those who inflicted pain on us and—’

“Remmy…”

Your hand found his, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts, gripping the hand that tended to you, “...stop, at least for now. Just think of something else.”

“What else could I possibly think about?”

“In other things, I don’t know, think about music, about dance, about me...”

“I don’t need to think about those things because they’re already in me, darling. It’s almost a pleonasm, as that old professor we ate once said, remember?”

“The one we ate? What an absurd thing to say!”

“Sweetheart, seriously?” Remmick tilted his head to the side, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips. He stopped rubbing the dried blood off his neck to look at you with cynicism. “You, of all people, who loves sinking your teeth into those juicy necks that show up for us!? You, blood of my blood, my own creation, poison of my poison who...” he paused, narrowing his eyes, his voice coming out in a thin whisper, “loves sinking those pretty little teeth of yours into the most unusual places!?”

A daring finger touched your lips, slipping between them, lightly scraping your canine with its nail. You stared at him calmly, studying him in that unashamed nakedness, amused by you. Rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away from your mouth.

“Pathetic. That’s what you are sometimes.”

“I love you too, my darlin’.” He chuckled through his teeth, returning to wiping the bloodstain from his skin, focusing on the act. Even in that silence made of voices loudly spoken, your minds were speaking through images, memories flowing back and forth in a stream of consciousness, undulating like the water that surrounded your body, tracing that eternal conversation you both had. Deep down you knew he wanted to go out hunting, to get drunk on fresh human blood, and then return to this shelter, take you in his arms and possess you in the most animalistic way possible. But on your end, you still felt his venom lingering through your body, the blood that had served as both nourishment and healing still casting a haze over your senses. Ancient blood from someone who had lived so long it carried stigmas. Strong, dense, defiled, concentrated.

Remmick finished scrubbing you, stood up from your side, and left the room, staying outside for a few minutes, leaving you immersed in the water and the moonlight. Thinking. For a moment, your mind seemed to detach from his, floating through the corridors of your own being—you saw yourself among humans, walking barefoot, feeling that burning thirst in your throat, the bile of anger tormenting you even as your melancholy made you ethereal; sucking foreign blood, capturing life stories for yourself. Remmick reached out a hand to you—a claw—with the ghastly smile of all the dead, always whispering to you: “Mo mhianta” (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), in your mother tongue. Remmick… Remmick. The one who created you and now was you too, part of your desires, part of your life, part of your soul. Would you ever be able to break away from that guiding thread? From the one who offered you both death and life? Would you be able to disconnect and be just… you?

Remmick emerged from the darkness of the house, carrying a bundle of clothes in his hands, wearing a pair of soft-fabric pants, his torso still bare. He smiled with those secrets he could hide from you between his lips:

“No, I believe that if one day you no longer belong to me, I’ll probably be dead.”

“Reading my thoughts again?”

The question was practically rhetorical, laced with a certain bitterness you couldn’t hold back. Standing before you, the vampire handed you the clothes.

“I am them. Even when you try to escape through the corners of your thoughts, I’m there.” Remmick smiled, sharp teeth glinting, a suggestion shining in his eyes like a beast ready to kill.

“Come on, love, the night is a child crying to be fed.”

“Smartass,” you hissed through your teeth, rolling your eyes. When you rose from the bathtub, your eyes suddenly caught sight of two figures approaching in the distance. Remmick didn’t even need to be warned—he was already spying from the corner of the window, his thoughts starting to hiss like a rabid wolf growling, thirsty for blood and slaughter. He turned his face toward you, a sharp smile while his eyes tiled the blood of the defeated. His tongue was a blade between needle-sharp teeth:

“We shall have a special feast, my love!”

…

The house was dark.

Its scent was of dust and stagnant wood, dry and moldy. In the background, you could catch the smell of melted wax. No noise. When that couple stepped into the house, shotguns in hand, eyes wide with fear, all they wanted was to play heroes for the little town—hunt the monsters that had been parasitizing the area and receive applause for their brave deeds. Fueled by fear and pride, they wanted to hold in their hands the heads of those two who had earlier been hunted and, for some reason, had disappeared; and there they were, in that shack abandoned for weeks—maybe months—eyeing each other with unease.

The woman said, glancing around the first room, a lantern serving as a flashlight:

“I don’t think it was a good idea to come here at night…”

“Nonsense, woman—we’ll catch those monsters before they go messing around with anyone else,” the man shrugged, walking toward the hallway, the woman right behind him—until she heard a little noise beside her, at the open door.

The man kept walking, oblivious to his wife, heading toward the back of the house, finding a side room with its door ajar—he pushed it open the rest of the way with the barrel of the shotgun, the wooden door creaking slowly, revealing a bed.

And a woman lying on it, back turned. Naked.

A shiver ran down his spine, his breath grew heavy, heart pounding against his ribs, and beyond all that, a wicked voice called him to approach her—that nest of lust and desire. Ignoring his partner, he let curiosity and depravity take over. He lowered his weapon, step by step, now close to the woman’s body, his hand trembling as it reached toward her, while the other held the lantern swaying noisily at his side, its yellow light flickering across the sleeping body.

“Have mercy on me!”

A high-pitched scream came from deeper in the house. The man startled and turned, dropping the lantern to the floor, where it shattered and sparked into flames. He raised his weapon again, spinning around—only to find a man behind him.

Eyes glowing with an inhuman red glint.

A macabre grin stained with blood painted his chin, his neck, his bare chest.

A rustle behind him made his knees weaken with fear; a cold gust of air fed the fire now licking at the wooden floor. He looked over his shoulder and saw you awake—eyes just as luminous as the monster in front of him, thick saliva dripping from your chin.

As he tried to scream, a hand clamped over his mouth—metallic blood flooded his tongue.

A tear welled up in his eye.

The vampire’s voice in front of him rasped out, bestial and raw:

“Shhhh… Shhhh… Don’t cry now. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s wrong to mess with someone else’s woman?”

And he laughed—demonic—gripping the man’s throat, nearly choking him, as you remained behind, salivating for the living blood pulsing through his arteries. Remmick looked at you from the side, tilting his head, his voice undulating between the three of you like a serpent shaking its venom:

“Darling, your wife was delicious! I hope you taste just as good for my wife!”

The man screamed with all the air in his lungs, while Remmick offered him up like an animal for ritual slaughter—offering him to you. And you took him from behind, draining him with the ease of mortality—no pity, no hesitation.

Remmick watched you with affection and admiration, something growing inside him with the euphoric pleasure of a successful hunt. When you finished draining the man, his corpse now at your feet, he held out his hand to you.

You took it, letting him lead you out of that room to the front of the house, where the open door allowed the silvery light to touch your naked body, your face covered in scarlet—just like his. Remmick cupped your face in his hands, looking at you with his soul reflected in your eyes:

“My girl, how do you feel?”

“Perfect. Just a little… overwhelmed. I think it’s the thrill of the hunt.”

“Good—” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a wet, filthy kiss—saliva and blood, soft tongue brushing pearly teeth. When he pulled away, a string of bloody spit still connected your mouths.

“—'Cause now, you’ll let me take care of you, darlin’. The way you deserve.”

You felt him penetrate you through the soul, his hands pulling you close into the kiss of the dead upon your lips, speaking to you through your minds:

‘—Let me take care of you, darling, let me take care of you, let me show you how good I can be for you…—’

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: maybe it deviated a little from the initial concept of the request (idk), but this one was by far one of the fanfics with Remmy that i enjoyed writing the most, it's side-by-side with my fanfic involving priests, religion, Christian guilt, vampirism, remmick and other little things…

[obsessedromancereader]

ᯓ ✈︎ Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd

masterlist ● top gun ● bob floyd pt2

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ rec list

⋆˙⟡ short skirt weather┃@geminiwritten

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⋆˙⟡ picture you┃@geminiwritten

you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

⋆˙⟡ the plan┃@geminiwritten

the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

⋆˙⟡ the kind of girl i could love┃@roosterforme

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⋆˙⟡ worst way┃@geminiwritten

being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

⋆˙⟡ ruin the friendship┃@withahappyrefrain

The night before Bob leaves for Boot Camp, he's learned no one has gone down on his best friend. He's determined to fix that.

⋆˙⟡ Switch up pt2┃ @littleenglishfangirl

you and bob switch up glasses on accident

⋆˙⟡ Sunflower ┃@scarletmika

Bob Floyd was head over heels for you from the moment you met. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. But Hangman knew just how to get under people's skin, too well sometimes, and sometimes frustration hits a boiling point when the people you don't want to hurt are standing in the way.

⋆˙⟡ bobs lonely hearts club┃ @mang0d0ll

bob's all alone on valentines day. but not for much longer

⋆˙⟡ one last gift┃@scarletmika

Living with Bob Floyd was killing you slowly, especially when you couldn't bring yourself to admit how you felt about him. It's your birthday, though, and shouldn't the birthday girl get whatever it is she wants?

⋆˙⟡ hangman’s sister┃@cap-winter-barnes

Y/N is Hangman's little sister - everyone on the Dagger Squad knows she's dating Bob, except for her big brother.

⋆˙⟡ Examination┃ @violetrainbow412-blog

Bob suffers a concussion and Nat insists he get checked out. He doesn't seem convinced until he meets the doctor who will examine him.

⋆˙⟡ call sign: heartbreaker ┃@violetrainbow412-blog

Jake runs his mouth. You do something about it.

⋆˙⟡ hormones are high┃@ilovebabyonboard

You show up to the squad beach day in a bikini that has no business looking that good. Bob's mid-throw when he sees you and straight-up forgets how physics works. The football hits Hangman. Bob's glasses are askew. He spends the afternoon avoiding eye contact—until you ask him to help tie the strings on your top. He nearly combusts.

⋆˙⟡ perilous skies ┃@shortnspidey

Dating Bob Floyd had been nothing short of perfect. The sweet, ever-attentive WSO felt like he’d walked straight out of a rom-com. That’s why, when your scheduled date night arrives and he doesn’t show, your mind immediately begins to spiral. It’s so unlike him, so out of character, that you can’t stop replaying every possible reason in your head. As the hours stretch on, worry takes hold, deep down, you can feel something’s wrong.

⋆˙⟡ Kiss cam┃@scarletmika

The San Diego Padres are saluting the U.S. Navy during their upcoming game, and the Dagger Squad has been invited to attend. Hangman's only goal for the game? Get you and Bob to finally act on your feelings and confess to each other.

⋆˙⟡ B-A-B-Y ┃@the-shedevil-writes

On a Monday morning, Rooster and Hangman bring Bob and Phoenix to a local diner, and Bob’s instantly smitten with the waitress singing along to the jukebox. Next thing he knows, “Diner Mondays” becomes a squad tradition… and so does watching Bob fall harder every week while the rest of the Daggers try to get him to finally ask her out.

⋆˙⟡ juno┃@fanfic-ya-know

⋆˙⟡ Need to know┃ @bussyslayer333

an accidental call to your boyfriend on girls night leaves everyone shocked at a revelation they never thought they would have; bob fucks.

⋆˙⟡ So it goes ┃@scarletmika

From the moment you laid eyes on Bob Floyd, you were head over heels, and he was too. Your overprotective brother, though, was making it increasingly harder for either of you to make a move. Maybe it's time you defy his wishes.

⋆˙⟡ Only exception pt2 pt3 pt4┃@kinzis-writing

Y/N Mitchell swore to herself that she would never allow herself to date or get involved with anyone from any branch of the military. After worrying about her father, the past few years, she knew that she never wanted to experience that worry for a significant other. After her father gets ordered back to California, she may just meet the one that ruins all her plans.

⋆˙⟡ Summertime ┃ @violetrainbow412-blog

Rooster and Hangman spot a mysterious woman… who turns out to be already taken.

⋆˙⟡ care package confessions┃ @ilovebabyonboard

On deployment, a misdelivered care package and a too-honest letter you never meant for anyone else to read land in the hands of the one person it was secretly about: Bob Floyd. You weren’t supposed to fall for the quietest guy in the squad, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to find out. But when he reads the words meant only for home, everything changes—awkward glances, missed chances, and a slow, soft unraveling into something neither of you expected

⋆˙⟡ the vitals don’t lie┃ @ilovebabyonboard

At the San Diego base infirmary, the nurse quietly observes the Top Gun recruits, especially Lieutenant Robert “Bob” Floyd, whose reserved nature and subtle glances don’t go unnoticed. When Bob is rushed in after a bird strike and emergency ejection, vulnerable and injured, the nurse’s concern deepens. Amidst medical checks and quiet moments, a fragile connection forms between them—an unspoken promise of something more once he recovers.

⋆˙⟡ take the shot┃ @pullmecloseman

A retro arcade night turns into something more when you're paired with Bob Floyd during a squad hangout. You start off teasing, competitive, and toeing the line—but every game, glance, and near-touch pulls you both closer to finally admitting what's been simmering for months. Sparks fly under neon lights, ending with a private moment that might just change everything.

⋆˙⟡ you cannot be serious┃ @pullmecloseman

Unplanned road trip. No GPS. One bed. Chaos ensues.

⋆˙⟡ Polaroids┃ @the-shedevil-writes

Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better.

⋆˙⟡ basic chemistry┃ @the-shedevil-writes

When you tag along with your best friend, Bob, to Hangman’s lakehouse for a few days, you expect sunshine, swimming, and maybe a few drinks. You don’t expect the suppressed feelings you've had to start bubbling up, especially when you're sharing close quarters and playing party games that blur the lines of friendship.

⋆˙⟡ drunk on you┃ @the-shedevil-writes

Bob rarely drinks. But after losing a bet with Phoenix, he ends up downing five drinks of her choice—none of them realizing just how absurdly strong they are. Leaving you to take care of your sweet and very drunken boyfriend as he fights for his life.

⋆˙⟡ country girl (shake it for me)┃ @the-shedevil-writes

After admitting to everyone that you wanted to learn how to country line dance, Hangman decides to help teach you. When the Dagger Squad goes to a local country bar to show off your newfound moves, your timid but supportive boyfriend, Bob Floyd, gets a hell of a show.

⋆˙⟡ cliche pt2┃ @scarletmika

There's always a joke surrounding weddings that the Maid of Honor and the Best Man will end up falling in love; it's one of the oldest clichés in the book. When you're the Maid of Honor, though, Bob Floyd wouldn't have it any other way.

⋆˙⟡ drunk words sober truths┃ @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

After one too many drinks, you drunkenly confess your feelings to Bob. The next morning smut ensues. That it guys, thats the plot.

⋆˙⟡ just acquaintances┃ @rhettrosunsets

You knew one thing, you didn't like Bob Floyd and he didn't like you, but when you got get assigned to Top Gun, thing's begin to change. Even if you keep claiming you're just acquaintances.

⋆˙⟡ clear skies┃ @callmebyyourcallsign

You’re the new squad medic assigned to the Dagger detachment, a quiet professional trying to keep your head down in a world of loud personalities. Bob Floyd notices you before anyone else does, the way your hands steady when patching them up, the kindness in your eyes when no one’s watching. What begins as stolen glances and quiet conversations turns into something neither of you can ignore.

⋆˙⟡ bob’s shirt┃ @writingdumpster

When you wear Bob’s shirt to The Hard Deck, your secret relationship is found out. Reader’s callsign is Fox.

⋆˙⟡ he’s all that ┃ @withahappyrefrain

Bob has always been shy, which has gotten in the way of meeting folks. So, his friends decide to give him an impromptu makeover. 

⋆˙⟡ that’s my wife┃ @writesick-lover

⋆˙⟡ he didn’t have to be┃ @imjess-themess

You’re afraid Bob is going to run the other way when your daughter accidentally calls him dad.

⋆˙⟡ the captain’s daughter ┃ @callsignhoney

an unlikely candidate has you breaking your dad (and brother’s) “no pilots” policy

⋆˙⟡ wrapped around your finger┃@layla4567

you and Bob had known each other since kindergarten and elementary school, friends since early childhood. When you least expected it, time and fate brought you back together.

⋆˙⟡ need to know┃ @bussyslayer333

an accidental call to your boyfriend on girls night leaves everyone shocked at a revelation they never thought they would have; bob fucks.

⋆˙⟡ heart flutters┃ @roniii-ii

You’re one of the assigned pilots for the Uranium mission. You’re good at what you do, even if you can be a “little much” towards other people. Little do you know, a certain speckled WSO has already taken a liking to you.

⋆˙⟡ sitting is optional┃ @landojpg04

⋆˙⟡ the shirt between us┃ @ilovebabyonboard

Laundry day at the barracks is a disaster waiting to happen. But accidentally ending up in Bob Floyd’s shirt? That’s a whole new level of chaos. What starts as detergent-soaked embarrassment quickly spirals into squad-wide teasing, a not-so-subtle claim, and a quiet late-night moment that feels a lot like something more. Turns out, one shirt can say a lot.

[cressidagrey]

Building Blocks

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: How to parent a genius: A guide by Oscar Piastri.

Notes: Because I felt like it was very mean to just give you "half" a new piece of writing, with an edited version, here you have some fluff!

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar had long since accepted that he was raising a genius.

It wasn’t the kind of genius that screamed for attention or rattled off multiplication tables at age two (though she could, and did, if she was annoyed enough). No, Bee’s genius was different—patient, precise, methodical in a way that sometimes made Oscar forget she was still learning how to tie her shoes consistently.

At the moment, she was halfway through assembling the LEGO® Technic Ferrari Daytona SP3—3,778 pieces, ages 18+, and she was building it upside down just for fun.

Oscar had found it complicated enough to need a YouTube tutorial and was now trying to attach one very specific connector piece. It was not going well.

“Papa,” Bee said gently, not even looking up from her own section, “that axle doesn’t go there. It’s a two-length, and you’re using a three. That’s why the gearbox won’t sit flat.”

Oscar blinked. “How do you see that?”

She shrugged. “I counted the ridges.”

Of course she had.

He changed the piece, and—miraculously—it clicked into place.

They were seated on the living room rug, surrounded by plastic trays of sorted bricks and half-finished subassemblies. 

Oscar had tried giving her a kid’s set once this year. Something with animals. She’d built it in seven minutes, asked him if it was a prank, and requested the Lamborghini Sián FKP 37 next.

He looked at her now—curled over her build instructions, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration, tiny fingers moving with frightening efficiency—and wondered, not for the first time:

How do you race a kid like this?

Not race in the literal sense.

 Race in the life sense.

How do you raise someone who could probably code her way into a Mars rover before she loses her first tooth?

 How do you parent brilliance?

Oscar loved her completely. That part was easy.

 But raising her… it sometimes felt like trying to build IKEA furniture with the instructions written in Latin while she translated them into quantum theory beside you.

When Bee was two, he’d brought home a simple Lego castle. The 5+ kind. Pink turrets. Smiling bricks. It had taken her twenty-four minutes. No instructions. One correction.

They moved to the 10+ sets after that. Then 12+. 16+.

Now they didn’t bother with age labels. If it didn’t come with multiple gear assemblies and at least two bags of axles, she got bored.

He leaned back, stretching out his legs as she sorted bricks with the focus of someone solving a global crisis. Her curls were pulled back in a lopsided ponytail, and she was humming to herself—some hybrid of Beethoven and the Paw Patrol theme. A mix of classical and chaos. Just like her.

And Oscar found himself smiling.

 “Do you think you’ll want to build real cars one day?”

Bee paused. Thought. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll restore cars like Mama does. I like knowing why something works. Why people make the choices they do.” She looked up at him. “I like your choices.”

Oscar’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“You do?”

She nodded. “You always come home. Even when you go far.”

He swallowed. 

Bee smiled, then reached for another piece, her tiny hands precise. “Mama said you have to go race soon.”

“Yeah. In Japan.”

She nodded. “Don’t forget my shirt.”

Oscar smiled, eyes crinkling. “Never.”

They worked in silence for a while. The only sounds were the click of Lego pieces and the distant hum of the dishwasher.

Oscar watched her move—steady, focused, brilliant. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t question herself. She just knew what she wanted to build and made it happen.

He was raising a genius.

 And not just the kind with facts in her head—though there were plenty. She had empathy. Precision. Curiosity.

And she scared the hell out of him.

 In the best way.

The thing was, Bee wasn’t just smart. Lots of kids were smart. Bee was something else entirely. Curious in a way that never stopped. Observant in ways that made you feel like she could see under your skin if she tilted her head right.

She didn’t just memorize—she understood.

She asked how DRS worked when she was two and followed up with, “But doesn’t that affect battery deployment?”

She once looked at telemetry on Oscar’s laptop and said, “Why are you lifting before Turn 9 now?” and then told him why when he didn’t answer fast enough.

And somehow, she still wanted him to sit beside her while she built things. Still curled up under his arm during movie night. Still called him Papa like it was magic.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, watching her snap together a section of bricks like she'd been born doing it.

“How’d you get so smart?” he asked softly.

Bee didn’t even pause. “Because you and Mama never make me feel weird for asking questions.”

Oscar blinked. His throat tightened.

“You don’t get mad when I want to read the building manual instead of the storybook,” she continued, turning the model gently to check the incline. “And Mama says it’s okay to love logic and glitter.”

Oscar nodded slowly, words caught somewhere between pride and awe.

He watched her now, slotting in a gear mechanism with tiny fingers and utter focus, her brow furrowed like a seasoned engineer.

How do you raise a kid who’s already looking three steps ahead?

Who watches a race and times pit stops with a stopwatch app she downloaded herself?

 Who reads two books a week and corrects the science in children's cartoons?

You don’t try to match her, Oscar thought.

You just show up.

You sit on the floor and sort the bricks. You listen when she talks about dolphins and binary code in the same breath. You answer every question, no matter how bizarre. You fold the shirts. You build the drawer. You take her seriously, because she always takes you seriously.

“Papa?”

Oscar looked up. “Yeah?”

Bee held up a completed axle assembly, expression bright. “Do you want to click this piece into place?”

He smiled. “Will you judge me if I get it wrong again?”

“Only a little.”

“Deal.”

He snapped the piece in. She double-checked it, nodded solemnly, and handed him the next one.

Oscar didn’t know how to raise a genius.

But he was learning how to build with one.

 Moment by moment.

 Brick by brick.

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸  Demon Slayer Crushing HC  𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Tanjiro Kamado, Zenitsu Agatsuma, Inosuke Hashibira, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, comedic obsession, feral affection, dumb boy behavior, light possessiveness (Inosuke) ♡ Notes: Just some silly, sweet headcanons about the boys crushing so hard it’s embarrassing. I love them. That’s it. Hashiras next?

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🐉 Tanjiro Kamado 

He tries so hard to act normal around you but accidentally zones out when you’re talking because he’s just... staring at you

With sparkly puppy eyes

“Wait, sorry—could you say that again? You just… looked really peaceful for a second.”

Trains twice as hard after you compliment him once

“You’re really strong, Tanjiro!”

Now he’s fighting boulders in the rain like it’s a romantic training montage

When you’re sick or hurt, he goes into Big Brother Mode™

Becomes your unpaid live-in nurse

Brings you soup, tucks you in, will NOT let you lift a finger

Keeps trying to bake you things

He’s not very good at it, but he’s determined

One day he shows up with slightly burnt mochi and big hopeful eyes

“It’s not too hard, right? You can still chew it?”

Has 100% memorized the exact way you laugh

Hears it across camp and turns like a sunflower to the sun

Writes your name in the dirt with a stick and immediately blushes and erases it

But does it again the next day

One of the only people who listens when you talk about small stuff

“I like plum blossoms” you had said once absentmindedly

Two weeks later he hands you a hairpin carved from plum wood

Will not realize you like him back unless you spell it out

You could kiss him and he’d be like :3

“They must be really affectionate! Wait—”

The second you confirm you like him too?

He gets so flustered he almost forgets to breathe

Smiles so bright he practically glows

“I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’re exhausted, a little scraped up, and trying to insist you’re fine. Tanjiro isn’t having it.

“No, sit. Please.” His brows are furrowed, voice gentle but firm as he presses a cool cloth to your forehead. “You always take care of everyone else. Let me do this.”

You try to argue, but he hushes you with a soft smile—barely there, but warm.

“I’ll feel better if you just rest,” he adds, almost shy. “And… I like being near you like this.”

Your heart skips. His ears go pink. And still, his hands are steady.

⚡ Zenitsu Agatsuma

Falls hard, fast, and dramatically.

Sees you once and is already crying under a tree writing your names together in the bark

Tries to make himself look cool when you’re around

Which means he’s striking weird poses and talking in an unnatural deep voice that immediately breaks into a squeak

Panics if you sit next to him

Like full-body tremble, face-bright-red

“Stay cool stay cool stay cool”

He definitely does not stay cool

Will fight a mountain if you say you’re cold

“I’LL FIND FIREWOOD! I’LL STEAL THE SUN IF I HAVE TO!!”

Writes love letters to you in his notebook

Never sends them

If you ever found them?

He would die

Literally disintegrate on the spot

Whenever you do something kind for him—tie a bandage, give him food—he goes silent and then bursts into tears

“YOU’RE SO NICE TO ME I’M NOT WORTHY”

Overanalyzes everything you do

“They touched my shoulder. That means we’re married, right?”

Surprisingly good at noticing when you’re down

Will act like a complete fool if it means he gets to hear you laugh

If you like him back?

You are his everything

He will cry

He will train harder

He will whisper about you to birds

“I’ll become someone worthy of them!”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You’re patching him up again—knees scuffed, robe ripped, crying about something and nothing. He sniffles, watching you wrap the bandage with careful fingers.

“You always treat me like I matter,” he whispers, voice wobbling. “Even when I’m a coward. Even when I mess up.”

You blink, and before you can answer, he grabs your hands in his.

“I’ll get stronger,” he swears. “For you. So I can protect you like you deserve.”

Then his nose starts bleeding.

You sigh. He swoons. It’s a whole thing.

🐗 Inosuke Hashibira

The moment he realizes he likes you?

That’s it

You're his person now

No angst

No confusion

“YOU’RE MINE!!”

Tries to court you the only way he knows how

 Backflips into rivers, headbutts trees, fights two boars just to flex

“LOOK, LOOK, I’M FAST. I’M STRONG. YOU LIKE STRONG, RIGHT??”

Brings you “gifts”

Like a wrench, a door hinge, a rock shaped like a potato

“IT’S SHINY. IT’S COOL. KEEP IT.”

Doesn’t understand boundaries

 Will sit next to you while you’re eating, sleeping, brushing your teeth

“IF I’M NOT NEAR YOU, HOW WILL YOU SEE HOW AMAZING I AM???”

When you confess?

He just nods, like it confirms what he already knew

“OBVIOUSLY YOU LIKE ME. I’M THE BEST. COME WATCH ME PUNCH THIS TREE IN YOUR HONOR.”

Immediately starts calling you his

Loudly

“THEY’RE MINE. BACK OFF OR I’LL BITE YOU.”

Will 100% fight Zenitsu daily to assert mating dominance

“YOU STAY AWAY. I SAW THEM FIRST. I HAVE CLAIMED THEM ALREADY.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You help him pull a splinter from his hand. That’s it. That’s all it takes.

The next morning, he’s sitting at your side like a feral cat who’s decided you’re family now.

“You fixed my hand,” he grunts. “That means you’re mine.”

You laugh. He scowls. “I’m serious! You belong in my pack now. Don’t wander off.”

He follows you everywhere. Drops random things in your lap. Fights Zenitsu twice before breakfast.

When you finally ask why he’s acting like a territorial forest spirit, he puffs out his chest and says:

“Because you’re important. Duh.”

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[charliemwrites]

Hiiiii! So I’m not super thrilled with this but I’ve been having a time of it at work so I worked on this when I could 🙃

Not sure if there will be a second part yet tbh we’ll see!

Edit: almost forgot to add that the gorgeous divider below is by @gildui they have some absolutely beautiful cod themed dividers.

Carrion

Reader comes back Wrong

Content: implied/referenced torture, injury, suicide reference/implicated “pact” (by background character), lack of wound care

The breakup was bad.

Not in the top 3 of Simon’s worst nightmare-inducing memories - but likely top 5. He certainly wakes up chest aching and eyes burning often enough for it to be a solid contender. He’s haunted by tears that dripped like acid and the cracks in your voice deafening him.

On bad days, he thinks he can still see you shuffling down the halls, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, dark circles and chapped lips. Anger giving way to resignation giving way to pain and sadness. The rest of the team tight-lipped and wincing, no sides taken, shoulders and ears offered equally in commiseration.

Your misery wanted no company, though.

You didn’t tell Simon that you were leaving. Gaz let slip over a subdued but obligatory game of cards, you’d be gone for a long time - loaned out to Laswell.

Simon didn’t go to see you off. Didn’t ask why you were leaving or accuse you of being too immature to be on a team with him. He didn’t wish you good luck, stay safe with the rest of the team on the tarmac at 0-dark when you took off.

He should have.

Price says you’ll be gone for six months. Just six. It’s better this way, he reminds them when Johnny balks. His eyes are on Simon, though, when he adds that you need to get your head on straight, and you weren’t able to do it with them.

So. Six months.

Simon stops expecting you on his left. Stops smelling your shampoo lingering on bits of clothes he pretended not to notice you steal. He still dreams about you begging him not to push you away.

183 days come and go.

On day 184, Laswell sends word - your temporary team likes you quite a bit. They want you to stay on for one more month… one more mission… one more…

Six months turns to ten.

312 days since you left; since you were home.

The team hasn’t stopped leaving a space for you at their tables, right between Gaz and Price. You miss your own birthday. Laswell says she’ll pass along well wishes.

The situation changes. A target resurfaces. All hands on deck, including yours.

374 days. Twelve months and some change.

They don’t spend the holidays with you, but there’s a stack of presents waiting in Price’s office. Your mugs have collected dust in the back of the rec room cabinet.

Laswell says you’re still deployed on one last mission, return TBD. Soon, though.

487 days. Still TBD. Soon. Really. Just some loose ends to tie up.

561 days. There was some trouble during exfil but you’re alright. Just a bit of recovery.

You’re coming home.

590 days. You’ll land at 0700 tomorrow.

It’s been 591 days since Simon last saw you. Since any of them last saw you.

Laswell has come to deliver you personally, a kind of apology for keeping you away so long. She’s the first off the transport and you’re right behind her.

Your hair is shorter. Much, much shorter. There’s a new patch on your jacket - memento from your temporary team, Simon figures.

Apart from that, you look… almost exactly how you did when you left. Dark circles under your eyes, mouth drawn and tight. There’s invisible weight compressing your shoulders, urging them in and down. But you’re there again. Just the way he remembers.

(Why are you the way he remembers?)

“Long time, no see,” Gaz calls, reaching for you.

There’s half a beat, you blink. Hesitate.

Then you grin and reach back.

“Missed my pretty face, did you?” you reply.

Johnny laughs and brings you in for a hug. You twitch hug him back, patting his shoulder as you pull away.

“Good to have you back, Sergeant,” Price says, shaking your hand.

You turn to Simon, nod in greeting, expression pleasant. “Ghost.”

So that’s how it’ll be? Alright.

“Sergeant.”

That night, you go out for drinks with the team and Laswell. Simon goes along to show there are no hard feelings.

(Not that you seem to need reassurance. It’s not even that you’re not looking at him. You are. Whenever he speaks, the rare times he does, or if he shifts in his seat. Your gaze doesn’t linger or jerk away, you treat him like you do Johnny and Gaz and Price.)

When Johnny mixes up your usual for Price’s, you don’t even seem to notice. But Simon does.

“When did you start drinking whiskey?” he wonders.

You used to swear you’d never like it, claiming it tasted like boot polish and the “Boys Club” wasn’t worth the indigestion it gave you.

“Someone from my other team,” you say by way of explanation.

You don’t ask for another whiskey. Laswell gets the rest of your drinks for that night.

Simon turns into the rec room two days later and finds you already there. There’s only the light above the sink on, and you’re staring at the steady drip, drip, drip from the faucet. A cup of black coffee cools in your hand. You’re already wearing gloves.

“Sugar’s in the left now,” he calls.

Your head twitches, something pops in your neck.

“Oh, thanks,” you chirp, turning for the cabinet. “Sleep okay, LT?”

“‘Bout as well as I ever do,” he replies gruffly, sidling up next to you for the kettle.

You hum. There’s a yellow packet in your hand. (Didn’t you used to like the blue one?)

“I get that,” you sympathize.

He snorts. Since when?

“Do you?”

When he glances down, you’re not looking at him. Instead, you’re trying (and failing) to get the sink to stop dripping.

“You know that’s been broken for ages,” he says.

At least as long as the 141 has been around. You tried to fix it once when you first joined up, too, with no luck.

“Right,” you say. A little too quickly, a little too agreeably. “Well, anyway, enjoy your tea, Lieutenant.”

You leave the packet of sugar behind. Unopened.

You’re back and it’s like it used to be - not just before you left, but before the breakup. Before there was ever anything to break up.

Your time away seems to have given you whatever space from Simon you were hoping for, because you act like there was never anything at all.

He’s half expecting, dreading, that you’ll pull him aside at some point. Ask for a word after dinner, or swing by his room before bed. Talk about the break up now that cooler heads prevail and 19 months have sanded down the rough feelings. Seek closure, maybe.

But you don’t. The weeks pass until a month has gone and you never exchange more than easy pleasantries with Simon. You give him space, give him privacy. Things you never used to give him much of before, for better or worse.

You fool around with Gaz and Johnny, trade quips with Price, and follow Simon’s orders. Train recruits. Write reports.

You’re back, better than ever.

So why does it feel like Simon’s still waiting for you to return?

You’re always dressed now, head to toe. Day or night, rain or shine. From the neck down you’re in full sleeves, long pants, boots and gloves.

It doesn’t occur to anyone until you’re sweating through your compression shirt in the gym. Wipe your shiny forehead for the dozenth time before Johnny says, “why not just take it off?”

“It’s not that bad,” you laugh, waving him off.

When you lie down to bench press, Simon notes the bottom of your shirt tucked tight into your waistband. He exchanges a glance with Johnny - he’s seen it too.

You used to dress in shorts and sports bras during exercise, a towel over your shoulder. In the common room, you’d mill in tank-tops and boxers. Even used to trot down the hall swaddled in a towel or robe, mumbling that you forgot a razor or some other toiletry before showering.

“What, did ye get an embarrassing tattoo or somethin’?” Johnny asks finally.

You blink at him, expression bemused. “A tattoo? Why do you think I have a tattoo?”

“Yer covered up like a nun on Sunday. It cannae be comfortable.”

You snort. “Just because you’re allergic to clothes, MacTavish…”

“Allergic?! Wha’s tha’ s’posed t’mean?!”

Gaz barks a laugh. You grin and continue your workout.

Simon tries not to be disturbed by the name “MacTavish” coming off your tongue for the first time since you met.

It’s your first mission since you’ve been back. You have new gear, a new handgun. Something’s been carved into the side of the barrel in Cyrillic, Simon can’t read it. A new callsign.

(“What kind of a name is Carry-on?” Johnny teases, but he doesn’t quite hide the unease in his eyes.

You snort and lace your boots tighter. The edge of you sleeve inches up, revealing the curve of a glossy scar that wasn’t there before.

“You’re one to talk Mister Maybelline.”)

Someone painted an upside down cross on the temple of your helmet with their finger. You thumb it before stuffing it over your head.

“You ready for this?” Gaz asks, knocking his knee into yours. The two of you have been paired together for this mission. (Was it Simon’s imagination, or did you look annoyed that you would have a partner?)

“Always,” you reply.

Simon doesn’t hear what happens, but Gaz looks shellshocked when you haul him into the helicopter during exfil. You shake him a bit once everything is secure and the bird’s in the air.

“Garrick,” you shout, “c’mon, where did he get you?”

It takes him a second but he blinks, offers his arm for your inspection. You move with a speed even Simon is impressed by, tearing into the nearby med kit almost viciously. Gaz is patched up in record time and you sit back with blood on your hands, barely even seem to notice as you wipe them carelessly on your pants.

(You used to be more squeamish, weren’t you? You used to be the last one they asked for medical care because seeing your teammates in pain made you nauseous.)

“What about you?” Gaz asks after a small eternity.

You yawn. “What about me?”

“You got nicked too, didn’t you?”

Simon takes a second look at you and now that Gaz mentions it, you’re soaked in blood. Wet patches on your vest, your pants, dripping down your boots. It takes him a moment to notice the tear in your thigh, shredded flesh visible when you rock with the wind turbulence.

“Did I?” you wonder, glancing down like you only just noticed it.

Johnny curses, reaches for you - but you wave him off.

“It’s just a scratch,” you reply. “Barely even feel it, no worries.”

Then why is it still bleeding?

When the team lands, you hop off the heli without so much as a wince. Droplets of blood lead all the way back to your room.

(When Simon asks Nikolai about the hand-etching on your gun, he says the word means “promise.”)

In the after-action report, your callsign isn’t “Carry-On.” It’s Carrion.

Laswell takes you off the mission two months later, a joint assignment with KorTac. They send three operators to work with TF141 - Stiletto, Konig, and Nikto.

On the transport to infil, Simon notices the Russian inspecting his handgun in a seat separated from the rest of the squad. He recognizes the Cyrillic carved into the barrel this time: Promise.

It’s an eerie, creeping suspicion. An anxious fog rolling in.

It’s not one single thing that trips an alarm in Simon’s head, but a steady collation of oddities over months. A single arhythmic beat, a note off key. Just once or twice, but over and over until he can’t notice anything else.

You act just like yourself except for all the minute ways you don’t.

You smile big and wide, sunshine bright, when they make a good joke. Your laugh is still the same, bubbling up in your throat, head thrown back. You smell the same when you pass Simon in the hall, shampoo and soap that’s haunted him for a year and a half.

It’s insidiously subtle; he can’t pinpoint what it is for the longest time. Your mannerisms are almost too practiced, the cadence of your voice too measured. A missing turn of phrase you often used, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Simon dismisses it as guilt-laden paranoia. The two of you ended on bad terms with a year and half worth of space between. He’s hardly one to gauge what’s normal for you anymore.

And besides, the few times someone else has noticed at those tiny yet all-too-obvious inconsistencies, you shrug it off as something you picked up while away.

But he catches Johnny’s brows furrow one afternoon as you light up a cig (after swearing for years that you’d never pick up the habit) and Simon knows he’s beginning to see it too.

“You ever notice,” Gaz begins slowly. You’re the only one missing from the rec room this evening, retired with a drawn-out yawn. “That Carrion always mentions being away, but never talks about it?”

Simon stills. Johnny’s eyes fly to Price, who’s grimly tapping at his crossword puzzle.

“The file’s redacted,” he says. He’s seen it too then, tried to investigate for himself.

“That’s normal for a mission like that,” Simon reasons carefully.

“I don’t mean the mission,” Price says. “I mean Carrion’s file.”

“This is a good movie,” you mumble from the armchair you’ve stolen from Price. “What’s it called?”

Simon exchanges glances with the rest of the team. No one points out that this is (used to be?) your favorite.

Price looks into the team you were loaned out to. All were KIA or remain MIA. All but one. His file has been scrubbed too, the only documents readable are discharge orders and a PMC contract, both associated with the callsign “Nikto.”

They’re running out of time.

Less than 36 hours on the clock with only one lead, and it’s a zealot with a suicide pact. Price and Laswell both took a crack at him with nothing to show for it. Even Ghost has gotten hardly anything and he’s running out of nails. With time, he might get something useful, but they don’t have much of that left.

In the anteroom looking into interrogation, you’ve been observing through the one-way glass with your hands in your pockets, head tilted, expression serene.

Price and Laswell are discussing strategy, contingencies. Gaz and Johnny are throwing in their two cents, but Simon… Simon is watching you.

Like medical, torture used to be your Achilles. You were trained like the rest of the team, but there was never any need for you to step into the room yourself. Hell, you were a last resort even for observation or emergency resuscitation. No one blamed you for having a weak stomach for information extraction.

But today, you glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with Laswell.

“I’ll handle it,” you say with an air of finality.

The room goes silent. Price opens his mouth, but it’s Laswell that speaks, voice hard with resignation.

“Do it.”

You don’t blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk out the door without a backwards glance, shoulders loose but each step steady and purposeful.

“What the hell is going on, Kate?” Price demands.

Kate sighs, looks away as you enter the interrogation room.

“Let’s do this outside. It won’t take long to get that intel.”

The only thing she’s able to share is that you and your team were captured. For a long time. And then you’re already stepping out of the interrogation room, wiping your bloodied hands off on an old rag.

There’s an unusual glint in your eye, an unnatural stillness in your expression.

“Got what we need,” you announce cheerfully.