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cressidagrey · 20 days ago

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White Horse - Chapter 39: November 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

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

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

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Belle Verstappen

Lando:Be honest. How bad is my streaming room?

Belle: Like, on a scale from “man cave” to “tech bro disaster”?

Lando: Rude. Also fair.

Belle:It’s not awful. But it does give strong “I decorated this room using a Twitch sponsorship and vibes” energy.

Lando:Okay but the vibes were good. At the time. I was going through my neon phase.

Belle:You had a neon lava lamp, Lando.

Lando: It was a gift!! From Max!!

Belle: That explains so much. I’m redoing it. You’re letting me redo it.

Lando: Am I?

Belle: Yes. You want it to look mature but still fun. Functional, stylish, and with proper acoustic panels so your mic doesn’t make you sound like you’re yelling from a cave.

Lando: …That’s freakishly accurate.

Belle: I’ve already made a mood board. Color scheme: charcoal, navy, brass accents. Textured wall behind your desk, floating shelves for your absurd helmet collection, and better lighting. Actual lighting. Not RGB strips from 2017.

Lando: Are you… secretly a wizard?

Belle: No. Just a designer with a vendetta against gamer chairs and collapsing shelving.

Lando: Okay. Sold.

Belle: And the lava lamp is going in storage.

Lando: RIP. You better replace it with something cool.

Belle: I’m replacing it with style. Try not to cry.

Lando:…can I at least keep some helmets in that room?

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Belle: Guess who just agreed to let me redo his streaming room?

Emilie: Please tell me it’s Lando. I’ve been praying someone would rescue that room from LED purgatory.

Belle: It’s Lando. I’ve never seen so many clashing racing helmets in my life. It was giving “teenage YouTuber in 2014 with a Mountain Dew addiction.”

Emilie: Was there a gamer chair?

Belle: Of course there was a gamer chair. And it creaks. Loudly. Like it’s haunted by bad posture.

Emilie: Send pics. I need to mourn it before you fix it.

Belle: Already made a mood board. We’re doing navy and brass, texture walls, hidden cable management. The lava lamp is being retired.

Emilie: Oh thank GOD. Tell it I said thank you for its service and then banish it to the storage closet.

Belle: It was a gift from Max.

Emilie: That explains everything and I refuse to unpack it. Will there be plants?

Belle: Of course. He needs oxygen. And emotional support greenery.

Emilie: You’re doing the lord’s work. If you find any weird gamer relics in there, I want photos.

Belle: Deal.

***

The project began on a Friday afternoon, with Belle wielding a measuring tape like a weapon and Emilie showing up with iced coffee, a clipboard, and zero patience for cable clutter.

Lando had opened the door to his flat, taken one look at the two of them—Belle in a linen jumpsuit with swatches tucked into her pocket, Emilie already pulling furniture covers from a tote bag—and said nothing. He just stepped aside with a long-suffering sigh and muttered, “I’ll be in the kitchen, if you need me.”

Max, Belle’s husband and current reigning three time world champion, had trailed in behind them, carrying a linen tote bag filled with pregnancy approved snacks and immediately followed Lando into the kitchen. Because he, too, had learned: when Belle and Emilie joined forces on a redesign, your only job was to stay out of the way and not touch anything.

“They are scary when they are in the zone,” Max had whispered to Lando over a piece of toast.

“I know,” Lando muttered. “They brought a label maker, Max. And Emilie just said ‘RGB is a disease.’”

By Saturday, the chaos was in full swing.

The old desk had been dismantled and banished to the hallway. The gamer chair had been silently wheeled into the corner like a shamed toddler. Belle was on her knees laying out a wool area rug, mumbling about sound dampening and grounding visual anchors. Emilie stood on a ladder, removing a neon sign like she was defusing a bomb.

They’d patched the wall behind Lando’s desk and painted it a deep, moody navy that made the brass light fixtures pop. Floating walnut shelves went up next, showcasing a curated selection of Lando’s trophies and helmets, signed McLaren memorabilia, and—because Belle insisted—two potted trailing plants named Steve and Mike.

“There’s symmetry and then there’s emotional balance,” Belle had said firmly when Emilie raised an eyebrow.

“I’m agreeing with that,” Emilie replied, adjusting Steve’s leaves.

Meanwhile, Max and Lando had spent most of the weekend in the living room and occasionally sneaking glances around the corner like two frightened raccoons trying to assess whether it was safe to return to their natural habitat.

“They’re putting velvet curtains in,” Lando whispered at one point.

Max shrugged. “Be grateful.”

Lando muttered something unrepeatable into his tea.

By Sunday night, the transformation was complete.

The room was warm and modern, layered in navy and walnut with soft lighting, acoustic panels hidden in the design, and a desk setup that Emilie described as “visually soothing and emotionally stable.” The custom cable channeling meant no wires in sight. The old gamer chair had been replaced with a sleek ergonomic one Belle swore was Max-tested and spine-approved.

They turned off the lights, leaving only the soft golden glow of the wall sconces and the ambient light under the floating desk. The whole room felt like someone finally believed Lando deserved a space that looked like he took himself seriously—and had fun doing it.

Max poked his head in first. “Wow,” he said, a little stunned.

Lando followed. He didn’t speak for a moment.

“...I think I just leveled up,” he whispered finally.

Belle grinned and leaned against the doorframe, rubbing her bump. “You’re welcome. And now,” Belle added, “you can stream without looking like you are committing war crime against aesthetics.””

Lando grinned. “I owe you both.”

“You owe us cookies,” Emilie corrected. “And an annual deep clean.”

Lando held up both hands in surrender. “Deal.”

And with that, the room was done.

Stream-ready.

Belle-certified.

Emilie-approved. ***

Text Messages: Sophie Kumpen & Belle Verstappen

Sophie Max will be in Las Vegas for the Grand Prix. Which means you’ll be eight months pregnant and unsupervised.

So. Victoria and I are going to the Provence for a spa weekend. You’re coming with us. I’ve already booked a suite. There are prenatal massages, croissants, and mineral pools. Say yes.

Belle: Yes. Absolutely yes. Tell Victoria I’m packing floaty dresses. Also, thank you. 🩷

Sophie: I’ll bring the mocktails. Victoria is already threatening to bring five books and not talk to anyone.

Belle: Perfect. I’ll bring snacks for when she caves and starts talking again after 45 minutes.

Sophie: You’re my favorite daughter-in-law.

***

Belle was curled up on the sofa, one of Max’s hoodies stretched over her bump, her bare feet propped on the coffee table as she scrolled through her phone. Max was on the floor in front of her, cross-legged and half-focused on some sim racing footage on the TV, Lilly the cat asleep against his thigh.

"Your mum texted me," Belle said, smiling faintly.

Max looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“She and Victoria are kidnapping me for a spa weekend in Provence while you're in Vegas.” She tilted her phone toward him. “It’s already booked. There are croissants involved. I said yes before she even finished explaining.”

Max grinned and turned back around. “Good. I was hoping she’d offer. You’ll be eight months by then. I hate leaving.”

“I’ll be fine,” Belle said softly. “And she’s right. I’ll be unsupervised and swollen and probably dramatic about towel textures by that point.”

“You’re always dramatic about towel textures.”

She narrowed her eyes, but she was smiling. “I like what I like.”

“I know,” Max murmured. Then, “Thank you for going. I feel better knowing you won’t be alone.”

Belle’s expression softened. She reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair. “You know,” she said, “sometimes I look at my phone after your family texts me and just… sit there for a second. Because they talk to me. Like I matter. Like they want me around.”

Max’s shoulders dropped. He didn’t say anything yet, just leaned into her touch.

She took a breath. “I love your side of our family. Your mum, Victoria… Even Jos. It all feels like—like they just love me. No caveats.”

Max turned and rested his chin on her knee, looking up at her. “Because they do,” he said. “You’re not just mine, Belle. You’re ours. And they’re just as protective of you as I am.”

Belle blinked, warmth settling behind her eyes. “Don’t say that unless you’re prepared for me to cry.”

“Then cry,” Max said simply, and kissed her knee. “You deserve to have people who love you like that.”

She brushed his cheek with her thumb. “I really do love your family.”

Max smiled. “They love you back.”

There was a pause, quiet and golden.

Then Belle sniffed and said, “Also, I’m bringing snacks for when Victoria caves and starts talking forty-five minutes into her self-imposed reading silence.”

Max huffed a laugh. “You know her too well.”

***

Text Messages: Sophie Kumpen & Max Verstappen

Max: Thanks for inviting Belle to Provence. She’s really happy. And I feel better knowing she’ll be with you and Victoria while I’m gone.

Sophie: Don’t be ridiculous.

Sophie: We’re not inviting her. We’re stealing her. For croissants, gossip, and making fun of spa playlist music.

Sophie: She’s ours now. You just married her first.

Max: Fair enough. Still—thank you. I mean it.

Sophie: Max. She’s family. That’s what we do.

***

It started with a text.

From Pascale.

Would you like to have lunch this weekend? Just the two of us. I thought maybe Rue Bonaparte, and then we could look at baby things?

Belle stared at her phone for a solid minute before she even blinked. Then she reread it three times, checked that it hadn’t been sent by one of her brothers using her mother’s phone as some elaborate peace offering, and eventually typed back: Okay. Sure. That sounds nice.

And somehow—miraculously—it was.

Lunch was at a sun-drenched corner café near Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the kind of place Pascale liked because the napkins were linen and the wine list was longer than the menu. But she didn’t comment when Belle asked for sparkling water instead of the house elderflower spritz. She didn’t look unimpressed when Belle ordered the croque monsieur and the side of fries. In fact, she smiled faintly and said, “I craved steak frites the entire time I was pregnant with Arthur. And he came out screaming.”

Belle blinked. “That actually explains a lot.”

Pascale laughed—laughed, not just politely smiled—and that’s when Belle began to suspect something was up.

And it didn’t stop there.

They walked along the street after lunch, window shopping at first. But Pascale slowed in front of a baby boutique with hand-stitched blankets in the window and said, “Let’s go in. I want to spoil him a little.”

Belle didn’t argue.

Inside, they wandered between tiny cardigans and impossibly small socks. Belle hesitated over a onesie shaped like a bunny, then reached for a muslin swaddle patterned with lemons.

“He’s not even here yet,” Pascale murmured, touching the edge of a pale yellow blanket, “and I already feel like I’m behind. Like I missed so much already.”

Belle didn’t know what to say to that. So she didn’t say anything.

They bought the lemon swaddle and a stuffed sheep that Pascale insisted felt “exactly right.” Then they stopped for gelato, and when Pascale asked if Belle wanted to sit or keep walking, she didn’t sound impatient. She just sounded… considerate.

Too considerate.

By the time they reached the little square near the river, Belle was eating pistachio gelato and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

This is going too well, she thought. Something’s wrong.

Where was the casual dismissal of her job? The passive-aggressive commentary about her outfit or her weight or how much bigger the baby bump looked this week? Where was the unsolicited advice about parenting from the woman who forgot her birthday this year?

“Is Max nervous?” Pascale asked, adjusting her sunglasses. “About becoming a father, I mean.”

Belle smiled faintly. “More than he admits. But he’s also ready. He researched car seat safety like he’s prepping for a race.”

Pascale chuckled. “That sounds about right.” And then, after a beat, “You’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

Belle stopped walking. She turned to look at her mother, the world narrowing for a moment to that single sentence.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly. “That means a lot.”

Pascale reached for her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “I’m sorry I don’t always say the things I should. But I do see you, Belle.”

Belle didn’t know what to say to that—so she didn’t. She just nodded and held on to her mother’s hand a moment longer.

Belle still half expected something to crack, for the warm surface of the afternoon to split open. But it didn’t.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

Maybe, for once, they were just two women in the sunshine, buying little green onesies and lemon tarts, and talking like they hadn’t spent years dancing around each other.

Maybe this could be real.

***

The room was quiet, soft-edged with late afternoon light. A lemon balm candle flickered on the windowsill. Simone’s notebook was closed on her lap—always a good sign. No frantic scribbles, no tight-lipped hums of concern. Just presence.

Belle sat cross-legged on the couch, one hand absentmindedly curled over her belly. She looked, for once, not defensive. Just… perplexed.

“So,” Simone said gently, “how was your weekend?”

Belle exhaled. “It started with a text from my mother.”

Simone lifted her eyebrows with just the right amount of encouragement. Not pushing. Just curious.

“She invited me to lunch. Just the two of us. Rue Bonaparte. Baby shopping.” Belle’s voice lilted upward like a question, like she still didn’t quite believe it herself. “And I said yes.”

Simone nodded. “And how did that feel?”

“That’s the thing,” Belle said. “It felt… nice.” She blinked. “It actually was nice. No backhanded compliments. No ‘You know, I never needed maternity jeans until the eighth month.’ She didn’t make a single dig at my water order or my bump or even my outfit, which I thought for sure would be the first to go.”

Simone smiled. “That’s surprising.”

“Exactly!” Belle pointed at her. “That’s what I’m saying. It went too well. I kept waiting for her to slip. For the real Pascale to emerge. But she never did. She told me I’d be a wonderful mother, and—” Her voice cracked a little. “She said she sees me.”

Simone tilted her head. “And how did that feel?”

Belle was quiet for a beat. “Like someone pulled the floor out from under me, but in a good way? Like, I don’t know—maybe she’s… evolving?”

She made a face.

“I mean, is that even allowed? Can a mother just decide to be better now, when you’re eight months pregnant?”

Simone smiled softly. “People can surprise us. Especially when they’ve been watching us grow, even if they haven’t said it out loud.”

Belle frowned. “But what if it doesn’t last? What if this was just some temporary glitch in the Pascale Matrix and next time she’s back to critiquing my throw pillow choices and pretending my job is expensive Pinterest?”

“Then you’ll know how to protect yourself,” Simone said calmly. “You’ve done it before. And if she is evolving, you’ll have the chance to build something new—with boundaries you get to set.”

Belle considered that. “I didn’t expect to feel this… hopeful. Or suspicious about feeling hopeful.”

“That makes sense,” Simone said. “You’ve had to build a lot of your life around preparing for the worst. Hope can feel dangerous when you’ve been taught not to expect anything.”

Belle looked down at her belly and smoothed a hand over it. “She picked out a swaddle. Yellow, with lemons. And a sheep. I don’t know what it means, but it felt… real.”

Simone leaned forward slightly. “It was real. Even if it’s new. Even if it doesn’t erase the past. Real doesn’t always mean permanent. But it still matters.”

Belle nodded slowly. “Okay. So… we’re cautiously accepting that my mother might be evolving?”

Simone smiled. “We’re cautiously allowing space for that possibility. And giving yourself permission to hope, just a little.”

Belle exhaled. “Okay. Cautious hope. I can do that.”

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Belle: Serious question. Is our mother evolving?

Arthur: Wait what???

Charles: Define evolving. Like a Pokémon?

Belle:She invited me to lunch. Just me. No subtle digs. No backhanded comments. She laughed at one of my jokes. Then she took me baby shopping. It went too well. She didn’t even comment on my croque monsieur order. She just told me she craved steak frites with Arthur and I said, “That explains a lot,” and she laughed. Not fake laughed. Real laughed.

Arthur: I actually am kind of offended now

Charles: So she was… nice? Like, actively nice?

Belle: Yes. Like. Gentle. She held my hand in a park and said she sees me.

Lorenzo: …maybe she’s trying.

Belle: I know. That’s the weirdest part.

Charles: Do you want us to prepare a family intervention in case she reboots to factory settings?

Arthur: I can bring snacks. And sage.

Belle: No. Just. I don’t know. If she is changing, I kind of want to believe it.

Lorenzo: Then believe it. You’ve survived the older version. You can handle the beta test.

Charles: Wow. That was almost wise.

Arthur: Who are you and what have you done with Lorenzo?

Belle: Thanks, idiots. I’ll let you know if she glitches.

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Charles: I think your mother’s intervention worked. Pascale invited Belle to lunch. No insults. No weird tension. They went baby shopping. She told Belle she’d be a wonderful mother.

Max: Yeah. I know.

Charles: You… knew this would happen?? It’s like Maman got a firmware update.

Max: Your mum needed a mirror. Mine just held it up.

Charles: Remind me to never underestimate your mother again.

***

Max found his wife on the living room floor, surrounded by wrapping paper, twine, and an open laptop filled with bookmarked gift guides, while the cats were fighting over snowflake encrusted ribbon.

It was November.

Not even late November. Just a cool breeze and some falling leaves—not a single jingle bell in sight. And yet, Belle was halfway through wrapping something suspiciously soft and sweater-shaped, a small stack of gifts already growing beside her like she was Santa Claus with an interior design degree.

Max leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her tie a perfect ribbon.

"Do I even want to ask?"

Belle didn’t look up. “You’ll thank me in December when you’re not panicking at 11 p.m. on the 23rd because your dad is impossible to shop for.”

Max snorted. “You say that like that has ever happened”

“It won’t this year,” she said triumphantly, then paused, her fingers resting on the ribbon. “Well. Maybe not. Depending on when Emilian decides to show up.”

Max walked over and sat beside her, careful not to crush any of the packages. She leaned slightly against his shoulder without even thinking about it.

“I was thinking about Christmas,” she said quietly. “If he’s on time, we’ll have a newborn. If he’s late, I’ll be nine months pregnant and shaped like a festive blimp.”

“You’re never shaped like a blimp,” he muttered automatically.

Belle poked him with the end of a gift tag. “Anyway. I was thinking… if you want to go celebrate with your family, that’s fine. I just don’t think I want to travel. I think I want to be here. In our home. Just us. Or whoever wants to come to us.”

Max blinked. “You think I’m going to go to Belgium without you?”

She gave him a soft look. “Max, it’s your family. And it’s Christmas. I wouldn’t be upset—”

“I would,” he cut in gently. “You’re my family. Emilian is our family. Of course we’re celebrating together. What, do you think I’m going to leave you here while I eat kerstkransjes with Victoria and send you pictures of them out of guilt?”

Belle blinked once. “I mean. I wouldn’t put it that way…”

He shook his head, smiling. “You’re ridiculous. We’re staying here. Anyone who wants to be part of it can come to us. I’ll cook. We’ll keep the baby monitor on the table between the mashed potatoes and the candles. And we’ll put a tiny christmas onesie under the tree just in case he arrives on time.”

Belle exhaled. Not in that anxious way she sometimes did when she was trying to be reasonable about disappointment—but with relief. Quiet, glowing, tear-pricking relief.

“Okay,” she said. “Then I’ll keep shopping. And I’m getting Emilian a stocking. Even if he sleeps through the whole thing.”

“He’s going to be the most spoiled newborn on the planet,” Max said fondly.

“He’ll be loved,” Belle corrected, and Max looked at her like she’d just wrapped that sentence around his heart.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “He already is.”

***

Group Chat: Santa’s Elves

(Members: Max, Victoria, Tom and Sophie)

Max: Hey. Belle and I talked—if the baby’s not here yet, or even if he is—we’re staying in Monaco for Christmas. So if you want to come celebrate with us, you’re more than welcome.

Sophie: Of course we’re coming. Don’t be silly.

Victoria: Already blocked the dates. I’ll bring the good wine and the slightly evil board games.

Tom: We’ll sort our travel and be there.

Sophie: But Max—listen to me carefully. You are not making a fuss.

Victoria: Yeah, don’t you dare start stress-cooking for twelve.

Tom: And no overdecorating. You’re not turning your house into a Christmas market.

Sophie: Belle is too pregnant to be managing any chaos. We’re coming to help. Not to be hosted.

Victoria: We’ll take care of the food. You focus on keeping Belle fed and calm and off her feet.

Sophie: And if you so much as look like you’re about to mop the floors on Christmas morning, I will personally confiscate your Dyson.

Max: … I feel very attacked right now.

Victoria: Good.

Tom: We love you. Sit down.

Sophie: This year, you two get to just be together. That’s the gift. We’ll take care of the rest.

Max: …Okay fine. But I’m still putting the star on the tree.

Victoria: You’re going to cry doing it, aren’t you?

Max: No. Shut up.

Tom: I’ll bring tissues.

Sophie: We’ll bring champagne. You bring the baby cuddles. See you in Monaco, Papa Noël.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Belle, want to get lunch today? Just us. I swear I won’t bring emotional damage as a side dish.

Belle: Tempting. But I’m at the stables. Fleur’s farrier is coming this afternoon and she’s already threatening to kick the fence again.

Arthur: That’s my niece 😌

Lorenzo: We’ve officially reached the stage where your horse has more personality than most people I know.

Belle:She’s overdue for a trim. I promised I’d be there.

Charles: Can I… come too?

Arthur: You? Around hooves?

Lorenzo: Remember when a pigeon landed near you and you nearly dislocated your shoulder?

Charles: It swooped. There’s a difference.

Belle: You can come if you want. Bring snacks. And maybe don’t wear white.

Charles: Done. See you in an hour.

***

Charles had expected the stables to be… bigger, somehow. Louder, maybe. He wasn’t sure. His experience with horses was limited to the occasional sponsor event or the memory of Blanche—distant, blurred at the edges, like something from a former life Belle never spoke about.

Charles hadn’t been to a stable since he was a child.

Back when Belle used to spend every spare minute brushing down Blanche, her beloved white mare, whispering secrets into a soft gray mane. Before the selling of the horse. Before the silence that followed. Before racing became everything and Belle… didn’t.

He wasn’t sure what he expected, really.

A field, maybe. Some fences. Mud. A wary welcome.

What he didn’t expect was this.

The stable was nestled just past the edge of a forest, tucked behind low stone walls and a lavender-lined path. Not silent, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that settled into your chest. Birds in the rafters. The soft rustle of hay. The muffled thud-thud of hooves from a nearby stall.

He followed the directions Belle had sent him—“turn left at the blue wheelbarrow and come find me in the second barn”—carrying two coffees and attempting not to look too out of place in his designer trainers.

When he reached the second barn, she was already there. Hair tied back, sleeves pushed up, leaning over the partition of one of the stalls, murmuring something too soft for him to hear.

The horse inside—a dapple-grey mare with alert ears and a sweeping tail—turned her head slightly when Charles approached, eyeing him with the cool appraisal of a queen meeting a commoner.

Belle glanced over her shoulder. “You made it.”

“I brought coffee,” he offered, holding out the cup.

“Fleur,” she said, still focused on the mare, “this is Charles. He’s family. Be nice.”

Fleur blinked slowly and then—shockingly—took two deliberate steps forward. She dipped her head just enough to sniff his extended hand.

“She’s usually very suspicious,” Belle said, amused. “She doesn’t like new people.”

“Great,” Charles muttered. “A horse with judgment. Just what I needed.”

Belle chuckled and stroked Fleur’s neck. “She won’t bite. She just likes to make you work for it.”

Charles reached out cautiously, palm open. Fleur sniffed him, then snorted and turned her head, as if dismissing him entirely. Belle burst out laughing.

“She is you,” Charles said, deadpan. “This is just you in horse form.”

“No,” Belle corrected. “She liked Max immediately. She’s just got taste.”

Charles looked between Belle and the mare. “She’s… beautiful.”

“She’s Blanche’s daughter,” Belle said, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it. “Max found her for me. Gave her to me for his birthday this year.”

He swallowed. He had known that. Of course he had known that.

Charles didn’t know how to respond. Instead, he followed Belle toward the paddock, where another, much smaller horse pranced under the loose eye of the stable staff.

“Is that…?”

“Galahad,” Belle said, beaming. “Fleur’s foal. He’s six months old and believes the world revolves around him. He’s not wrong.”

The foal was all legs and mischief, a lanky blur of black. He trotted over when Belle clicked her tongue, nosing at her stomach like he knew something important was growing there.

Galahad stretched out his neck, sniffing toward Charles, then let out a small, squeaky huff that made Belle laugh.

“He’s trying to be intimidating,” she said. “He is very bad at it.”

Charles smiled. “He’s cute.”

Belle raised a brow. “Don’t let Fleur hear you call her son cute.”

“I stand corrected.” Charles raised his hands in mock surrender. “He’s fierce and majestic.”

“Better.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I forgot how much you loved this,” Charles said quietly.

“I didn’t,” Belle replied. She glanced back at Fleur, who was now peeking over her stall door like she didn’t trust them out of her sight. “I just stopped letting myself want it. For a while.”

Charles nodded slowly. “I’m sorry we sold Blanche.”

Belle looked at him—really looked…there wasn’t coldness behind her eyes. Just history. Just ache, and growth, and maybe something like peace.

“I know,” she said. “And I forgave you a long time ago. I just needed something of mine back.”

Belle handed him a carrot.

“For Fleur?” he asked.

“For you,” she deadpanned. Then, with a faint smile, “Yes, for Fleur. Win her over. She might let you pat her mane if you’re lucky.”

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: I would like it formally stated that horses are terrifying. That is all.

Arthur: HAHAHAHA What did Fleur do??

Charles: Looked into my soul. Then headbutted me when I tried to scratch her nose.

Lorenzo: You went to the stables today? Alone??

Charles: Belle invited me. I thought it would be nice. Peaceful. Instead I was judged by a horse and chased by her demon child.

Arthur: NOT GALAHAD 💀💀💀

Charles: He was galloping, Arthur. At full speed. Toward me. I didn’t know what to do so I just stood still like it was a Jurassic Park scene.

Lorenzo: You’re not supposed to run. That triggers them.

Charles: Belle laughed so hard she cried. Said he just wanted to play. He bit my shirt sleeve.

Arthur: Bro he’s literally six months old.

Charles: He’s six months old and already preparing for war. He kicked a bucket into the air and then looked proud about it.

Lorenzo: Honestly, sounds like Belle found her spirit animals.

Arthur: Did Fleur warm up to you at least?

Charles: She let me pat her for exactly three seconds. Then turned her back to me like I was boring. And refused my carrot.

Arthur: Omg not the carrot rejection 💀💀💀 You’ve been publicly humiliated.

Charles: Max just texted me “She doesn’t do that to me,” with a picture of Fleur nuzzling him like he is a fucking Disney princess.

Arthur: Wow. You got outshone by your brother-in-law and a foal. Tough day.

Lorenzo: I’m proud of you though. You showed up. And didn’t die. We call that progress.

Charles: Galahad tried to eat my watch.

Arthur:Seems like he prefers Richard Mille over Carrots.

***

Stream Transcript: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell

Lando: (grinning) Alright. Okay. Before you say anything—yes. This is the same room. (Spreads arms wide dramatically.) But like… emotionally, spiritually, architecturally… it's not.

Chat:

OMG IT LOOKS SO GOOD NO MORE RGB LED LIGHTS?!? THIS IS GIVING “I PAY TAXES” did belle do this. be honest.

Lando: Yes. Belle did this. Belle and my girlfriend basically invaded my house for 48 hours and rebuilt my personality via interior design. I am not exaggerating. There was a mood board.

[Max Fewtrell joins via voice]

Max F: HELLO? What do you mean Belle redid your streaming room?! Since when? Where was I?

Lando: Mate. This was stealth warfare. They came in with tools, color swatches, and judgment. I didn’t stand a chance.

Max F: I am furious. I want a navy feature wall. I want brass lighting. I want a chair that doesn’t squeak like a haunted Victorian stroller. Why do you get the domestic fantasy makeover?

Lando: Because I accepted Belle’s critique with grace and zero resistance. Also because I had LED lights that made me look like a radioactive jellyfish.

Chat: LMAOOOO MAX “haunted Victorian stroller” 💀💀 Lando’s old setup was giving gamer cryptid Belle SAVED him

Max F: I wasn’t even consulted. I would’ve live-blogged the whole thing. Did she let you keep the lava lamp?

Lando: She bubble-wrapped it, labeled it “Relic. Do Not Resurrect,” and hid it in a storage bin.

Max F: I want to marry her just for that sentence. No wait. Tell Belle I said that with respect.

Lando: She’s married, mate. And pregnant. Also, she threatened to curse my OBS settings if I touched anything mid-install. I believe her.

Chat:

OBS CURSE 💀 Belle is an icon max: living vicariously and bitterly someone start a GoFundMe to get Max a mood board

Max F: I am living vicariously through you, thanks. I’m currently sitting in a chair with a cracked armrest and I’m 92% sure my wall art is a printout from IKEA on printer paper.

Lando: Then say it with me: “Belle, please save me.”

Max F: Belle, please save me. I have no taste. I’m willing to accept your judgment. I offer snacks and compliance.

Lando: That’s how she got me. Snacks and fear.

Chat:ICONIC max and lando: interior design edition this is the redemption arc we never knew we needed Belle and Emilie: queens of aesthetics

Lando: Anyway, I’ll do a proper room tour video soon, once I figure out how to not mess up the camera angles. But for now… enjoy the new vibes. We’re streaming from a functional room, people. This is character development.

Max F: Next up: I’m buying a coaster set. Watch me evolve.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/streamingwitch: Lando Norris casually debuting a streaming room that looks like it belongs in Architectural Digest and saying “Belle did it” like that’s a normal sentence. I’d sell my soul for a Belle Verstappen mood board.

@/f1hotmess: Lando’s old streaming setup: RGB gamer cave powered by Monster Energy Lando’s new streaming setup: espresso, emotional stability, and brass accents Belle Verstappen, we owe you.

@/gamerwifeenergy: Max Fewtrell being outraged on stream that no one invited him to the makeover is peak “wait why didn’t I get a glow-up too??” energy He wants Belle to fix his room so bad and honestly? Relatable.

@/sistersofthegrid: What gets me is that Lando is dating Belle’s best friend and Max Verstappen is married to Belle. So now we have two F1 drivers entangled in a domestic empire run by two terrifyingly competent women. And I love that for them.

@/styledbybellefan: Things Belle Verstappen has redesigned: – Lando’s streaming room – Max’s Monaco penthouse – My standards

@/bellering: Belle Verstappen and Emilie need a YouTube channel called Redesign the Grid. Episode 1: Max’s sim rig gets lighting that doesn’t make him look like a vampire. Episode 2: Lando’s stream cave becomes a grown-up room. Episode 3: Fixing Max Fewtrell’s tragic bachelor decor.

@/purplesectorwife: This is such a girl group power move. Belle married Max. Emilie is dating Lando. And now they’ve aesthetically conquered both the Verstappen household and the Norris cave. World domination is next.

@/theformulaicfem: Lando Norris going from “RGB gamer cave” to “sophisticated brass-accented adult setup” because his friend’s wife said no more crimes against aesthetics… I’m sorry but that’s character growth.

@/mclolaren: Belle: “You have too many LED lights and no cable management.” Lando: “Yes ma’am.” Max: doesn’t even look up from his sim rig “Told you.” Iconic behavior.

@/gridwivesupreme: Max and Lando are just two world-class drivers who fell in love with best friends that slowly restructured their lives into cozy, minimalist, emotionally intelligent Pinterest boards. God bless.

@/itsgivinginteriordesign: Lando and Max being friends AND dating/beingmarried to Belle and Emilie WHO are best friends is so deeply fanfic-coded it’s almost offensive.

@/formula1feels: Lando’s new room says “I’ve seen the light.” The light was warm brass. And Belle chose it.

#max verstappen fanfiction #formula 1 #max verstappen #max verstappen smau #max verstappen fic #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #max verstappen fluff #mv1 fanfiction #max verstappen imagine

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astroeleanor · 3 months ago

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💸₊˚⊹Your 2H Ruler = How to Become a Money Magnet 💵₊˚⊹

If you’re not making the kind of money you want, you need to start using your 2H ruler. This placement shows how you can earn more money & the people/situations that will bring huge financial opportunities in your life.

If you ignore your 2nd House ruler, you risk chasing the wrong goals and wasting time. This planet shows your natural path to wealth: not the path others tell you to take. The more you align with it, the easier money flows.

So, let's figure out together how to use your birth chart to become a money magnet.

HOW TO FIND THE 2H RULER:

1) Locate the sign in your 2H. Calculate your chart HERE!

2) The planet that rules that sign is your 2H ruler (see table below for planetary rulerships.)

3) Locate the house the 2H ruler occupies in the birth chart. The house it's in, shows HOW you can make more money.

Example: Sagittarius 2H=Sagittarius is ruled by JUPITER=8H Gemini Jupiter is the 2H Ruler

2H RULER IN THE 1H: Build skills and image. Start a personal brand or business. Be seen, heard, and remembered. Who gives you money: Clients who like your energy. Followers, fans, loyal buyers.

2H RULER IN THE 2H: Invest in goods, land, or things that grow. Focus on slow, steady gains. Sell tangible services. Who gives you money: Bankers, traders, investors. People who deal in tangible assets (like gold, land, supplies). Buyers who want lasting value.

2H RULER IN THE 3H: Write, sell, teach, speak. Trade goods locally. Use phones, emails, short trips to build cash. Who gives you money: Siblings, neighbors, close friends. Writers, messengers, teachers. Local businesses or delivery services.

2H RULER IN THE 4H: Buy or sell real estate. Work in land, farming, food, or tradition. Build home-based businesses. Inherit wisely and protect it. Who gives you money: Parents, grandparents, elders. Real estate agents or property managers. Family businesses or ancestral wealth.

2H RULER IN THE 5H: Create art, games, entertainment. Start passion businesses. Teach kids, coach sports, organize events. Take smart risks. Who gives you money: Artists, athletes, performers. Gamblers, investors, venture capitalists. Lovers or romantic partners.

2H RULER IN THE 6H: Offer daily services people need. Heal, repair, clean, or fix. Focus on health, pets, or crafts. Build strong work habits. Who gives you money: Nurses, vets, cleaners, tech workers. Bosses who value hard workers. Clients who need regular help.

2H RULER IN THE 7H: Negotiate smart contracts. Form joint ventures. Sell directly to clients one-on-one. Who gives you money: Business partners, spouses, clients. Lawyers, agents, deal-makers. People who invest in long-term relationships.

2H RULER IN THE 8H: Manage inheritances, investments, loans. Work with taxes, banking, insurance. Handle mergers, estates, or debts. Trade trust for power. Who gives you money: Investors, lenders, financiers. Heirs, trustees, executors. Partners who share assets.

2H RULER IN THE 9H: Teach, publish, preach, or coach. Sell services across borders. Work with law, spirituality, philosophy, or higher education. Follow faith or big missions. Who gives you money: Professors, clergy, travelers, publishers. Foreigners. Legal workers or academic institutions.

2H RULER IN THE 10H: Build a public name. Climb career ladders. Start visible businesses. Become an expert people recognize. Who gives you money: Bosses, governments, CEOs. Industry leaders and high-status clients. Customers who respect titles and results.

2H RULER IN THE 11H: Launch group projects. Build big communities. Fund dreams through social support. Join causes that matter. Who gives you money: Friends, followers, donors. Clubs, political groups, online communities. Social movements and public funds.

2H RULER IN THE 12H: Work behind the scenes. Heal, help, or create art quietly. Invest in royalties, patents, hidden streams. Protect secrets and serve faithfully. Who gives you money: Monasteries, charities, hospitals, hidden patrons. Spiritual teachers, artists, healers. Quiet supporters or secret allies.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Your curiosity & engagement mean the world to me. I hope you not only found it enjoyable but also enriching for your astrological knowledge. Your support & interest inspire me to continue sharing insights & information with you. I appreciate you immensely.

• 🕸️ JOIN MY PATREON for exquisite & in-depth astrology content. You'll also receive a free mini reading upon joining. :)

• 🗡️ BOOK A READING with me to navigate your life with more clarity & awareness.

#astro community #astro observations #astrology #astrology signs #horoscope #zodiac #money #abundance #abundancemindset #manifest abundance #financial abundance #law of abundance #prosperity #astrology observations #astrology notes #astrology blog #natal chart #birth chart #astro notes

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dontworryfolkswetookallherteeth · 8 months ago

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"More than 40% of women leave tech companies after ten years compared to 17% of men. A report by the Center for Talent Innovation found that women didn't leave for family reasons or because they didn't enjoy the work. They left because of "workplace conditions", "undermining behaviour from managers", and "a sense of feeling stalled in one's career". A feature for the Los Angeles Times similarly found that women left because they were repeatedly passed up for promotion and had their projects dismissed." - Caroline Criado Perez, Invisible Women

#polly reads #invisible women #feminism

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lovezbrownies · 9 months ago

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Mockingbird. (Fem!Yandere Pop Idol x GN!Reader.)

Masterlist

(Coudln't pick between making her an american pop idol or a k-pop idol so i made her both! She's half American and half Korean and makes variety solo music while in her band :))

Synopsis: While trying to earn your paycheck as a Audio Tech, you manage to catch the eyes of the magnetic, Grammy winning Yuna Claire.

Under the spotlight, Yuna Claire was perfection—every note, every glance choreographed for the adoration of thousands. But when her eyes landed on you, their fire softened into something sharper, something that burned with a dangerous kind of focus. You’d noticed her at first only because of Yuna's fame, the admiration people lavished on her so excessive it was hard to ignore. It was after a concert that she’d approached you, alone in the backstage crowd, moving with a deliberate pace that only you seemed oblivious to.

She’d started with a polite introduction, a charming laugh. Fans had parted around Yuna, gaping as if she were a goddess, while you gave her a casual nod, barely glancing her way. If anything, you’d appeared more captivated by the band posters on the walls. Yuna wasn’t deterred, though. Instead, she leaned in, her words silken, inviting you to a private after-party. Her words were sugar, her gaze hypnotic—but something didn’t feel quite right. And still, her allure was undeniable, almost magnetic.

But you had your own reasons for resisting. The world of flashing lights and obsessive fans didn’t appeal to you, and the drama of idol life felt exhausting just to observe. You'd given her a nonchalant smile, declining politely, leaving Yuna alone in a corridor of confused and shocked onlookers.

Yuna didn’t give up. For weeks after that, her messages appeared daily, each one a bit more intense than the last, though always wrapped in a veneer of politeness. She’d send short, casual notes about her day, like Yuna was trying to convince you of her “normal” side. Then came the carefully crafted photos, her smile dazzling, eyes dark with something unsettling. Still, Yuna knew just how to tread the line between flirty and forward, between coy and committed.

But you didn’t respond, letting your silence answer in your place.

The silence only seemed to make her bolder.

Soon, small “gifts” began appearing. They were subtle at first: a book you’d mentioned liking left anonymously on your doorstep, a handwritten letter slipped into your bag somehow, perfume lingering on the pages. Then, one day, your phone buzzed, and there was a photo attached—a candid shot of you in a coffee shop, reading. The angle was wrong, too close, taken without your notice. The caption beneath read, “I love how focused you look.”

By now, you’d pieced together Yuna's persistence and presence. She was relentless, yet subtle. You’d heard rumors that she had been known to ghost her managers, locking herself away from the world for weeks until she’d get what she wanted. Those who defied her had been known to face mysterious career setbacks, projects canceled without reason. And now, that ambition—obsession—had found its focus on you.

One evening, you returned home to find Yuna waiting at your door. Her smile was radiant as ever, but there was an edge to her eyes, a desperation swimming beneath her polished exterior. Yuna wore a hoodie, as though trying to blend into your world, her gloved hands hidden in her pockets.

“You haven’t answered me,” Yuna said, her voice soft yet unyielding. “I thought… maybe in person you’d give me a chance.”

Her gaze didn’t waver as you fumbled for your keys, blocking your way. She leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her breath. “Please,” she murmured, her voice low and nearly pleading, though her eyes told a different story.

“I’m… really not interested,” you managed, keeping your tone polite but firm.

The smile on Yuna's face tightened, her fingers flexing slightly as she stood still, the air heavy with her scent and the weight of her expectations. The seconds stretched, her intense silence trapping you until she finally spoke again, her voice softer, almost disarmingly gentle.

“I can change your mind.” It wasn’t a question, more like a fact she’d already accepted. She shifted, a gleam flickering in her gaze as she stepped closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. “I just need a little more time to show you how much you mean to me. You wouldn’t turn me away if you knew how long I’ve waited to find someone like you.”

You could feel your pulse quicken, her intensity seeping into the air between you. The way Yuna looked at you—as though you were the one person in a world of facades—stirred something uncomfortable, something deeply unsettling. But behind that, a chill ran down your spine, the unease creeping in as her gaze lingered, too steady, too fixed, a promise hidden in the depths of her stare.

“I just… want to be left alone,” you said softly, pushing the words out, feeling the way they seemed to make her freeze for a moment, like she was memorizing the rejection, absorbing it before it sank into her.

And then, Yuna's smile widened, her voice tinged with an eerie, honeyed calm. “You’ll change your mind,” she murmured, pressing a soft hand to your arm. “I have all the time in the world for you. And don’t worry—I won’t be far.”

She let her fingers linger just a moment too long before stepping back, her gaze never leaving yours as she turned, leaving you in the dim hallway. And as she walked away, you felt a cold certainty that this was only the beginning.

A few days passed with nothing more than a tense silence and a faint scent of her perfume lingering in your mind. You tried to shake her memory, the look in her eyes that had lingered too long, the unwavering way Yuna had spoken as if her persistence was just a matter of inevitability. But Yuna had fallen quiet, her presence slipping back into the shadows. You told yourself that maybe she’d taken the hint, that perhaps her attention had finally shifted.

But soon, small traces of her began appearing everywhere. It started innocently enough: a coffee cup with Yuna's autograph on the sleeve sitting outside your door one morning, her signature sharp and elaborate. Then, one day, a bouquet of deep red roses appeared—delivered straight to your office, the envelope tucked inside holding only a single message in her elegant handwriting: You missed my last concert. I was thinking of you the whole time. You could almost hear her voice in the words, soft and unhurried, like a gentle reminder she would never let you go.

Still, you kept your distance, responding to her with only silence, the only reaction you could give that felt remotely safe. But Yuna's gifts continued, each more intimate than the last. One night, you found a plush blanket folded perfectly at your doorstep, the fabric woven with her initials stitched carefully into the corner. You left it there, untouched, but the next morning, it was gone, replaced by a small silver necklace, engraved with the words, Forever yours.

By now, you were beginning to feel Yuna's presence even when she wasn’t there. You couldn’t walk down the street without glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting her to step out from the shadows, her voice low and calm, as if she’d just been waiting for you to look her way. It made the world feel smaller, her influence extending far beyond the glossy photoshoots and stage lights. She wasn’t just a presence on screens or in songs; she was a shadow, creeping into every quiet corner of your life.

It was on a rainy night that she finally crossed the line. You were sitting at your kitchen table, half-awake and nursing a cup of coffee, trying to shake off the unease that had followed you home. There was a knock on your door, soft but unmissable. Your heart dropped, a part of you already knowing who it would be.

Reluctantly, you opened the door, and there she was—drenched from the rain, her hair clinging to her face, lips painted red but smudged slightly as though she’d been rushing. Her eyes were wide and focused, her gaze locked onto you with an intensity that made you want to step back, but she was faster, already inside before you could say anything.

“Why haven’t you answered me?” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, but the sharpness was unmistakable. “I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to give you time, but you’re making this so much harder than it has to be.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Yuna shook her head, her fingers curling into fists, her gaze brimming with something raw and desperate. “I’ve waited so long to find someone who doesn’t see me as just entertainment,” she continued, her voice wavering slightly. “Everyone else is obsessed with the idea of me, but you… You’re real. You’re the only real thing in my world, and I won’t let you ignore me.”

Her words were laced with a haunting vulnerability, but there was an edge there, a dark gleam in her eye that made your skin prickle. She took a step forward, and before you could react, her hands were on your arms, her grip surprisingly strong as she pulled you close.

“Do you know what it’s like to be worshipped by everyone but feel completely alone?” she murmured, her breath hot against your skin. “No one sees me like you do. You can’t understand what that means to me… what you mean to me.”

Her fingers traced along your arms, almost possessively, her gaze dropping to the floor before lifting again, filled with a sorrowful intensity that left you speechless. Her voice softened, barely above a whisper, but there was an unmistakable steel behind her words. “If I have to tear down every wall, break every distance between us, I will. You don’t understand how much I need you. You don’t know what it feels like to need someone the way I need you.”

You tried to pull away, but her grip tightened, her fingers pressing into your skin. There was a flicker of pain in her eyes, like she was fighting something darker, something she couldn’t control. Yuna's voice grew softer, almost pleading, a softness masking something much more intense. “I’ll be everything for you,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to her hands on your arms. “I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll leave the spotlight if I have to… if that’s what it takes.”

Her words hung in the air, filled with an eerie promise, a willingness to unravel her entire life just for a chance to stay by your side. You could feel her desperation, her obsession suffocating, seeping into the space between you until it felt like a cage.

“Please,” you finally said, managing to pry her hands off, your voice steady though your heart was pounding. “I don’t want this. I never asked for it, and you need to understand that.”

Her face fell, her expression wavering as though the weight of your rejection was physically painful. But after a moment, she smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You think you don’t want this now,” she said softly, her voice gentle, yet chilling. “But you just haven’t given me a chance to show you. I’ll change your mind… I know I will.”

With that, she took a step back, her gaze lingering as she brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. Her voice was soft, affectionate, but there was something almost dangerous in it now, something unyielding. “I’ll be seeing you,” she whispered, almost like a promise, before turning and slipping out into the rain.

As the door clicked shut behind her, you felt a shiver run down your spine. You knew, with an unsettling certainty, that this wasn’t over. And somehow, a part of you wondered if it ever would be.

You sank into a chair, heart pounding as you tried to shake off the echo of her words. But her presence lingered, curling around you like smoke, insistent and inescapable. Every shadow in your apartment seemed to hold her gaze, every sound just outside the door felt like her footsteps waiting to step back into your world.

In the days that followed, it was as if she’d slipped into your life like a shadow cast just beyond reach. It started small again—your phone buzzing with her messages, her number somehow bypassing the blocks you’d put in place. A photo of the view from her hotel room, sent late at night with a message below: This would look better if you were here. Each time you saw her name appear, a tightness grew in your chest, the constant reminder that she was watching, waiting.

When you went out, she was there, always just out of sight but close enough that you could feel her, as if her gaze was a constant weight on the back of your neck. She lingered at cafes, always alone at a distant table, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, never taking them off until you’d met her stare for just a moment too long. She’d nod, that half-smile twisting into something more when she saw the flicker of discomfort on your face.

One evening, you arrived home to find a package waiting for you—an expensive leather-bound journal, its cover engraved with your initials. Inside, she’d filled pages with a mix of her own thoughts, scrawled lyrics, and snapshots of herself, each one accompanied by a handwritten note. Some were simple—Thinking of you—while others were bolder: You belong in my life. The scent of her perfume clung to every page, making it feel as though she’d marked each one as her own. The effect was suffocating.

You tried to shake it off, tried to return to normal. You avoided places she’d visited, tried to take different routes, anything to break free of the feeling of being watched. But no matter where you went, she was always one step ahead, a quiet but relentless shadow. And then one night, as you sat in a dimly lit bar, she slipped into the seat across from you, her presence as bold and unyielding as ever.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you murmured, your voice betraying the surprise and unease that flooded your senses.

She simply tilted her head, a knowing smile curling her lips. “I told you, didn’t I? I’d be seeing you again.” Her fingers drummed on the table, her gaze never leaving yours. “You keep avoiding me, but I know what you really need, what you’re afraid to admit.” Her words were soft, intimate, as though she were whispering them just for you.

“You don’t know anything about me,” you replied, keeping your tone even, though it felt like you were trying to steady yourself on a tightrope. “This obsession… it’s not what you think it is.”

She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “That’s where you’re wrong.” Her eyes gleamed with a chilling certainty. “You’ve made me wait, given me time to understand what you really need. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people who don’t see you… but I see everything about you.” She leaned closer, her voice low and steady, her gaze intense enough to hold you in place. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not until you realize that we belong together.”

She pulled out a silver key, placing it on the table between you, a soft clink breaking the heavy silence. “I had a spare made,” she murmured, her voice a ghost of a whisper, as though confessing a secret. “I didn’t want to intrude too much, but… it’s better this way. I don’t have to wait for you to come to me—I can just find you when you’re ready.”

A chill swept through you, and the faint smile on her lips made it clear she knew exactly the effect she was having on you. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of your hand, her touch soft yet possessive. “You’re afraid now,” she murmured, her eyes softening just enough to mimic tenderness. “But I’m willing to wait. I’m patient. I’ll give you all the time you need… because in the end, you’ll see that I’m the only one who truly understands you.”

Before you could respond, she rose, leaving the key glinting in the dim light between you, a symbol of the door she had already opened, the boundary she’d so carefully, and deliberately, crossed. And as she walked away, you realized, with a sinking certainty, that there was no escaping her.

#yandere x reader #x reader #gn reader #yandere oc x reader #oc x reader #yandere x darling #gender neutral #tw yandere #yandere #yandere oc #female x reader #yandere x you #yandere girlfriend #female yandere #female yandere x reader #fem yandere x reader

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obsidian-pages777 · 1 year ago

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Pick a Card: Career Guidance

Top Left to Right--> Pile 1, Pile 2

Bottom Left to Right--> Pile 3. Pile 4

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================================================================================================

Pile 1

Current Situation: The Chariot

You are determined and focused on your career goals, moving forward with purpose and direction. There's a sense of control and determination driving your actions.

Challenges: Five of Wands

You may be facing competition or conflict in your workplace. There could be differing opinions and struggles that make it hard to progress smoothly.

Advice: Strength

Rely on your inner strength and patience to navigate through challenges. Maintain self-control and approach conflicts with compassion and understanding. Your resilience will lead you to success.

Ideal Careers:

Leadership Roles: Positions such as a manager, director, or CEO, where determination and leadership are crucial.

Entrepreneur: Running your own business where you can harness your drive and overcome competition.

Project Management: Roles that require strong organizational skills and the ability to navigate conflicts and challenges.

Military or Law Enforcement: Careers that require discipline, determination, and the ability to handle conflict and stress.

Athletics or Coaching: Where physical and mental strength, as well as resilience, are important.

================================================================================================

Pile 2

Current Situation: The Hierophant

Your career path is currently influenced by traditional structures and conventional methods. You may be working within an established system or organization.

Challenges: Seven of Cups

There may be confusion or too many options available, making it difficult to choose the right path. Avoid getting lost in illusions or wishful thinking.

Advice: The Hermit

Take time for introspection and seek inner guidance. Reflect on your true goals and values before making decisions. Solitude and self-reflection will provide clarity.

Ideal Careers:

Education: Teacher, professor, or academic advisor, where traditional knowledge and guidance are valued.

Religious or Spiritual Leader: Priest, minister, or spiritual counselor, providing guidance within established belief systems.

Legal Profession: Lawyer, judge, or paralegal, working within the structures of the legal system.

Research and Academia: Careers that involve deep study and reflection, such as a researcher or academic.

Counseling or Therapy: Roles that require introspection and helping others find clarity, such as a therapist or counselor.

================================================================================================

Pile 3

Current Situation: Ace of Pentacles

A new opportunity or beginning in your career is emerging. This could be a job offer, a new project, or a chance to start something new with strong potential for growth.

Challenges: The Devil

Be wary of falling into negative patterns or becoming too attached to material success. Avoid temptations that could lead to unethical behavior or burnout.

Advice: Page of Swords

Approach new opportunities with curiosity and a willingness to learn. Stay vigilant and gather information before making decisions. Be clear and honest in your communication.

Ideal Careers:

Finance: Banker, financial advisor, or investment analyst, where new opportunities for growth are abundant.

Real Estate: Real estate agent or property manager, involving new ventures and potential for substantial growth.

Technology: IT specialist, software developer, or tech entrepreneur, where continuous learning and vigilance are key.

Journalism: Reporter, editor, or content creator, focusing on gathering and disseminating information.

Consulting: Business consultant or analyst, providing strategic advice and insights to businesses.

================================================================================================

Pile 4

Current Situation: Three of Cups

Collaboration and teamwork are currently significant in your career. You may be part of a supportive group or network, enjoying camaraderie and shared goals.

Challenges: Four of Pentacles

There could be a tendency to hold on too tightly to security or resources, leading to stagnation. Fear of change or loss may be preventing growth.

Advice: The Star

Stay hopeful and keep a positive outlook. Trust in the universe and your vision for the future. This is a time for healing, inspiration, and aligning with your true purpose.

Ideal Careers:

Event Planning: Event coordinator or wedding planner, where collaboration and teamwork are essential.

Human Resources: HR manager or recruiter, fostering a positive and collaborative workplace environment.

Creative Arts: Artist, musician, or performer, involving collaboration and shared creative goals.

Non-Profit or Community Work: Community organizer, social worker, or NGO worker, focusing on collective well-being and humanitarian goals.

Healthcare: Nurse, doctor, or therapist, providing care and support with a focus on healing and hope.

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#pick a card #pick a pile #pick a photo #pick one #tarot community #tarot reading #tarot #tarot cards #tarotblr #pick a picture #pick a reading

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jackied0minguez · 5 months ago

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Remote Work Redefined: TopDevz CEO Ashkan Rajaee on the Future of Flexible Business

In a world where remote work has rapidly shifted from a temporary solution to a long-term strategy, TopDevz CEO Ashkan Rajaee is leading by example. Speaking ahead of the Ft. Lauderdale International Boat Show, Rajaee shared insights on how his company has seamlessly integrated remote operations into its DNA—and why he believes this model isn’t just a passing trend.

A New Kind of Software Solutions

TopDevz isn’t your typical tech firm. Comprising an elite team of software developers, designers, project managers, and quality assurance specialists based in the United States and Canada, the company tackles the unique challenges that conventional off-the-shelf software can’t resolve. Rajaee explains that while standard solutions can cover 80–90% of business needs, the remaining nuances often cause significant inefficiencies. TopDevz fills this gap by offering custom solutions designed to address those critical details, ensuring that their clients achieve peak operational efficiency. With an impressive 96% workforce retention rate and 63% of their business coming through referrals, the company’s model speaks volumes about its effectiveness and employee satisfaction.

Mastering Remote Operations

Long before the global pivot to remote work, TopDevz was already thriving in a fully virtual environment. Rajaee emphasizes that the success of remote operations lies in having the right infrastructure and clear communication channels. “Working remotely isn’t as simple as logging in from home,” he notes. “It demands disciplined processes and a commitment to best practices—elements we’ve honed over the years.” His team’s seamless transition during the pandemic only reinforced the idea that a well-organized remote workforce can outperform traditional office setups.

The Indefinite Future of Remote Work

For TopDevz, remote work isn’t a temporary workaround—it’s the future. Rajaee envisions a business landscape where companies can lower overhead costs while empowering employees to work from anywhere. This flexible model not only drives client satisfaction by reducing expenses but also enriches employees’ lives by allowing them to choose environments that inspire creativity and well-being.

Rajaee even shares a personal touch: his passion for working from a yacht. Equipped with reliable Wi-Fi and satellite services, his unconventional workspace symbolizes the freedom that remote work offers. “If your current job doesn’t support the lifestyle you aspire to, it’s time to consider other opportunities,” he advises. His own journey from renting a yacht to eventually making it part of his regular work life underscores the importance of aligning one’s career with personal values and ambitions.

Empowering the Next Generation of Remote Entrepreneurs

Beyond leading TopDevz, Rajaee is passionate about sharing his remote work philosophy. Through his “RemotePreneur” initiative, he provides aspiring entrepreneurs and professionals with a playbook for building successful remote companies. This resource addresses the nuanced challenges of remote business management—from overcoming financial stagnation in traditional roles to confronting the inevitable criticisms that come with venturing off the beaten path. Rajaee’s message is clear: true freedom in work comes from rethinking established norms and embracing the possibilities that remote operations can offer.

Embracing a New Era

As businesses around the globe continue to navigate the evolving work landscape, Ashkan Rajaee’s vision serves as a powerful reminder that remote work, when executed with precision and passion, can unlock unprecedented opportunities. His leadership at TopDevz demonstrates that with the right approach, remote operations can not only sustain but also drive innovation, employee satisfaction, and overall business growth.

In a time when flexibility and adaptability are more important than ever, Rajaee’s insights offer a compelling roadmap for companies eager to thrive in a remote-first world.

#RemoteWork #FutureOfWork #AshkanRajaee #TopDevz #WorkFromAnywhere

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astroismypassion · 1 year ago

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✨PART OF FORTUNE IN SIGNS AND HOUSES SERIES: 11TH HOUSE✨

Credit: Tumblr blog @astroismypassion

ARIES PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Aries and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via launching or joining a tech startup, focused on innovative technologies or disruptive business model, via work in community organization or activism, via work in digital marketing or social media management, via providing consulting services to businesses or organizations, advising them on innovation strategies, product development or new market exploration, via work in crowdfunding or fundraising. You feel abundant when you align with social causes, focus on group dynamics and embrace innovation.

TAURUS PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Taurus and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via work in investment management, focusing on building and managing portfolios that provide stable returns, via art colleting, dealing or curation focusing on pieces that have enduring value, via work in interior design, via work in hospitality management (in luxury hotels, resorts or event planning). You feel abundant when you embrace sustainable and ethical practices, when you practice patience and persistence.

GEMINI PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Gemini and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via engaging in activism, advocacy work, via work in public relations, graphic design, via creative writing, screenwriting, content creation, teaching, tutoring, joining or starting a tech company focused on innovative products or services. You feel abundant when you are focused on community, collective goals, when you stay versatile and adaptable.

CANCER PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Cancer and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via pursuing a career in early childhood education or childcare, nursing, caregiving, mental health services, via work in family and parent education, pursuing culinary arts or catering, engaging in art and design. You feel abundant when you focus on community, social connections, embrace technology and innovation, promote security and stability and use your intuition and emotional intelligence.

LEO PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Leo and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can find abundance by managing a charitable organisation. You can earn money via work as a creative director or manager, overseeing projects in fashion, advertising or design, via writing, blogging, content creation focused on inspirational and motivational themes, via work in charity or fundraising, work in teaching (drama, art, public speaking). You feel abundant when maintain confidence in your vision and abilities, when you embrace charisma, leadership and when you pursue a creative career.

VIRGO PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Virgo and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via work in tech support, quality assurance, systems analysis, work in non-profit management, pursuing teaching or training roles, engage in environmental research, when you organise workshops or seminars on practical skills, health and wellness. You feel abundant when you focus on health, wellness, when you network, collaborate and when you use technology.

LIBRA PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Libra and Virgo Sun people in your life. You can create wealth by creating and selling DIY kits or tutorials. You could also learn digital or 3D art. You could sell photos on sites like Shutterstock or Adobe Stock. You earn money via event planning, specializing in weddings, social events and community events, work in legal services, such as family law, meditation or contract negotiation. You feel abundant when you embrace collaboration and partnerships, focus on aesthetics and creativity.

SCORPIO PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Scorpio and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via holistic healing, alternative medicine, energy work, via astrology, metaphysical studies, spiritual counselling, via biotechnology, healthcare technology, environmental technology, via work in cybersecurity, data analysis or investigative journalism. You feel abundant when embrace deep, transformative work, engage in financial and strategic roles.

SAGITTARIUS PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Sagittarius and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via career in diplomacy, teaching, lecturing, work in tourism industry, work in educational publishing, work in broadcasting or journalism, work in editing or translation. You feel abundant when you engage in social and humanitarian causes, focus on education and communication, when you embrace international cultural perspectives.

CAPRICORN PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Capricorn and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via real estate development, work in corporate training and development, taking on leadership roles in non-profit organizations that focus on social justice, community development or environmental sustainability. You feel abundant when emphasize practical, realistic approach, when you use network and social connections.

AQUARIUS PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via streaming on platforms (Twitch), participating in esports or creating gaming content. You earn money via scientific research, when you create or support educational programs that focus on skills for the future (digital literacy, innovation), when you create content that explores futuristic concepts, technology trends or social change using platforms like YouTube, a blog, podcast. You feel abundant when you focus on technology and future trends and when you stay true to your unconventional nature.

PISCES PART OF FORTUNE IN THE 11TH HOUSE

You feel the most abundant when you have Pisces and Aquarius Sun people in your life. You can earn money via storytelling, work in holistic healing fields, massage therapy, via painting, writing, music or film, via offering spiritual or life coaching services. You feel abundant when stay true to your intuitive insights, embrace spiritual and healing practices and when you focus on humanitarian and compassionate work.

Credit: Tumblr blog @astroismypassion

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soclonely · 7 months ago

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Hello friend! I hope you are doing well! May we receive a clones as non-military jobs?

Oh! You mean like what happened in canon after the clone wars when the Separatists and Republic found out they were being played, Palpatine was yeeted into oblivion, Anakin left the order and became a trophy husband to Padme and pod racer mechanic, and Bail Organa took over the Senate? :')) yeah! of course! Rex- I am always going to be here for Life Coach or Career Counselor Rex.

Echo- Middle school history teacher, specifically dealing with 7th graders (which he is good at because sometimes Fives has the maturity of a 14 year old)

Fives- Stand up comedian. He is funny, he has stories to share, and loves making people laugh.

Jesse- personal trainer. I feel like he'd be SOOO supportive and fun to work with.

Kix- Flight attendant. Likes to travel the world on his companies dime

Tup- Van life blogger!

Dogma- assistance principal of a high school.

Hardcase- Oh man, he has charisma. I'd say a car salesman. But he's pretty straight forward about it.

Coric- nutritionist. he wants to take care of people.

Bly- Family photographer (his favorite is catching moments of weddings and newborn family photos)

99- School crossing guard!! Everyone absolutely loves him!

Cody- He's so laid back and chill he's the perfect project manager for a company

Waxer/Boil- Childcare workers or elementary teachers

Wolffe- IT guy. I can imagine him getting SO irritated on the customer service end

Boost/Sinker- oil rig workers

Hunter- Deli owner

Wrecker- Construction site worker!!! Can you imagine the silly lunches he would eat while sitting on a beam?

Tech- Engineer of some kind. I deal with too many engineers to not say this for this clown of a man.

Crosshair- Fire range safety course teacher

Omega- Airline pilot or Zumba instructor

Howzer- with his hair? he works at the local Jamba juice for his entire life!

Fox- free lance editor. all the coffee he wants, makes his own schedule, barely has to deal with people, and I honestly feel like fox would be a big reader

Gregor- Exotic tour guide! he makes it fun and silly for even his most nervous passengers

#the clones as #khai come get ya juice #captain rex #commander cody #commander wolffe #clone force 99 #star wars #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars

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ctrlsatoru · 2 years ago

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DIABLO ━ 01

fushiguro toji x gojo!reader

𓂃 CHAPTER SYNOPSIS ☆ “Like you’re some innocent little lamb who doesn’t know better? I don’t buy it.” he mocks you, voice dangerously dropping. “Your cover’s blown, sweets. I see you. You’re a lot darker than you look.” The one where Toji Fushiguro looks like a problem, and you know better than to let curiosity get the best of you, but you do anyway.

𓂃 GENRE ☆ smut (later chapters), angst and fluff 𓂃 WORD COUNT ☆ 8k 𓂃 TAGS ☆ 18+, techbro!toji, enemies to lovers, reader is gojo's stepsister, age gap, sexual tension, violence, freak4freak, corruption kink.

𓂃 A/N ☆ i was listening to diablo by lexie liu and the rest was herstory. started as porn without plot but things escalated. next chapter masterlist

There was a time when you speed-walked through this very same building with the drive that only a determined intern could contain. Six days a week, from busy mornings to late nights, you embraced every task they tossed your way, seamlessly transitioning between the demands of different editors.

In the midst of it, one newly appointed creative director saw your efforts and took you under her wing. What began as a professional mentorship soon evolved into an enduring friendship that extended well beyond your time at the magazine.

Utahime Iori, a guiding presence in your life, became one of your favorite people in the world—a friend with whom you shared an unspoken understanding, effortlessly reading each other's thoughts with a single exchange of glances across the room.

Fast-forward five years, and the abrupt, intrusive ring of your phone tucked under the pillow shook you awake. It was Iori on the line, her voice laden with urgency and distress. She was stuck in Kyoto, needing you to do her a solid one. Her father’s condition had worsened overnight, and she wouldn’t be able to make it back to Tokyo for a critical photoshoot.

And so, here you stand, back at the bustling headquarters of the technology and culture magazine where you started your career. Despite your throbbing headache and the relentless fatigue that clings to your tired eyelids, you refuse to let your friend down.

Today's mission: capturing profile photos for an enigmatic tech mogul, a figure so elusive that no magazine has ever managed to secure an interview or collaboration. Probably some Zuckerberg from shein with an amped-up eccentric, incel overlord edge.

Utahime shared the name and a brief overview of the assignment during her desperate call, but the details had slipped through your grasp in the haze of your concern for her.

If you remember correctly, the project is related to something corny along the lines of Diablo.

“Ok,” you breathe after the third scalding gulp of coffee that someone thrust in your hand the second you arrived.

Utahime's assistant, a young girl with striking blue hair and asymmetrical bangs named Miwa, looks up from her phone at you with bright eyes, relieved that you’re finally showing signs of life.

“Uh, who the fuck is this guy again?”

You’re momentarily distracted by how cold this place is. A shiver cuts a straight line up your spine. July in Tokyo is no justification for keeping the set at industrial fridge temperature, you think. For some reason, Miwa’s opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of the water. You know Utahime can make any seasoned truck driver sound graceful when she’s under enough pressure, so it can’t be your choice of words.

You fail to notice your surroundings coming to a stop, or the shadow towering over you.

“Fushiguro Toji.”

Oh.

That's one way to sober you up.

You’re definitely awake after hearing the deep yet smooth rumble behind you. Everyone within earshot gets ready for what’ll happen next as that oh shit realization settles on your shoulders.

But you’re no longer the eager intern who hid in the bathroom to cry after a rookie mistake. Nothing in your face gives away your heart threatening to crawl out of your ribcage. You turn around bravely and face a soft, dark blue surface.

No choice left but to look up… and up again, until he’s framed inside the thin silver structure of your glasses.

Your first impression of him is simple: no one this tall should stand at this close of a distance. There should be two, or three meters between you to make up for the lack of an acceptable height.

Fushiguro Toji -the name does stick this time- tilts his head to the side and gives you what might be the most shameless once-over. His eyes feel like a dark green horizontal light scanning you from head to toe. It ends with a quizzical expression on his face. The irk is triggered within the second.

“Who are you?”

That same question pops into your mind.

The hair team must've taken their sweet time arranging his inky black hair in just the perfectly unbothered way, and there’s a healthy glow coming off the sharp edges of his face that can only be the result of seamless natural makeup, enhancing his ruggedly handsome looks.

You’re thinking that by too big, Iori meant that he’s massive. Literally. Wide shoulders block the tungsten spotlight behind him, casting a shadow on you and drawing a luminous halo around his silhouette.

Nothing’s angelic about him. You can tell just by looking. It’s a family gift. You may not have your brother’s electric baby blues, but you have the sight, as he calls it, and the alarms in your head are off.

Miwa shifts her gaze between you like she’s about to shit herself when Choso, the head photographer and a good friend of yours, cuts through the tense atmosphere with admirable ease. He rests a warning hand on your shoulder and takes it upon himself to introduce you.

"She'll be our director today, stepping in for Utahime."

He turns to Choso, his eyes never leaving you, observing.

“Why? What happened to Utahime?”

"She had an unexpected family emergency and asked her to fill in. She's worked with us before, and she's excellent at what she does. We're in capable hands today."

What a star, Choso. A beacon of diplomacy. The arms industry would collapse if he got into politics, you’re sure.

Still under his scrutiny, your expression remained composed. You knew his steely smile would fade soon, and—

“Well, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” he concludes breezily, extending his hand toward you.

You reciprocate, not looking down to see how his palm engulfs yours. You just know it will. He on the other hand lifts both eyebrows at your firm handshake, lips twitching in amusement.

“I look forward to working with you, Gojo.”

Two hours in, it occurs to you that it might be the case that everyone on set is under some kind of horny spell.

Him nearly walking through the backdrop five minutes in and laughing it off with a cocky comment and a devilish grin sets the entire set on edge from the get-go.

Apparently there’s something about an overwhelmingly tall, ripped, attractive grown man pouting like an iPad kid when his tiny but scary female assistant comes in between breaks to confiscate his phone. There’s a brutish charm about him that makes people act like Victorian gentlemen glimpsing an ankle for the first time.

The wardrobe assistants are in a heated discussion about how many hands it would take to wholly grasp his bulging biceps.

You, however, remain skeptic. Though if you took any part in the conversation, you’d point out how fucking thick his neck is. Does he lift weights with that thing? What does he need all that for?

When the makeup artist approaches him for touch-ups, he widens the distance between his feet until his face reaches a comfortable height for her to work away. The behind-the-scenes team gobbles it up like ravenous piranhas. You expect to see this doing numbers on the magazine’s YouTube channel.

Done with feeling out of the loop and not satisfied with what you catch from the set gossip, you take a bathroom break and allow curiosity to get the best of you. You lock the stall door, sit on the lid, and google him.

His name auto-completes after just three letters. You stare at the Fushiguro Toji on the search bar before going down the rabbit hole.

Self-made, controversial, messy family background. He's the mastermind behind the acclaimed early 2010's video game, Diablo. He's faced years of criticism in several countries for glorifying violence, gang activity, with the healthy dose of satanic accusations.

Nonetheless, Diablo hit it off big and then came along the videogames and software company under the same name. The empire has been steadily encroaching on giants like Tencent with Fushiguro as the elusive face of the company, for better and for worse.

For all his vehement disdain for public attention, he has the general public, a horde of fangirls and red pilled men following his every move. He's idolized in male communities and simultaneously the main character in throves of ridiculous Buzzfeed articles filled with GIFs of him looking scary and hot at the same time, of him looking like the bodyguard of everyone’s dreams, of him taking no shit from the press. Of him looking like a character out of his videogames.

You get the idea.

But something else in the personal life section draws your attention.

He’s a Zenin. And not a distant one. He’s Naobito Zenin’s very own nephew.

According to a twitter thread he severed ties with his fucked up dynasty of a family when he was younger and paved his own way under his late wife’s last name. The reasons for the fallout are unknown to the public, but theories are abundant in the replies. You bookmark that for later.

With all this newfound context, you’re almost disappointed that he showed no offense to your frankly rude introduction. After all, you’re a Gojo, the impulse to antagonize a Zenin runs through your veins. And if it’s not pure instinct, Satoru personally taught you how to deal with them. One of your favorite childhood memories is your brother reducing Naoya Zenin to tears.

The handshake felt layered, like a declaration of war tucked behind a steely smile. There’s a glint in his eyes when you return to the set and he catches you looking, it contradicts the unbothered, enigmatic persona people are simping for religiously online.

It’s there and it’s gone, but you’re fast enough to catch it. It tells you that he’s playing nice as a temporary measure. You have the disturbing feeling that he knows what you were up to during your bathroom break.

Realistically, if you have to guess, he’s planning to make his team bring up your misstep to the magazine higher-ups.

You're torn between concern for Utahime and a deep-seated desire to see him try.

The day unfolds smoothly with minimal intervention on your part. You stay behind the monitor and let the crew do their job. Your role mainly involves offering insights when requested and flagging promising shots with Choso.

Seeing him go through different stages of boredom and despite his not-so-wide variety of facial expressions, you find that the camera doesn’t hate him. It's a unanimous consensus that, in another life, he could have pursued a career in modeling, or perhaps even acting. When someone inquires about your opinion on the matter, you become the focal point of a few discreet side-eyed glances. Your response is a non-committal hum.

Your attention is currently fixated on the last sequence of preview shots displayed on the screen, there’s a very specific detail that you just can’t let pass.

“Can we take a quick break? I wanna try something.”

Choso, taken aback by your sudden initiative, responds, “Yeah, of course, take your time.”

Toji’s face drops from the draw of his eyebrows as you approach him.

“Hi,” he says with that off-putting lift of the corners of his mouth that is supposed to be a smile. He’s probably thinking that your stalling is only prolonging what he wants to be over with.

“Hi,” you catch his inquisitive glance at the objects in your hand. “Is it okay with you if I wipe off the scar?”

His eyes snap down at yours as he thinks it over, squinting for a bit. You’re certain he’s about to tell you to fuck off when he nods briskly, opening his palms as if beckoning you closer.

“Go ahead.”

It's a polite, seemingly harmless green light, yet it feels like you're a bird about to peck at grains of rice beneath a box suspended by a stick.

“Can you—”

He reads your hesitation and does the same thing you’ve seen several times today. He opens the distance between his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. You, for some reason, wait until he looks up at the ceiling like people on the makeup chair usually do out of instict, but he stares at you instead.

Saturating the Q tip with micellar water, you start working away the thin but high coverage layer of foundation, careful not to overdo the edges. A few swipes in and the natural rosy hue of scarred tissue appears, a few shades darker than the color of his lips. It’s a slender, vertical ridge that cuts across his lips, about an inch long. A feature too distinct to waste.

You pull back and he takes the brief chance to run his tongue across the scar, pulling a face at the taste.

Unfazed, you wipe away any excess micellar water and—well, his saliva, you assume—with the dry side of the cotton swab. Once you’re done with that you pat away with a disposable puff dipped in translucent power, just to get rid of any unnecessary shine.

“All good? You satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Cause you don’t look satisfied.”

You’re happy with the outcome of your tweaking, yes. The overall shooting? Well, you’re not in love with it, but you don’t have to be. This whole thing has Utahime’s and the magazine’s aesthetic written all over it, harsh contrasts, blunt shadow. You know not everything has to make a statement, but it's rather simple, completely relying on the man's character.

“I’m going with the brief,” You answer, taking a step back to get an overall look and consider any further touch-ups, stopping him when he starts to go up again. “No. Stay right there.”

“What if it was yours?” he asks, complying pointedly.

“Like I said, I’m going with the brief I was given.”

“But if you were the original director?”

You wouldn't even be assigned to the task. You left the magazine shortly after you finished your internship and never looked back, even though you liked it here and were being given a much nicer offer than you were expecting. That same week you found out that your brother had been wining and dining members of the home editorial, showing interest in negotiating for the magazine.

It was a no-brainer for you to part ways and find another way. These days you're independent, working with brands and entertainment agencies that allow for more creative freedom.

“I wouldn’t be so heavy on making the tech oligarch look human.”

You reply more out of impulse than calculation, the same way you touch a cat’s tail knowing there will be consequences.

“You suggesting I don’t look human?” He flashes a cold grin, kind of like a warning.

The novelty has worn off. Most of the crew are busy doing their own thing, discussing lunch and stretching to alleviate the fatigue of a long day. A few lingering glances remain trained on you— Miwa, Choso, his strict assistant.

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

“So, what do I look like?”

Like a shark, you think. Don’t ever grin at me again, creep.

“You’re full of questions, aren't you?” You tug lightly at the neckline of his shirt, just a pinch of the fabric, barely touching him at all. "Maybe that should be included in the profile."

He hums. “I'm a curious man. I get bored easily.”

You conclude the interaction and walk away, acknowledging Choso with a nod, all the while ignoring the way his amused eyes linger on you.

Like you’re just postponing the inevitable. Whatever that might be.

He finds you later that day, after you’ve wrapped up.

He enters the room with the unspoken confidence of someone who believes he owns not just the studio, but the entire building. Like he's just acquired the magazine and now feels entitled to disrupt your peace with a shitty opening sentence.

“Your work.”

You look up from your phone and find him in the mirror in front of you. The hair and makeup team packed their stuff a while ago, all the stations are clean and deserted, and only the lights remain on.

“It’s… interesting. The butterflies, are they alive?”

You look up from your phone and find him in the mirror in front of you. The hair and makeup team packed their stuff a while ago, all the stations are clean and empty, and only the lights remain on.

“Sorry?” You’re unable to hide your annoyance at the unexpected interruption.

“I googled you. Your work. It’s eye-catching, quite… I guess eccentric’s a good way to describe it. Very edgy.”

You’ve heard your fair share of similar comments in the past, but he pouts and frowns with the last two words and irritation pulls at you. You let your hands drop to your lap.

He leans nonchalantly against the door frame, arms crossed, undeterred by your silence and your less-than-friendly attitude.

“I was wondering, are the butterflies real or is it CGI?”

You can’t for the life of you decide if he’s being serious, or decipher his intentions. “Neither. They’re props.”

“They look very realistic.”

“They do,” you agree. “That’s the intention.”

“And the flowers?”

“Those are real. For the most part.”

“I see. So how would you have me?”

“Excuse me?”

He visibly fights back a smile, and you wonder if this one would’ve reached his eyes, but seeing how you’re going back and forth like you can’t let the other get the last word, you doubt it. You also doubt that he’s capable of such a human thing. Smiling warmly. Honestly.

“You said not so heavy on the looking human earlier, so what concept would you go for if we worked together?”

Because he won't leave you alone to discuss dinner plans with Satoru and Suguru, you stand up from your seat and turn around to rest against the floating station. Facing him like this feels a lot safer than speaking to him through the mirror.

He’s dressed in his own clothes, a basic light gray t-shirt several tighter than the soft material the stylist put on him and a pair of dark jeans. His phone is, as usual, attached to his hand, constantly lighting up with notifications.

“I don’t know. It usually takes me a week to get a feel of the concept.”

“I saw the tank pictures,” he replies a bit too quickly as if he didn't care for your answer. You’re certain that you don’t like this man. You don’t like how bluntly he talks about your work, or that you immediately know what he’s talking about.

Knowing how things went on that particular set and from the way he looked absolutely done in the most basic environment without having to do much work, that would be a disaster.

“I wouldn’t put you in a tank,” You snort dismissively, and he tilts his head curiously.

“So?”

A string of visual prompts runs through your mind. Submerging half of his face in black tinted water, his head resting on a white surface, red spilling from his eyes. Perhaps you'd drown him in smoke or apply mechanical prosthetics to his face and neck. You’d make his skin flush like rubies as if it were burning to the touch. In every single one of them, his scar is left untouched.

“Nothing you’d be comfortable with.”

“You see, I think we could meet in the middle.” he reasons, very eloquently, a master of negotiation. You imagine that this is the same voice he uses with his board members to bend them his way. “Can’t say I’d be down for the body-pilling thing or the body suits, but I’m sure we could come up with something that leaves us both satisfied.”

“Are you trying to hire me right now?” You’re genuinely confused. And hungry. And tired. And nursing a lingering hungover.

“No,” he chuckles, like the notion is absurd “but you looked bored today, and I think I could live up to your vision, is that the word?”

“Right, uh huh.” you nod, very condescendingly, remembering that you’re no longer filling up for anyone or hold any professional responsibility. This is just some man wasting your time. “So what is this? You got a praise kink or something?”

He’s unbothered by that. “Not that I know of. Can I be honest?”

You lift your shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. It's not as though he cares about seeking permission anyway.

He lets his eyes drop to the floor and looks back up at you with a bashful little grin.

“I’ve just always wanted to fuck a married woman.”

You’re not as surprised as you are relieved that he’s cut to the chase. He’s not the first man to detest you and want you at the same time. Men often blur the lines between disdain and sex. It’s only fun when they don’t get too comfortable, wanting to only deliver but folding when it’s their turn to take.

The situation settles on you. The room seems smaller now, and the distant sounds of people outside have all but faded away. He's blocking your only exit, put you in this tight spot intentionally.

There’s a possibility that he’s some exception to the norm, that he can take as much as you suspect he can give, but you’re not going to find out.

“Too honest?” He's devoid of any shame or attempts to sound apologetic. Instead, he's assessing you closely, monitoring you for any reaction.

You know men like him. He has to be used to people eagerly dropping to their knees with just a tilt of his chin. Most of the people you worked with today would do so without hesitation. But Fushiguro Toji, with his insincere smile and unflinching demeanor, harbors far more selfish and hostile motives than bending you over the chair and making you watch in the spotless mirrors.

“Should’ve kept my intentions to myself?”

A corner of your lips lifts, and he zeroes in on it.

“Didn’t scare ya, did I? You’re a big girl, you're not gonna run.”

He’s daring you now. Fully predatory, like he’ll do something at the slightest indication. A shark waiting for a speck of red in the water. You picture him stalking his way into this secluded space that only the crew knows about after finishing recording videos for the magazine’s social media accounts, his shadow looming across the narrow corridor.

Fear and power. That’s his deal. He either wants to witness a furious flush down your neck, your throat bob in trepidation and your hand look for your phone...

“And do what?” You cross your arms, refusing to back down. “MeToo you? Expose Japan’s favorite self-made billionaire hellboy? Reddit would riot.”

Or he wants you to bite back.

“I mean, considering the way you were eyefucking me I think I could probably pull the reverse MeToo card on you.”

Your chin drops, your eyebrows go up, and your head leans back at the accusation. Were you? Eyefucking him?

Maybe. A little bit.

But so was the whole room. Probably every room he walks in.

You're a visual person.

And nothing’s stopping you from bullshitting. “Someone’s optimistic.”

“Is that it?” he smiles, tantalizing. “Does the little heiress always generously take on the role of a make up artist? Or was she just feeling charitable today?”

You're not going to indulge him with an answer. It's not uncommon for you to take on various roles and responsibilities during your projects.

And if he thinks he'll get to you by casually dropping the four letter word out of nowhere, he's not as sharp as you were hoping him to be.

“Right. You go ahead. Tell Instagram that I sexually assaulted you with a cotton swab.”

“It’d be just another Monday for Gojo’s PR mercenaries, right?”

“Everyone likes to look at pretty things. Don’t get cocky, old man.” His eyebrows get high into his forehead like he’s never been called old to his own face. “You asked me what you look like earlier.”

The scrunch of his nose indicates that he wants to say something before the subject changes, but indulges you anyway.

“I did.”

“You look like a problem,” you let your words hang in the air for a moment. “And not the kind I have fun dealing with, no offense.”

Finally, he grins again, tongue coming out to just graze the edge of his canines. Something inside your belly stirs as you follow the movement.

“And I’m not married yet. So you might want to take your intentions somewhere else.”

He nods thoughtfully, sees the way you twist the ring around and display the stone as if to make a point. Then he buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans and lifts his shoulders, taking in a deep breath. The motion reveals a thin line of hard skin under his shirt and just the edge of his underwear.

Water under the bridge.

“Well, no harm in putting it on the table, right?”

Your phone buzzes. Your drive home is waiting for you outside. You move like he’s not standing by the doorway and blocking your only way out.

“Have a pleasant day, Fushiguro.”

He moves away right before you can crash into him, eyes like green bullets aimed at the back of your head.

It’s Friday when you see him again at your friend’s birthday party.

He’s lurking his way through, nursing a drink with his eyes attached to his phone until the birthday boy himself hunts him down. Haibara, producer and pitchfork sweetheart whose debut album cover art you worked on earlier in the year.

It’s a funny sight, it would be almost endearing if it wasn't him. The sunshine main character dragging the hunched, brooding giant along with him. Fushiguro looks like he’s trying his best to keep up, half-amused, half-annoyed, nodding as Haibara rambles away. You wonder how the two even fit together, Haibara being so charming and him a walking threat.

Then you remember Haibara mentioning that he's been working on the soundtrack for a video game.

Your friends’ conversation mingles with the music and flows around you. Someone’s getting married to his ex-husband’s father. Yuki’s about to open her third concept store somewhere in Europe. You can’t be bothered to focus too much on catching up, but you do meet Shoko’s eyes across the room when Mei Mei says something particularly questionable.

You see a hint of longing in her eyes, a shared sense of missing Utahime, just as you do. On a brighter note, her father's health is finally starting to improve.

A hand wraps around yours, and another settles on your shoulder. The cold press of a ring on your skin brings you back to the present.

Hiroki leans over your shoulder. “Car’s here.”

His hand feels hot and clammy on yours as he leads you out of your friend's sight, turning back occasionally to make sure he hasn't lost you in the crowd. He won't stop until you're both outside, standing by the side of the street.

“Call me when you land?”

Of course, he will. Nothing’s changed. He’s starting a new project in some small town in the middle of nowhere in Europe in 24 hours. You won’t ask him to stay. Six months will pass, and nothing will change, you’ve both done this before.

But you stall. He always calls a car with this in mind. You kiss by the sidewalk, he squeezes you in his arms until your bones fight back. You’ve done this before. It’ll happen again, considering how his acting career is taking off overseas. You’ll do it time and time again until…

“You taste like pennies,” he tells you. Your finger traces the barely there curve of his thick, straight eyebrows. He pulls back, bringing his fingers up to your face. You push his hand away before it reaches its destination.

Hiroki nods to himself, looking away. Something inside you twists, so you fill the silence.

“Make sure to take an aspirin.”

He nods, always sweet and obedient when you’re nagging. You tuck a strand of hair away from his eyes so that people don't fall too hard for him on the airport. His hair has grown longer in recent months, part of his preparation for a role.

Back inside, Yuki makes room for you by moving her legs off the couch. She asks if everything is okay, and you pull her legs onto your lap, rolling your eyes. She knows you too well.

“Don’t gaslight me. Something was off.”

“Do I look like something’s off?”

“No, but you’re a fucking oyster. Hiroki’s not that good with his face for an actor. He kept looking at you like he was afraid you’d disappear.”

Choso chimes in, draping his arm around her shoulders. "They're getting married. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I think he might like her, and he might enjoy looking at her."

Looking out of the window, your gaze naturally drifts to a figure seated by Haibara’s covered dock. Earlier, it was adorned with twinkling lights, but now, even in the dark, you can discern a solitary silhouette in the middle of the glittery ocean.

Mei Mei taps her cigarette, fixing her eyes on you from the other side of the couch.

“Does it have anything to do with Fushiguro Toji asking about you, by any chance?”

Your stomach drops.

“Who?”

“What does Fushiguro Toji want with you?” Yuki asks. “Is he trying to get to Gojo through you?”

“We worked on a shooting with him a few days ago.” Choso calmly explains before she can come up with any conspiracies. “She was covering for Utahime. Made quite the impression on him, I think.”

“Oh, Satoru’s gonna fucking hate that.” Shoko laughs, unexpectedly loud in her inebriated state. “Please, please fuck him. He’ll be so pissed if you fuck him. It’ll be hilarious.”

“No respect or regard for the fiancé.” Choso shakes his head, and it looks like he’s laughing from the way his shoulders move up and down. “Poor bastard.”

“Yeah, well.” Shoko shrugs, not bothering to hide her dislike for your fiancé.

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “He’s just pissy because I was not... very professional. I think the asshole wants to get me blacklisted.”

Choso makes a noise of disagreement. Yuki frowns in concern. “Shit. What did you do?”

“She showed up hungover, asked who the fuck he was when he was standing behind her. Miwa was traumatized.”

“Poor Miwa. She's an angel.”

“Whatever you did, he’s asking around…” Mei Mei adds with a spineless little smile. You don’t like how she makes you feel like she knows exactly what went down that day.

You wonder how well she knows him, and how much he told her.

“...and let’s just say that he’s not the curious type, so make your assumptions, everyone.”

You tap Yuki’s thigh without thinking twice and push yourself off the couch. A string of accusations about scaring you off follow, and Mei Mei teases you about not meaning to do that.

“Fuck off, I just need some fresh air.”

“But you’re gonna consider it, right? For me? Come on, it’ll cheer Iori up.”

“I’m not gonna fuck some random man just because you think it’d be funny, Shoko.”

And you’re pretty sure Iori would be the first to tell you to stay away from him. Shoko sags against the back of the couch like a puppy you stepped on.

You step out of the house, past the pool, the limestone steps, and stop only to take off your sandals. The sand is cold and yielding, no traces of the warmth of the slow Atami day left, soft grains clinging to the soles of your bare feet.

Haibara’s dock stretches out into the ocean, endless until you reach the far end and leave behind the sound of laughter and music. It’s him, like you suspected, sitting on the edge, his legs hanging over the sea.

With one elbow resting on his thigh and a phone in hand, his other palm supports his face. You brush your hair back and inhale the salty breeze, opting to linger before revealing your presence.

“I think I got it.”

He looks up at you, momentarily caught off guard, allowing you to take a triumphant sip from your glass, ignoring the stinging inside your cheek. He's still engrossed in the medieval game he was playing during the shooting, his commitment minimal, his thumb hovering over the screen.

You leave some distance between you as you take a seat, glass resting between you. It’s a high drop from here, the water looks like it could freeze you instantly.

“Hand-held CCTV cameras aimed at your face. Like guns. Point blank,” you finally elaborate, once you’ve found a comfortable position, demonstrating with your hand.

“Sounds fuckin’ uncomfortable,” he remarks, eyeing your demonstrative fingers. You wonder if he’s drunk and how much alcohol it would take to get him there.

You drop your hand, and he follows the movement. “I warned you.”

“So I don’t get flowers? No butterflies?”

“Nah.”

He lifts his gaze from where it had settled on your thighs, and you absentmindedly tap your ring finger against the bare skin.

“Thought I was pretty.”

You snort in response. Tonight, the moon shines particularly bright, illuminating the dock lounge. It's a serene spot to catch a break from the lively party.

“I changed my mind.”

He sucks on his teeth. “You can’t take a man’s virginity for being called pretty and then take it back. It's cruel.”

“If it helps, you’re still objectively nice to look at,” you say from behind your glass. No point in lying, he’s hot. And self-aware. And you’re not blind or ashamed to admit it. You work with hot people all the time.

"Objectively nice to look at,” he repeats, like he’s getting a feel of it, or memorizing it for future use. “What about your fiance, then? ‘s he pretty? Enough for flowers and butterflies and shit?”

“I met him working for an editorial. He did get flowers.”

“Ah, I see. So, does he do that often?”

You let another sip wash down your throat, this time tilting your head to the side to avoid the sting.

He returns to his game, and you trace the profile of his nose while the screen highlights the hollows beneath his eyes and the fine lines around his mouth. If you were a bit more intoxicated, you might be tempted to snatch his phone and toss it into the water, anything to halt the conversation about Hiroki. It would force him to look at you instead.

“Leave you alone at parties,” he adds.

You've momentarily forgotten the initial question. “He’s my fiance, not my babysitter. I can take care of myself.”

“Never suggested otherwise, did I?” he sniffs, and a part of you, the sensible one, contemplates returning to your friends and disregarding whatever pulled you out here. Leave him be to enjoy his game and stay away from the one brewing between the two of you.

“What about your entourage? Are they comfortable leaving you out of their sight?”

“I can fend for myself too,” he says, eyes set on his phone.

"Can I play for a bit?” you ask, extending your hand. He hesitates, briefly glancing at you as if to confirm you're not taking the piss, down at his phone, and back at you.

His phone is big enough to feel like a console, and there's a very on-brand crack on the left corner that he warns can cut you. It gets him a side eye that he reacts to with a careless shrug.

You haven’t played any games in years or downloaded any since the younger members of your family grew out of the age where they came as useful, but you recognize this one from ads you’ve seen on Instagram.

It doesn’t take any experience to figure out that you’re supposed to manage some kind of orthogonal kingdom. There’s a castle and a medieval-style village surrounded by a tall wall, with full crops around. You tap around, collect coins here and there, zoom in and zoom out under his close watch. Every time you tap a building without a full green bar, a few options show up, you bite your lip to hold back a smile and hit the red X on the right corner of what looks like a church.

“Hey—”

He’s snatching his phone out of your hands before you can pretend to be sorry.

“Fuck you do that for?”

You don’t know why, but his annoyance hits you as the most entertaining thing you’ve seen or heard tonight. A grown-ass man next to you sulking because you deleted his little 2D church on his phone. Shoko might think you fucking him would be hilarious, but this, to you, is real comedy.

“What? You religious or something?” You doubt he is, given his controversies and the way he enjoys taunting the satanic-panic crowd. He also happens to look like god left the room the moment he was born.

He shakes his head, not as an answer but to reiterate that you’ve pissed him off. A laugh full of mirth bubbles out of you. He’s tapping aggressively, filling up the blank spot with a smaller version of the building, and sucks on his teeth again, disappointed at how pathetic it looks around all his leveled-up properties.

“So, what's your deal?” You inquire.

“What?” he gruffly asks, offering you an irritated glance. He’s kind of cute like this, frustration looks like a foreign emotion for a man like him.

“Any conduct disorders?”

He does a double-take again.

“Is that offensive to you?” you ask, struggling to contain your amusement at how confused he looks. "Sorry, I know your generation isn't that comfortable discussing these things."

“See, I might be socially stunted, yeah,” he gruffs after staying quiet for a bit, finally putting his phone inside his back pocket. “But you rich kids—”

“Oh, us rich kids?” you gasp softly, not expecting that turn, you bite your lower lip to stop yourself from laughing out loud as he’s not done with his sudden rant.

You’re tickled.

He shakes a thick finger in your direction.

“You’re fucking uncomfortable to be around, you know? It makes you think that maybe bullying exists for a reason. They don’t rough the bunch of you nearly enough at those expensive private schools, do they?”

"I hate to break it to you, but you are a rich kid inside a grown man’s body.” He rolls his green eyes at you until all you see is white.

“Ah, I get it. You’re self-made and I’m nepo trash. Spoiled little bitch who’s never been taught a lesson, is that it?”

Animosity radiates out of him. He flattens his palms on the wood surface behind him and clenches his jaw, shaking his head like he’s not even going to try to reason with you.

"Don't pretend you're above the rest of us because you took someone else's last name. Blood is thicker than a piece of paper.”

“Nah, you’ve got it wrong there, sweetheart. I don’t put people in such one-dimensional boxes.”

He scratches the side of his nose before elaborating.

“Spoiled little bitch, yeah. But you’re a hard worker. And stubborn, too. You’ve been paving your own way, working real hard to traumatize daddy back. You run on pure spite.”

You scoff, throwing back what’s left of your drink.

“And get this.”

Eyes now glazed with a cruel glint, he leans in closer like he's about to share a secret, and peers down at your chest when you lean closer.

“He’s the crowned king of our country’s conservative media, he’s also old as fuck, so that can only mean that he’s a raging homophobe on top of, you know, violently misogynistic. You and your brother must have that therapist of yours living the fucking life.”

He stops and cocks his head, like realization just landed on him.

“And you’re weaponizing the fuck out of him. Christmas at the Gojos's a nightmare for your little boyfriend, but you have your fun, don’t you?”

Just a few minutes ago, you were savoring the signs of irritation in his body language, mind running wild with all the ways you could make him tick, but now you want to punch him in the throat. Just bury your fist right there in that v-shaped Adam's apple of his.

The wicked glint in his eyes hints that he's trying to strike a chord. “Tell me, does he prepare his speeches beforehand or does he just sit there next to you, quiet and pretty and eats his dessert?”

“Don’t talk about my family.” You lick the inside of your cheek, but you know the strung tone of your voice will only egg him on.

“Why not? You’re on the news every day. Everyone talks about you.”

Usually, when it comes to your family, you’ve got thick fucking skin. You’re aware of the stain and privilege of your last name. The advantages you’ve had and people claim you don’t deserve. The fact that you’re the living consequence of your father cheating on Satoru’s mother.

Most of the things they say about your father and his monster of a corporation you can agree with, but you keep your head high and your thoughts to yourself and stick to sharing looks with Suguru when it gets particularly nasty between your brother and your father during family gatherings.

“He’s been causing quite the stir, hasn’t he? Your brother. If Alzheimer’s doesn’t do it, he might be the one to finally spare us and send your old man to hell.”

But you don’t fuck around when it comes to Satoru.

You’re propping yourself up on your wrist and lifting your leg when his hand comes to your bare knee, stopping you from attempting to stand up and walk away. His grip is surprisingly gentle, though the tips of his fingers touching the back of your knees do send the message. It’s like he can’t let you forget how much smaller you are in comparison to him.

“Whoa, easy. I’m just playing with you.”

You blink down at him, face set, hoping to deliver the message that you might push him into the water if he fucks around any further.

“You obviously know I have plenty of family baggage for you to hit me back with, have at it,” he adds, almost kindly.

You remember Zenin Naoya with tears running down his face. If you had to bet on it, you’d say that making Fushiguro cry would single-handedly give you bragging rights over Satoru for the rest of your lives.

He hums when you sit again. “Go on, get as creative as you want.”

“I doubt you even have a family,” you bite “God knows what Zenin lab near Fukushima you escaped from."

He smacks his lips, half buying it. “Weak but creative, I’ll give a tick for that. So, what I’m getting here is that you get along with him, then.”

You give him an uninterested side eye.

“Couldn’t pretend to give a shit when I mentioned your boy toy, but you looked like a loaded gun the second I brought up your brother.”

Behind the amused curl of his lip, he sounds suspiciously genuine. You don’t feel like elaborating.

“I've met him a few times,” he mentions offhandedly. “Flashy cottonhead prick, doesn’t like me very much.”

“Can’t imagine why, enchanting as you are.”

“Probably gonna like me a lot less after this,” he reasons, more to himself.

"What? Worried I might tell him about your less-than-friendly attitude?"

"Why woud I?" He chuckles, a terrible look of innocence crossing his features. "I've behaved so far, haven't I? Given the circumstances."

"Don't think I want to know your idea of misbehaving, then." you say, and try hard not to shiver at the way he looks down at you as he utters the last words. Like you're the circumstances in question.

"Debatable, that. But I'll let it slide." He chuckles again, satisfied with your reaction. “So, two peas in a pod? You and him?”

“I haven't seen him in a while,” you say offhandedly, thinking back about how your dinner plans fell through after a sudden change in his schedule. A common occurrence. It seems to get worse as you get older. “He’s been busy these days, performing some... corporate sacrificial ritual.”

“And the little heiress is too cool to involve herself in such bland, boring affairs.”

You’ve had a bad feeling since your father announced he’ll be stepping down from his position. With the controversies involving the company, the board and investors spiraling and Satoru suspiciously playing your father’s game, you see havoc brewing in the future; your father closing his fist around his leashes, children crying, kittens separated from their mothers and blood spilled on the floor.

And you want none of it.

“I’m an outsider. You don’t need me to explain how it goes, do you?”

He nods at you like he’d tip his drink at you if he had one, looking deep in thought for a while there.

You prop yourself up on your wrist and bring a leg up to rest your feet on the rough wood, inadvertently knocking over your empty glass. You both watch as it tumbles, rolling in a circular path until it meets the edge and drops out of sight, vanishing beneath in the inky water, as if it never existed.

“Water looks nice.” he points out off-handedly.

You hum uncommittedly.

“Wanna take a dip?”

His eyes are already on you when you look up at him. There’s not nearly enough alcohol in you to ignore the distance between you, or the lecherous dip under the friendly, harmless veneer. You wonder what triggered it.

You gaze down at your attire, a deconstructed, stretchy fabric ensemble unsuitable for water activities.

"No, but you can go ahead. I'll stay here and pretend not to see you when you drown."

He dips his head slightly, his frown implying you're a buzzkill. "Come on. You've never gone skinny-dipping?"

“That’s a very lame attempt to get me naked.”

He points at the party with a tilt of his head.

“No one’s gonna see you. I will, but I’ll behave, 'cause you’ve had a rough night.” The vague fucker carries on again before you can ask what he means by that. “Didn’t really think you’d be this shy.”

“And I don’t think Haibara knows he’s friends with an old man that likes to creep on girls a decade younger,” you retort.

His silence makes you believe he's finally relented.

But he hooks a finger beneath a thin strap of your top that slipped down your shoulder at some point, deftly guiding it back into place. His nail barely grazes your skin, causing a shiver to course through you. He grins wolfishly, his eyes locked onto yours, darkness flickering from beneath his lowered lashes, tantalizing.

“Like you’re some innocent little lamb who doesn’t know better? I don’t buy it,” he mocks you, voice dangerously dropping. “Your cover’s blown, sweets. I see you. You’re a lot darker than you look.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm. You’re a little fucked up, ain’t ya? Got some real violent impulses tucked in there.”

That’s rich, coming from him.

"So perhaps you should tread lightly around me."

“I don’t mind,” he says succinctly like you didn’t just witness the black completely eclipsing the green of his otherwise beautiful eyes. “Tell you what, you’re more than welcome not to hold back around me. Consider me your safe space. Let it all out, you sure look like you need it.”

“How kind of you,” you croon, he blinks, slow and warm for you, lashes coming to rest on the sinking blue-tinted skin of his under eyes.

It’s been a long night, and you’re feeling fearless.

“You wanna go back and do drugs?”

The sea roars, a particularly violent wave crashing under you. He looks over his shoulder like he’s thinking of it.

“With your friends?” His tone is derogatory at the last word, unaffected, but you have a theory that if you were to put your hand on his chest, the rhythm of his heart would tell a different tale.

Cute. He’s cute. You want to chew him up.

He hit the spot about you not being the lamb, but another thing entirely. The thought makes you want to laugh in his face, but instead, you smile and pop a dimple, swinging your feet and imagining yourself dropping a handful of rice in front of him.

“No. Just you and me.”

#toji fanfiction #toji x reader #toji smut #fushiguro toji x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jjk fanfiction #toji fushiguro

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