#anyways on a slightly more serious note

[murdocs-sweetheart]

With regards to the last anon who I’m sure was all the same person.

What was that, FIVE separate asks (tbh I didn’t actually count, but for everyone else, it was a lot, trust 😭) sending me hardcore M/acGyver x M//urdoc smut ?

I did not read more than like the first few words of each of those, just to check they weren’t anything I give a fuck about but like… damn, way to waste my time. I got a calculus exam in a little over two hours. I don’t have time for this shit lil bro 😂😂😂

[saints-who-never-existed]

Just skimming over the script again and noting that both sets of Captains and lieutenants - Terrors and Erebites - are described as sitting in stone-cold silence together while having their morning repasts in E03.

Which is quite funny to me, honestly?

Erebites: We sit in silence because we're stricken with grief for our dear departed brother officer/surrogate son Graham. R.I.P. Terrors: We sit in silence because we're all just staggeringly fuckin' awkward human beings.

[clingyduoapologist]

See the problem is I can acknowledge that Ezio is probably a better written character than Altair and his interactions with other characters like Leonardo and Rosa are all handled fairly well but also there’s just something about Altair being such a fucking idiot that he basically has to run around the Holy Lands sulking while Malik calls him a little bitch that I don’t think any other ac protagonist has ever matched

[tainebot01]

Whenever I see people comparing Hugh O'Connor and Sorin Sprocket it's almost always in terms of appearance because they're both blue bookguys with glasses and resting >:| faces, and it's really funny to me because little do you realise these nerds are two distinctly different flavours of the very same genre of madlad.

(Spoilers incoming...)

Hugh O'Connor spends half his time on screen desperately trying to hide the fact that he's a part time crane operator in his 20s and fails thanks to the aforementioned part time crane certification, lies through his teeth about his height, build, intellect and god knows what else, had this all revealed in a court of law by his best friend’s defense attorney after their other mutual bestie had been outed as a girl, decided the best strategy to get said defendant declared innocent is to commit such blatant perjury absolutely nobody buys it, and gave such a mess of a testimony that the prosecuting attorney straight up left the room to preserve any remaining braincells. Before he ultimately breaks down in messy tears from how much he loves his best friends. He also got indirectly stabbed in the hand by a spring loaded box cutter courtesy of Myriam.

And then you have Sorin Sprocket who communicates mainly through paper airplanes, has been walking around with an untreated stomach wound that only takes effect once you actually point it out to him after which he immediately collapses in a pool of his own blood, literally cannot remember anything past The Worst Day Of His Life and has been relying on his own handwritten account for months, despite all this he still has no goddamn clue what's going on the entire trial because his memory keeps getting screwed with due to other's clumsiness or gaslighting, and somehow manages to shimmy along the side of a blimp of his own design while bleeding out from the aforementioned stomach wound. In the middle of a storm. All out of nothing but love for his wife. He also got stabbed on two separate occasions, once with a candelabra and once with his own stim toy.

I don't know where I was going with this but the point I'm trying to make here is that I think someone on the writing team just really likes to stab nerds.

[james-stark-the-writer]

just finished Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, and it is a game written by cowards for cowards.

the final twist genuinely ruins the game. it's so stupid as a narrative decision. i hate it so much. it almost makes me understand what the people yelling about The Last Jedi being too subservient to its themes were yelling about (OBVIOUSLY not the ones that were being bigoted and loud and wrong about it, but just the ones who had actual issues with its narrative directions/execution). genuinely, the twist takes what could have been an extremely solid 8.5, maybe a 9/10 game down to a 4/10 game with nothing of interest to say deluding itself into thinking it's saying anything of worth by thoughtlessly repeating patterns as if that's supposed to generate meaning without any real effort of actually committing to that meaning, or seeing the world as anything beyond its basic binary worldview of Good and Bad.

putting that twist in fundamentally cuts the legs out from any actual, interesting and substantive critique it could have leveled at the legal system and our feelings about people on trial and their perceived guilt or innocence, and it just ends up reinforcing it as a power of good that Will Ultimately Prevail In The Search For Truth, as if that is even remotely a thing any legal system is concerned with, especially the one in the game that mostly just stumbles into The Right Choices because it's a game controlled by the player. it's frankly ideologically incoherent to the point of saying nothing because its critique is unfocused and toothless. best it can muster is "maybe some people are corrupt and lying, but if You take Advantage of The System, you can beat them" as if malicious compliance is supposed to change the system. fuck off.

ran out of tags but. i'm serious about this lol, i really hate it as a narrative and ideological choice. the game threatens to say something bold and interesting and then just pulls the rug out from underneath you. it sucks. it's very much like 12 Angry Men in that way, i think, except at least that movie Knows what it's saying and that its basic premise is its ideological downfall, this just doesn't really feel like it says anything much interesting or coherent, ultimately, because the criticism either drowns in the length and comedic nature of it, or just ultimately isn't focused and pointed and nuanced enough to actually say something meaningful. like ik someone's gonna do a "kid's game" thing but hello, kid's shit has always been nuanced and just bc it's "for kids" doesn't mean it has to abide by some binary ass morality that flattens all its interesting critique, especially when you're constantly led, structurally, to the more interesting and nuanced narrative choice only to have a twist completely ruin it and making it all feel like a waste of your time. plenty of things are nuanced and interesting and "for kids" without deflating their themes and messages by writing a stupid twist that undercuts the interesting parts of its arguments.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

every time i remember "ingo is an ascian/ancient who literally forgot everything about that" it still kills me. so much staying power in the idea of the protagonists rocking up to ishgard having the worst day of their lives and there's a fucking ASCIAN just chilling waiting for them and they're like fucking dammit now we have to deal with THIS. and then he's not. like he's literally just chilling. he is so very much just some guy. and they're like why the fuck are you dressed like an evil wizard then and he's like they're comfy robes :(

[fawniswriting]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.

Warning(s): THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!! platonic!thunderbolts x reader. no use of y/n. use of the nicknames doll, honey, and pretty girl. canon typical violence. descriptions of injuries. descriptions of explosion, gun use, etc. established relationship. profanities. kissing. VERY suggestive content (minors be advised). talks of having a baby. bucky being a little feral (very briefly). slightly hurt/comfort. basically bucky and reader being the parents of the group.

Word Count: 3.6k-ish

Author's Note: GUYS I saw this fanart on instagram and instantly knew that I had to write something inspired by it!!! I've been itching to post a thunderbolts fic since last week 😭 welcome back 2012-2014 era of avengers' tower fanfics ✨️ anyway I hope they're keeping the revolution hair for bucky in doomsday or else I swear I'm gonna RIOT!!! (I know seb's head is shaved rn but wigs exist yk 😔) don't forget to comment, like, and reblog loveliesss 🩷

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.

Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.

Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.

Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.

Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.

Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing. 

But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.

The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it. 

No heads-up. No plan. 

Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons. 

By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.

From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”

“What?!” Alexei roars.

Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.

Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs. Sarcastically. “Watch me, kid.”

As if on cue, the elevator arrives with a ding. Bucky gestures curtly towards the opening metal door. “Inside. Now.”

Reluctantly, the team shuffles in like a group of sheep being herded back into their pen for a much-needed nap time.

For a beat, the only sound that settles inside the cramped space is the low mechanical hum of the elevator ascending. 

That is until Ava decides to speak up.

“I’m just saying,” she begins, “it wasn’t like we meant to crash the deal. We were just improvising.”

“Improvising?” Bucky exclaims, glaring at her. “You call tossing a grenade into an active negotiation improvising?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Yelena argues, crossing her arms. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”

“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”

“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”

John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.

Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”

The elevator dings again at the top floor.

“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”

“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”

“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.

Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”

“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.

“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”

The group swelters in a momentary silence.

“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”

Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”

The whole team stops in their tracks.

One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.

On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright lilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.

It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.

“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.

“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”

“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.

“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”

Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”

“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you—all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”

Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.

“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”

There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.

When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”. 

Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better. 

You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.

“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.

Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.

“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.

“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”

“Walker.”

It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.

And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.

The blond gulps.

“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”

“That's not necessa—”

The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.

Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.

“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”

As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.

“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”

“Wait, hold on—”

“That's not—”

“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”

The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.

“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.

Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.

“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”

“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”

Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.

Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace. 

“Hey, doll. I've missed—”

“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”

Bucky blinks. 

He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.

“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”

“No.”

The chopping continues.

Bucky rubs his face.

“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”

“Hm.”

Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.

“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”

You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”

“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”

Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.

“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”

Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.

“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”

Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.

“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”

Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”

You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”

He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”

“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”

A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.

“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”

Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”

“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”

You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.

Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”

“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”

“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”

The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.

“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”

Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.

“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”

You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss. 

“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”

“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”

Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—

“Yelena! Give it back to me!”

“I told you it wasn't me!”

Bucky groans.

The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.

You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. 

“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”

He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen's doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.

“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.

“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.

“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”

“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”

“Fucking asshole—”

“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”

Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.

There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.

But with you by his side, and his entire team watching his six, he knows that he's got nothing to worry about.

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: How Will Your future spouse express jealousy

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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My Masterlist🫶🏻

── .✦ PILE I

OHHHH this pile is defination of “I’m jealous, but I will NEVER admit it.” Your future spouse is doing CRAZY STUFF to keep their jealousy under control, but you will feel it. Oh, you WILL feel it.

BABY. This is a long-game kind of love. A soulmate kind of bond. And listen, when someone sees you as their person, their one-and-only, their forever, there is no way in HELL they’re just sitting back while some random tries to get cute with you. i see that your people pile number 1, they don’t react right away. Oh no, no, no. They marinate in that jealousy in their mind. The 7 of Pentacles tells me they watch, observe, process before making a move. Like, imagine someone getting a little too friendly with you at a party. Your future spouse, Sitting there, giving a polite but stone-cold stare, studying every move of that person. They’re literally taking mental notes: Did you laugh a little too hard at that joke? Did you lean in slightly? Are they standing too close? But instead of acting on impulse, they sit there, pretending they’re totally fine (they are NOT fine). When i look at 2 of cups illustration, i feel like, they realy enjoy your company, like A LOT, and when someone else invades this space, they hate that with all their heart. 

 OH MY GOD THIS IS SO FUNNY. This is that passive-aggressive, sulking, “I’m not mad, I just think it’s funny how…” behavior. They are so in their jealousy, but will they admit it? Absolutely not. Instead, they suddenly lose interest in whatever’s happening. They’re like, “Oh, you’re talking to that person? Wow. That’s so great for you. Anyway, I’ll just be over here…..” They might even act a little distant, maybe even hit you with the classic “It’s nothing, I’m fine” while literally radiating “I am NOT fine” energy. this person is not about to lose their cool in front of you Instead, they suddenly start acting very serious, very focused on something else. They’ll be like, “Oh, I have an email to answer,” or “I need to check something on my phone”. I get the naive energy from your future spouse, like very youthful and maybe little immature because they want you to ONLY themselves. AND THEN. THE JUDGEMENT CARD. This is when they snap back into reality and realize, Oh wait. I’m literally in a relationship with them. They love me. What am I doing? This is where they have that internal wake-up call. They’ll come back to you, realigned, refocused, remembering that you’re their soulmate (2 of Cups energy, baby!!). And THEN, instead of being petty, they’ll drop some casual reassurance-seeking comment like, “So… you seemed to be having fun with them, huh?”, AKA making sure or you to say they had nothing to worry about.

But overall, ill definitely say that They aren’t the type to lash out in jealousy, but you WILL notice the change. The silence, the avoidance, the fake distraction tactics. It’s subtle but LOUD. But at the end of the day? The Judgment card seals the deal, they always come back to their senses, realizing that duh, you’re theirs and they’re yours. And the second you reassure them? BOOM. They’re back to their normal, confident self. These people would give their everything just to be in your company. Very sulky baby energy ngl. They’re not explosive, but they are silently suffering. And bestie, if you ever call them out on it? OH BOY. Expect a very defensive “What? I wasn’t jealous. That’s ridiculous.” … Sure, babe. Sure.

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── .✦ PILE II

Alright, so the first thing I’m catching here is contrast, we’ve got the King of Cups and Temperance trying so hard to play it cool, acting all mature, controlled, and balanced. Then we have The Devil, and that too right in the middle of the spread. The sentence i would immedtly say here is, your future spouse is going to be OBSESSED WITH YOU. It’s the internal battle of “I’m unbothered” vs. “I will die if I see you entertaining someone else.” they try to move past jealousy logically, like, “It’s fine, I trust them”, but The Devil says, “But what if they find someone better?” . And then BAM, Two of Cups swoops in and reminds them that you two are soulmates, and there’s no competition, but oh boy, they still feel it. THIS person gets so confused when it comes to you i can clearly see that by the mixed enrgies from the spread, they are hit with SOO MANY emotions all at once but one theme is prominent, they are SUPERRRRR obsessed with you. 

This is giving “jealous but won’t let it show” energy which is just like pile 1 but the energy here is more obsessed type, cause pile 1 was more on the cuter and naive side. Your FS is the type to mask their jealousy under cool composure. They are emotionally intelligent, self-restraint,. If someone flirts with you in front of them, they will not cause a scene will make things very obvious. Whenever they would see someone getting wayyy to close to you they are hit with the thought “ i need to rescue my person,” They will not act out immediately, but best believe they’ll remember it. And later? they’ll try to rationalize their emotions, convince themselves to let it go, but the Two of Cups suggests that deep down, they’ll need reassurance from you. Not that they don’t trust you, but rather, their feelings run deep and they just want to be reminded that you’re theirs.

The Devil is the obsessive thoughts creeping in at night, when they’re alone, replaying a moment over and over like, “Were they actually flirting? Was my FS enjoying it??” This isn’t toxic jealousy, it’s more of that “I don’t want to lose what’s mine” energy. I would say their super obsessive side is balanced by the presence of two of cups here so reagrless of anything, the’ll be the biggest shield of your relationship. You two have such a strong connection that even when jealousy creeps in, they ultimately trust your bond enough to not tuen into insecurity. But ohhh, they’ll find a way to remind you that you’re theirs, subtle, territorial gestures, low-key possessiveness in the most elegant way possible. These people are VERY CONDFIDENT. Expect things like a hand on your waist, pulling you closer mid-conversation, a little smirk when someone’s trying (and failing) to flirt with you. Casual dominance, bestie. (we all love that) 

The energy of this pile was super sexy ngl. good for my booktok girlies. 

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── .✦ PILE III

As soon as i looked at the spread the immediate thought hit me was, your future spouse is going to treat you like ROYALTY. So, picture this: Your future spouse? They’re so put together, they’ve got their life in check, they exude this natural confidence (like, they’re used to being the main character, okay?), and they don’t just casually do jealousy.no. this is a very secure energy. If they feel it, they feel it deep in their bones. It’s not dramatic, but it’s intensely present, not loud, but undeniable. The thing is, it’s not even about insecurity; it's about you being so precious to them that even the thought of someone else getting too close? Yeah, no, they’re not having it.

See, the Empress and the King of Wands together? That’s fire and devotion. You are the ultimate prize, the softest yet most powerful presence in their life, and they know it. And because they know it, they also know your worth, which means they see the way others see you too. Oh, and trust me, others see you. The way you glow? The way you hold yourself? The way you make even the most casual of interactions feel special? Yeah, your future spouse notices when someone starts acting just a little too friendly. And they don’t like it. The moment you get into a relationship with them, youre going to have the biggest glow up. 

This is where things get fun. So when they are jealous, They might not immediately lash out, but there’s definitely a shift, their words get a little sharper, they start inserting themselves into conversations they weren’t in before, and if they’re the more composed type, you’ll notice they suddenly have a lot to say about whoever is making them feel some type of way. But they’re so smooth with it. They’re not obvious. It’s like they play it off as if they’re just making an observation or a lighthearted joke, but there’s an edge to it. A warning. And if the other person doesn’t get the memo? Oh, honey. They will. Your person isn’t impulsive with their jealousy; they’re strategic about it. They’re the type to let people dig their own graves before stepping in. They’ll watch, wait, assess, is this just harmless interaction, or is someone really pushing it? And when they do step in? It’s game over. They’re asserting their presence, effortlessly, dominantly. It’s all in the control. They’ll make the other person feel like they’ve already lost before they even realized they were in a competition.

But bestie, the real magic? It’s in the aftermath. Because once you’re alone? OHHH. This is when their softness creeps in. The Page of Cups peeks through in the smallest ways, they won’t outright admit they were jealous (I mean, duh, pride), but suddenly they’re extra affectionate, extra attentive. And the cutest part? Deep down, they know they have nothing to worry about. You’re theirs, and they’re yours, and that’s not changing. This is such a power duo because we have the empress as well as king of cups in the spread. But bestie, the way they still can’t help but get a little possessive? ADORABLE. They’re not the type to get insecure, but they are the type to make sure that everyone—including you, knows exactly where they stand. They’re the King of Wands, after all. They own their throne, and they protect what’s theirs.

They don’t control, you’re free to do whatever you want, but ohhh, they will make sure you NEVER forget who you belong to. 😌🔥

And honestly That’s hot.

Now tell me, I need to know what divine force blessed you with this person. 💀💀

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog, it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! If my reading resonated you, you may consider buying my paid reading as it would really help me out financially♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[wcnderlnds]

opposites attract | choi su-bong (thanos)

・❥・ summary: he's chaotic and loud, you're shy and introverted but he can't help but be intrigued by you ・❥・word count: 1.3k ・❥・warnings: mentions of death bc squid game, nam-gyu is mean to reader (im sry), female reader. ・❥・ authors note: i love writing this chaotic man <3

Of course the second game just had to be one where you had to interact with people and find a team. Talking to people, approaching them – it was your worst nightmare. As you stood there in the sea of people all talking and teaming up, you timidly stayed in place, your hands pulled into the sleeves of your jacket giving yourself sweater paws. Since the first game, you had kept to yourself. You had even voted to leave. Why would anyone want to stay in a place like this where people were getting killed for losing children’s games? Unfortunately, the majority had decided to stay even after a heavily heated debate where player 456 had declared he’d been here before. While it was all kicking off, you had hid behind the crowd. Conflict was something you avoided. People were usually something you avoided but when a salesman came up to you with promises of money, how could you say no?

So, as you stood there, too shy to approach, you accepted the fact that you were probably going to die. There was no way you had enough courage in you to find a team. Even if you did, who was there to ask? The only person you might consider approachable was player 456 but he already had a team. There was no point going over there, asking and risking embarrassment as they turned you down. Aimlessly you wandered around the room, fingers toying with the ends of your sleeve – a nervous habit that you’d had since you were a child.

Guess you’d just have to accept your fate. You were either going to get killed because you couldn’t find a team or end up in a team who didn’t want you. Just as you were about to sit down and give up entirely, someone cleared their throat behind you. Spinning around, you came face to face with the infamous player 230. His purple hair was unmistakable, you’d seen him when he’d been fighting some other boy yesterday.

“Senorita, excuse me,” he said, his hands clenching his jacket to his chest. Your eyes landed on his multi-colored nails first before daring to glance up to look at him. Eyes met his dark ones for only a second before looking back down at the ground. He noticed instantly, tilting his head to the side as he looked at you. “Team with us.”

“R-really?” You dared to glance back up. He seemed serious but the look his friend was giving was anything but friendly. It looked like he’d rather team with anyone but you.

“Yeah, really? She’s kind of weird,” Nam-gyu looked you up and down, pulling a face then turning back to Thanos. “We can find someo-”

“Shutup,” he held his hand up in front of his friend’s face, his eyes solely focused on you. “Team with us. I’ll keep you safe.”

It wasn’t like you had any other options so you nodded. Thanos seemed thrilled, throwing his arm around your shoulders in a side hug. Your instinct was telling you not to trust him but at the same time there was something slightly comforting about him. After all, he had ignored his friend to solely talk to you. Why on Earth he was so adamant to have you on his team baffled you but it saved you from getting eliminated… if you made it through the game anyway. 

Turns out it was five mini games in one. As the rest of your team argued about who would do what, Thanos’ eyes were fixated on you who was looking at the ground. There was something about you that intrigued him. The difference in your personalities was more than noticeable. He was loud, crazy and obnoxious while you, on the other hand, seemed shy, insecure and quiet. Maybe it was true. Maybe opposites really did attract because for some reason, he wanted to get to know you more. He actually wanted to know you. That rarely happened with him. Usually he was the type of guy to get a crush, fuck and then move on to the next one. It was rare for ‘Mr One Night Stand’ to really want to get to know someone. To be honest, he wasn’t sure he liked the feeling. The pounding in his chest as he tried to examine you with his eyes. It was impossible to really get a good read on you.

“And, the loser over there can do Gonggi,” Nam-gyu’s voice echoed through your ears. Panic struck, you leaned forward, speaking before you even thought about it.

“I-I don’t know how to play Gonggi,” you mumbled.

“Better learn quickly then, huh?” Nam-gyu smiled fake-sweetly at you.

“Hey, stop it,” Thanos stopped his silent beat boxing to chime in, leaning forward to glare at his friend. “Leave her alone… What are you good at?”

“I can do spinning top. I played it a lot with my friends…” you tried to speak with a bit more confidence, a pink hue tinting your cheeks. Thanos noticed, grinning at you.

“Spinning top for you then. You’re cute, by the way,” he winked, causing your cheeks to only redden more.

Somehow, someway, the team had managed to survive. A lot of teams seemed to struggle with Spinning Top but you had got it the first try – Thanos almost blowing out your eardrums with the loud cheer of celebration when you did. Now, back in the main room, you were sat with the team. If it was up to you, you would have gone to sit by yourself but Thanos had insisted you sit with them. It seemed like he wanted to keep you around. It wouldn’t be too bad to have some friends, right? You sat beside Thanos, a space between you. While he was in a world of his own, DJing some invisible show in his head by the looks of his hand motions, the rest of the team were arguing. Your knees were pulled up to your chest, chin resting on them.

Watching everyone talk with each other so easily – even if it was arguing – made you feel slightly jealous that you couldn’t. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to because you did but the mere thought of striking up a conversation with anyone brought you too much anxiety. It was just better to keep to yourself. If you had to be the weird, quiet girl then so be it.

“They’re idiots,” the deep voice beside you said. Turning to look, you’d noticed Thanos had closed the distance between you both, his shoulder touching yours now. “You good?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” you smiled, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. “Thanks for letting me team with you.”

“No problem, Senorita. Told you I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?” His toothy grin made your heart skip a beat. Oh boy. That was the last thing you needed.

“Y-yeah,” you laughed, tearing your eyes away from him yet again.

This time, his finger gently reached out, tilting your chin to look at him. His eyes pierced yours, a look of intrigue on his face. “You have pretty eyes. It’s a shame you think the floor deserves to see them more than me.” He leaned in a little closer, his hot breath fanning against your face. Being close to someone wasn’t new for you. It was something that didn’t happen often but you’d had your fair share of encounters with people. “Meant it when I said you were cute, babygirl. Stick with me through these games and when we survive, let me take you out for a drink. Maybe I can get more than a few words at a time out of you.”

Once again, he winked at you, removing his finger from your chin and turning his attention to the argument going on in front of him. Meanwhile you were in a daze, your heart beating against your chest so much you were sure it was about to beat out of your ribcage. Yeah, this man was definitely going to be trouble.

taglist: @angelofbooksworld @ldydeath @taivantaylor @sherlocke3d @djarindroid @justsisse @sassyyoyo @lillyysgirlblog @mysatnin @basquiat-top @urmomsg1rlfreind

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: A joke profile on a sugar daddy site turns serious when @TimeIsMoney starts paying—and praising—you. What begins as harmless fun spirals into obsession after one night in his hotel suite leaves you aching, ruined, and wanting more.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: daddy kink, age gap, sugar baby stuff, praise, rough sex, oral (f receiving), creampie, money kink, dirty talk, power dynamics, he’s obsessed, reader gets absolutely ruined, aftercare, light choking, finger fucking, reader gets called good girl a lot

𝐖𝐂: 4,000

PART 2

It starts as a joke.

Wine bottles rattle as Nobara kicks the recycling bin closed with the heel of her foot, the sound of glass clinking against cheap plastic barely audible over the laughter echoing through your tiny, overstuffed apartment. Maki flops onto the couch beside you, stretching out like a cat, her legs hooked over the armrest and one arm draped across her eyes. The air smells like takeout and wine, sweet and familiar, the kind of scent that clings to memories. Finals are looming like storm clouds, rent is due in a week, and the textbooks on the kitchen table are collecting more dust than notes. The weight of it all sits heavy in the background, but for now, there’s laughter—loud and warm and so completely alive it makes you forget that you’re broke. That you’re stressed. That everything feels impossible sometimes.

“I’m telling you,” Nobara says as she refills her glass, the wine sloshing close to the rim. “Sugar daddies are the answer. Tuition? Handled. Rent? Done. Textbooks? Bought by some old man who just wants to stare at your feet and be told he’s a good little pay pig.”

You nearly choke on your drink, laughing as you wave her off. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

But Maki’s already pulling your laptop closer, pushing aside the half-eaten box of noodles and flicking the screen to wake it. “Come on, let’s just look. You never know.”

The three of you huddle close as the website loads, the layout exactly as tacky as you’d expect. It takes ten minutes to craft a profile that’s both over-the-top and strangely believable. You use a slightly sultry selfie from last month—nothing too scandalous, just a little cleavage and a coy smile. The bio is ridiculous: College student. Lit major. Broke but charming. Let’s make a deal. You don’t use your real name. The username you pick @YourSweetestSin is half a joke, half something that makes you snort. By the time the profile is live, you’re all laughing so hard your stomach hurts. It’s stupid. It’s harmless. You never intend to take it seriously.

But you don’t delete the profile either. Not that night. Not the next day.

The first message comes two days later while you’re curled in bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, half-focused on an essay you’re bullshitting at the last possible second. The ping startles you, the notification bouncing in the corner of your screen.

@TimeIsMoney: Hello.

That’s it. No gross pickup line. No emojis. No sleazy GIFs. Just a greeting. Curious, you click the profile, expecting a troll or someone who looks like he just escaped from a retirement home. But there’s no picture. Just a clean profile with a short bio: Professional. Discreet. Generous. It makes you snort. “Sure,” you mutter under your breath. But you reply anyway. For the bit. For the laugh. You can’t wait to show the girls.

Except it doesn’t end there. He writes back. You respond. The next message comes within the hour. Then another. And another. Each one short, to the point, polite in a way that disarms you. He asks how your classes are going. What books you’re reading. He doesn’t flirt. He compliments you, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl. It’s strange. It’s addictive. You start checking the app more often. You start replying faster. There’s something comforting about the consistency of it, about the way he always answers. Predictable. Reliable. And that’s something you didn’t realize you were craving until now.

Then, on the fifth night

I want to see you.

The message appears while you’re lying on your stomach, feet kicking behind you, chin resting in your palm. You read it three times. Your heart skips a beat, your stomach flips, and your first instinct is to laugh. This is the part where you bail, right? Where you screenshot it and send it to Nobara with a “can you believe this guy?” But instead, you’re walking to the mirror, pulling your hair over one shoulder, angling your phone just right. You pick your best push-up bra—the black one that hugs you perfectly—and snap a photo. You send it. Doll eyes. Slight pout. Your lips parting like you’ve done this a thousand times.

The response is immediate.

Good girl.

Then, a second later, another notification.

You’ve received $500.

You sit up. Blink. Refresh the app. But it’s there. Sitting in your account, waiting to be transferred. Your jaw drops. Then you scream. Then you laugh. Hard. You’re breathless. You don’t tell Nobara or Maki. Not this time.

From that moment on, it’s a blur. More messages. More requests. Nothing below the waist, not yet. Just photos. A little more skin each time. He never demands. He always asks. And he always pays.

Take off your bra. $500.

Show me your nipples. $700.

Each time, the money lands in your account within seconds. And each time, you find yourself a little wetter. A little more flushed. A little more eager to read the next message. You don’t just do it for the money anymore. You do it because his praise makes your stomach flutter. Because you feel seen. Desired. Wanted. Powerful.

Then comes the night he asks to call you. Your hands tremble as you answer. His voice is everything you didn’t expect. Calm. Smooth. Deep enough to settle in your bones and echo. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t tease. He tells you exactly what he wants. Exactly how he wants to hear you fall apart. You’re already naked when the call starts. The toy he told you to buy is buzzing between your thighs before he even finishes the first sentence. His voice doesn’t falter. He talks you through it like he’s done it a hundred times. You come so hard you see white. He pays you $1,000.

You don’t bother pretending anymore. You wait for his messages. You ache when he disappears for too long. You’re careful not to get too attached, but it’s hard not to wonder. Not to imagine what he looks like. How he might taste. How it would feel to have those hands on your skin instead of just your imagination. So when the next message comes, you already know how you’ll answer.

I want you meet you

When and where?

The hotel he books is far nicer than anywhere you’ve ever been. Just stepping into the lobby makes you feel like an imposter. Crystal chandeliers, velvet furniture, a floral arrangement so big it probably has its own budget. Your heels click across the marble as you walk toward the elevators, your trench coat clutched tight around your body, hiding the lace beneath. You keep your head down. Pretend you belong. The nerves bubbling in your stomach are loud enough, sharp enough to echo.

He said he’d meet you in the room. Top floor. Private. You know the number by heart. You’ve read it over and over again on the message thread. Your fingers hover over the keypad outside the suite door. You press it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The door swings open almost immediately. And there he is.

Nanami Kento.

He doesn’t look how you pictured. He’s younger. Broader. Tall enough that you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. Blonde hair, glasses, expensive-looking suit. He smells like cedar and something clean and expensive. His jaw is sharp. His expression unreadable. But his eyes, they roam your body like he knows exactly what’s under your coat.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You move past him into the room. The suite is massive. Soft lighting, a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets, a view of the city skyline that stretches beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. You hear the door close behind you. The lock clicks.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says.

Your voice barely works. “I wasn’t sure either.”

“Are you nervous?”

You nod.

“Good.” He steps closer. “It means this matters.”

Then he touches you.

It’s not a grab. Not even a full reach. Just the brush of his fingers down your arm, slow and steady, his touch so light it makes your skin prickle. He looks at you like he’s reading you, analyzing every twitch, every flutter of your lashes. His fingers find the belt of your coat. He doesn’t tug. He doesn’t ask. He just looks at you.

You nod.

He undoes the knot slowly, methodically, like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t want to damage. The coat falls open. His breath catches.

The lingerie is sheer black lace, delicate enough to feel sinful. You chose it for him. You’ve sent him pictures in it before. But the way he’s looking at you now—it makes your knees weak.

“Beautiful,” he says. It’s quiet. Like he’s talking to himself.

He slips the coat from your shoulders. It falls in a soft thud at your feet.

“Get on the bed.”

You crawl onto the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress, your heartbeat thudding loud in your ears. The sheets are soft beneath your hands, cool against your flushed skin, and you feel him watching you. Not just looking—watching. The heat of his gaze crawls along your spine as you settle on your back, your legs folding to the side, thighs tight with anticipation. He doesn’t move right away. He just stands there, drinking you in like you’re art, like you’re something to be studied.

Then he begins to undress.

Each movement is precise, deliberate. He removes his watch first, setting it on the nightstand with a soft click. Then he unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time, his fingers steady and sure. You watch his chest slowly come into view—firm, broad, sculpted in a way that makes your breath catch. His shoulders are wide, his waist trim, his skin smooth and golden under the low light. When he slides the shirt off and starts on his belt, your thighs press together involuntarily. The buckle clinks. The zipper lowers. And then he steps out of his slacks, revealing long legs, tight black briefs, and the hard line of his cock already straining against the fabric.

He climbs onto the bed with the kind of calm confidence that makes your stomach flip. He doesn’t pounce. Doesn’t rush. He kneels between your legs and runs his hands up your thighs, spreading them slowly, pushing them apart with the patience of someone who knows exactly what you need and intends to give it to you—on his terms. The cool air kisses your heat, and you realize how wet you already are, your arousal sticking to the inside of your thighs. He hums low in his throat as his fingers hook into your panties and begins sliding them down, inch by inch.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “I can feel it. You’re soaked.”

You whimper, arching slightly as he tosses the lace aside. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make you wait. He leans down, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs wider, and when his mouth finally touches you, you gasp—loud, sharp, uncontrollable. His tongue strokes through your folds with slow, deliberate pressure, tasting you like he has all night. His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, and your back bows off the bed.

“Fuck—Nanami,” you breathe, fingers flying into his hair.

He groans against your pussy, the sound vibrating through you. He eats you like he means it, like it’s his mission. His tongue moves with skill, pressure alternating between soft flicks and firm, devastating licks. One of his hands slides under your ass, lifting your hips, tilting you up so he can go deeper. The other moves between your legs, and when two fingers slide inside you, you cry out.

Your walls clench around him, tight and wet, your body already shaking. He curls his fingers just right and your thighs twitch in response, your breath catching. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He watches you from below, eyes dark and steady, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every moan, every desperate roll of your hips. You’re spiraling. Unraveling.

It hits fast. Hard. Your orgasm crashes over you before you can warn him, a wave of heat and light that rips through your body and leaves you sobbing his name. Your hips buck, your legs tremble, your fingers claw at the sheets—but he holds you down, mouth still on you, tongue relentless.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet, his lips slick with you. He looks pleased. Controlled. Like he could keep going. Like he wants to.

“That’s one,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers from your cunt and bringing them to his mouth. He sucks them clean slowly, and you moan again, helpless, already throbbing with the need for more.

He leans over you and kisses you—slow, deep, messy—and you taste yourself on his lips. He rolls his hips against yours, his cock hot and hard against your thigh. Your hands slide down, tugging at the waistband of his briefs, and he lets you peel them down.

He’s thick. Long. Veins running along the shaft, the head flushed and already leaking.

“You want this?” he asks, voice low, rough.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. Stretching you wide, filling you so deep you can feel it in your stomach. Your jaw drops, a choked moan escaping as your nails sink into his back.

“Oh my god,” you gasp.

“Too much?” he breathes, pausing halfway.

“No—don’t stop. Please. Keep going.”

He groans, sliding in the rest of the way, bottoming out. He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs. “So perfect around me.”

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep. His hips roll into yours, grinding with each thrust. It’s overwhelming, every drag of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You cling to him, moaning into his shoulder, and he presses kisses to your neck, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “Taking me so well. My good girl.”

The praise makes your walls flutter. Your body is already on edge again, hips rolling up to meet his, chasing more.

And then you remember—

“I thought you were gonna fuck me stupid,” you pant.

He stills.

His head lifts. His eyes meet yours.

“I was trying to be gentle,” he says, his voice suddenly darker. “But if you’re going to act like a cock-drunk little slut—”

He pulls out and flips you over in one smooth motion, dragging your hips up, pushing your chest into the mattress. He thrusts back into you hard, deep, and you scream into the sheets.

“—then I’ll fuck you like one”

He doesn’t hold back now. His pace is punishing, hips slamming into yours with the kind of strength that makes the bed creak beneath you. Each thrust drives his cock deeper, harder, making you cry out with every stroke. Your hands fist the sheets, knuckles white, as your body rocks forward from the force of him. He grabs your hips tighter, pulling you back onto him, forcing every inch of him inside like he’s claiming you, ruining you. Your thoughts are gone, scattered, every one of them drowned beneath the sound of skin meeting skin and the filthy things he’s growling into your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, his voice a low growl. “To be fucked like a desperate little whore? You like it like this—don’t you?”

You try to answer, but all that leaves your mouth is a broken moan, high-pitched and needy. Your legs are shaking, your pussy clenching so tightly around him that you feel every twitch of his cock. You’re drooling onto the sheets, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels, from how deep he’s inside you.

He reaches down and grabs your hair, pulling your head back until your spine arches, your back flush to his chest. His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He rubs slow, tight circles, the pressure just right. Your body locks up.

“Oh my god—Nanami—fuck—”

“I want you to cum again,” he hisses into your ear. “Cum for me while I’m buried in this tight little pussy. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do.

It hits harder than the first time, your body convulsing around him, thighs trembling, a sob of pleasure ripping from your throat as your orgasm tears through you. You clench around him so hard it makes him grunt, his rhythm faltering for the first time. He curses under his breath, fucking you through it, prolonging your high until you’re left a shaking, overstimulated mess.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he growls.

You collapse forward, cheek pressed to the sheets, too wrecked to hold yourself up anymore. But he doesn’t stop. He slows down, but he keeps moving, long deep strokes that fill you again and again. One hand stays on your hip while the other presses between your shoulder blades, holding you down. You’re gasping, moaning brokenly, your cunt so sensitive you’re already on the edge again.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna give me one more.”

His cock drags along your walls, thick and pulsing, hitting every spot that makes your vision blur. Your body is on fire. Nerves raw. Everything tightens again, too soon, too fast.

“Cum,” he demands, and the command alone pushes you over the edge.

You scream his name as your third orgasm slams into you, thighs quaking, fingers clawing at the mattress as you fall apart. Your pussy clenches so hard around him that his rhythm shatters. He groans, deep and guttural, thrusts stuttering as he slams into you one final time and spills inside you with a growl.

You can feel it—his cum flooding your pussy, hot and thick, filling you up as his body presses down on yours. His breath is hot against your back. His weight grounding.

He stays like that for a moment, both of you panting, your bodies tangled in heat and sweat. Then he pulls out slowly, gently, and you whimper at the loss. You feel the slick of his release drip down your thigh.

You’re boneless. Floating. Barely able to lift your head.

He pulls you into his arms, rolls you over, kisses your forehead. His hands are soft again, soothing, trailing along your back in lazy circles.

“You did so good,” he murmurs. “So fucking good.”

He holds you until your breathing slows. Until the ache in your muscles fades into something warm and satisfied. Until the world stops spinning quite so fast.

Then he rises. Dresses slowly. Smooths his hair back into place. He leans down to press one last kiss to your lips.

“The room is yours until tomorrow night,” he whispers. “Order whatever you want. Rest. Recover.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Where are you going?”

He smiles. “I need to get ready for work on Monday.”

And then he’s gone.

The silence after he leaves is loud. You lie there for a while, naked in the sheets that smell like him, your body sore and aching in the best possible way. Everything feels distant. Fuzzy. Like your skin is still buzzing with the echo of his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you like he owned every inch of you. You eventually drag yourself out of bed, your legs unsteady, and pad to the bathroom. The tub is huge, the kind of thing you’d only ever seen in movies, and you don’t think twice before running the water, pouring in a generous stream of lavender bubble bath from the bottle on the counter. You sink into the warmth with a soft moan, letting the water ease the tightness in your thighs, the soreness in your hips. Every shift of your body reminds you of what just happened—of how thoroughly he fucked you, how deeply he filled you, how completely he took you apart.

You stay in the bath until the water starts to cool, then dry off and wrap yourself in one of the fluffy white robes hanging by the door. You pour yourself a glass of champagne from the bottle chilling by the window and collapse onto the bed again, legs curled under you, robe slipping off one shoulder. You stare at the city lights outside the window, the skyline glowing and endless. You feel expensive. Adored. Used and treasured at the same time. The kind of full you didn’t know you were craving.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You grab it lazily, still smiling.

Nanami has sent you $10,000.

You stare.

You’re up in a flash, jumping on the bed like a maniac, the robe falling off as you laugh and squeal and spin yourself dizzy. You don’t even care. You roll across the mattress, kick your legs in the air, and scream into a pillow. Then you check again—just to be sure. It’s still there. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.

You sink back against the pillows, grinning like a fool, and take a long, slow sip of champagne.

This is the best night of your life.

The weekend melts away in a blur of room service and luxury. You spend hours soaking in the tub, order dessert with every meal, and sleep tangled in hotel sheets that smell like him. You keep your phone close, reading and rereading every message he sends. He doesn’t disappear. He checks in constantly. Tells you how proud he is. How badly he wants you again. How he’s counting the hours until next time.

By Monday morning, you’re still sore. Still giddy. You barely hear your alarm over the buzz of your phone. You get ready for class with your phone in your hand the entire time, texting back between sips of coffee.

I need you again this weekend. Same hotel. I want you on your knees when I walk in.

I can still feel you. Still smell you. I’m not done with you.

You’re practically floating when you meet up with Nobara and Maki in the courtyard.

“You’re glowing,” Maki says. “Who are you texting?”

Nobara leans in to peek. You pull your phone away with a smirk.

“No one.”

“She’s lying,” Maki says. “It’s totally a sugar daddy. Look at her.” She jokes.

You laugh. Shrug. Say nothing.

Because they’re right. And you’re not giving up your secret that easy. The three of you head to class, sliding into your usual seats as you pull out your laptop. You open a blank doc, fingers still dancing over your phone under the table.

I want your pussy on my mouth the second I see you again.

You bite your lip, cheeks hot, and set your phone face-down as the door opens.

Footsteps. A soft clearing of a throat.

You look up and freeze.

Nanami Kento walks to the front of the classroom, calm and collected, setting his briefcase on the podium like he’s done it a hundred times. He’s in a fitted suit, glasses perched on his nose, hair neat and perfect.

He adjusts his tie. Opens his laptop. Looks up.

His eyes meet yours.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Just offers the faintest flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says smoothly. “Welcome to Ethics in Literature.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 31: September 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: Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Belle Verstappen

Alexandra:

Hey Belle! We were  thinking of doing a little shopping on Saturday — nothing serious, just wandering and coffee. Charlotte, Pascale and I. Thought you might want to come with?

I saw the cutest new baby boutique near Place d’Armes and I thought of you We could make a day of it? Lunch, tea, little outfits?

Belle:

That sounds really lovely But I’m going to have to pass this time Still healing from my impromptu dive through the shower door 🙃

Alexandra:

Wait—are you okay?? Charles mentioned something but he was vague and grumpy and I couldn’t tell if it was real or guilt-induced hallucination

Belle:

Real 😅 Slipped in the shower earlier this week Sprained my wrist, bruised my knees Nothing serious, but not exactly in boutique-ready shape

Alexandra:

Oh my god Belle We really need to teach your family how to communicate I’m glad you’re okay — that sounds terrifying

Belle:

It was a little scary, yeah But I’m okay. The baby’s okay. And Max has already ordered approximately seventeen non-slip mats and now refers to the bathroom as a “hazard zone”

Alexandra:

I love that for him And by “love” I mean he’s the only man I know who’d install childproofing six months early

Belle:

It makes him feel better

Alexandra:

When you’re up for it, let me know I’ll bribe you with pastries and matching lion onesies

Belle:

Deal Just give me a few more days until my knees don’t scream when I wear pants

Alexandra:

I’ll start assembling a pastry lineup And if you need anything, let me know. I mean it. Anything. 

***

Alexandra reached for another croissant and laughed at something Lorenzo said about Arthur’s latest failed attempt to cook risotto. The late sun poured in through the windows, the kitchen full of warmth and weekend ease.

“…anyway, Belle sounded fine when I talked to her,” Alexandra said, casually. “Still bruised, but she said the baby’s doing great and Max is being sweet about it.”

There was a sudden beat of silence.

Pascale slowly set down her espresso cup.

“…bruise?” she asked. “What bruise?”

Alexandra blinked. “Oh—Belle’s knees. And her wrist. From the fall.”

Pascale’s brows pulled together. “Fall?”

And just like that, the air in the room changed.

Lorenzo stiffened slightly beside her.

Alexandra faltered. “Oh—sorry, I thought… I assumed you knew. It happened last week? She slipped in the shower. Sprained her wrist. Charles took her to the hospital.”

Pascale stared at her, expression rapidly shifting from confusion to alarm. “Hospital?”

“Yes, but she and the baby are fine—”

“She went to the hospital and nobody told me?”

Alexandra’s eyes went wide. “I—God, I really thought someone would’ve said something—”

“She’s pregnant,” Pascale snapped, standing abruptly. “She fell, she was injured, and I had to hear it from you over brunch like it’s some passing anecdote?”

“Maman,” Lorenzo said cautiously, “calm down—”

“No! Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. My daughter ends up in a hospital and I’m the last to know?!”

Alexandra looked mortified. “I’m so sorry, Pascale. I didn’t mean—”

Lorenzo sighed heavily. “She asked us not to tell you. She didn’t want to worry you.”

“Oh, now she’s protecting me?” Pascale snapped, voice cracking with emotion. “Is that what I am now? Too fragile to know my own daughter’s hurt?”

Alexandra murmured, “She really is okay. She said the baby’s heartbeat was strong. That Max was with her—”

“She fell in the shower,” Pascale repeated, voice rising. “Sprained her wrist. Bruised her knees. And none of you thought I deserved to know?!”

Charles winced from his place on the arm of the couch, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Maman, please—”

“Don’t ‘Maman, please’ me, Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc,” Pascale snapped, whipping around to glare at him.

Lorenzo let out a low whistle from behind his glass of wine. “Full name. That’s it. We’re done for.”

Arthur, stretched across the other couch like a teenager on parole, muttered, “We’ve hit DEFCON 3.”

Pascale rounded on them next. “You all lied to me.”

“We omitted,” Lorenzo offered weakly. “That’s different.”

Arthur propped his head up on one hand. “Because we knew you’d do this.”

“What is this? Concern?” she demanded, voice cracking. “She’s pregnant. She fell. She could’ve hit her head. What if she’d been alone longer? What if she’d blacked out? What if something had happened to the baby?”

“She’s okay,” Charles said, trying to soothe, though his voice was hoarse. “I took her to the hospital. The doctor said—”

“The doctor said,” Pascale repeated mockingly, tears shining in her eyes. “You think that’s the point?”

Silence fell like a hammer.

“You know,” she continued, quieter now but no less furious, “every time one of you gets hurt, I go insane. Every single time.”

“Oh, trust me,” Arthur muttered, “we know.”

“Remember when I had the flu and you called the ambulance?” Lorenzo added.

“Or when I twisted my ankle karting and you made soup for three weeks?” Arthur said.

“Because I care!” Pascale cried. “Because I’m your mother!”

“Exactly!” Charles snapped. “That’s why she didn’t want to tell you!”

Pascale went still. Her chest rose and fell, sharp with emotion.

“She didn’t want to tell me?” she repeated, quieter now. “Why?”

Arthur sat up straighter, finally looking serious. “It wasn’t about you. She just... she didn’t want it to be a thing.”

“She’s had a hard time. Because of us,” Lorenzo said gently. “And she’s trying to handle it. On her own terms.”

“She’s still figuring out how to let us in again,” Charles added, voice rough. “She didn’t want to be fussed over.”

Pascale’s eyes filled again. She stood in the center of the room like something fragile pretending to be furious.

“I would’ve helped,” she said softly. “I want to help.”

Charles stepped forward. “Then call her. Ask how she is. Not what happened. Just... how she is.”

Pascale hesitated, then nodded once. She turned, walked into the kitchen, and quietly dialed.

***

Belle’s phone lit up on the bedside table, buzzing once with a call.

MAMAN.

She stared at it. Sighed.

From the other side of the room, Max looked up from where he was folding one of the soft little onesies Belle had already started nesting with.

“Did you do something?” he asked.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Apparently.”

“Should I leave the room?”

She stared at the phone a second longer, then picked it up and slid her thumb across the screen.

“No,” she said, already bringing it to her ear. “But you might want to take cover.”

“Belle?” Pascale’s voice came through the phone, already too tender. Too heavy.

Belle leaned her head back against the pillows, letting her eyes close. “Hi, Maman.”

“I just heard,” Pascale said, and Belle could hear it — the unshed tears, the guilt, the panic clamped down behind manners. “Chéri, why didn’t you tell me?”

Belle paused. “Because I knew you’d sound exactly like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’d died,” Belle said, not unkindly.

A breath caught on the other end of the line.

“I slipped,” Belle added. “The tiles were wet. It’s not a crime.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I’m also not made of glass.”

Pascale was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m your mother.”

“I know.”

“I want to help.”

Belle hesitated, eyes flicking across the room to where Max was still folding tiny socks, very deliberately pretending not to listen. His eyes flicked to hers. Steady. Warm. A silent I’m here.

“You can,” Belle said at last. “But only if it’s actually about me. Not about how bad you feel. Not about how guilty everyone else should be. Just me. Just now.”

The silence that followed was thick with understanding.

Then Pascale said, “Okay.”

It wasn’t much. But it was real.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, gentler now. “Truly.”

Belle exhaled. “Sore. Tired. My knees look like I lost a fight with a staircase. And Max has started hiding the cleaning supplies like I’m a safety hazard.”

Pascale let out a soft, wet laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“I sprained my wrist,” Belle added. “But the baby’s fine. He kicked my cereal bowl of the bump this morning.”

Pascale choked out another laugh. “A boy.”

“Yeah,” Belle said. “A boy.”

There was a beat. A silence that hummed with everything they hadn’t said.

Then Pascale whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Belle didn’t flinch. She didn’t soften either. She just let it sit.

“Okay,” she said.

And for once, Pascale didn’t try to fill the space. Didn’t try to fix it with noise or fuss. She just let the words be enough.

“I’ll let you rest,” she said after a moment. “But… I’ll check in again. If that’s alright?”

“It is,” Belle said. “Goodnight, Maman.”

“Goodnight, ma chérie.”

Belle ended the call.

Max looked up from across the room, holding a baby sock between two fingers. “So?”

Belle didn’t move. Just tilted her head slightly. “She’s trying.”

“And you?”

She gave a tired half-smile. “Trying to let her.”

Max crossed the room and dropped onto the bed beside her. He placed the sock on her belly like it was sacred.

“Well,” he said. “One step at a time.”

Belle reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “Yeah. One step at a time.” ***

Belle sat on the end of the couch, one hand resting lightly on her belly, the other clutched around a bottle of water she hadn’t opened yet.

Across from her, Pascale sat upright, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she was holding herself together through sheer posture. Her rings caught the light every time she fidgeted. Her eyes, however, didn’t leave Belle.

Arthur and Lorenzo were to her left, silent for once. Charles was on her right, elbow on his knee, head low. Nobody looked comfortable.

Camille glanced down at her notes, then gently said, “Belle, let’s talk about your fall. You didn’t tell your mother immediately. Would you like to talk about why?”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

She traced a thumb over the cap of her water bottle and said, after a moment, “Because I knew she’d spiral.”

Pascale flinched. “I was worried—”

“You always spiral,” Belle said, not cruelly. Just plainly. “You make everything bigger. More dramatic. And this time… I didn’t have space for that. I just wanted to be okay. Quietly.”

The room went still. Then—

“I didn’t know it had gotten this bad,” Pascale said, voice low.

Belle looked at her. “It didn’t get bad. You just didn’t notice when it stopped being good.”

That landed like a crack through glass. Not loud, but irreversible.

Camille shifted gently. “Can you give examples, Belle?”

Belle hesitated.

Then: “You went shopping with Alexandra and Charlotte.”

Pascale blinked. “When?”

“Back in December,” Belle said. “We ran into each other, you remember? You had lunch with both of them. You said it was just a last-minute thing. You didn’t invite me. Charlotte said you didn’t think I’d be interested.”

Pascale opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Belle exhaled. “It’s little things like that. Always. You expect me to be the one who remembers birthdays, who buys the Christmas gifts, who arranges the dinner reservations. You never check in. Not unless I remind you.”

Arthur looked sideways at Pascale. “She’s not wrong.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Belle’s been the one holding everything together since Papa died.”

And there it was. The air shifted again.

Pascale’s throat bobbed. “Your father… When he died you were all so young,” Pascale continued, almost to herself. “And I was trying to hold everything up. Everything felt like it was slipping. If one of you so much as sneezed, I panicked. I thought if I kept everything perfect, nothing else would fall apart.”

“You couldn’t keep it perfect,” Belle said. “So you just… kept trying to control what you could. And I became part of that.”

Pascale looked like she might cry.

“You think I don’t love you?”

“I know you love me. In your own way” Belle said tiredly. “But you don’t see me. Not really. I’m the one you turn to when things need fixing. But you don’t turn to me when things are good. You don’t invite me to the fun stuff. You just assume I’ll handle everything else.”

There was a long pause. Nobody moved.

Belle took a breath.

“And you forgot my birthday.”

Pascale looked up, stricken. “I—”

“You told me you accidentally sent Charles a message instead,” Belle continued, voice like cut glass. “You lied to make me feel better. Or maybe yourself. But you forgot. And I had to sit there pretending it was okay. Because I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

Tears welled in Pascale’s eyes. “I was ashamed.”

Belle nodded. “I know. That’s why you lied. But it didn’t help. It made it worse.”

Charles shifted beside her, visibly crumbling. “Isabelle…”

She shook her head. “I’m not saying this to hurt anyone. But you need to know how it felt. How it feels.”

Camille gave a small nod. “And Pascale, can you reflect on what Belle’s sharing?”

Pascale looked at her daughter. And for once, didn’t deflect. Didn’t argue.

“I didn’t want to admit how badly I’ve handled things,” she said quietly. “How much I put on you. I thought you were coping. That you liked being the one who kept things running.”

“I didn’t like it,” Belle said. “I just thought that was the only way I’d be needed.”

Pascale’s face crumpled.

“I don’t want to be needed like that anymore,” Belle said, softer. “I want to be wanted. To be included. Without having to earn it.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Pascale reached across the arm of her chair — hesitant, trembling — and placed her hand near Belle’s on the couch. Not touching. Just there.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll try.”

Belle looked down at the hand. And after a long pause, she placed her own on top of it.

Just once.

Then pulled away.

One step at a time.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So? How was it? Did Charles cry? Did Arthur get kicked out? Did Pascale throw a chair?

Belle: No chairs were harmed in the making of this session And Arthur looked like he was trapped in a hostage situation.

Emilie: Growth. We love to see it. And your mom?

Belle: She cried. Admitted some things. Apologized. Didn’t try to fix it all in one breath for once.

Emilie: …are you okay?

Belle: Weirdly, yes. It was hard. But it felt real. Like she finally heard me instead of just reacting.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. You said everything you needed to say?

Belle: I did. She knows about the birthday. The lying. The shopping trip. All of it.

Emilie: Did she cry about the birthday?

Belle: You would’ve LOVED the face she made. Like she’d stepped on a Lego made of guilt.

Emilie: chef’s kiss I wish I’d been in the room with popcorn.

Belle: Honestly, you’d have made Arthur laugh and ruined the fragile emotional progress. So thank you for staying home 😘

Emilie: Rude but fair. And Max?

Belle: He waited outside. Said he didn’t want to interrupt a Leclerc-specific reckoning. When I came out he just held my hand and asked, “One step?”

Emilie: God I love that man. You got a good one.

Belle: I know. I really, really do.

Emilie: Come over later. I’ll feed you something that isn’t Max’s obsessive soup rotation. And we can watch that baby lion documentary again. For research purposes.

Belle: You just want to cry over baby animals again.

Emilie: And you don’t? 👀

Belle: …I’ll bring tissues.

Emilie: I’ll bring cake. Love you.

Belle: Love you more. 🧡

***

They sat curled on the couch in the soft light of early evening — Belle with her legs stretched over Max’s lap, a mug of mint tea balanced on her bump, and his hand absently tracing patterns on her shin.

Her wrist was still wrapped. Her knees still ached if she moved too fast. But the worst had passed.

“Have you thought more about the nursery?” she asked, voice quiet.

Max looked up from the iPad resting on the armrest beside him. “I figured you were already designing it in your head.”

“I was,” she admitted. “But now… I don’t want it to just be my vision. I want it to be ours.”

His brows furrowed slightly, like she’d said something backwards. “You know I’m fine with whatever you want, schatje.”

“I know,” she said gently. “You said that when we did the penthouse. You said, ‘whatever you want, I’ll love it because you made it.’ And I appreciated that. But this is different.”

She shifted, nudging her foot against his hip. “This isn’t just a room. It’s his room. And he’s your son too.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then he set the iPad aside and rested both hands on her legs. “What if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Belle smiled. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

He looked thoughtful. “Okay. So what don’t we want? No racing theme?”

She snorted. “Absolutely not. No miniature Red Bull helmets.”

“Not even one?” he teased.

“Maybe a soft toy car. But if you hang a framed replica of your first pole position above the crib, I’ll personally replace it with a print of a duck in a bowtie.”

Max grinned. “Fair.”

She reached for her phone and pulled up the notes app. “I was thinking something more… warm. Calm. Nature-themed, maybe.”

He was quiet for a second, then said, “I was thinking jungle animals.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“I saw this wallpaper once,” he said, suddenly serious. “In a hotel in Malaysia. There were giraffes and elephants and trees everywhere. I remember thinking it looked like a story you could live inside.”

Belle’s heart twisted — soft and sweet. “A story.”

Max nodded. “Not just a room.”

She shifted, her head on his shoulder now. “That actually sounds kind of perfect.”

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We could do greens and golds. Maybe a little lion plush in the corner. Monkeys on the light fixture.”

“Are you saying our son is going to be chaotic?”

“I’m saying it’s genetic,” he said dryly.

Belle laughed, the sound small but real. “Okay. Jungle theme it is.”

“Jungle,” he agreed. “But cozy. Peaceful. Not too loud.”

“And no wallpaper that peels.”

“Obviously.”

They fell quiet again, and Belle let herself imagine it — sunlight through linen curtains, soft green walls, bookshelves filled with Max’s childhood favorites, a little wooden mobile spinning lazily over the crib. A room that felt alive and safe. A room their son would grow into. Would come home to.

Max rested a hand gently on her belly. The baby kicked — just once, but strong — like he approved.

Belle smiled. “He’s on board.”

Max leaned over and kissed her knee. “We’ll make it perfect. Together.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Hey, do you have a minute? I need nursery help. Professional-to-professional. Sister-to-sister. Desperate-pregnant-woman-to-mother-of-three. 😅

Victoria: Always 💁🏼‍♀️ What’s going on? Colours? Layout? Toy storage apocalypse?

Belle: Yes. All of the above. Also: Max has OPINIONS now.

Victoria: Oh no. Did he say “jungle animals”?

Belle: …how did you know that?

Victoria: Because when we were kids he used to draw Formula 1 cars racing through jungles. He once made our dad hang up a poster of a tiger holding a steering wheel. He was seven. And apparently it stuck.

Belle: That is both deeply concerning and very on brand.

Victoria: So what are we thinking? Jungle but make it tasteful?

Belle: Jungle but cozy. He said “a story you can live inside” and now I’m emotionally compromised.

Victoria: Omg Is Max nesting????

Belle: …he denies it But he also bookmarked a giraffe lamp and said we needed “calm jungle vibes” So yes. Yes he is.

Victoria: Iconic.

Belle: I was hoping maybe you could come over sometime and help me mock up a few ideas?

Victoria: Of course. You helped me with all three of mine — I owe you for that race car wallpaper alone. I’ll bring samples. And cake. And maybe a toddler or two, if you don’t mind chaos.

Belle: Yes please 🙏 Also… would you maybe want to help me brainstorm a layout? You know, professional interior architect panic and all Suddenly nothing I draw feels right for this space and I designed the whole damn penthouse

Victoria: Would it be crazy if we did Max’s birthday that weekend too? Low-key. Everyone’s already around. Cake, coffee, chaos.

Belle: YES That’s brilliant

Victoria: I’ll bring the cake. And chaos. You just focus on keeping your ankles elevated and Max emotionally stable

Belle: I’ll try. No promises on the second one 😅

Victoria:I’ll handle logistics. Also: giraffe lamp is a strong choice. Proud of Maxie.

Belle: He said it was “tasteful.” With a straight face.

***

Belle was curled sideways on the couch, her knees tucked under her, a paperback in one hand and a bowl of cut-up peaches balanced precariously on the armrest beside her. She hadn’t touched them. Max noticed.

He was sitting opposite her, laptop open on the coffee table, trying to concentrate on back-to-back track walks, tire compound charts, and whatever new nonsense FIA had dreamed up since Zandvoort. But his eyes kept drifting to her.

Her wrist was still wrapped. The bruises on her knees had turned yellow around the edges. Her hair was clean and twisted up, and she was wearing one of his shirts again — the really soft one that always made his chest feel too tight when he saw her in it.

But she was quiet. More than usual. And Max didn’t like it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, breaking the silence.

Belle glanced up without lifting her head. “Dangerous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He huffed, nudged his laptop shut. “Come with me.��

She blinked. “To where?”

“Baku. Singapore. The double header.”

Belle sat up slightly. “Max—”

“I know it’s a long trip. I know the flights suck and you hate hotel pillows and your feet are already swelling when you stand too long.” His voice softened. “But I’d feel better.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

At the tension in his jaw. The worry in his eyes that never quite went away — not since the fall. Not since he’d walked into that hospital room and nearly lost his mind at the sight of her in a hospital gown.

He didn’t say because I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re alone. He didn’t say because I keep seeing your bruises when I close my eyes.

He just said: “I’d feel better.”

Belle’s hand drifted to her belly, absently.

“You’ve got media,” she said gently. “Track walks. Strategy briefings. You can’t be glued to your phone worrying about if I slipped on the tile again.”

“Exactly,” Max said. “So don’t stay here.”

She hesitated. “Baku’s chaotic. And Singapore’s—”

“Hot. Loud. Long.” He nodded. “But we’ll make it work. You stay in the drivers rooms. I’ll sneak you into engineering debriefs so the baby can start learning telemetry.”

She snorted. “Max—”

“I already checked with the team. Everyone’s on board.” His tone turned softer. “Please, Schatje. Come with me.”

She looked at him again — and it was all there.

His fear. His love. His need to know she’d be safe, even if that meant carrying her through customs himself.

And maybe Belle had spent too long trying to be independent, trying to prove she could handle things on her own. But just this once, she let herself lean into him.

“Alright,” she said, quiet but firm. “We’ll go.”

Max’s shoulders dropped an inch. He reached across the couch and took her hand gently.

“We’ll bring the soft pillows,” she added, smirking slightly. “And the magnesium foot soak.”

“And the peach gummies,” Max said, already smiling like it was a podium finish.

Belle squeezed his hand. “And noise-cancelling headphones for when Baku makes me hate everyone.”

“Done,” he promised. “You and me. And the baby.”

She looked down at her belly, then back up at him.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.

“And you’re coming to Baku,” Max said, already leaning in to kiss her forehead.

And that was that.

Because Belle might’ve been tough as hell on her own — but even she could admit that sometimes, love looked like aisle seats, hotel footstools, and letting someone else carry the weight for a while.

***

It started with rustling.

Not dramatic rustling, not panic-rustling. Just a quiet, persistent shuffle from the other side of the bed. Max blinked awake, one hand already reaching across the mattress by instinct.

Belle was sitting up, barely illuminated by the soft glow of her phone screen. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulder in sleepy waves, and she had that deeply suspicious expression she only wore when she was trying not to wake him on purpose.

He squinted at her, voice still gravel-thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”

Belle looked at him, guiltily frozen like she’d just been caught stealing state secrets.

“I want…” she paused, then said it all in one breath. “Fries. Like the proper trashy kind. With the fake cheese sauce. And chicken nuggets. And a cheeseburger. And a milkshake.”

Now he really stared.

Because Belle—his Belle—ate steel-cut oats and roasted vegetables and things with seeds in them. She actually liked quinoa. She’d once told him, dead serious, that she didn’t understand the appeal of vending machine snacks.

He blinked again. “You… what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, almost distressed. “I woke up and thought about it and now I can smell it and if I don’t have fries in the next fifteen minutes I’m going to cry.”

Max was already swinging his legs out of bed. “Okay. Fries, Nuggets. Cheeseburger. Milkshake. Got it.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “Wait — where are you going?”

Max grabbed his hoodie from the chair. “To get my very pregnant wife her midnight fries before she cries and then sues me for emotional negligence.”

She let out a soft laugh, surprised and grateful. “Max, I wasn’t ordering you. I just— I didn’t expect you to get up.”

Max leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Belle. The woman who meal-preps chia pudding just asked me for fries. I will sprint to McDonald’s if I have to.”

She laughed, sleepy and fond. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Fully aware,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Back in twenty. Text me if you think of anything else. 

Belle beamed. “I love you.”

Max pointed at the bump. “You, kleine man, better appreciate this.”

And with that, he was out the door, hoodie pulled up, wallet in hand, ready to face the night like a man on a mission.

Max Verstappen: three-time world champion, 1AM fry retriever.

Twenty-five minutes later, Max returned with two paper bags, a milkshake, and the distinct smell of judgment from the drive-thru worker who clearly recognized him. He didn’t care.

Belle was waiting on the couch in one of his hoodies, hair messy, blanket draped over her legs. She looked up with pure adoration when he walked in.

“Oh my god,” she said reverently, taking the bag. “I love you.”

Max sat down beside her, watching her take her first bite like it was the answer to world peace.

“Worth it?” he asked.

Belle moaned. “I want to marry this fry.”

“Little late for that,” Max murmured, placing a hand over her bump. “You already married me.”

She smiled mid-chew, leaning into his side. “Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite.”

Max kissed her temple, then reached into the bag for a fry. “Good. But I’m stealing one anyway.”

“Touch the milkshake and you die.”

Max grinned, settling in.

He used to think happiness was trophies. Laps. A perfect quali.

Now?

It tasted a lot like midnight fries and Belle’s sleepy smile in his hoodie.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

***

Somewhere over Eastern Europe, on the long-haul flight to Baku, Lando twisted around in his seat and stared down the aisle.

“Mate,” he whispered, nudging Oscar with the toe of his shoe. “Look at Max.”

Oscar, half-asleep and curled into his hoodie, cracked one eye open. “What?”

“Look. Just—look.”

Oscar followed his gaze, squinting toward the front of the cabin. And there he was: Max Verstappen. Reigning world champion. Deadliest late-braker in the sport. Currently holding a neck pillow like it was a newborn lamb, adjusting it behind Belle’s head with the concentration of a neurosurgeon.

She was fast asleep. Hoodie pulled over her belly. One hand tucked under her cheek. Max crouched beside her seat like some kind of loyal retriever, gently tugging the blanket higher over her legs.

Oscar blinked. “Oh my god.”

Lando grinned. “He fluffed the blanket. Did you see that? He fluffed.”

Oscar choked back a laugh. “You think he knows we’re watching?”

As if summoned, Max glanced their way. Didn’t even look sheepish.

“What,” he said flatly.

Lando gestured dramatically. “I’m just saying. You used to fall asleep with your face in a telemetry spreadsheet. Now you’re out here fluffing blankets and hand-feeding gummy bears.”

Max arched a brow. “She’s carrying my baby.”

Oscar, wheezing now: “You didn’t even blink.”

Max stood, completely unfazed. “She gets uncomfortable on long flights. And the neck pillow is shit.”

Lando looked between him and Belle. “You’re already a dad. Like, fully. Diaper bag energy. I bet you have snacks in your pocket.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Ginger chews. For nausea.”

Oscar slumped into his seat, choking with laughter. “This is incredible. You’ve turned into her emotional support Dutchman.”

Max folded his arms. “She’s literally growing a human. You’d all be lucky if anyone ever loved you enough to fluff your blanket.”

Lando held a hand to his heart. “Ouch.”

Oscar held up a hand. “Let him have this. It’s majestic.”

Belle stirred slightly, and all three of them froze. Max was immediately at her side again, smoothing her hair back, whispering something too soft to catch.

Lando leaned back, watching.

“Honestly,” he murmured. “It’s kind of terrifying.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. But also kind of goals?”

“Definitely goals.”

And somewhere in the front of the cabin, Max tucked the blanket just a little tighter around Belle’s legs and didn’t care one bit that they were watching.

***

Belle wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened.

One moment she’d been minding her business near the Red Bull hospitality, sipping a mango smoothie and trying to stay in the shade — and the next, Nicole Piastri had looped an arm around her like they’d been close family friends for years.

“Come on,” Nicole said cheerfully, steering her with all the gentle force of someone who’d wrangled toddlers, teenagers, and F1 drivers alike. “You need proper shade. And maybe a cold compress. I told Oscar to start carrying one, but he just gave me a funny look.”

Belle blinked, half-laughing, half-bewildered. “I’m okay, really—”

“You’re pregnant,” Nicole said, matter-of-factly. “You’re not allowed to be ‘okay.’ You’re only allowed to be ‘looked after.’"

And just like that, Belle found herself seated in the VIP shade of the McLaren hospitality tent, a cold bottle of water in her hand, a gentle fan pointed in her direction like she was a national treasure instead of a slightly overheated Verstappen. Nicole was fussing gently, adjusting the umbrella angle like she was personally in charge of UV exposure. Belle didn’t even bother resisting.

“This feels like overkill,” she murmured.

“This,” Nicole said, adjusting Belle’s sunglasses like a stage mom, “is called community care.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar wandered over looking mildly suspicious and very confused. “Mum, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of Belle,” Nicole replied serenely, patting Belle’s knee. “She’s part of the family now.”

Belle nearly choked on her water.

Oscar blinked. “Did we… adopt her?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on her when Max is off sweating in the garage,” Nicole said. “And besides—” she turned to Belle, her eyes twinkling “—I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

Belle tilted her head. “For what?”

“Oscar’s apartment,” Nicole said. “He won’t admit it, but I know you helped. You saved him from a lifetime of grayscale walls and furniture that looked like it was ordered by accident.”

Belle snorted. “All I did was drag him into one store and convince him that color wouldn’t kill him.”

“That’s more than I managed in twenty years,” Nicole said, mock-dramatic.

“I’m literally standing right here,” Oscar mumbled, sipping his own smoothie like it might save him.

Nicole ignored him completely. “Now, tell me — do you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?”

Belle hesitated, the moment stretching just slightly. Then she smiled, soft and a little shy. “A boy.”

Nicole gasped, delighted. “A little Max!”

Oscar’s eyes widened. “Wait—seriously? It’s a boy?”

Belle blinked at him, amused. “You didn’t know?”

“No!” Oscar exclaimed, flailing a bit. “Why am I the last to find out everything? Does everyone else know? Does Lando know?”

“Emilie knows…so I am pretty sure that Lando knows,” Belle said helpfully. 

Nicole looked far too entertained. “Oscar, sweetheart, you really need to spend more time in the gossip loop.”

“Or less,” Oscar muttered. “I don’t even know what loop I’m in anymore.”

Nicole leaned back, pleased as punch. “A baby boy. That’s going to be so fun. You just wait. Boys are chaos.”

Belle sipped her water and gave a wry little smile. “Don’t remind me.”

Across the paddock, Max had finally clocked what was happening. He was standing with GP, glancing over every few seconds — his brows drawn together like he was debating whether to intervene or let it happen.

Belle waved at him.

He gave her a little waveback and then narrowed his eyes at Oscar, clearly clocking his proximity to Belle and his mother in one go.

Nicole followed her gaze. “Does Max know I’ve claimed you yet?”

“Not officially,” Belle said dryly. “Do you want to break the news?”

Nicole shrugged. “He’ll survive.”

Belle laughed — really laughed — and leaned back in her chair as the fan gently whirred, her free hand resting lightly on the bump beneath her dress. For once, she wasn’t planning. Wasn’t navigating. Wasn’t managing how everyone else felt about her. She was just… being. And Nicole, for all her sass and maternal might, somehow made it easy.

Oscar looked between the two of them and sighed. “This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it?”

Nicole beamed. “Oh, absolutely.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1paddocktea: Belle Verstappen and Nicole Piastri spotted together in the McLaren hospitality at Baku. Fan spotted them laughing over smoothies with Oscar looking helpless nearby. 

@/oscarpiasteabag:  Nicole: claims Belle as another daughter Oscar: “I’m literally right here.” I NEED THIS DYNAMIC FOREVER

@/mclaren: Would it be unprofessional to post “Belle Verstappen is now an honorary Piastri”? Asking for a friend.  (and by friend we mean Nicole)

@/beebeehive:  Give Nicole and Belle a YouTube series. Just them drinking tea and discussing how to force Oscar and Max to eat vegetables.

@/f1stepmomenergy: Nicole Piastri adopting Belle is not the crossover I expected from Baku but it’s the one I deserved

@/formulaloveletter:  There’s something so wholesome about Belle accidentally becoming the paddock’s collective little sister/pseudo daughter/wife/chaos magnet. Like. She was just vibing. And now she’s got godparents lined up, a fan, and probably Nicole Piastri plotting baby shower themes.

@/f1chaoticneutral BREAKING: Nicole Piastri has officially adopted Belle Verstappen. Oscar was not consulted. Max is concerned. I am THRIVING.

@/gridgossipqueen:  Nicole Piastri commandeering Belle from Red Bull hospitality like “you’re mine now” is the kind of paddock power move I live for.

@/mclarenhomewives: Nicole Piastri claiming Belle as “part of the family now” and dragging her into the McLaren tent??

Oscar is now Belle’s younger brother

Max is going to be so confused when he picks up his wife and she’s in papaya merch

@/charlesshoes: every time i see belle getting casually adopted by someone new on the grid i gain a year of life

@/mclarenverse: Nicole Piastri claiming Belle like a prized collectible and Oscar just going “I’m literally right here” is so sibling-coded it’s actually hilarious

@/maxielarchives:  Max: why is Belle in McLaren hospitality Nicole Piastri: she’s mine now Oscar: same Belle: eats a papaya macaron like nothing happened

***

They were sitting on one of the low outdoor couches near the back of the paddock hospitality area — just Oscar and his Mum, the sun beginning to dip behind the skyline.

It was quiet except for the soft rustle of Nicole flipping through the tea selection like she was deciding the fate of nations.

“I still don’t know how you always end up hijacking people,” he said eventually, watching her settle on a peppermint sachet like it had personally offended her.

Nicole looked unbothered. “I didn’t hijack Belle. I gently redirected her to a more appropriate location.”

“You stole her from Red Bull hospitality.”

“She was overheating,” Nicole said, clearly satisfied with her maternal diplomacy. “And alone. Honestly, I should’ve swooped in sooner. If you’d seen yourself standing there — all confused, drinking a sad smoothie while she wilted under an umbrella.”

Oscar sighed and slumped back against the cushions. “It’s just funny how you do this. You see someone once and you’re like, ‘You’re mine now.’”

Nicole gave him a look over the rim of her tea cup. “Sweetheart, I raised four children and half your karting team. I know the signs. She needed someone.”

He snorted, then sighed. “You really like her, huh?”

Nicole didn’t even hesitate. “I adore her.”

Oscar picked at the label of his bottle for a moment. “You know her family forgot her birthday?”

Nicole blinked. “Her birthday?”

He nodded, jaw tight. “Didn’t even text her. Not one of them. Not her mum. Not her brothers. Nothing.”

Nicole was quiet now, the kind of quiet that meant she was carefully tamping down a volcano of maternal rage.

Oscar kept going, like the words had been stewing for a while. “And it’s not just that. They forget stuff all the time. Important stuff. She used to plan all their holidays, always checked in on everyone else. And no one ever asked if she was okay. No one made the effort for her.”

Nicole exhaled slowly, steady. “If I had ever seen you treat Hattie or Edie or Mae like that… if I’d seen you treat one of your sisters the way Belle’s been treated—”

“You’d have driven a wooden spoon into my skull,” Oscar muttered.

“Correct,” Nicole said, no hesitation.

Oscar smiled faintly. “I think that’s why I get so… prickly about it. I keep thinking about them. My sisters. If they’d gone through what Belle has. If they’d hidden how much it hurt.”

Nicole looked at him then — really looked. And whatever mischief had lived in her smile earlier had been replaced by something quieter. Something sharper.

“She deserves more,” she said simply.

Oscar nodded. “She’s finally getting it. With Max. With Emilie. Even Lando, weirdly.”

Nicole smiled again at that. “And now with us.”

Oscar blinked. “Mum—”

“I don’t care how famous her brothers are. If they won’t show up for her, then she gets me. She gets the whole damn Piastri family. I’ll knit her ugly baby blankets and text her reminders to drink water. That girl is mine now.”

Oscar stared at her, half-horrified and half-delighted.

“She’s going to think we are all insane,” he said.

Nicole smiled serenely. “Then she’ll fit right in.”

Oscar grinned.

And deep down, something in him relaxed — knowing Belle had one more person in her corner now.

***

The paddock was a blur of movement — media crews, mechanics in half-unzipped race suits, engineers pulling headsets off and already dissecting data. Baku’s sticky heat clung to everything like a second skin, even in the growing twilight. Belle adjusted the loose linen shirt knotted above her bump over the dress she wore and threaded her way past the Red Bull garage, careful of her steps. Her knees still ached when she walked too long.

Max was doing media rounds. He’d finished P5 — a hard-fought recovery, all things considered. But she wasn’t here for him right now. Or even for Oscar who had driven to a win in Baku that was everything Hungary hadn’t been.  

Ferrari red came into view just as the celebratory chaos began to ebb. There were still photographers trailing Carlos, and team members buzzing around the pit wall, but the man she was looking for stood half-turned toward the back of the garage, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite left his system yet.

Charles.

She hadn’t planned to come.

She’d meant to stay near Max, stay out of sight, stay neutral.

But then she saw the replay of the overtake. The fight. The fact that Charles had driven his heart out. That he'd earned that podium. And despite everything — the weight of all their unspoken hurts, the therapy sessions, the missed birthdays — she still felt proud of him.

“Charles,” she called softly as she stepped just inside the boundary line.

He turned.

Surprise flickered across his face. “Belle?”

She smiled. “P2,” she said, her voice warm and sincere. “You drove beautifully.”

His gaze dropped to her belly, then back to her eyes. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod and stepped closer. “Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Not awkward — just… delicate.

“You really mean it?” he asked, quieter now.

Belle met his eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

Something in his shoulders loosened. Just a little.

Then he surprised her — reaching out and resting a hand gently on her arm, careful and featherlight.

“I’m trying, you know,” he said. “With all of it. I know I’ve been... slow. Selfish. But I’m trying.”

“I know,” Belle said. “So am I.”

Charles looked at her again — properly this time — and for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like a minefield between them. Just two people standing in the wreckage, trying to rebuild something.

Not what it used to be. But maybe something new.

“Do you want water or something?” he asked suddenly, glancing around the garage. “We have those fancy Italian fizzy ones—”

Belle laughed. “I’m okay. Max is about to come looking for me anyway.”

Charles smiled crookedly. “He was glaring at me through the cooldown lap, by the way.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “He always glares.”

“That one felt extra.”

She bumped his arm with her elbow. “Be nice.”

“I’m trying.”

They stood there a beat longer.

“Congrats again,” she said, stepping back. “You earned it.”

He gave a soft nod. “Thank you, Belle.”

And this time, when she turned to go, it didn’t feel like a goodbye. Just a pause.

Something gentler.

Something that might, one day, be whole again.

***

[pixiexdusts-world]

Meet the Heffley’s

Rodrick Heffley x reader

Summary: Rodrick’s girlfriend meets his chaotic family, and Manny tries to steal her. She loves it anyway.

Word count: 1010

Notes: this is very random but I love Rodrick so I needed to write something

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Title: Meet the Heffleys

Meeting your boyfriend’s family is supposed to be a big deal, right? Like, one of those moments where you dress nice, bring flowers or something, and sit down for an awkwardly polite dinner while his parents judge you.

Yeah. That’s not how things work with Rodrick Heffley.

When he invited me over for dinner, it was more like, “Hey, my mom said you should come over and eat with us or whatever.” Super romantic. But I agreed because, well… I wanted to meet them. Rodrick talks about his family all the time, mostly to complain, but still. I was curious.

So, here I am, standing on the Heffleys’ front porch, wondering if I should have brought something. Probably not. This doesn’t seem like the kind of house where formal dinner etiquette exists.

Before I can knock, the door swings open, and there he is.

Rodrick smirks, leaning against the doorframe like he’s so cool. “Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

I roll my eyes, stepping closer. “I’m on time.”

“Yeah, well, you were supposed to be, like, ten minutes late so I could say something sarcastic about it.”

I laugh and kiss his cheek, just to make him flustered. It works. His smirk falters for half a second before he clears his throat and steps aside. “Alright, come in before my mom starts thinking I made you up.”

The inside of the house is exactly what I expected. A little messy, with random shoes lying around, a stack of newspapers no one’s bothered to throw away, and a distinct family chaos vibe. The smell of dinner cooking comes from the kitchen, something warm and homey.

And then I hear it.

“Rodrick! She’s here?!”

Before I can react, a woman appears—short, blonde, and way too excited. I barely have time to brace myself before she pulls me into a hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! I’m Susan, Rodrick’s mom. Oh, you’re even prettier than I imagined!”

“Uh, thanks,” I manage, shooting a look at Rodrick, who just shrugs like, Yeah, this is happening.

His mom pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. “Rodrick never tells us anything about his personal life. You should’ve seen my face when he said he had a girlfriend. I almost dropped my coffee!”

Rodrick groans. “Mom.”

“What?” She waves him off. “I’m just happy to meet her. Oh, come in, come in! We’re just about to set the table.”

I follow her into the dining room, where a younger boy sits at the table, flipping through a comic book. He glances up, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You’re Rodrick’s girlfriend?”

“Greg,” Susan scolds. “Be nice.”

“What? I’m just saying.” Greg shrugs, then looks at me. “You do know he’s, like, the worst, right?”

“Hey, shut up, loser,” Rodrick snaps, dropping into a chair.

I grin. “Oh, I know.”

Greg blinks, clearly not expecting that. Then he mutters, “Huh. Okay.”

That’s when I feel a tiny hand grab mine.

I glance down to see a little kid—Manny, I recognize him from Rodrick’s rare stories about him—staring up at me with big eyes.

“I have a girlfriend too,” he announces proudly.

Susan gasps. “Manny! Since when?”

“Since yesterday,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he looks back up at me and asks, completely serious, “Do you like dinosaurs?”

I nod. “Who doesn’t like dinosaurs?”

Manny grins, clearly satisfied with my answer. “Okay. You’re my second girlfriend now.”

Rodrick groans. “Oh my God.”

Greg snickers. “Dude, you already have competition.”

Manny tugs at my sleeve again. “Rodrick is gross. Do you wanna be just my girlfriend instead?”

Rodrick drops his fork. “Are you kidding me? Mom, tell him he can’t steal my girlfriend!”

Susan barely holds back a laugh. “Manny, sweetie, she’s Rodrick’s girlfriend.”

Manny huffs. “Fine.”

This is amazing.

Dinner is… interesting. The food is good—spaghetti and garlic bread—but the conversation is pure chaos. Susan keeps asking me questions about school, my family, my plans for the future (Rodrick groans at that one). Greg watches me like he’s trying to figure out why I’d willingly date his brother. And Manny? He spends the whole meal making dramatic faces at Rodrick and occasionally whispering, “Rodrick is a doo-doo head.”

Rodrick spends most of the meal making sarcastic comments and kicking me under the table whenever his mom gets too nosy.

At one point, their dad, Frank, comes in late, looking exhausted. He gives me a polite nod, sits down, and immediately starts ranting about something Rodrick did last week. Rodrick barely reacts, just shoveling food into his mouth while his mom scolds him and Greg smirks like he enjoys watching his brother get in trouble.

It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s so different from my own family’s quiet dinners.

And I kind of love it.

After we eat, Rodrick grabs my hand and tugs me toward the stairs. “Alright, we’re done here. Bye.”

“Rodrick, wait—” Susan starts, but he’s already leading me to his room.

The second he shuts the door, he groans. “I told you my family was annoying.”

I flop onto his bed, laughing. “I like them.”

He gives me a look. “You like them?”

“Yeah. Your mom is sweet, Greg is funny, and Manny… well, he’s trying to steal me, but other than that, he’s adorable.”

Rodrick snorts. “I knew that kid was trouble.”

I smile and lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Not worried, are you?”

He grumbles something under his breath, but I can tell he’s relieved. And maybe even a little happy.

Yeah. I think I’m gonna like being around the Heffleys.

[oatmealthighs]

-`♡´- plug!eren x blackfem!reader

ᯓᰔ contents: nsfw 18+, MDNI. reader indulges 🍃, eren is overprotective, public sex, maybe semi public? idk. daddy/mama usage. might be some slightly toxic dynamics. but nothing too serious. rushed ending cus i suck at endings 💔 a sequel full of fluff will be coming soon out of this.

ᯓᰔ author's note: omg i haven't posted in like months. but anyways what would i be without dropping the token plug!eren drabble. nothing too crazy, just some bathroom sex. also there are instances where there are texts but i got too lazy and didn't bother making texts out of them mwahahahaaa sorry in advance. this is barely proofread and not my best so if there are mistakes i am sorry. requests are open! also look out for a tengen x reader x wives fic coming really soon. like this week soon

the feeling of your phone buzzing in the back pocket of your true religion jeans whisked your attention away from the pearled blunt you had pinched between your fingers.

your glossy lips curled into a little smirk, your acrylics clicking at the keyboard of your screen.

you've been pushing eren's cute lil buttons all night. honestly all day... but you didn't feel bad for making him sweat. he's been trying you as of late.

you and eren were supposed to be spending some quality time together last night, and he was specifically supposed to be over your place by no later than 8:00. you had the whole shabang... bath and body works candle burning out, led lights on and set to the color purple, some of his favorite snacks and some dinner and dessert you had wrapped up for him that you had made earlier. you were planning on watching a show with him, giving him a scalp massage while he played his playstation that he always brought whenever he came over, and give him the best head he's ever received that night before riding him into the sunset, but all those plans went soiled. 8:00 came, and on the dot he had sent a text message about him having to go make a few more drop offs, then he'd come to you. 8 turned to 9, then 10:30, then 1... fucking... AM.

was it fucked up you didn't answer the door when he came knocking finally? kinda, but the guilt didn't last long when you thought about how he practically stood you up.

eren was a popular plug on the university you attended. you knew friday is usually the day that people were trying to cop, given it was majority people's payday and the weekend, but you were hoping that he would close up shop early just this one time for you. his clientele would live-- there were plugs by the dozen on campus. but eren knew wasn't none of them fucking with his shit. you weren't sure what other outcome you were expecting. he never turned his head away from possible income.

eren already knew he fucked up, but he knew ultimately in the end it was going to be worth it. the extra money was going to go into play towards his proposal to ask you to be his girlfriend, and no amount of your anger was going to get that out of him. he was prepared to keep his mouth shut, throw away the key, and take his lashings like a man. so when he was met with radio silence, he was flabbergasted.

when he pulled up to your crib and didn't get an answer from him knocking on your door and calling your phone, he figured you fell asleep and resulted in retreating to his abode. the next morning, when he woke up to find that you didn't respond to his apology texts from last night, it made him sit up in his bed and squint at his phone with crust-ridden eyes.

no response? it was so unlike you. usually you would respond with a barrage of text messages stating your feelings, or at the very least he'd get a passive-aggressive dry text from you. but to be met with nothing at all made his gut twist in a disgustingly vexing way.

he rubs at his temples, sending you a "good morning baby" text before opening the safari app and going to the local floral shop's delivery site.

later that afternoon, eren's sitting in his blacked out durango when he receives email confirmation that the flowers have been delivered, the low hum of the strong engine the only thing somewhat soothing his frazzled nerves. he made sure to get your favorite, and tried to ask them to incorporate your favorite color as much as possible.

he checks your location as he hits his blunt, releasing the smoke from his mouth and inhaling it through his nostrils. he already knows your home, having your schedule downpack. and you were. so why didn't you say anything about the flowers? did you not like them? he sends you a text, saying, "i sent you some flowers," staring at the screen and awaiting your response.

yess, you know he sent you flowers, and you loved them. you had gasped when you found them on your porch, bright and vibrant in color and smelling so freshly sweet. you had already cut the stems and put them in some warm water in a lovely vase. you almost wanted to text eren, to tell him how much you loved them and thank you, but the strong annoyance you had from last night still lingered. with a twist of your lips you disregarded your phone on the kitchen counter, humming a tune as you moved about the kitchen to prepare you a nice lunch.

eren releases a defeated sigh as he puts his jay out, not even in the mood to smoke anymore. mopily, he clicks off his phone, shifting his gear to drive to make more plays.

he spends the rest of the day pondering ways to possibly pull a conversation from you, and a lightbulb flickers in his head when he recalls you saying you were running low on weed. eren always gives you gas free of charge, one of the special privileges that comes with being his favorite girl. he opens his phone to text you again.

doechii's expressive voice flows through your speaker at a volume level most would call excessive. but you didn't care. anything to drown out the annoying pensive thoughts of eren's sexy little face. "i ain't a killer but don't push me, don't wanna have to turn a nigga guts into SOUP BEANS!" no, really, doechii.

your phone vibrates on your vanity as you rummage through your closet for a cute outfit to wear tonight, striding over to your phone with nimbleness. you figured it'd be hitch, since you and her were accompanying each other to the kickback tonight and she was asking either what time you wanted to go or what you were wearing. your hypothesis was proven incorrect when you saw eren's name on your notification wall instead. just him asking if you wanted to him to drop off some more weed for you.

your heart twinged ever-so-softly at the thought of you ignoring your baby. you missed him. it was embarrassing to say this was the longest you went without talking to him. but how would he know you were serious if you just gave in now?

you wanted to respond and tell him you were cool. hitch was bringing the weed tonight. but you refrained, if anything that would get him all the more riled up. eren doesn't like you smoking others weed, his reasoning being he doesn't "trust their product." he was so sexy when he was protective. you remember when you told him you copped from someone else when he had to go off campus for a little bit to see his family, and he spent a half hour inspecting it on the scale with his phone flashlight.

eren let out an irritated growl after constantly checking his phone for 10 minutes, still no reply from you in his notifications. he wanted to tell you you were dragging it, but he knew you weren't. you had every right to be pissed with him given he had promised you this quality time and swore he would make time for you. you were never a stickler for too much attention, but with eren always on the run it was easy for him to neglect you. he's been getting better at it though. until last night.

connie's name flashes across eren's phone screen. he slides the answer button right and lets his car sync the call to the radio. "yo."

"what's good, man. you coming to the kickback tonight? it's gonna be at jean's place." eren rolls his neck until he hears it pop. he knows you'll be there.

"yeah, i might come. today's been slow. don't got nothin' else to do."

"damn, i know that voice. what'd you do this time?"

eren weakly chuckles at connie's intuition. "what can i say, business was booming like crazy last night. we were supposed to hang out but my phone just kept ringing."

connie let out a long sigh over the line. "typical eren, never knows when to close shop." he pauses. "you know you're the asshole, right?"

"yeah," eren groans, shutting his car off and putting his phone on speaker. "i know. i plan on making it up to her."

"yeah, how? surely not with some weed and dick." connie snorts. "[name]'s a nice girl, you plan on locking it down with her anytime soon? i see the way floch be looking at her."

"he wouldn't dare," eren denies, the simple thought of it just making his eye twitch. while you and eren weren't official, basically everyone in the friend group and the vicinity knew y'all were on each other bad. but some assholes just didn't respect boundaries. he noticed floch's gaze would linger on you a little longer than he deemed appropriate. how they would trail your body. he noticed the way his cheeks would blush when you would speak to him in passing or make small talk.

"i dunno, man," connie instigated, smugness in his voice. "but, bring a quarter with you. it's on me, i'm gonna zelle you."

"just send me $50." eren and connie exchange a few last words before they end the call, leaving eren in silence as he stares at the gray wall of the parking garage he was parked in. he didn't know what he was gonna do about you.

eren always tended to look the sexiest when you were mad at him, or he was upset with you. he always would wear his hair down, taupe tresses brushing his broad shoulders. he'd always wear a black tee and some baggy sweatpants that always had you imagining what it was he had underneath. it was nothing you haven't seen, but it was always a pleasant surprise.

you felt your defiance wavering when he and all is glory walked in to jean's house, high as fuck. you swore you could smell his ysl cologne from across the room.

"you okay girl?" sasha questions, her eyebrows pinching in concern as she leans into your eyesight. you blink your mascara coated lashes, giving her a smile.

"yeah, my man just walked in. he always looks so good when im pissed at him."

"it's a trap. don't fall for it." hitch scoffs, her hazel eyes trained on the blunt she was busy rolling. her thighs were squeezed together to keep her carebear rolling tray in place. "don't even look his direction."

"i forget hitch is such a hard-ass. how does marlo manage," ymir jokes. historia chuckles, her head resting against her girlfriend's broad shoulder.

as their conversation goes on, your eyes can't help but find eren again through the decent amount of people crowding the bottom floor of the house, watching him interact with connie and hand him a bag of what you assumed to be cannabis. his turquoise eyes cut across the room, and you know he's looking for you. you look away before any eye contact can happen. when you feel eyes burn into your skin, you know he spots you.

the night involves you acting as if he doesn't exist, keeping your back turned and acting like you're too busy to acknowledge your phone notifications. when you finally light the blunt hitch pearled, you know eren texts you asking where did you get that. you chuckle to yourself as your thoughts were confirmed when you snuck a peek at your phone.

eren feels anger welling in his body as he watches you from a safe distance, lounging against the wall and his eyes never leaving you. you knew what you were doing at this point. wearing them jeans that made your ass sit so perfect and a crop top that teased at your skin and your belly button piercing. your hair was in curls, and your glittery lip gloss shone in the low light of the room. he knew you probably had on his favorite perfume too. that vanilla one he loved so much.

"just go talk to her dude," connie yells over the aggravatingly loud jersey mixed song that was booming through the surround sound, his words slightly slurred from the drink he's been sipping on. eren furrows his thick brows as he hits his spliff, watching the tip burn bright orange as he shuts his eyes for a moment. "and you better hurry. i think tonight's the night floch makes his move."

"connie, shut the fuck up." eren's tone is firm and warning as he feels the vein in his neck rising to the surface of his skin. he finally opens his eyes, glancing at you, and what he sees makes his stomach cave and everything around him turn red.

floch, with his ugly fucking haircut and that ugly dangling earring had the audacity to be all up in your glory, smiling sheepishly as you were saying something to him. he doesn't know what you were saying, your back was to him, but the way your head swayed and your hands were moving he knew you were talking.

honestly eren was never this defensive of someone before. maybe it was your constant insistence of you being fine on your own. "boy, i'm grown," you'd say to him. it only made his instinct to protect you grow stronger.

he knew well you could handle your own. but how fucking dare him?! it's like floch was begging for an ass whooping!

he wasn't actually. he was begging for you to send him the homework answers for your chem class. "not gonna lie floch, i haven't even looked at that shit yet," you admit with a shrug, your lips pulled into a friendly smile.

floch groans as he rubs the back of his neck. "i'm for sure gonna flunk that class. i might just say fuck it and retake it next year."

"not if i can help it," you interject, furrowing your brows. "we pass together, we fail together. i'll send you the answers on groupme tomorrow when i finish."

floch pumps his fist. "man, you're the fucking best, [name]. if you weren't in there i dunno what i'd–"

a hard body brushes past floch, harshly and intentionally slamming his shoulder into theirs. "hey, man, what the–"

you smell eren before you see him, wearing that delicious cologne that's stained into your bed sheets. you look up to find him looking down at you, fire in his sea green irises as he glares at you.

you feign oblivion, lifting an eyebrow at him. "hey," you speak first.

"why haven't you been responding to my texts." his voice is curt, but still soft nonetheless. you feel your girls looking at you intently to see how you were going to play this.

"been busy, sorry," you respond, not sounding much too apologetic.

eren cuts his eyes to the right to see floch still standing there, much to his distaste, a look of confusion plastered across his face. "you need somethin'?" he asks him, a foreign, cutting edge to his question.

"i was just trying to ask her about the homework, dude," floch bites back defensively, taking the smallest step back.

your dainty hand trails up to grab eren's forearm, your soft, irreplicable touch quelling his aggravation. you swear you could feel his taut muscles relax at your contact, knowing he was probably deprived. so dramatic.

"eren, calm down," you reprimand him gently, but sternly. you gave floch an apologetic glance. "sorry, floch. see you tuesday."

floch nods, his auburn eyebrows creased in the middle as he glanced at eren, then back at you, before departing. in tandem, you let go.

"what's your problem," you seethe, but not loud enough for your friends to hear. "you damn near made that boy shit his pants."

eren sucked his teeth, closing his eyes to roll them as he clenched his jaw. "why are you ignoring me, [name]," his low voice is strained, constricting his internal anger to the best of his ability. his high was blown, the music was too loud, you smelled and looked too good, it was all too much.

you place a hand on your hip, your beautiful eyes passive, but holding a glint of hurt behind them. "just collect your breath. i don't wanna talk about it here... even though you know what the problem is-"

"yo, [name], wanna hit this again?" saved by the bell.

"yes, pleaseeee," you drawl. you turn on heels, but not before telling eren, "i'll see you later."

shortly after eren departed to god knows where, and you got high as hell, was when you received that text. and you don't know if it was the marijuana making you fuzzy and horny, the growing urge to just be in his arms, or what, but you complied.

as you brushed and weaved between drunken bodies, you couldn't subdue the underlying feelings of anxiety that swelled in your chest. you didn't know what to expect. but you knew one thing for certain, you were gonna give eren a piece of your mind tonight.

when you finally made it to the bathroom door, you released a breath you didn't even realize you were holding, shaking yourself of your jittery nerves before your knuckles rapped against the hollow wood of the door.

it wasn't even three seconds before eren cracked the door, and before you could say anything, you were yanked in.

you squealed at his presentation of strength, the butterflies in your stomach downward-diving straight to your core. "well, damn! what happened to hello? how are you?!"

eren ignored your playful reprimanding, instead using the time to soak and drink you in. you were so pretty, fussing at him like that. the way your glossy lips twisted as you spoke on about nothing relevant, the way your hair swayed with every movement you made. every muscle in his body urged him to kiss you, breathe you in.

"whatcha call me in here for? it's hot as hell..." you murmured, leaning against the cool wood of the door in attempt to catch your breath.

eren was quiet as he loomed on the opposite side of the bathroom, half-lidded cyan eyes carefully trained on you. you lifted your eyebrows with a shake of your head, prompting him to go on, your arms crossed against your glittery chest. "you're so pretty," he hums, a side smirk playing at his lips, showing his pretty white teeth that you wish you were nibbling on you just about right now.

"can't smooth-talk your way out of everything, eren," you resisted with a strain in your voice, turning to face the mirror to the left of you instead of him. "i'm still upset with you."

"rightfully so," eren agrees, slowly closing the distance between the two of you, backing you against the cool oak wood of the bathroom door. "'m sorry baby, you know i love spending time with you more than anything in this world–"

"i beg to differ," you interject. eren rests his eyes as he clenches his jaw, withholding a sigh. "all i asked was that you put me first for one night... and you couldn't even do that."

"baby, listen to me." eren's large hand engulfs yours, the warmth of his palm spreading through your limbs like wildfire. "words can't even begin to express how deeply sorry i am. i know i fucked up... i know. but, i had reason i've been wanting to work a lot more often as of late." he pauses. he couldn’t possibly pop his question in a bathroom at connie’s party. you’d hate him ten times more than you already do in his moment.

you cock your brow, looking up at him through those pretty lashes that framed your eyes so well. “i’m waiting, eren.”

he sucks in a deep breath, making the sound he usually makes when he’s about to say something you don’t like. “just… trust me. okay?”

that was enough to make you head for the door, reaching out to twist at the knob before he grabs at your wrist. “man, move,” you mutter, over the bullshit. you were over it all: the lies, the empty promises. and you were especially over being crowded in this bathroom with him, because you felt your resolve faltering with each passing second you remained in his presence. you felt like an animal resisting every primal instinct and bone in your body, begging you to let him touch you. it was borderline pathetic.

“you aren’t going anywhere, [name].” he meant that in more ways than one.

“how much you wanna bet?”

the frustrated glint in his aquamarine eyes and the knit in his thick brows made your knees give.

“ummm, have you guys seen [name]?” hitch asks after a good thirty minutes fly by since you first departed the group, skating her eyes around the living room with a quizzical glance.

ymir snorts. “you already know she ran off with that boy,” she exhaled the smoke she was holding in her chest out towards the ceiling, running her long fingers through historia’s golden locks. “wouldn’t be surprised if she already dipped off with him.”

not quite. instead, you and eren were still in the bathroom, your ass on the bathroom counter and your head resting against the mirror as eren was crouched before you, low to the ground as he slurped at your pussy like a man starved. he looks up at you from his place between your thighs, tongue flicking at your swollen clit before taking it into his mouth to suck on it whole. you let out a breathy, high pitched moan, your eyes rolling behind your closed eyelids as eren gazed up at you with hearts in his eyes. you were always so fucking beautiful, whether you were mad at him, grinning at him, or cumming for him.

“fuuuck, i think i’m bouta cum again,” you whimper, your eyebrows pinched as your orgasm brewed at a slow boil within the pit of your stomach. you already left your mark all over the marble sink, leaking down your thighs, and all over eren’s chin. but when was that ever enough to satiate his thirst?

“do it, baby,” he breathes, french kissing your pussy before speaking again. “you know i want it.”

“get it outta me, then,” you retort, a sexy simper pulling at your lips, and the darkened glare he have you through heavy eyelids made your pussy squeeze.

his big hands grip your thighs, blunt nails digging in your skin as he begins rocking your lower body up and down, sliding his long tongue from between your pussy lips to your ass with each bounce. you let out a squeal of surprise, your pink toes wriggling as he just kept doing it, over and over and over. you hear him, moaning with each stride, reveling in the saccharine taste of you. his dick felt like it was bouta break, restricted to his boxer briefs, and he felt the sticky precum leaking on his thigh. he needed to fuck you. but he always prioritizes you over all.

your orgasm bust inside you, your pussy profusely contracting as your juices coated eren’s face. “fuck, yeah,” he encourages in you, his voice in a low growl of satisfaction. he didn’t stop, cleaning you up and slurping your pussy clean. you flinched as he left a final loving kiss to your aching clit, and he chuckled as he stood to his feet. your eyes couldn’t help but look at his crotch, you couldn’t help but smirk at the prominent tent of his stiff dick being held hostage in his sweatpants. “turn around for me. i want you to see me fuck you.”

you slid off off the counter, ringing your panties off the ankle they were hanging on to, before turning around, leaning against the sink and arching your back. you looked back at him, gazing at him tauntingly. “whatchu waiting for?”

“cool it,” he warns you playfully, his thumbs hooking into the bands of his sweats. "don't bite off more than you can chew."

"i've had mouthfuls of you. i promise you i can chew."

"look at the mirror."

you turn back forward, looking at eren in the reflection. he was so pretty, his hickory locks tousled around yet still framing his face beautifully. his bottom lip was pinched between his teeth as he shifts his pants to fall below his knees before rolling his briefs down his thighs. he lifts his tshirt up, showcasing his tan abs that had a slight shimmer of perspiration as he readies the head of his dick at your opening. then, with steady hips and a deep breath, he pushes forward.

him putting his cock inside of you was such an irreplicable feeling, you don't know how to explain it. to feel his girth stretching you, giving you a burn that was so deliciously good, always made your head spin. you whine, pushing your ass back just a little bit to help eren bottom out in you. he cusses under his breath, grounding himself with a hand on your ass cheek as his pelvis met flush against your tailbone.

you felt his dick twitching inside you, and you couldn't help but let out a satisfied moan as you let your head drop against your arms folded over the sink. eren grit his teeth, his jaw clenching as he tries to regain his composure. you were so warm, so wet, so greedy judging by the way your pussy squeezed him like a vice. any sudden movements and he was bound to nut in you.

suddenly, the bathroom knob jiggles, followed by pounding against the door. you jump, your muscles stiffening as fear tickled at your tummy. eren hisses, his nails digging crescents in your cocoa buttered skin at you tightening around him. "uh, anyone in there? i gotta piss!" connie. what are the fucking odds.

"uhh, give me a few minutes!" you yell, your voice uncharacteristically shrill from your newborn anxiety as you looked back at eren with wide eyes. "maybe we should-"

you were shut up with one, heavy stroke, eren almost completely unsheathing himself before bottoming out in you again. your words died in your throat, replaced with a gasp.

"uh, okay...?" the end of connie's okay drawls up in the end. "wait, [name], is that you? are you straight in there?"

"yes... fuck, yes!" you sputter out, squeezing your eyes shut as eren picks up his speed a bit, but not his power. he was gonna do you a favor and not fuck you too dumb in here. he wants you to at least have some chance of walking out of here on your own two feet. "i'm fine!"

"okay, okay! i'll just go upstairs." after a few seconds, you hear connie shifting away, but that genuinely wasn't your main focus. eren was rolling his hips, making sure the tip of his dick hit that sweet spot that made you sing with every. single. thrust. your head was down, resting against the counter, your eyes stuck in the back of your head as you took every inch of him with grace. your moans were mere whimpers, trying your best to muffle them with the inside of your arm.

eren sees his phone vibrate from his place on the hanging shelf beside him, and he smirks to himself when he takes a brisk glance at the banner:

convict: [name]'s in the bathroom. she didnt sound too great so u should prolly check in on her

eren groans under his breath, leaning forward to mold his abdomen against the curvature of your spine. that motion was enough to make him feel like he was touching your stomach. "what are you doing?" he purrs, flicking his tongue out to lick at the shell of your ear. he feels you shiver, your shoulders shuddering as a sex-soaked cry escaped your lips. "i said i want you to watch me fuck you. why are you hiding that pretty face?"

you had nothing but a pathetic moan to offer as a response, and he scoffed to himself, a smirk curling at his lips. he stands straight, both of his hands settling at your lovehandles as he begins sending you to poundtown. the impact of his hips against your ass was loud, and there was no doubt that if anyone came to the door they would hear you getting the shit fucked out of you. "be a big girl, mama," he muses. his hand reaches for your curls, gripping your tresses to pull your head up and back. you squealed, your eyebrows pinching at the burning sensation. you mustered up the courage to flutter your eyes open to be met with the godly sight of your man, looking down at you throw those thick eyelashes, his cheeks tinting pink from the overwhelming heat of the small, crammed space. " watch me while i fuck you."

his wish is your command as you watch him through teary eyes, licking your lips at the feeling his hand snaking up the arch of your spine to come around and grip your chin. the pads of his fingers rest on your cheeks, slightly squeezing as he snaps his hips against you from behind. his eyes are boring into you, clouded by lust with a hint of adoration, watching the way your face contorts into pleasure-ridden expressions. he's watching the way your plump lips wrap around his thumb, the way your titties bounce with every deep thrust and threaten to spill out your victoria's secret bra and tank top, the way that fat ass jiggled and made waves every time he drilled his dick in you. you were perfect. from your pretty face, to your loving heart that had a padlock with his initial on it, to your gushing pussy that would squirt all over him just for him.

"this pussy is so perfect," eren hums, looking down in awe as he watches the way you cream and squeeze on his shaft. "it's like it was made just for me. was it, baby? this is just my pussy, right?"

"you know that, daddy," you slur, feeling your orgasm coming to a head. you were so ready to release, your pussy just aching to cum. you hear him give a chuckle, his hips speeding up in tandem.

"i think you're ready to cum now. i want it all on my dick. can you do that for me, princess? or is that too much to ask of you?"

but before you could even muster a response, it was as if a tsunami hit your pussy, because the way your juices sprayed against his upper thighs was a damn shame. eren lets out a moan of appreciation, biting his lip as he lets your orgasm ride out and coat his dick. he gives your ass a few appreciative cracks, making you tighten around his cock until you managed to collect your breath.

eren slowly begins unsheathing himself from you, his dick still solid as concrete but he honestly wasn't concerned with getting his own nut off right now. after all, this wasn't going to be the last time he was to be in you tonight. as soon as he takes you back to his place, he was gonna fuck you through the mattress and the bedframe.

"girl, there you are! you've been missing for like, an hour!" you bumped into hitch on your way towards the front door, eren being your guide but you squeezed his hand to let him know to stop. she shifts her eyes to him, then looks back at you with an "oh-i-see" look. "you headed home?"

"yeah, eren's gonna take me."

"okay, be safe," hitch adjusts your shirt, tugging the top hem over the shadows of your peeking bra. "call me when you get in."

"she will." eren assures hitch, and she nods, the two of you slipping away from the crowd and going off into the night.

[writting-stuff-sometimes]

Or you just told us to do it...- Lando x F reader

Summary: Y/N is the McLaren community manager. Lando leaves a comment on the latest Mclaren post, y/n is not happy about it.

Warnings: Slightly suggestive

Word Count: 1.2 K

Notes: My romance book delulu mind instantly thought of something when reading Lando's response. I'm working on the Play with fire part 3 but it will be a long one

Your job as a McLaren CM was awesome, as it was stressful. You had two young drivers and complete freedom from the managers to do all sorts of trends. And you would if you weren't dealing with a PR nightmare and a black cat.

As much fun as it was when the two of them were in the mood to record stuff, sometimes it could be a torturous nightmare if one was in a funky mood or couldn't deal with pr at that moment.

But after the last race and all the comments on the most recent McLaren post about Oscar deserving more support and Lando being a spoiled diva, plus all sorts of posts on social media about the two of them doing an eventual Hamilton vs Rosberg. The heads of coms had requested to do as much damage control as possible. So the moment you walked in the garage and saw a tyre trolly laying around, you got an idea.

You sent the drivers a text requesting their presence at the garage entrance.

Both drivers knew why you wanted them, so they stalled as much a possible, making you wait over 45 minutes.

"Hey, sorry for the delay." Oscar said with his classic half smile

"Yeah, sorry for the delay. We didn't really want to come." Lando spoke both their minds. Oscar just turned towards him with a look of disapproval but held back a smile.

"I'm just doing my job, guys." You lifted your hands in defeat.

"So, what dance are we doing today?" Lando walked and took your phone from your hand.

"No dance today." You said, yanking the phone back and trying to hide your blushing cheeks. "This will be super simple. You'll push each other on this trolley." They both stared at you, not a single emotion on their faces.

"You're serious?" Oscar wasn't usually so critical, and it almost made you doubt your idea, but you were certain this would please the fans.

"C'mon you guys, this will be gold. It's fast, easy, and the fans will love it."

"You've become so good at describing Lando" Oscar said and then laughed silently as he inspected said trolley.

"I ain't that easy," Lando tried to defend himself

"Or lovable," you replied softly, looking down at your phone.

"Hey, I heard that." Lando turned to look at you, offended.

"Anyways, please, help me with this, and I won't bother you for the rest of the day."

"Promise?" Oscar asked.

"Promise" You answered, crossing your fingers in front of your heart.

"Fine, c'mon Lando, before she comes up with another weird trend."

Both drivers did their best to look entertained, and as much as they hated your idea initially, they ended up having a good 20-minute play date with the trolley, giving you enough material for the day.

After they were gone, you posted the video to Instagram, and like you imagined, it got tons of reactions right away.

At lunch, you checked your phone again, reading through the comments and smiling at your success. Most of them were positive and praised how fun both drivers looked; a couple of mean ones remained, but this was normal. Then a blue check mark caught your eye.

lando "Or you just told us to do it..."

"I'm going to kill him," You said out loud.

"Lando?" Mike, the engineer eating beside you, turned to look at you, amused.

"Who else?"

"You two are like an old married couple." Mike said as he took his coffee and walked towards the exit. "Don't hurt him much; we need him for quali" Mike shouted back as you took your stuff from the table and stormed towards his driver's room. If you weren't so angry, you would've been worried about people thinking about you and Lando as a married couple.

You knocked a couple of times, but there was no answer, then opened the door to find an empty room. You weren't about to search for him around the entire track and make a scene out there. He had to eventually come back, so you decided to sit there and wait, reading the comment whenever you felt the anger was easing down.

Finally, after an hour and a half, you heard his distinctive laugh approaching.

When he opened the door, his eyes went from amused to worried in two seconds, your expression far from friendly.

"Jon, can you give us a sec?" Lando asked his trainer without taking his eyes off you, as if you were an animal about to attack their prey.

"Told you it was a bad idea." Said the trainer before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

Lando walked towards you, but you stretched out your arm, your hand on his chest, making him stop at arm's length.

"Are you trying to get me fired?" You asked, staring right into his soul.

"I was just messing with you."

"No, Lando. You're messing with my job."

"C'mon, it was just a comment." He pushed your arm to the side and walked to hug you tight against his chest. Your arms stuck to your sides, not wanting to fall for his sweet cologne or warmth.

"No, it wasn't. I got specific instructions from coms! We needed this to ease the shit going around"

"People will always say shit" He spoke against your head, his tone slightly tinted with sadness. Social media hasn't been the same for him, at least for the last couple of seasons. The moment you felt his sadness, you couldn't hold back and placed one arm around his waist; he wasn't fully forgiven yet.

Your phone rang in your free hand.

"Ugh" you pushed yourself away, just enough to lift your arm and read the message.

Steve Hello, can you stop by my office in ten?

"He's going to fire me." You let your head fall back and sighed.

"I'm sorry," his voice filled with honesty. "I didn't think."

"Sounds like your MO."

"Hey, unnecessary rudeness."

He hugged you tight again, giving a kiss to your exposed neck.

"If you forgive me, I will let you film me later in our room; I bet the fans would love that," he whispered in your ear. As much as the comment had you blushing and feeling warmer than the scorching sun outside, you had an uncomfortable meeting with your boss to think about.

"If you want to get me fired, just say so. I will sign my resignation right now."

"Fine, we can tape that, and I will let you keep it for personal use."

"You're unbelievable."

Your phone rang again.

Steve Sorry, something just came up. See you in an hour.

"Excellent, extend the torture" you sighed loudly again.

"I'm really sorry" Lando spoke against your neck, giving you goosebumps. "How about I make it up to you?"

You stared at him, eyebrow raised and a serious look on your face.

"I don't have to be out there for another 40 minutes; we can have some nonsocial media-approved fun." He started laying open-mouth kisses to your neck as he took the hem of your shirt and pulled it up.

"And what are we doing for the other 35 minutes?"

"Forget it." He said, unwrapping his arms and turning to walk towards the door.

"Come here." You took his McLaren-issued shirt and pulled him back to join your lips. He had done it bad this time, but Steve was probably just going to give you a slap on your wrist, and you would just blame it on Lando.

__________________

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[verstappenverse]

Revved Up

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max grows jealous after your Instagram post attracts unwanted attention, including from an ex.

Authors Note: Do I actually believe Max posts on his own instagram these days... let alone would post with a 'scandalous' caption...no? but this is fiction so it's all good 😂

1.4k words / Masterlist

Max is sat on the plush leather couch in your shared Monaco apartment, flipping through TV channels with all the enthusiasm of a man waiting for a commercial break. He glances at the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the stunning Mediterranean view, but even that isn't enough to distract him. It isn't the usual race strategy or upcoming practice sessions that has him restless, it's something far more personal.

You.

More specifically the photo you had posted on Instagram earlier that day, a simple mirror selfie, a little scandalous, but nothing crazy. You looked radiant, sure, but that was normal for you. You were always beautiful to him.

What had caught his eye was the flood of comments, the notifications popping up every few seconds as he scrolled through your post. He kept scrolling eyes narrowing as the likes kept ticking upwards. That's when he saw it.

Your ex.

The guy who clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that you were Max Verstappen’s girlfriend, because no one with any sense of self-preservation would’ve dared to leave a flirty comment that would instantly set Max on edge.

'Looking sexy as always' it read, with an obnoxious little winking emoji at the end.

Max’s fingers tightened around the remote as the thought of some guy, especially your ex, thinking he had any right to compliment you in that way made his blood boil. You were his. The world knew it, but apparently some people needed reminding.

He didn’t say anything when you had walked into the apartment earlier, cheerfully oblivious to his growing annoyance. Instead he had kept quiet, but now it was simmering just under the surface.

Jealousy wasn’t a feeling Max was used to, on the track he's calm, confident, but when it came to you, his cool, collected exterior faltered. Especially when some idiot tried to act like he still had a chance.

You entered the living room now wearing a loose sweatshirt and leggings, a casual look that contrasted with the glamorous image you had posted earlier. Max glanced at you his jaw tightening, and you could instantly sense something was off.

“Max is everything okay?” you asked, tilting your head as you grabbed your phone from the counter. You didn’t even have to unlock it before he spoke.

“That picture,” he said abruptly, his Dutch accent thicker than usual, which tended to only happen when his emotions were running high. His fingers tapped on the arm of the couch in an impatient rhythm.

You furrowed your brow. “What about it?”

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest and you could see the tension in his posture. “Your ex commented on it.”

“Oh,” you said, blinking in surprise. “I hadn't noticed.”

Max didn’t like the idea of you looking at that idiot’s comment again, but you opened the app and scrolled down anyway finding the offending message almost immediately.

You rolled your eyes and let out a laugh that was more like a snort. “Seriously? He’s such a loser. I haven’t talked to him in forever.”

Max didn’t seem to find it as amusing as you did. His frown deepened. “Yeah, well, he still thinks he can leave comments like that. Like I’m not here.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at his grumpy tone. “What? Are you jealous?”

His reaction was immediate. “Jealous? Me? No.” He paused. “I mean... you know how many people liked that picture?”

You raise an eyebrow, amused by how serious he looks. “Max, it’s Instagram, I think the point is to like pictures," you laugh, but his expression doesn't change, "Max, come on, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly, though he still sounded more irritated than actually angry. “Everyone’s drooling over you in the comments. And then there’s him.”

You can't help but chuckle again as you slide onto the couch next to him, pressing your hand against his knee. “Are you worried someone’s going to steal me away?”

He gives you a look, his lips twitching upwards at the edges, betraying the smallest hint of a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re being ridiculous.” You lean closer, brushing your lips against his cheek.

Max sighs, dramatically throwing his head back against the cushions. “Maybe I should just post a picture with you, remind people who you belong to.”

“Oh, who I belong to?” you tease, poking him playfully in the ribs. “That sounds a little possessive.”

There's a mischievous glint in his eye now, but you can still feel the underlying jealousy. “Can you blame me?”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, you can't help but enjoy how worked up he was getting over something so trivial.

Seeing him this riled up over some stupid comment was kind of… adorable. You secretly loved when he got all possessive, even if he wouldn’t admit it outright.

“No, I guess I can’t blame you,” you sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “But you know I don’t care about those comments right? Especially not from my ex. I didn’t even notice it.”

“Maybe you should block him,” Max mutters, back to sounding grumpy.

You laugh again, unable to stop yourself. “Max it’s fine, if it’ll make you feel better of course I’ll block him, but I need you to know I never think about him.”

He softens a little at that, his arm instinctively wrapping around your shoulders. “You better not.”

You smile and nuzzle further into him, the warmth of his body calming. “Besides, none of those guys commenting are Max Verstappen now are they?”

“Exactly,” Max says, and there's that cocky smile you love so much. The mood lightens as his fingers brush through your hair. “None of them stand a chance.”

You smile up at him. “And neither does my ex, so you can relax.”

He seems to settle after that, his hand lazily stroking your arm as the tension eases out of his shoulders. “Good. But still…”

“Still what?”

“I think I should post a picture with you. Just to make sure everyone knows.”

You snort. “You just want an excuse to show off.”

“Can you blame me?” he repeats, his eyes glinting as he reaches for his phone. “Come on, one picture. Let me remind everyone you’re mine.” he says as his hands move to grip your waist.

You roll your eyes, squirming under his grip, but a smile tugs at your lips. “Fine. Just one.”

Max scrolls through his phone finding the perfect shot of you two together, arms wrapped around each other tight, he quickly types out a caption and hits post. Not long after, your phone buzzes with notifications. His fans are quick, already liking and commenting on the post.

You glanced at it over his shoulder, chuckling at the caption:

Just a reminder she’s mine.

“Oh my God Max,” you groan playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “What? It’s true.”

You laugh and shake your head, leaning into him once more. “You really are something.”

“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “And don’t you forget it.”

The rest of the evening passes in a much lighter mood. The TV hums in the background, but neither of you pay much attention to it. Instead, you spend the evening teasing Max about his jealous streak much to his dismay.

“You know I never thought I’d see the day when Max Verstappen got jealous over a social media comment.”

He rolls his eyes, a playful smirk on his lips. “I’m not jealous. I’m just… protective.”

“Sure, that’s what we’ll call it.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little jealous,” he admits, pulling you closer. “You are kind of amazing.”

You beam up at him, feeling a rush of warmth at his words. “Well good thing I’m all yours, huh?”

“Good thing,” he agrees, leaning down to kiss you, slow and sweet. When he pulls away, he adds with a laugh. “What about... no more selfies without me in them?”

You laugh and nudge him playfully. “We’ll see about that.”

But deep down, you don't mind.

You'll never mind the way Max gets protective, a little possessive, and sometimes even a little jealous. Max has always been known as a fierce competitor on the track, but when it comes to you, his heart is just as fierce, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[strwberri-milk]

hii can i ask u to write hc about boys when they say something in conversation that will hurt mc, for example when they will mention her appearance like rafayel in ebb when he said 'its round like u'. hope u have great dayy<33

Zayne, being a doctor, has lots of opinions about some of your unhealthier habits. He doesn't share them all the time because he never wants to come off as nagging but you don't need him to say anything to know that he's staring at you judgmentally. He averts your gaze when you turn to him but it's already too late.

You feel yourself becoming demoralised, whatever you were doing totally abandoned as you decide to leave. Zayne knows exactly what happened, cursing himself for not keeping himself in check around you. He just can't help but worry, wanting to see you take care of yourself. The second you try to leave he grabs your wrist, apologising as he tells you it's just because he loves you.

He promises to use his words next time. You sniffle a little, deciding to act a little immature as you tell him that the issue is that he makes it very clear what he thinks. You'd rather him just tell you rather than look at you judgmentally, Zayne unaware just how it looked to you. Generally, he keeps his expression neutral but whenever it comes to you he wears his heart on his sleeve. Or he thinks he does - you've just become so attuned to him that you know what every slight quirk of his brow means.

Xavier also does micro expressions that seem a little judgemental, generally whenever you say something he finds a little odd. He isn't sure if it's just because he's missing some context but when he does it one too many times in a conversation you begin to mutter an apology for boring him.

He's tripping over himself to try and correct you, wanting to tell you that it's not that he's bored, he's just struggling to follow the conversation. You confront him by telling him that even when he's following the conversation just fine he still makes faces at you sometimes. He's now forced to admit that he thinks he makes faces the more tired he gets, body subconsciously trying to get the conversation to end so he can go flop onto the nearest fluffy surface.

However, since it hurts your feelings he does his best to monitor himself, trying to be more active in your conversations. You can see how tired he is though, taking pity on him and telling him to go take a nap. You'll be there to infodump on him when you wake up anyway.

Rafayel says things off handedly, especially when he's not feeling well. Normally you can take it well but today you just couldn't, his passive insult hitting you hard. He watches your face cloud over, brows furrowing as he tries to understand what this sudden shift in your mood is attributed to.

You make it clear it's because of what he said about you, the one statement being the straw that broke the camel's back. You ignore him, not wanting to even look at him as you walk away from him. You try to cool off, your mind spinning as his unintentional words play over and over again. It takes you a while before you can even speak to him normally and when you seek him out he looks like a scolded dog.

He immediately perks up when he sees you, apologising profusely when you come back to him. Despite being mad at him, you also know he provides the most comfort so you crawl into his lap and begin to scold him. He takes it in stride, knowing that he messed up and promising that he'll take better note of your mood to know when he should and shouldn't joke with you about things like that.

Sylus has a sharp tongue like Rafayel but he sounds slightly more "serious" when he says those things. His voice doesn't lend well to jokes unfortunately, meaning that if you're feeling a little more raw one day then you're going to take his words seriously, just like today.

He doesn't let you run from him though - grabbing you and asking you what the problem is. You normally can take his teasing, returning it to him twofold. When you don't quip at him he knows something is wrong, waiting for you to use your words and tell him. He's patient whenever it comes to you thankfully, letting you take your time. You struggle in his grip a little, not wanting to tell him right away but the warmth he provides is just too good so you bury yourself in his chest, telling him that he hurt your feelings.

He coos at you sweetly, telling you how adorable you are and apologising by peppering your face in kisses. He hates making you sad and even if he doesn't overtly say it, you know he regrets it by how he's careful not to insult you if you don't start it first, using how you speak to him as a gauge before returning with some of his usual playful nips at you.