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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 26: July 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

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

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

The conference room was sleek and quiet — all minimalist design, smooth wood, and muted light. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Monaco’s marina, but Belle barely registered the view. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, one leg crossed over the other, Max’s knee brushing hers beneath the table like a silent anchor.

Belle sat beside Max at a long table in a private meeting room, her hands folded carefully in her lap. The lawyer — a tall, gentle-voiced woman named Monique with sharp eyes and an expensive watch — smiled politely as she turned the final page of a stack of documents.

She had known about the pregnancy since Max had called last week and said, “We need to make sure she’s protected. Properly.”

It hadn’t been dramatic. There were no tears. No whispered breakdowns.

Just Max, calm and steady, saying "my wife is having our child, and I want everything in place if I don’t come home."

And Belle had agreed. Because love like theirs wasn’t made of denial.

It was made of preparation.

Monique spoke first.

“I’ve drafted the new will, updated with the marriage registration and the preliminary trust structure for the baby.” She slid a folder across the table to Max. “It’s standard language, but I can walk you through it.”

Max nodded. “Let’s do that.”

Belle glanced at the page — her name in clean legal font at the top. It still startled her sometimes. Isabelle Verstappen. A name that felt more like a promise than a title.

Monique continued, calm and clear. “Everything’s been updated as requested. The property title adjustment will be processed this week, and the new will reflects both your marriage and the pending addition to your family. In the event of Max’s death, Belle inherits all real estate assets, including the Monaco apartment, She also has controlling interest in the holding companies and exclusive guardianship of the child. There is a clause allowing her to appoint a secondary guardian if needed, and a separate financial trust to be accessed at her discretion for the child’s care.”

Belle’s fingers tensed slightly on her notebook.

Max reached under the table, slid his hand into hers.

Monique continued. “You both now hold medical power of attorney for one another. In the event of a serious injury or incapacitation, decisions will legally fall to the surviving spouse. The trust for the child will be activated upon birth and can be revised at any time.”

Belle blinked. “You’ve already set up a trust?”

Max nodded beside her. “I wanted it in place before they got here.”

Monique smiled. “It’s not uncommon for high-risk professions.”

High-risk. Belle hated that word.

Monique glanced at Max. “There’s a healthcare proxy included as well. You’ve named your wife as the sole decision-maker if you’re incapacitated.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Belle didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed. Absorbed.

Because here it was. In print. In contracts and clauses and notarized certainty.

This man — who drove faster than anyone else on earth — was handing her the most fragile parts of his life and saying I trust you.

Not out of fear.

But out of love.

Monique gave them a moment before gently flipping to the next document. “There’s just one more point of discussion — guardianship, in the event that… well, neither of you are able to care for your child.”

Belle straightened.

“Obviously we don’t need an answer right this second,” Monique added, professional but kind. “But it’s something we do recommend including in advance. Just in case.”

Belle didn’t hesitate.

“Victoria and Tom.”

Max glanced at her, surprised.

“They already have three kids,” she said softly. “Their home is overflowing with love. Lio and Luka would be like big brothers. Hailey a big sister. ”

Max looked at her for a long moment — not surprised, just… moved.

“Okay,” he said, quietly, final. “Victoria and Tom.”

Monique made a quiet note, then gathered the papers. “That’s all for today. You’re welcome to take copies home, review anything again, but legally — everything’s in place.”

Belle signed.

Her name — Isabelle Verstappen — in clean, looping ink at the bottom of the page. Not to take something away. But to build something forward.

Belle hesitated. “Is there… anything else?”

Monique raised an eyebrow gently. “Such as?”

Belle glanced down at her lap. “I thought Max might… want me to sign something else.”

Silence.

Then, Max’s hand slid over hers beneath the table. “You mean a prenup?”

Belle nodded once.

Monique blinked, surprised. “There’s nothing of the sort, Belle. That was never discussed.”

Belle looked at Max, who met her eyes steadily.

“I didn’t marry you with conditions,” he said simply. “What’s mine is yours. What’s ours is already half your idea anyway.”

Belle stared at him for a second — stunned, soft, wrecked.

Then she cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s… not what I expected. But okay.”

When it was done, Monique gathered the documents, promising scans and copies by end of day.

The room emptied, polite and efficient.

Belle stayed seated.

Max didn’t move either.

She finally turned to him. “That felt…”

“Big?” he offered.

She nodded.

“But good,” she added, quieter now. “Because this is ours. Our life. Our family. Even the scary parts.”

Max kissed her temple. “That’s why we’re here.”

Her hand found his on the table, fingers lacing together.

“I hope none of it ever matters,” she whispered.

He looked down at their names on the signed pages.

“It already does,” he said.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey You got a minute?

Victoria: For you? Always What’s up?

Max: Belle and I had a meeting with the lawyers today We’re setting everything up properly Just in case something ever happens

Victoria: Okay… Everything alright?

Max: Yeah. Everything’s good. More than good We just want to be smart about things

Victoria: Of course So… what do you need from me?

Max: We listed you and Tom as guardians For the baby If anything ever happens to us

Max: I wanted to ask you first Properly Not just throw your name on a form

Victoria: Max. Yes. Obviously. Always. You didn’t even have to ask. But I’m really, really glad you did.

Max: Belle said it without blinking She trusts you too

Victoria: Now I’m crying in the supermarket, thanks 🙄

Max: Sorry (But not really)

Victoria: We’ll take care of them. No matter what. But nothing’s going to happen to you, okay?

Max: Yeah I know Still I sleep better knowing it’s you

Victoria: We love you. And we love her. And we already love this baby.

Max: Thanks, Vic. Really.

***

The therapy room was quiet in the way only tension could make it — not peaceful, but primed. A silence that hummed with everything unsaid, everything tiptoed around for years.

Belle sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap, her pulse thrumming just beneath her skin like a warning. Every muscle in her body was taut — trying to hold everything in place. Her blouse, loose by design, felt suddenly too tight across her chest. She hadn’t been sleeping. She hadn’t eaten lunch. There was a dull ache in her temples, a sharper one behind her ribs.

Max was beside her.

He hadn’t spoken.

He hadn’t even moved, aside from the occasional brush of his thumb against hers.

But his presence was solid. Anchoring. The one thing in this room that didn’t make her feel like she had to prove she belonged.

Across from her, her family sat arranged like a tableau of old fractures: Pascale, elegant but weary, lips pressed tightly together; Arthur, fidgeting in his chair, worry written into the curve of his brow; Lorenzo, arms folded like a gate; and Charles — the one who hadn’t looked at her properly once since she’d walked in.

Camille, the therapist, smiled gently. “Thank you all for being here. We’re here to listen first. Belle, since you asked for this session, would you like to begin?”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “I don’t expect this to fix everything. But I wanted to give you a chance to hear me. I’ve felt invisible for a long time. And I know that might not have been your intention, but it doesn’t make it less real.”

She paused.

No one spoke.

She added, voice quiet but edged in iron: “And I’m not here to be blamed for how I coped with that.”

That was when Charles finally looked up. “Then maybe he shouldn’t be here.”

Max didn’t move.

Belle’s grip on his hand tightened.

Camille interjected gently. “Charles, we agreed to keep this space respectful—”

“Respectful?” Charles cut in, eyes flashing. “You brought him to a family session. The man who didn’t even tell me he married my sister. The one person guaranteed to turn this into a war.”

Belle’s voice cracked, quiet but firm. “Max is here because I want him here. He’s my family now. He supports me. He doesn’t speak over me or forget I exist unless it’s convenient.”

“You bring him here, like he has any right to sit in a family session—”

“Charles—” Camille began.

But he was already unraveling.

“—Like he didn’t make it worse. Like he didn’t encourage all of this—”

Belle flinched.

“Charles,” Max said, voice low but firm.

“You don’t get to talk—”

“Stop it!” Belle snapped, her voice breaking.

The sound echoed louder than shouting.

Everyone went still.

She stood — too quickly — and emotion spilled over before she could stop it. Her hands shook. Her breath hitched. Tears began streaming down her cheeks before she could blink them back.

“I invited him,” she said, trembling. “Because he’s the only one in this room who never made me feel like I had to earn his love. He didn’t ask me to shrink or wait or perform. He didn’t disappear until it was convenient to care again. He showed up.”

Arthur’s expression twisted with guilt. Pascale’s eyes filled with tears. Lorenzo exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“I tried for years to matter to you,” Belle whispered. “And when I finally stopped waiting, when I found something good, you acted like it was betrayal. It wasn’t. It was survival.”

But when Belle cried harder, silent and shaking, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach — a reflex now, a habit more than a choice — Max’s restraint cracked.

“Enough,” he said, voice sharp and fierce and final.

The entire room froze.

“This isn’t good for the baby.”

Everything. Stopped.

The silence that followed was different. Not tense — stunned. Heavy. Real.

Charles froze.

Pascale’s hand flew to her mouth.

Arthur blinked, mouth slightly open.

Lorenzo — unreadable, contained Lorenzo — lost every ounce of composure.

Belle sat, still breathing too fast, still cradling her abdomen like she didn’t even realize her hand was there.

“She’s crying in a therapist’s office because her own family forgot her,” Max said, his voice flat, controlled. “And she still came here hoping you’d be different. And you’re yelling at her like it’s her fault she stopped begging you to see her.”

“You—” Charles started.

Max’s eyes burned. “She’s pregnant. And this stress? This shouting? This guilt-tripping? It’s not just hurting her anymore. It’s hurting both of them.”

Real, stunned silence.

Belle covered her face with both hands, chest heaving.

Max moved instantly, kneeling beside her. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he whispered. “You gave them a chance. That’s more than they deserved.”

Camille cleared her throat gently, measured but soft. “Belle… thank you for being honest. Max, thank you for saying what needed to be said.”

Belle shook her head, still too overwhelmed to speak. Her body ached with tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Max didn’t let go of her.

He stood and turned to face them — not angry. Not cruel. Just done.

“She’s pregnant,” he repeated. “And she came here because she still believed you deserved the chance to be part of that. But if what you bring is more of this — more silence, more anger, more entitlement — then maybe she needs to stop giving chances to people who don’t know what to do with them.”

He sat beside Belle again, taking her hand in both of his.

She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. Her hand stayed curled over her belly, protective. Heartbroken.

Then, after a long, still moment—

“I didn’t know,” Charles said. Quiet. Shaken. “Isabelle, I didn’t… I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I know,” she whispered.“That’s the problem.”

More silence.

Then Pascale wiped at her eyes, voice shaking. “I want to be part of this. Not just the baby. You. I want to do better.”

Arthur nodded. “I will. I already started. But I’ll do more. Whatever you need.”

Lorenzo’s voice was hoarse. “You shouldn’t have had to say any of that alone.”

Camille waited. Then softly, “This is where it begins. Not with fixing. But with listening. With staying.”

Belle finally looked up.

Still hurt. Still guarded.

But in her eyes — something softened.

She didn’t say I forgive you.

She said something truer.

“You have a long way to go,” Belle said, voice rough.“But you’re here. That’s a start.”

***

By the time they got home, Belle hadn’t said a word.

Max didn’t push. He unlocked the door, opened it for her, let her walk through the apartment at her own pace. She moved like someone underwater — slow, dazed, like her body had been hollowed out.

She didn’t even take off her shoes.

She just stood in the middle of their living room, arms limp at her sides, until Max gently touched her elbow.

“Sit,” he said softly. “I’ll get you water.”

But she didn’t sit.

She crumpled.

It wasn’t a fall — not all at once — but something slower, sadder. She sank down onto the rug like her bones had given out, hands covering her face, breath catching in her throat.

Then the sobs came.

Max was beside her in an instant, sinking to his knees, gathering her into his arms without a second’s hesitation.

She curled into him like she’d been waiting all day for it. Like she’d finally let herself feel everything she hadn’t let show in front of them.

And Max—Max held her like he never intended to let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, one hand stroking her back, the other cradling her head as she buried her face into his chest. “God, Belle. I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head against him, but he kept going.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Max said, voice rough. “Not like that. I should’ve asked. I should’ve let you decide.”

Belle didn’t answer — not in words — but she held him tighter, and that was enough.

She cried for a long time.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just steady.

Heartbroken.

Max held her through all of it. Through the shaking, the ragged breathing, the muffled apologies she tried to whisper into his shoulder. He didn’t correct her. Didn’t argue. He just rubbed circles into her back and reminded her, again and again, in the softest voice he had:

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

At some point, he coaxed her into bed. She resisted, groggy and stubborn through the haze of exhaustion, but eventually let him pull back the covers and tuck her in. She wore his hoodie — one of the big, soft ones — and it swallowed her. Her hand still rested over her stomach as she lay on her side, eyes red and barely open.

Max kissed her temple, her forehead, her hand. He didn’t leave her side until her breathing evened out and she finally slipped into sleep.

Then — and only then — did he let himself move.

Quietly, he crossed the room to where his phone sat on the kitchen counter.

He didn’t text. Didn’t scroll.

He found the number for Belle’s doctor and sent a message requesting an appointment.

Tomorrow. Urgent if possible.

She hadn’t eaten all day.

She hadn’t slept properly in nearly a week.

And her crying tonight… it had shaken something in him.

She always carried things so quietly. Until she couldn’t anymore.

Max stood at the kitchen counter, staring down at his phone, still in his jeans and hoodie from earlier, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He couldn’t make her family change.

But he could protect this.

Her.

Their baby.

He would make sure she was seen, cared for, and safe — even if it meant dragging the world into a quiet, burning rage to make it happen.

The phone buzzed with a confirmation.

Appointment: Tomorrow. 9:30 AM.

Max looked back toward the bedroom.

Belle was asleep, one arm curled under her pillow, still holding her stomach like a shield.

And Max made himself a promise.

They would never make her cry like that again.

Not while he was breathing.

***

The four of them sat in stunned silence.

The therapy room door had closed behind Belle and Max ten minutes ago, but no one had moved since. Camille had offered them space to process, and they’d taken it — not because they needed it, but because they didn’t know what else to do.

Charles sat with his hands clenched in his lap, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him. Pascale held a tissue tightly in one hand, face pale, mascara faintly smudged beneath her eyes. Lorenzo’s arms were crossed — his usual stoicism barely holding under the tension in his jaw.

And Arthur — the youngest— was pacing.

Charles finally broke the silence. “She’s pregnant.”

“Yes,” Arthur said flatly, not looking at him.

Charles blinked, still stunned. “She’s actually—she didn’t even tell us.”

“She didn’t owe us that,” Arthur snapped, turning to face them. “Not after everything.”

Pascale looked up. “Arthur—”

“No,” he said, sharper than they’d ever heard him. “No. I’m not doing this. We’re not going to sit here and act like we’re the wounded ones.”

“She should’ve told us,” Charles muttered. “We’re her family—”

Arthur rounded on him. “Then maybe we should’ve acted like it.”

That landed.

Charles looked up, startled.

Arthur laughed — a short, bitter sound. “You really don’t get it, do you? Belle spent years trying to be seen. Trying to be heard. Every time she did something good, we clapped for a second and then went back to talking about karting or my race result or whatever Charles was doing that week.”

“That’s not fair,” Charles said stiffly.

“No?” Arthur said, eyes narrowing. “Name where she was when she graduated top of her class. You remember what we sent her?”

Charles didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” Arthur snapped. “Nothing. We forgot. We forgot her birthday, Charles. And even then, she didn’t scream at us. She just stopped trying.”

“I didn’t mean to forget—”

“You didn’t mean to notice her, either,” Arthur said, quieter now. “But Max did.”

That silenced the room.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. “You know what gets me the most? She still gave us a chance. She walked in there, pregnant, vulnerable, and hoping maybe we’d finally show up. And what did we do?”

He looked at Charles.

“You shouted at her husband.”

He looked at Lorenzo.

“You stayed quiet until she was crying.”

Then he looked at Pascale.

“And you only spoke when Max said the word baby.”

Pascale’s lip trembled. “I didn’t know.”

“She didn’t trust us with it,” Arthur said, softer now. “And that’s the part that should scare you. Not Max. Not the secret wedding. Not the baby. The fact that she didn’t feel safe enough to tell us.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, some of the anger draining from his posture.

Charles looked like he’d been hollowed out.

“She was holding her stomach,” Pascale whispered. “Even when she cried, she—she protected the baby. From us.”

Arthur nodded. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Arthur looked at them all — older brother, older brother, mother — and stood taller than he ever had.

“No one is making her cry like that again,” he said. “Not if I can help it.”

Charles swallowed hard. “So what do we do?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “You start by earning a place back in her life. Slowly. Without demands. Without entitlement. You show her you’ve changed. And if you haven’t? You step aside.”

No one argued.

No one could.

Because they’d all seen what Arthur had — a sister at the end of her rope, still trying to offer them grace.

And they’d nearly broken her again.

But maybe not completely.

Maybe, if they were lucky, there was still time to do better.

To be better.

To finally be family in the way Belle had deserved all along.

***

Belle woke to sunlight and silence.

Her eyes burned. Her head ached. Her throat felt tight from the hours she’d spent crying into Max’s chest the night before. For a long time, she just lay there — curled on her side, one hand resting against the soft curve of her stomach, the weight of the last twenty-four hours pressing against her skin like bruises she hadn’t earned.

Max wasn’t in bed.

That was the first thing she noticed.

But when she pushed back the covers and sat up, she could hear him. Low voices. The sound of him in the kitchen. Coffee brewing. Something being cut on a chopping board.

When she padded out into the hallway, Max looked up instantly.

“You’re awake,” he said gently. “How are you feeling?”

She blinked at him. He was already dressed — hoodie, jeans, hair still damp from a quick shower. He looked like he hadn’t slept, though she had no idea when he’d crawled into bed beside her. All she remembered was him holding her until her tears stopped.

“Tired,” she said honestly. “Drained. Like I fought a war in a hotel lobby.”

Max’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. Not really. He poured her a glass of water and walked it over.

“You need to get dressed,” he said softly. “We’ve got an appointment at 9:30.”

Belle blinked. “Appointment?”

“With your OB.”

She stared at him. “You made a doctor’s appointment?”

Max looked… sheepish. In that way only Max Verstappen ever could — a little bit guilty, but completely unapologetic. “You were crying for over an hour. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep until after midnight. You kept holding your stomach like it hurt and I just—” He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to be sure everything is okay. With you. With the baby.”

Something inside her cracked — not with annoyance, not even embarrassment, but with a kind of vulnerable affection that made her chest ache.

“I’m fine,” she said, quietly.

Max didn’t argue.

But he looked at her like fine would never be good enough again.

They left ten minutes later.

She wore leggings and one of Max’s hoodies, too tired to care. Her hair was in a bun, her face bare. Max had packed snacks and a water bottle in her bag like he was preparing for a cross-country drive. He opened the car door for her without a word. Held her hand at every red light.

The clinic was quiet when they arrived — not many patients that early. A nurse smiled at them, already familiar with Belle, and waved them through. Max never let go of her hand.

The doctor — kind, warm, sharp-eyed — asked gentle questions. Belle answered them all in a quiet voice.

“Any unusual cramping? Headaches? Nausea? Emotional stress?”

Belle glanced at Max, then gave a small, exhausted laugh. “Define unusual.”

The doctor smiled, then softened. “What you went through yesterday? It matters. Stress does affect the body, but you’re here now. We’ll check everything.”

And they did.

A blood pressure cuff. A blood draw. The gentle press of a fetal doppler wand against her stomach.

Then— The soft, rhythmic sound of a heartbeat.

Max’s fingers tightened around hers. He didn’t say anything. But when Belle looked at him — really looked — she saw it in his face: that fierce, wordless love that had carried her out of that therapy room and straight into this one.

The doctor smiled. “Heartbeat sounds perfect. Baby’s strong. And you’re doing better than you think.”

Belle let out a shaky breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Max pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I just wanted to be sure,” he whispered. “I couldn’t watch you cry like that and not do something.”

Belle closed her eyes.

Then, without even thinking about it, she rested her head against his shoulder and whispered:

“Thank you.”

Because it was more than an appointment.

It was a promise.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: how’d it go yesterday?

i waited until morning because i didn’t want to be that friend but also i’ve been lying awake since 6 trying to imagine how many things charles said wrong in under an hour

Belle: you waited like a saint you get a medal

Emilie: oh good you’re alive that’s step one

Emilie: how bad was it scale of 1 to “i considered throwing my shoe at someone”?

Belle: i cried max snapped everyone went quiet and then Max accidentally revealed i’m pregnant because he couldn’t watch me sob anymore

so ...somewhere between “shoe-throwing” and “emotional napalm”

Emilie: WHAT

Emilie: MAX DROPPED THE BABY BOMB IN THERAPY??? WITH CHARLES THERE??

Belle: yep :)

Emilie: oh my GOD how is max still alive how are YOU

Belle: tired kind of hollow but also maybe... a tiny bit relieved?

it was a mess but they listened eventually i think

Emilie: do i need to bring cake or a shovel or both

Belle: both but i’m okay now doctor said everything’s good with the baby max scheduled the appointment himself

Emilie: of course he did husband of the year defender of the bump destroyer of sibling egos

Belle: he really did go full “don’t make her cry it’s bad for the baby” in front of everyone it was... a moment

Emilie: i would’ve PAID to see that wait no someone in that therapy room owes you money for that performance

Belle: arthur tried maman cried lorenzo looked like someone slapped him charles sat down and didn’t speak again

Emilie: is it terrible that i find this deeply satisfying

Belle: no it’s why i love you

Emilie: seriously though i’m proud of you i know how much this cost you and you still showed up

Belle: i’m trying for the baby for me

Emilie: and when you’re ready for step two i’ll be there with tea and probably more sarcasm than is healthy

Belle: perfect i love you

Emilie: i love you too, belle you’ve got this

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: Max. My guy. My married guy.

Gianni Vechio: Is it Verstappen or Mr. Leclerc now? Just checking.

Max (deadpan): I’m already regretting logging on.

Luke Bennett: You regret logging on? Imagine our shock when the paddock exploded because someone casually dropped a kiss in Parc Fermé like it was no big deal.

Max: (muted chuckle) It was a race. I won. Belle was there. That’s all.

Chris Lulham:: “That’s all.” HE SAYS. Like he didn’t casually change the internet’s collective brain chemistry.

Luke Crane: Bro, you were standing there looking like you'd just won the title and found true love.

Gianni: THE WAY YOU LOOKED AT HER.

Chris: THE HAND ON HER WAIST.

Gianni: THE KISS, MAX.

Max: (muttering) You guys are insufferable.

Luke Bennett: I’m sorry — did we not deserve to know that your secret wife is Isabelle Leclerc?!?

Max: She wasn’t secret.

All at once: YES SHE WAS.

Luke: Where is she anyway? We’ve earned this. Bring her on stream.

Max: She’s not going to—

Gianni: MAX. YOU OWE US.

Chris: SHOW US YOUR WIFE. SHOW US THE MYSTICAL INTERIOR ARCHITECT GODDESS WHO FIXED YOUR PENTHOUSE.

Max: You people are insane.

Luke (chanting): BELLE. BELLE. BELLE. BELLE.

Chat:

BELLE! BELLE! BELLE!

WHERE IS SHE MAX

DROP THE WIFE

MRS VERSTAPPEN SUPREMACY

WE SAW THE RING SIR

MAX BLINK TWICE IF YOU MARRIED UP (we know you did)

Max: (sighing, amused) Belle?

[muffled in the background] Belle: Yes?

Max: They want to say hi.

Belle: (closer) They want to do what?

Max: Just come here for a second, Schatje. They’re not going to shut up otherwise.

[Belle leans into frame wearing one of Max’s Red Bull hoodies, hair up, tea mug in hand.]

Belle: Hi.

Chat: OMG IT’S HERMRS MAX IS REALSHE’S SO PRETTY WHAT THE HELLTHE HOODIE IS KILLING MEMAX MARRIED A QUEENINTERIOR DESIGN SLAYI CANNOT BREATHEMAX YOU ARE OUTKICKING YOUR COVERAGECHARLES CURRENTLY DEAD BECAUSE HIS SISTER IS WEARING RED BULL MERCH

Luke Crane: Okay. So first of all, Belle. Thank you for putting up with this idiot.

Belle: (drily.) He’s nothing to put up with. He’s something to treasure.

Gianni: We just wanted to say congratulations. And also... how did you keep it secret for this long?

Belle: (shrugging): People only see what they want to see. We never hid it. We just didn’t make it obvious.

Chris: Oh my god she’s articulate. You really married up.

Max: (soft, proud) Yeah. I did.

Belle: (grinning, pressing a kiss to Max’s cheek, making him blush) Anyway. That’s enough fame for one evening. Bye boys.

[Belle exits frame. Max looks extremely smug.]

Max: You happy now?

Luke Crane: Beyond.

Chris: I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/GridGossip: MAX VERSTAPPEN’S WIFE JUST SHOWED UP ON TEAM REDLINE STREAM IN HIS HOODIE WITH A MUG OF TEA AND SAID “HE’S NOTHING TO PUT UP WITH: HE’S SOMETHING TO TREASURE.” I AM NOT OKAY.

@/TifosiTears: CHARLES LECLERC IS FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE AND HIS SISTER IS OUT HERE IN RED BULL MERCH KISSING MAX ON STREAM. I’M SCREAMING.

@/F1TeaSpiller So to recap: → Belle Leclerc kissed Max in Parc Fermé → Changed her name on IG → Is apparently married?? → Wore his hoodie on stream → And the grid is collectively feral. 10/10. No notes.

@/SoftLaunchSociety The Red Bull hoodie. The tea mug. The unbothered queen energy. Belle Verstappen didn’t soft launch — she hard dropped and said “you’ll catch up.”

@/RedBullUpdates: BELLE VERSTAPPEN WALKED INTO FRAME LOOKING COZY, SMUG, AND MARRIED. WE HAVE LOST CONTROL OF THE NARRATIVE.

@/FerrariPain: charles leclerc when he realizes his sister wore red bull merch in 4k: 🧍‍♂️😐💔

@/WifeGuyMax: max verstappen grinning like a man who knows he married out of his league and then blushed when she kissed his cheek this is romcom content i never expected from sim racing

@/F1MemeLord: Team Redline: Show us your wife Max: She’s not gonna— Belle Verstappen, already wearing his hoodie and holding tea like a queen: Hi Me: this is better than Netflix

@/MonacoRoyalty: i want belle’s PR team forgotten by her family? married in monaco? red bull hoodie and soft lighting? KNEW exactly when to show up. this girl is PLAYING CHESS.

@/MaxEmotionsFan Max: (quietly, proudly) “Yeah. I did.” Me, in tears: and you DID, Max. he married his girl.

@/F1ChaosClub: charles leclerc forgot his sister’s birthday and now she’s on twitch in a red bull hoodie being called “queen” by 600,000 viewers. you literally could not write this better.

@/GridPsychics: prediction: Charles is currently pacing his Monaco apartment wondering if it's too late to be a supportive brother spoiler: it might be

@/F1FanFictionCentral plot twist: Max Verstappen wasn’t the emotionally unavailable villain. He was the surprise wife guy all along.

@/TifosiMeltdown: Everyone’s like “awww Max and Belle are so cute 🥺” Meanwhile Charles Leclerc is living in the eighth circle of PR hell because his baby sister is in Red Bull merch on Twitch with his literal racing rival

@/SoftLaunchScholar: The Max & Belle reveal timeline is a case study:

Ignored birthday

Secret wedding

Parc Fermé kiss

Instagram name change

Twitch hoodie wife drop This is art.

@/F1Lorekeeper: The fact that Charles forgot Belle’s birthday and then found out she married Max Verstappen two weeks later

And now she’s drinking tea in Max’s stream wearing Red Bull gear

I genuinely think we’re watching a live sibling rivalry rewrite Greek tragedy @/MonacoRoyalty: Belle said “we didn’t hide it, you just weren’t looking” and the Leclerc family should NEVER recover from that

@/CharlesIsCrying: no because BELLE VERSTAPPEN appearing on stream in Red Bull merch while the internet still hasn’t healed from the forgotten birthday incident??

Charles is somewhere short-circuiting in real time

***

It was raining softly against the windows when Belle brought it up.

They were curled up on the sofa — Max in joggers and a hoodie, Belle tucked against his side with a blanket draped over her legs, her cheek resting on his chest. The television hummed quietly with some old documentary neither of them were watching. Max’s hand traced slow, absentminded circles against the bump that had started to become undeniable beneath the fabric of her sweatshirt.

“We should probably tell the rest soon,” Belle murmured.

Max didn’t answer right away. His fingers stilled, then resumed their gentle pattern.

“I know,” he said. “I just… don’t want it to turn into a thing.”

Belle lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Like… a press release thing? Photoshoot? Magazines? Perfect lighting and fake candids of us in a meadow somewhere?”

He let out a soft snort. “Can you picture me in a meadow?”

Belle smiled. “Only if you were holding a kitten and a baby goat.”

“Belle.”

“Okay, fine, just the baby goat.”

Max laughed into her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “No photoshoots. No flower crowns.” He made a face. “No soft-focus, perfectly lit, black-and-white Instagram announcement with matching white outfits and hands shaped like a heart.”

She laughed softly, burying her nose in his shirt. “The horror.”

“I mean, unless you want that,” Max added quickly. “If you want that, I’ll do it. I’ll even wear linen.”

Belle looked up at him again, mock-serious. “Max, you’d rather crash into a gravel trap at Monaco than wear linen on purpose.”

“Correct.”

She smiled against his hoodie. “I just… I don’t want it to feel like I’m trying to prove something.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Max said, his voice low. Sure. “You’re pregnant. You’re my wife. That’s it.”

Belle glanced up at him. “You say that like it's simple.”

“It is.” He tilted his head a little, thoughtful. “So how do you want to do it?”

She shrugged. “Something honest. Quiet, but… real.”

Max was quiet for a beat. “You mean, like the wedding.”

Belle smiled. “Exactly like the wedding.”

He leaned forward and kissed the side of her head. “We can do quiet. That’s our specialty.”

She chuckled, then bit her lip. “I was thinking… what if we just posted a photo? Not even of us. Just a pair of tiny shoes on the coffee table and a caption like, ‘Coming soon.’”

Max grinned. “You want to break the internet again.”

“I want to give it to us first,” she said. “And let everyone else catch up later.”

Max looked at her like she hung the stars. “Deal.”

They sat in silence again, the kind that meant safety.

“I don’t need the whole world to know at once,” Belle murmured, her voice softening. “I just want to share it in a way that feels like us. Not a brand.”

Max pulled her closer, his hand still resting protectively over the bump neither of them could stop reaching for.

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Thinking of announcing the pregnancy before Silverstone.

Emilie: oh?? as in… telling the entire planet??

Belle: Yep. Before I start showing enough that people start whispering.

Emilie: You mean before more people start whispering You okay with going public?

Belle: I think so. We’ve been quiet long enough. Besides… Silverstone’s always a circus. May as well drop the baby news before the clowns arrive.

Emilie: Iconic behavior tbh Do I get a heads up before the post goes up so I can prepare emotionally

Belle: Of course. Also— You should come.

Emilie: To Silverstone??

Belle: Yes.

Emilie: Belle. That’s Lando’s home race.

Belle: And you like Lando.

Emilie: I do not like what this insinuation implies.

Belle: You like him. He adores you. Your flirting during dinner could’ve powered the entire paddock.

Emilie: Okay first of all That’s rude And accurate

Belle: Come anyway. Come as my friend. Not as Lando’s girlfriend.

Emilie: …you are dangerously persuasive.

Belle: Lily’s coming too. It’ll be fun. You, me, Lily, a very grumpy Max pretending not to be nervous about the baby stealing his press conference thunder.

Emilie: You really think the baby will upstage Max?

Belle: If she has my hair and his eyes, absolutely.

Emilie: oh my god if it’s a girl with his grumpy face and your attitude the world is not ready

Belle: Exactly. Which is why you need to be there. Help me judge the chaos.

Emilie: Okay okay Fine But if Lando tries to make things serious while I’m there I am blaming you

Belle: Deal. You’ll be the secret girlfriend, I’ll be the public wife. We’ll keep balance in the universe.

Emilie: Verstappen-Leclerc diplomatic summit in Silverstone Can’t wait.

Belle: You bring the wine. I’ll bring the reveal.

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments:

@/maxverstappen1: 🍼❤️

@/danielricciardo: I’M GOING TO BE THE FUN UNCLE CALLING IT NOW

@/landonorris: AAAAAHHHHHHHHH 🍼😭❤️

@/alex_albon:The baby already has better fashion sense than me and it’s not even born yet.

@/oscarpiastri: Congratulations!! So happy for you both 🤍

@/charles_leclerc: Congratulations. Truly.

@/georgerussell63: Huge congrats!

@/arthur_leclerc: 🥹❤️ You’re going to be the best mum, Belle.

@/yukitsunoda0511: baby Verstappen with Leclerc sass?? terrifying. adorable. congratulations!!!

@/sebastianvettel: Welcome to the next adventure. You’ll both be amazing parents. 💛

@/carlossainz55: The paddock is already preparing the next generation of chaos.

@/f1girlie44: BELLE IS GONNA BE A MUM I’M SOBBING

@/leclercsrevengearc: Max winning races, hearts, and fatherhood. Charles losing sleep. Balance.

@/gridgossip: Between the birthday drama, the Red Bull hoodie, the Parc Fermé kiss and now THIS — Belle Verstappen has had a better character arc than half the grid.

@/victoriaverstappen: Best news of the year 🍼 Can’t wait to meet this little one!!

@/f1: We love a future champion in the making 👶🏽🏁

@/verstappensupremacy:

I KNEW THE RED BULL HOODIE WAS FORESHADOWING

MAX IS GOING TO BE A DAD I’M CRYING

@/f1babygossip:

Baby Verstappen is going to have the softest mama and the most aggressively protective papa and I LOVE THAT FOR THEM

@/charlespls:

someone go check on charles

she posted this BEFORE A RACE WEEKEND

we need an ambulance at Ferrari

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richdadpoor · 2 years ago

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Twitter Blue Tests Verification With Government ID and Selfie

X (the social media site formerly known as Twitter) is in the process of launching a new identity verification feature that could prove controversial. The feature, which is currently only offered to/forced on premium “Blue” subscribers, asks users to fork over a selfie and a picture of a government issued ID to verify that they are who they say they are. Mr. Tweet Fumbles Super Bowl Tweet The…

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ms-demeanor · 2 months ago

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thoughts on using library computers to disguise your digital footprint? because if the machine gets wiped when you log out, and the library doesn't keep detailed records of what machine you were using when, then all someone else would have is IP data unconnected to a person and also mixed in with whatever else folks were doing on the library computers

The machine absolutely does not get wiped when you log out and there's very little chance that a library computer will let you fire up Tor. You're better off using a traffic anonymizer than you are trying to use public computers to cover your tracks. The IP address IS the big risk here.

Libraries are generally really good about protecting their patrons' privacy and I respect the hell out of them for that but computers log everything that you do and can be subpoenaed as evidence even if the library wants to protect user privacy.

Also, I love libraries but you should treat every public computer you come across like it has a keylogger installed on it because it might. Your city could have an overzealous city council that has more control than it should over the library board and has taken it upon themselves to add covenanteyes to the library computers. Your library crew could be fantastic but less tech-savvy than is ideal and may not realize it if malware is installed on one of the machines. The library may clear browser history twice a day but the ISP still has a record of where you went and what time you went there. Somebody could have literally plugged a keylogger into a USB port on the back of the machine.

The point of a traffic anonymizer is it hides where the traffic originated; each node knows where the previous hop came from and where the next hop went, but not what came BEFORE the previous hop or what happened after, or how long the chain was, so there is no way to tell if a message originated in the US or Brazil or Vietnam or Sweden. Sending traffic from a library does the opposite of this, and very clearly says "the person who sent this message did so from this geographic area; they sent messages from these five libraries so we know they're probably within X distance of these libraries" which is a hell of a lot easier to look for than "I can't even say what continent these messages originated from."

Let us say that you go to a library to log in to your protonmail account and email a journalist a link to a file that you've saved in cryptpad. You have the link written down so you don't have to go to a secondary site and you just go sit down directly at the computer and log in to protonmail and fire off your email to the journalist. The email is encrypted, so you know the contents of the email are safe. Let's say the browser history gets automatically wiped every time you close it, and you close it as soon as you stand up and walk away. Here's the incriminating information that generated:

IP address where you accessed your protonmail account

Your protonmail email address, the journalist's address, the time you sent the email, the subject line of the email

And here are the people who can be subpoenaed to share some or all of that information with the government:

The Library's ISP

The Library, who may not carefully track users but who do have event logs on the computers and traffic logs on the firewall

Protonmail

IF you only ever logged in to your protonmail account from that ISP one time, and if you've never logged in to your protonmail account anywhere that is close to your house or your job, you may be fine. But if you logged in to your protonmail on your personal cellphone at work so that you could send photos of documents to yourself, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you set up the protonmail account on a whim at a coffee shop, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you get an email back from the journalist and go to another local library to open it, there's some data tying that account to another local IP address.

And that gets narrowed down very quickly. "Who has access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents through working at this entity who also lives within a 100 mile radius of these three login locations? Is it 50 people? Is it 5 people? Of the 15 people who have access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents who work at this entity and live within 100 miles of the three login locations, who is likely to be doing the leaking? Do we fire them all? Do we interview them? Do we compare IP addresses that they've used to log in to work remotely and find that two of them have logged in at the coffee shop? Of those two, one has facebook selfies in a maga hat and the other has a less visible online presence. Let's check their traffic history. Did they check tumblr on a lunch break? Maybe once or twice? Maybe a few times? Sure seems like they are pretty dead-set against the administration. Let's double-check the access logs for this information. Let's review security footage. Let's install the monitoring on their workstation."

The thing is, they're not going to catch you leaking and then track down all the data you left behind to confirm it; they're going to see a leak and get a bunch of digital footprints and use that to narrow down suspect pools. They already know that access to the data is limited and will be reviewing prior access and carefully monitoring future access. You are already in their suspect pool by already being one of the people with known access to the data. Adding an IP address that is geographically close to you, even if it isn't your home IP address, to that is not going to make it *harder* to find you, it can only make it easier.

So just use Tor. You're safer using an anonymizer, which you likely can't do on a library computer. Create the leak email address when you're in a Tor browser, and only EVER access that email account from Tor.

Also I don't mean to jump on you about this, but between the post I've got about why you shouldn't use your work computer to torrent and the safer leaking practices post it's clear that people really don't understand what information they're leaving behind when they use computers and the internet, or how it can be a risk to them.

Accessing burner accounts from a clear IP address means that they're not burner accounts anymore, they're burned.

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harryspet · 1 month ago

Text

ribbons & rage | b.barnes

[warnings] dark!gray!congressman!bucky barnes x feral!hybrid!reader, daddy!bucky, power imbalance, possessive bucky, pet play elements, dollification, political manipulation, age regression tones (dd/lg dynamics), dom/sub dynamic, stockholm syndrome, forced domestication, DUBCON

summary: After a diplomatic mission turns into an extraction, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes brings home a prize no one knows about. She’s impulsive. Dirty. Disobedient. But under his eye, with enough ribbons, praise, and correction, he’ll turn the wild thing into something beautiful. Something his.

word count: 5.8k

bucky barnes masterlist

Sam warned him not to get involved in Project LUPUS. He was only a year into his congressional term and he’d managed to fully rid the public of the image of the Winter Soldier. For the first time in the century he’d been alive, he was just James “Bucky” Barnes. Some of his colleagues had even begun to take him seriously. Despite this, Bucky knew Sam didn’t fully understand. He’d never fully understand the destruction that Hydra had caused to his mind. Bucky was the only one who could understand the minds behind the deep-state project. Modern American scientists influenced by Hydra’s science.

Project LUPUS was Hydra’s legacy. The experimentations, the genetic manipulations, the violence. They hadn’t been erased. They were buried, waiting for someone to dig them up. It was his responsibility to make sure everything tied to it was destroyed.

The classified file came across his desk because one of his colleagues recognized he would be the best person for the job. He was granted limited access under the purpose of an oversight audit and a bioethics violation review.

According to the document, everyone involved had been terminated and all the experiment subjects had been exeterminated. His colleague believed otherwise. Bucky read the documents even closer during his private flight to Outpost-25 A, and undisclosed location in Alaskan territory. A snowstorm had grounded most flights but he’d been given “special clearance”.

The scientists, under the direction of a network embedded within the Department of Defense, were intending to create self-healing, biologically engineered hybrids with enhanced aggression, sharp senses, and fast reflexes. They’d be able to detect and eliminate threats, control public unrest, recover key asessets, and could even be deployed during warfare operations.

They’d learned nothing from the past.

The very last document in the pile of fifty pages peaked Bucky’s interest the most. It was a scanned intake form, faded, stained and partially redacted. This one had many notes written in the margins. A different tone than the documents describing the purpose of the project, the different subjects and how they’d been exterminated.

Subject 109. LUPUS-F. Status: Unconfirmed termination. Last seen on Sublevel 3.

Ah, the real reason he was here. You were nineteen at the time that the project had been terminated. Many of the notes were similar to the other subjects. Rapid healing. Strong territorial response. Pre-verbal communication. A few others, including you, had been listed as non-compliant.

He stared at the paper longer than he should have, becoming unsettled as he read further.

There were so many incident reports related to you. Reports on the use of deadly force. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. The accidental death of a Lt. Carney. Another accidental death of a Lt. Wynn. Destruction of two containment doors during transport. The standard dose of sedation being ineffective due to rapid metabolism.

Avoid eye contact.

Will only accept food from [REDACTED]

Your termination order was prior to the termination of the project. The justification included unmanageable behavorial volatility and emotional instability. It stated your body had been incinerated but there were no autopsy photos included.

Double dose required for sedation.

Rejection of mating partner 103-M.

Rejection of mating partner 98-M.

Rejection of mating partner 115-M.

Bucky searched for anything that gone right during your captivity and didn’t find anything. Bucky finally tore his eyes away when the plane dipped from turbulence. The storm was building. As the jet began its descent into a snow-covered valley, Bucky caught sight of the outpost. It was buried under permafrost in a decommissioned missile silo.

The pilot warned him not to stay long before he finally stepped off the transport. It was a thirty-foot walk through snow, reaching up to his mid-calf, to the entrance. The tall steel doors of the entrance had been sealed off. He used his clearance code, courtesy of his colleague on the oversight committe, and the steel doors groaned open.

Lights flickered weakly above. He passed through long corridors and security checkpoints until he reached the main lab. It didn’t look abandoned. Only frozen in time. Notes were still scrawled across whiteboards, papers stacked on desks, and metal trays with half-used syringes. A shattered, glass, containment chamber sat nearby, clawmarks across the glass.

But there were no bodies, or bones, or even any bullet casing.

Carefully and methodically, Bucky cleared the first two floors of the outpost. He found each cage door open and and empty. When he finally reached Sublevel 3, he noticed something in the air had shifted. The air cooled even further and lights dimmed. That’s where he found the bones. Animal bones.

He checked each cage for a sign of life. Though there was a pistol on his hip and a shotgun strapped to his back, he didn’t ever reach for them. He paused at cell 12-C and stepped inside. There was bedding, sheets created from lab coats, chair cushions and even shredded documents. Muddy foot prints. Small and barefoot.

You weren’t in a cell. You were loose. Surviving.

He stepped back into the hallway. And then he saw you. No chains. Just … standing at the end of the hall. Watching him.

Despite the the lack of sunlight and coldness of your home, your skin was rich and radiant. Your curls, though some were matted, defied gravity. Your frame was slender, most likely from being trapped here with dwindling resources, but the curves of your body remained. Gunshot to the abdomen. He saw the scar above your hip bone. He also saw another one on your right thigh and an even larger one on your collarbone.

It wasn’t just the scars or the angles of your body that made you unlike anything Bucky had ever seen. Unnaturaly wide pupils that he could see even in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears. You looked him over, scanned him, and Bucky noted the faint twitch of your nostrils – scenting him. Though you were physically much smaller than him, you did not cower. You were not prey.

Your lips parted and Bucky could see your canines, just slightly too long.

He remembered your file.

Hybrid Type: Homo sapiens/Canis lupus (Genome Series III)

Ancestral Donor: [REDACTED]

You were made this way. Selfishly, inappropriately, Bucky wondered how something made by evil minds could be so … beautiful. Something switched in his mind then. He couldn’t ensure the full termination of Project LUPUS.

You were like him. A monster of another’s creation. He had to save you. Someone decided to give him a second chance, he could do that from you.

Perhaps they had evolved. Maybe he was here to get rid of you like the others. He was armed. There was no reason to trust him.

You didn’t speak. Just stared. Assessed.

Until you did move.

Part of you expected to easily pierce his skin. To be so much faster and stronger that the shear force of pushing your body against his would easily knock him down. You hadn’t met a worthy opponent yet. Until now.

He caught you.

He moved but barely. You let out a scream of anguish as his arms wrapped around your torso, pulling your body against his. You thrashed wildly, trying to pull your knees into his groin, before you decided to go for his throat. Bearing your teeth, you lunged for him, but the wind was almost knocked out of you when you suddenly found yourself slammed against the concrete wall.

Now you were mad. Blindingly furious.

What was he? He didn’t smell like a hybrid. He smelled chemical, metallic, and synthetic. His arm, across your chest, pinned you against the wall. You looked up at his face now, long dark hair shielding half his face.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” His first words to you weren’t a threat. You knew that much although you couldn’t decipher the full meaning. He was surprised. Not scared of you. Not the least bit scared of his own safety. It made you even more furious, “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop.”

Dead. Hurt. You knew those words. Those were bad words. But he almost seemed worried. He looked … conflicted.

You couldn’t breathe, your chest was tightening under the pressure, and it felt like your bones might crack at any minute. Your eyes burned from the rage and frustration. No one had ever made you feel like this. You wanted his heart in your hands. You wanted his head off his shoulders. But you forced your body to still. Not in submission but to allow yourself time to think.

A growling whine left your throat, the pain finally fully registering. His grip loosened and something changed in his face. He managed to keep you pinned but the pressure lessened, “I don’t want to hurt you,” He spoke and you hung onto every word. You needed to think. To try to understand him, “You won’t be able to hurt me. Not in the way you want to.”

Your nostrils flared. You didn’t believe him. You also didn’t move. Clearly, you would have to take a different approach.

He talked like a human. Carried weapons like the humans. You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like he needed them. You could take another bullet, you’d done it before. You wished that the food hadn’t started running out a few weeks ago. You would be stronger. But there was still fight left in you.

He didn’t notice the switch flip in your mind. He was already pulling away, giving you space, but you quickly struck again. Dropped your weight, slammed your forehead against his jaw as hard as possible. Nails slashed against his throat when you successfully caught him off guard. You drew blood and smiled.

“Fuck,” He growled, actually growled, and your smile grew bigger.

So he bleeds. What was he?

A metal arm wrapped around your throat before he shoved you to the ground. You scrambled and kicked as he got on top of you, straddling your torso. When he reached into his pocket, you thought he was reaching for his gun.

“You don’t get it,” He said. You screamed as best as you could. Your chest heaved, “I’m not your enemy.”

You didn’t see the syringe until it was already pressed against your arm. The sting was nothing. You’d felt much worse. You didn’t flinch. Despite the way his face softened, you showed him your rage. You pushed at him until you couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Bucky didn’t realize he’d taken on too much responsibility until it was too late.

“You’re safe here,” He’d say over and over, “This isn’t a cage.”

Now you were here in his Brooklyn home, barefoot, feral, and you were close to destroying every valuable item in his home. His first mistake was trying to make sure you didn’t feel caged. He realized quickly that he couldn’t be nice with you. The only things you responded to were pain and control.

This would be a journey. A long one. It would be a slow, brutal fight to drag you out of whatever darkness they left you in.

And Bucky wasn’t sure yet who would survive it.

For the first two weeks, he kept a bit gag in your mouth to stop you from biting, and padded gloves on your hands, leather on the outside, soft inside, to keep you from scratching him. He had to sedate you everytime he deemed you needed a bath or your teeth brushed because you’d fight him until your body went limp from exhaustion. You completely refused any clothing, leaving Bucky to draw every curtain in the home.

He hadn’t found a way to make a click. To help you understand. Until he’d prepared you a breakfast one morning and you’d thanked him by flipping the table. He lifted you by your waist and dragged you kicking and screaming to the living room. He bent you over the couch, vibranium arm pressed against your upper back, and spanked you until your growling turned to whimpers.

He hadn’t seen you cry yet. Not until then. His heart panged, realizing he’d let his anger make him lose control. He hand’t wanted to hurt you. Not really. But the spanking had done more then bruise your ass. It embarassed you. Made you truly realize how much stronger he was. You were deadly but Bucky had an extra eighty years to perfect his craft.

Bucky could tell in the way your posture softened. How you leaned into the fabric of the couch for comfort. You weren’t broken but you were beginning to understand. He was the one in control. He could keep you here no matter how much you fought it.

You allowed him to lift you, to place you softly on the material of the expensive sofa. As he rounded the piece of furniture and sat close to you, he watched how you pulled your knees into your chest. And then quickly sat up and tucked your knees under yourself instead, bottom sore. Hesitantly, he rested a hand on your thigh. You looked up at him, eyes sad and confused.

“I know,” He said quietly, voice rough but steady, “But there are rules to follow. You were being a bad girl–”

You pointed to your chest and spoke to him for the first time, “B-ad girl.”

Bucky was taken aback by your tone of voice. Gritty from misuse but he heard so much softness underneath. A delicateness he had not expected. Bucky nodded after a long pause, “Yes, you were being a bad girl. But I know you can be a good girl.”

Your brows furrowed and Bucky saw the way that you momentarily grew frustrated before you pushed it away. For the first time, you pushed away your gut instinct to fight him. You pointed to him next, “Good girl?” You asked, confused. It didn’t sound right and Bucky could see your mind working.

Bucky grinned, “No, I’m Bucky.”

“Boy,” You corrected yourself, “Good boy?”

Bucky’s lips parted. He honestly hadn’t thought he’d get to this point with you so he hadn’t spent enough time considering how he would explain all of this you, “No,” He said after clearing his throat, “That one’s for you. You get to be the good girl.”

You tilted your head again, “You … Alpha?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, not exactly. I want to be your …” He thought carefully about his next words. He pointed to you, “You … good girl. Baby. Doll. Pet.”

He pointed to himself next, “Me …. I’m Daddy.”

“Hmm,” You made a noise as you looked him over. You reached out next, your fingers wandering curiously over the fabric of his white button up. You felt his chest, hard and thick before you gripped the metal wrist of his left arm, “Daddy arm … this … you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Still me,” Bucky spoke a little breathlessly, not realizing how much that word on your lips would make his heart race. You studied his face and then subsequently his heart rate. You placed a hand over his heart and felt the beating. It fascinated you. Your heart rate was so much slower, so much more controlled.

You made another noise and your hands wandered back to your own lap. It would be a strange sight to anyone looking in. You were completely naked and Bucky had, somewhat, grown used to looking at your figure. Sometimes his eyes lingered a little too long on the perks of your nipples or the plumpness of your bottom. And your legs were slightly parted, he could clearly see your slit. You didn’t mind it. It bothered you more when he wanted you to wear clothes.

“No baby,” You interrupted his thoughts and Bucky realized his hand was traveling closer to the gap between your thighs.

You were so soft.

“What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“No … not baby,” You pointed to yourself then and gestured to a lower height, palm facing downward, emphasizing how small an actual baby would be, “This baby.”

You wanted to be understood, “Not a real baby, no,” Bucky said, “But I want you to be my baby,” When you went quiet, he continued, “I want to take care of you. I will take care of you.”

You shook your head, “No need.”

“I know,” Bucky agreed, “You’re right. You’re strong. But I know you don’t want to be alone again. All by yourself. No family. No friends. No love. It’s bad for you.”

“Bad for me. No love,” You said after awhile, mimicking him. Trying to understand.

Bucky nodded, “It’s good to have someone. Stay with me. I won’t hurt–”

“You hit,” You retorted, some of that fury returning. Your palm touched the skin of your bruised bottom, “See, you hit! No like. I … don’t like.”

You raised a hand and Bucky quickly caught it. His eyes grew sharper and he sent you a warning.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to like it. I hit, yes. But it’s different than this,” Bucky emphasized the scars on your skin, the bullet wounds, the scars from where knives had sliced you open, “Sometimes it hurts more here.” He pointed to you heart.

“I don’t like,” You said again, softer this time.

Slowly, Bucky’s tight grip turned gently and he took your hand into his. One hand on your thigh, his metal hand on your soft one.

“Then you won’t be a bad girl, okay? No fighting. No hurting Daddy. If you want something, you have to tell me. You can’t just throw a tantrum. There are rules to follow.”

You sighed, considering. Your lips parted again, uncertain. That was good enough for Bucky.

Bucky leaned in, his voice gentle, “Do you know your name? I’m Bucky. You are …”

“109-F,” You answered easily and flashed him a look of boredom, like your name didn’t matter.

“That was your name. We’ll think of something better, okay?”

Another week passed and Bucky found he had little use for the bit gag and leather gloves. The tantrums remained but Bucky noticed your intentions had changed. You didn’t get riled up and try to hurt him anymore. You pushed at him and knocked things over but mostly only when you wanted to communicate something and Bucky couldn’t understand you.

As the spankings increased, the good behavior increased as well. He started new routines with you.

Your room was currently only a twin bed and soft carpet despite the size of the room. It allowed for less things to be destroyed. You didn’t sleep in the bed anyways. Bucky started to notice that his couch cushions, blankets, old newspapers, and even clothes from his closet were starting to go missing. He found them later in the small closet connected to your room.

A nest.

You had created a soft, safe space for yourself inside. At first, you bared your teeth at him when he tried to step inside. Instead, Bucky sat right by the entrance of the closet door. He brought you breakfast, a simple bowl of oatmeal. He’d take a spoonful into his mouth and exaggerate an, “Mmmm,” as he ate. Then he would hold the spoon out to you and wait for you to take it, “Your turn, baby.”

You refused the first few times. Then eventually you took the spoon in your hand and catapulted it at the wall. Not out of anger, mostly out of curiosity. And then you clumsily dipped the spoon inside the oatmeal, brought it to your nose, smearing some on your nose. “See, it’s not so bad. Try it.”

You looked at him like he was from another planet.

Eventually, you took the spoon into your mouth and had a few bites, “Good girl, baby.” That’s how he knew you were warming to him.

His work in Washington continued even as he continued to help you settle into a routine. There were still meetings and late-night calls. Stacks of policy briefs piled high on the living room table and his phone buzzed constantly. Soon, he would have to return but he hoped by then you would be more house broken. Easier to manage. Easier to leave on your own.

You responded well to the corporal punishments. To make even bigger changes, Bucky tried to workout a system of rewards for you. It started with the stuffed animals. Soft and cute. He knew you’d never seen or held one before. He sat outside the closet, further than he usually did, one evening holding a stuffed, brown bear, “Look, he’s soft. Do you want to hold him?”

“ … hold him?” You made you way to the edge of door and reached for it.

Bucky pulled back, “You may hold him. You’ve been such a good girl, eating your food, and not throwing things. Come here,” He patted his lap.

For a long moment, you mentally debated whether or not you would leave the closet. When you finally decided the risk was worth it, you hesitantly crawled forward, sitting your bare bottom on the worn fabric of his jeans. Bucky let you take the bear into your hands and he saw something your face soften immediately. You brushed your hands over the fur methodically, over and over. Bucky counted fifty brushes of your hand over it’s head.

“You can hug him,” Bucky demonstrated for you, realizing then that you wouldn’t know what a hug was. He pressed the bear to your chest and then guided your arms around the plush toy, “See, sweet girl. Do you like him?”

“I like bear,” Your voice came out muffled as you pressed the bear against your face, “Soft.”

You were mesmerized for a solid fourty-five minutes. You didn’t mind when Bucky shifted you in his lap so that you were fully straddling him, the bear between the two of you. His hands caressed your back, the sides of your waist and eventually he fully grasped your bottom in his hands, “Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Hurt?” You asked though it was clear your mind was elsewhere.

“No, baby,” Bucky said although he was painfully hard.

“I keep bear?”

Bucky placed a soft kiss against your shoulder blade and was surprised when your face remained soft, almost happy, “It’s yours. For you, my good girl.”

“I’m good girl,” You smiled a real smile. It was the first time he fully saw your teeth and you weren’t thirty seconds from trying to rip out his jugular, “Good bear for me.”

He nodded, brushing your curls back with his metal fingers. He’d have to tackle another deep detangling another night, “That’s right. But when someone gives you something special, there’s something else you say, too.” He touched your cheek. “Can you say thank you, baby?”

You blinked at him.

“Thannnk—” he started, slow and patient.

You studied his mouth. “Than...”

“Good,” he coaxed, smiling now. “Now say thank you, Daddy.”

You continued, “Thank you… Daddy.”

“There you go. So polite. So sweet.”

You just stayed there, safe in his lap, hugging the bear a little tighter.

You followed Mr. Bear around the house. Wherever Bucky placed him, you were there. The kitchen table at breakfast, the space beneath Bucky’s desk while he was working, beside the bathtub when Bucky decided you couldn’t go any longer without a bath, your bed that you had initially abandoned. You’d even spent a full night in Bucky’s large bed, letting Bucky hold your waist as you slept using Mr. Bear as your pillow. It wasn’t conscious at first. You fell in love with the small toy quickly. You looked in his eyes and squished his belly to help calm yourself, to even help yourself sleep. It was an attachment that was foreign to you. You liked that Mr. Bear was yours and that Bucky had given him to you.

It was comfort and regulation. It was all new.

You spent a full two weeks with that sense of peace. Until you woke from a long nap on the living room couch and Mr. Bear was missing. You’d learn to breathe, to slow down and to not let your anger rise to point of seeing red. You breathed deeply as you turned over every cushion and looked threw drawers. You couldn’t even smell him anymore.

He was gone. Forever. Stolen from you. Had you been a bad girl? You’d grown attached and now you’d been abandoned. You started looking under any item you could find, letting items fall to the ground with a thud. You emptied an entire bookshelf of all it’s books and spread the contents of one of Bucky’s manila folders all over the floor.

Cold, dense paper. Nothing soft. You didn’t register the sound of Bucky’s voice in the other room. You fell to your knees, cheeks wet with tears, and started to shred the papers with your nails.

“....Then tell them to hold off until I’m back D.C. I won’t sign off on anything blind …. Yeah, he knows this. Email him again. Then call. Whatever you have to do. That’s your job …”

A second later, the footsteps came. Fast, heavy but controlled.

“Give me a second,” Bucky said. Then louder, “Just pause the call.”

Your eyes found his when he finally walked into the living room from his office. He looked over everything quickly. You couldn’t control your breathing.

Before he could ask you what was wrong, you yelled, “You took bear! Not here! Where?!”

“He’s not gone,” Bucky crouched next to you, eyes dark and fixed sharply on you, “I was in the other room. You need to ask when you have a question. You can’t do … this.”

“Need bear, Daddy,” You crawled closer on your knees, “Need. Baby is sad.”

“Thank you for telling Daddy how you feel but this is not what you do when you’re sad. You didn’t ask Daddy for help,” Before he continued his lecture, he realized you weren’t the least bit sorry. Your focus was on your toy, “Daddy put Mr. Bear in the washing machine. He was dirty. He’s in the dryer now.”

“You took bear,” You croaked and Bucky sighed, “Not dirty. Give back.”

“I’ll give him back after you clean up your mess.”

“No, Daddy!”

“Do you want a spanking too?” You blinked, eyes wide. You shook your head slowly. It had been so long since Bucky had bent you over and done that to you, “Clean, all this needs to go in the trash. The books go back on the bookshelf. And you can put the couch back together. I will wait.”

You scowled then. You had to clean when all of this was his fault. He took Mr. Bear.

He kept his word. He waited. You put the couch cushions back where they belonged before you stacked the books back on the shelf. He stepped in to show you exactly where the books needed to go and held a trash bag open for you to place all the destroyed papers in.

“Good girl,” He said though the way his jaw clicked made you believe he might be just as mad as you.

He took your hand a moment later and led you into the small room with two white machines. One was loud, rumbling and as Bucky opened it’s door, the shaking came to a cease. And then Mr. Bear appeared. Before you could lunge for him, Bucky’s metal arm shot out, holding you at a distance, “My bear,” Your voice trailed off as you eyed the toy. He looked cleaner but he’d lost the smell you’d grown to like, “Bucky no more clean. Not dirty.”

“Mr. Bear does get dirty just like Baby does. He has to have a bath sometimes. Do you understand?”

You were reluctant but you nodded. “Yes,” As soon as the plus toy was in your arms, you curled up on the ground, and held him tightly. As Bucky turned to return to his call in the other room, you let out a small, “.... Sorry, Bucky.”

He paused in the doorway, glanced back.

“I know, baby,” he said gently.

Bucky decided the perfect gateway into you finally wearing clothes around the house was yet another toy. This one was a soft rag doll that looked just slightly like you. The same skin tone and dark curly hair pinned up by two lavender colored bows. She also wore a lavender dress and matching ballet flats. She looked sweet, safe, familiar.

His usual spiel had failed. He explained that clothes were a good thing. They were soft and kept you warm. He also teased the possibility of one day going outside with him, “The people outside always wear clothes,” He’d say, “You want to go on a trip with Daddy one day, don’t you?”

You just ignored him and let your eyes wander towards the window, “This is Mr. Bear’s good friend,” He presented the doll to you, placing her on your bed, next to the loose-fitting, pink t-shirt dress that was laid out on the bed. He chose something completely unrestrictive on purpose. You perked up then. You gave him a hungry look, as if he was presenting you with a medium-rare steak instead of a doll, “She’s a ballerina. Uh, like a dancer. To music. Her name is … Rina.”

“Rina,” You tried, your eyes locked on her, “Soft?”

“She’s very soft,” Bucky assured you, “She loves hugs too.”

“Rina mine?” You asked next, face soft, looking up expectantly, “Like Bear?”

“She could be. She wants a new friend. But she has a rule.”

Your arms crossed at that. You leaned forward to study the doll, brows furrowed, “She has rule?”

“She doesn’t want to be held unless you’re dressed, like people are supposed to be. Even cute hybrid girls have to wear clothes. She feels the most comfortable that way.”

You pouted adorably, “Bad rule.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, “That’s what she told me. Rina’s rules. She might let you hold her if you’re a good girl.”

“Don’t like,” You started to whine, pressing your body against Bucky’s body, forehead pressing against his chest, “Please … don’t like.”

Bucky placed gentle on your shoulders, lifting your body from him. He pressed a finger under your chin, lifting it until you were looking at him, “I’m sorry, I would help you but it’s not my rule.”

He turned away from you. Not far, only a few steps. He gave you space. Pretended to check his email on his phone. He heard you stomp your feet. Once. Twice. Then a whine. Then there was silence. The tiniest ruffle of fabric. When Bucky turned around, you were wearing the dress. He smiled wide, impressed.

He doubted he could get you in pair of underwear or a bra today but there was time for that.

He came closer again, running his fingers over your hair before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “Did it. See, Bucky.” You declared, eyes wide and expecting, “Mine now?”

“She’s yours.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” You bounced on your toes excitedly before you happily scooped up the doll. Bucky picked you up next, and you wrapped your legs around his torso. You let out a soft laugh, a real one, and it was music to Bucky’s ears. One arm looping around his neck, the other squeezing Rina to your body, you looked Bucky in his eyes deeply. Like he’d placed gentle kisses on your forehead, your shoulder, and cheeks, you placed a soft peck on his lips.

He stilled for a second. Then smiled, full and proud, “Thank you, babygirl.”

There was one week left until Bucky had to return to Washington. He was more than happy with the progress you’d made. You’d started wearing underwear and you’d even been open to trying different kinds of clothes. Pants were still a nonstarter. You didn’t mind the skirts. You didn’t love the tight-fitting t-shirts but Bucky often left you no options. You tugged at them and pouted. Selfishly, he liked the way they looked on you.

There were still many gaps in your social etiquette. It took him a full three days to explain that you couldn’t lift up your skirt whenever you wanted. You had a habit of wanting to stare at the different patterns on your underwear and often would flip up your skirt in the middle of a conversation or activity or anything to look. He corrected gently, not because he didn’t like the view but because ideally one day you’d accompany him to dinners and go on outings with him. He didn’t need you putting your body on display.

He convinced you Rina liked it when wore different hairstyles. Ribbons and bows were her absolute favorite. He’d started getting really good at braiding it into neat rows, and tying bows to the ends. During his morning meetings, you often sat between his legs at his desk, Rina in your lap, as he fixed your hairstyle for the day.

Bucky was settling into a sense of peacefulness. A feeling he had longed for. Therapy helped. His new job fulfilled him in some aspects but also made him realize how slow change really happened at the same time. This life, the pocket of innocence he was building around you, was starting to help most of all. This life was the opposite of everything he and you were ever used to.

He didn’t want you exposed to the real world. He would shield you from reality for as long as possible. He would give you something he never had for himself. He’d also had enough of following orders for ten lifetimes. With you, in his own house, he made the rules.

He had to address his mission. Debrief the committee on all of his findings. He had to give his colleagues enough information to satisfy them but couldn’t risk them getting their hands on you. You were the survivicing data to a program that never should’ve been created. He decided to lie. The site was clear of any sources of life. The facility was sealed, records wiped away, and he submitted a report that suggested Project LUPUS be permanently blacklisted from funding due to “gross ethical violations”.

He’d have to spin another story eventually. Explain your presence in his life. Mel, his assistant, was already working on using the story for political advantage. You were a rescued civilian during a humanitarian negotiation. You’d suffered severe trauma and Congressman Barnes, recognizing the complexity of the situation and understanding the importance of mental rehabilitation, he’s personally arranged for you to receive trauma-informed rehabilitative care under his sponsorship. He’d be even more of the hero than the public saw him as.

Colleagues would raise questions but no one would push to hard. He was a war hero. His word was gospel.

Pls reblog w/ your thoughts if you enjoyed! This will be a 2 part series with the second chapter focused on Bucky + Baby’s time in Washington! Hope you enjoyed :)

#dark fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #thunderbolts #black!reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x black!reader #dark bucky barnes

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ranoshfamily · 10 months ago

Text

🚨Emergency🚨

Help Rana’s family toleave Gaza before it too late

Hello humanities 🤗🤗

Please read this as if I'm a member of your family . maybe your sister, daughter or a friend and as if my family who's under death now is yours.

"I am a computer Engineer and Mom for 3 children from Gaza , Rana Hassan Alabsi, with a strong ambition and perseverance. Over the past 10 years, I've worked tirelessly, I've dedicated myself to my family, working hard, planning, building my career. Despite facing challenges, I became a well-known professional engineer in Gaza.

Unfortunately, my life has been upside down since Oct ,Since that particular day, thousands of innocent lives have been lost in Gaza, many of innocent people lost their works and the only source of income like me.

Me and my childrens 1 of them, he is10 years old with downsyndrom and need a safer place and health care to still a live, left our home under the continuous bombardment and artillery strikes, on foot, without carrying with us our personal supplies, clothes, or Even our money, heading from Gaza to Deir al-Balah. There in Deir al-Balah we lived the most difficult days of our lives in a shelter with scarce resources, sleeping on the ground.

Without covers, without drinking a healthy water, then we moved to Khan Yunis after the intensification of the strikes and bombing, Then we moved to Rafah in the hope that we would find safety there or find a way out of Gaza to a safe place that we dream of for the future of our children,Let us live a happy, safe life for us and our children, and keep them away from all this pain, destruction, and siege, and spare them from the miserable future that will await them if the situation continues as it is in Gaza.

I come to you with a heavy heart and an urgent call for help. My family are currently caught in the war in Gaza, facing the harsh reality of an escalating crisis. The situation is dire, and I am reaching out for your support to facilitate their safe passage to Egypt. In this moment of desperation, I share the situation where it has taken a toll on their well-being.

This urgent plea is not only for their safety but also for the health of my son, who is facing serious conditions that demand immediate attention.

My family is trapped in an environment where access to necessary medical care is severely limited. The escalating crisis compounds the urgency, especially considering my son's health conditions. Time is of the essence, and we are in a race against it to get him the vital medication and care he desperately needs.

My loved childrens are in a situation beyond their control. The fear in their eyes and the desperation in their hearts are indescribable. I implore you to be a beacon of hope for them, to be the force that guides them to safety. To be honest, the journey to safety comes with a significant financial burden.

We need the money to cover practical costs of transportation, documentation, a place to stay and shelter in and other essentials required for a safe crossing to Egypt. And so that they can take care of other needs once they cross safely. As of late April the evacuation fee ranges between $8,000 and $10,000 per person, before processing and transport fees, and we will pay the higher end of the range since Hayde doesn't have passport. Me and my family asking for 50,000$ based on the following breakdown: an evacuation fee at the Egyptian border of $8,000 - $10,000 per person , $4500 - $5000 per children as each day there is a different price for evacuation fee at the Egyptian border, plus a processing fee of $2,000 per person, $2,000 for transportation, and a 2.9% commission fee.

Any amount raised beyond the total will be used to supplement me & my family lives as refugees in Egypt. Your donation, no matter how small, will make an impact. You will be contributing to getting my family to safety. The funds will be used transparently and every dollar will go towards securing our evacuation.

Please share this campaign widely to help us reach our goal and bring my family to safety. Your support means more than you can imagine and I am incredibly grateful for any assistance you can provide during this challenging time. Thank you for your compassion and generosity. Together, we can make change and help my family find the safety and security they need".

instagram account : @help_my2024

My sweaty home before 7th oct

After 7th Oct

youtube

Vetted by:

Thank you very much 🌸🌸

@importantt-reblogs , see the Vetted Link

#gaza mutual aid #please help #go fund him #free palastine #go fund her #please donate #palestine gofundme #donations needed #palestine aid #dreamblr #urgent #important #humanitarian aid #mutual aid #Youtube

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rafecameronssl4t · 9 months ago

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Ok, question, fem! forced marriage au - how would Rafe react/feel if she brought up ANYTHING about separating, weather that’s flat out divorce or doing it in secret - happy to the public but living in diff spaces/diff lives/maybe even having affairs(?)

Tied bonds || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: don't mind me going off slightly in the beginning when its talking about the legality side of it, i was literally studying trusts and estates law a couple days ago lol

Warnings: angst galore!

Word count: 2,801

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The heavy oak doors of the estate’s study shut behind you with a quiet but resolute thud, isolating you from the rest of the world. The room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, exudes both the security and suffocation of wealth. The scent of polished mahogany and aged leather permeates the air, a sensory reminder of the legacy you're bound to uphold and the responsibilities weighing on your shoulders.

The dim light from the tall windows casts long shadows across the room, making it feel as though the walls themselves are closing in, urging you to act before time runs out. You sit across from your lawyer at the broad mahogany desk. He’s a man in his 50s, with silver-threaded hair and sharp, calculating eyes. His demeanour exudes quiet authority, the kind of calm that comes from handling the complex finances of wealthy families like yours for decades.

A briefcase sits open beside him, documents meticulously laid out in front of you. These aren’t just numbers and figures on a page—they represent your children’s future, your security, and the small corner of independence you’re desperately trying to carve out for yourself. “Now, given the scale of your family’s assets,” your lawyer begins, his voice smooth and professional, “it’s prudent to separate certain accounts. Some in your name, some under irrevocable trusts for the children. This will not only shield them from potential claims but also provide financial protection in the event of....unforeseen circumstances—marital or otherwise.”

You glance down at the papers, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. This was necessary, you remind yourself. You need some semblance of independence, some safeguard for your children. With Rafe’s unpredictable behaviour and the constant pressure from both families, you can’t afford to let everything slip from your control. Your lawyer pulls out another document, sliding it across the desk.

“We’re talking about setting up separate trusts for each of your children. These funds will be distributed to them upon reaching a certain age—18 or 21, depending on your preference. In the meantime, control of the trust can be vested in you alone, ensuring that no one else has access to or influence over these assets, including your husband.”

“And what about Rafe’s side of the family?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. “Would they have any legal claim?” The lawyer shakes his head firmly. “No. Not if everything is properly structured. The trusts would be irrevocable, meaning no one—not even your husband—could alter them once established. His family would have no legal right to interfere, regardless of any financial entanglements between the two of you.”

You take a breath, the enormity of it all settling in. This is exactly what you wanted—an impenetrable safeguard. A plan that ensures your children’s future remains under your control, untouched by the unpredictable tides of Rafe’s influence or the demands of your family. “Thank you,” you respond softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the document, the weight of your decision pressing heavily on your chest. “I want everything arranged quietly,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of your decision.

“No one else needs to know about this… especially my husband.” The lawyer gives a small, understanding nod. “Discretion is key, as always.” You sign where indicated, feeling a mixture of relief and unease as you watch your name inked onto the page. This is the right thing to do, you remind yourself. For your children, for their future. Yet as you rise from the desk and collect your things, a sense of foreboding lingers.

The heavy oak doors creak open as you step out, and the estate feels impossibly vast around you. Despite the careful planning, you can’t shake the feeling that keeping this from Rafe will lead to complications far greater than you anticipate. With every step you take, the sinking feeling grows. You only hope Rafe doesn’t find out before you’re ready to tell him.

The moment you step through the front door of your home, the tension in the air is palpable. You pause, your coat still in hand, as your eyes land on Rafe. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost relaxed posture, but the intensity in his gaze betrays any notion of calm. His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, calculating, probing.

"You have a nice little meeting today?" His voice is cold, deceptively casual. But you can hear the edge in it—the suspicion lurking beneath the surface. Your heart skips a beat, anxiety pooling in your chest. Of course, he knows. Rafe always knows. You hang your coat on the rack, avoiding his gaze, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. "I had a few things to take care of. Where are the children?"

You answer nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from any confrontation. "With Astoria, they wanted to play with their cousins," Rafe answers, his gaze sharp as he pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming as always. "Answer my question," His tone hardens, suspicion fully creeping into his voice now. "I know you met with your lawyer. What are you up to?"

Your pulse quickens as you hold Rafe’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He’s already jumping to conclusions, constructing a narrative that fits his fears. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but the reality of it still unsettles you, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. "It’s nothing that concerns you," you respond, keeping your tone as even as possible, despite the way your nerves fray under his scrutiny. "Just some family matters."

Rafe scoffs, the sound harsh and filled with disbelief. His jaw clenches as he steps even closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you, blocking any hope of retreat. His presence is overbearing, the heat of his anger palpable in the air between you. "Family matters?" His voice is dripping with accusation, dark and biting. "Don’t play games with me. I heard enough to know this wasn’t just about your parents or your siblings."

His words cut deeper as his tone drops, low and dangerous. "You’re setting up trust funds. Inheritance management. Without telling me. What the hell are you planning?" His words slam into you, twisting your stomach in knots. His paranoia, the sharpness of his accusations, stings in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for. Of course, you knew he’d react like this, but hearing it out loud—his anger, his distrust—it’s worse than you imagined. You steady your breath, trying to keep your composure.

"It’s for the children, Rafe," you say, your voice soft but firm, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "I want to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what happens. That’s all this is." But even as you say it, you can see the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the doubt still gnawing at him, twisting this simple act of protection into something more sinister in his mind.

Rafe glares at you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face for the slightest hint of deception. His presence feels overwhelming as he steps even closer, the space between you disappearing in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moves down deliberately, resting on the swell of your belly where your third child grows. His touch, firm and possessive, sends a chill through you.

"You don’t trust me with that?" His voice is low, almost a growl, laced with an edge of disbelief and wounded pride. "You think I wouldn’t look out for my own kids?" His words sting, but it's the subtle accusation in his tone that cuts deeper, as if he can’t comprehend why you would feel the need to act independently. Your frustration bubbles to the surface despite your best efforts to remain calm, your emotions swirling between anger and exhaustion.

"That’s not what this is about," you snap, your voice sharp as the tension between you flares. You're trying to hold it together, but the weight of his misunderstanding—of him always assuming the worst—pushes you to the brink. "I’m doing this to protect them. To protect us. You can’t control everything, Rafe." For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanishes quickly, replaced by his usual defensiveness. He steps closer, his voice lowering, cold and accusatory.

"You’re doing all of this behind my back," he growls. "And I’m supposed to believe it’s just for the kids? You don’t set up secret meetings with lawyers for something as simple as trust funds. It looks more like you’re preparing for something else. Like maybe you’re planning to escape this all." His breath is hot against your ear now, the venom in his words unmistakable. "Is that it? Are you getting ready to leave me?"

His accusation hits you hard, knocking the air from your lungs. The vulnerability behind it cuts deeper than you expected. It’s not just anger simmering in his voice—there’s fear too, buried beneath the suspicion, fear of losing control, of you slipping away. His jaw tightens, but his hand remains firmly pressed against the swell of your stomach, as if anchoring himself to you, to the life you’re carrying.

“And have our children without their father?” you ask, your voice sharp. There’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface—hurt, uncertainty. His eyes search yours, almost pleading. You blink, stunned by the weight of your own question. “Rafe…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, incredulity lacing your words as you try to make sense of what you’ve just implied. “I’m not leaving you.”

The tension in the room feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in. You take a breath, steadying yourself, as you step closer, your gaze softening despite the frustration swirling inside you. "This isn’t about that,” you say gently, trying to reach him through the haze of his suspicions. “But I need some control over my life, Rafe. Some protection.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you press on. “I’m not just here to be controlled or managed. I need to know that I’m not just a piece in this game.”

You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy with unspoken fears, and for a brief moment, the façade of his strength cracks. The fear of losing control, of losing you, is palpable, and it clings to the space between you like a storm cloud ready to burst. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. "Control. Protection," he mutters under his breath, his movements sharp and agitated. "You think I’m the threat here? You think I wouldn’t protect you? Protect our family?"

You shake your head, stepping back slightly, trying to maintain some distance from the intensity of his emotions. "I never said that," you say, your voice softer now, trying to calm him. "But this is something I need to do. For me. For them." For a long moment, the two of you stand there, locked in a silent standoff. His breathing is heavy, and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts into something else—something more conflicted. He turns away from you, pacing a few steps before running his hands through his hair again.

"This isn’t how marriages are supposed to work," Rafe mutters, more to himself than to you. The words cut deep, piercing through the fragile layer of calm you’ve been clinging to. It’s a painful reminder of what your marriage has become—what it’s always been. The expectations, the compromises, the strain. This life… it’s not what either of you envisioned. You feel the urge to retort, to let loose the frustrations that have built up over the years, but you bite your tongue. Now isn’t the time for that argument.

"I know," you whisper, though you’re not sure if he hears you. The admission feels hollow in the tense silence that follows, the weight of your reality pressing down on both of you. The room feels unbearably heavy, the air thick with unsaid words. Rafe exhales, his broad shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as though some of the fire inside him has been extinguished. He turns his back to you, the physical distance a reflection of the emotional chasm that has been growing between you both.

For a brief moment, you consider stepping closer, reaching out, bridging that gap—but the weight of your decision, of everything you’ve been trying to secure for yourself and the children, holds you back. It’s a boundary you can’t afford to cross right now. "You should’ve told me," he finally says, his voice quieter, but still taut with lingering tension. There’s hurt there, beneath the anger, beneath his instinct to control everything around him.

Your throat tightens at his words, the soft accusation lingering in the space between you. "I didn’t want this to turn into a fight," you admit, your own voice subdued, drained from the confrontation. The fatigue in your bones echoes in your tone. "I just needed to make sure everything was in place. For the kids, for their future." You pause, the weight of your decisions settling on your chest. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you."

Rafe turns back to face you, his expression a mixture of frustration, hurt, and something more vulnerable—something he rarely lets show. "It feels like you were," he mutters, the edge of accusation still present, though softer now. His blue eyes search yours, looking for answers, reassurance, something to ease the fear behind his suspicion. You hold his gaze, trying to convey the truth behind your words. "I need to feel like I have some control, Rafe," you say gently, your voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness.

"Our lives… they’re not easy. And I know you want to protect us, but I need to protect them too. In my own way." Your heart beats heavily in your chest, each word an attempt to bridge the gap between you, a gap that seems to widen with every conflict. Rafe’s gaze lingers on you, the tension between you both crackling in the air. You take a tentative step forward, closing the physical distance between you, hoping it will ease the emotional one. Just as you stop inches from him, his expression softens slightly.

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm yet tender, and before you can say anything, he brings it up to his lips. The moment feels suspended in time as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. It’s a gesture so gentle, so unlike the earlier confrontation, that it catches you off guard. The vulnerability in his eyes flickers, almost as if he’s silently asking for forgiveness or offering an unspoken truce.

You feel your heart ache, the gesture disarming you in a way his words couldn’t. It’s as though this kiss is his way of telling you that, despite his anger, despite his suspicions, there’s something deeper binding you together—a love neither of you can deny, even in moments like this. “I’m not the enemy, Y/n,” he repeats softly, his voice rough but sincere, the earlier accusation tempered by this quiet moment.

His lips linger on your skin for just a second longer before he lowers your hand, though he doesn’t let go. You swallow hard, your chest tight with emotion, your voice a whisper as you respond. "I know you're not." The air between you feels different now—quieter, softer, though still tinged with the weight of everything unresolved. For that fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of you are in sync again, even if just barely.

Rafe’s hand remains wrapped around yours, and though the tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, it’s no longer suffocating. The kiss to your knuckles feels like a promise, fragile but meaningful. As he finally lets go and turns away, you watch him disappear down the hallway, the memory of his lips on your skin lingering long after he's gone. The weight of your choices still presses down on you, but somehow, in that brief exchange, it feels a little lighter.

You know this isn’t over. Rafe’s suspicions won’t vanish overnight, and your need for autonomy remains unresolved. But for now, the confrontation is over. The weight of your decisions, the strain on your already fragile relationship, presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You did the right thing, you remind yourself. This is about protecting your children, about securing a future for them. For now, all you can do is hope that, in time, he’ll come to understand why you did this. Why you needed to.

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