#without knowing anything about shading

[cable-salamdr]

Their album drops next week y’all better be ready to hear the bangers of these four mentally ill and traumatised teenagers (Click for better quality because tumblr hates me)

Individual shots (click for details? Idk):

[doverstar]

it is very silly to bring the color of people’s skin into anything that has objectively nothing to do with the color of people’s skin. all human beings are valuable and should be treated equally. that means you don’t have to talk about skin color every time you talk about anything. be free

[punch-love]

28, 36, 77

28. What area of writing do you want to improve in?

I would love to finish more stories. I've always been bad at finishing things even when I know the endings. I think because I'm not really beholden to my audience expectations a part of me is like "well I know how it ends - so - " and while that's good for avoiding parasocial entanglement it's bad for business (finishing long works) and it's something I would like to improve on. If not just to read my own endings on paper instead of as a haze of images and themes in my head.

36. What fic are you proudest of?

I think the golden dildo for being a piece of pornographic fiction that, despite being mostly porn, is incredibly hard to uncritically jack off to. It's like a psychological horror wrapped in copious amounts of cum and you have to read it twice to understand why everything happened the way it did.

77. Why do you enjoy writing fanfiction?

I used to only write original fiction for years and while I enjoyed creating characters (and still miss that aspect of original writing) there's something satisfying about being able to write a story with pre-packaged ingredients. I can still write the stories I want + write the porn I want to read, and I don't have to be half as honest and vulnerable as original writing requires. I also love the community aspect and knowing that something I write is going to be immediately devoured by hundreds of hungry mouths that are going to let me know exactly how much they enjoyed it. It allows you the experience of an audience that is getting as much from something as you do writing it and none of them have to know you personally.

[acaesic]

i really want to finish all my unfinished art before i turn 15 but im so burnt out rn 😭 </3

[tearlessrain]

please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!

gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.

SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:

diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.

non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.

the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.

now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.

if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.

if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.

this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.

it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.

but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.

[kateschi]

second helpings

synopsis: he owns the kitchen—until you quietly claim a corner of it, and he is enjoying it more than he lets on.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: been gone a while. had ran out of ideas but here we go

you don’t cook often.

not because you can’t, but because he always beats you to it.

katsuki treats his kitchen like a battlefield—controlled, efficient, and his.

he moves like he’s been doing it his whole life, sleeves pushed up, jaw set in focus, the faint smell of spices clinging to his shirt even after he’s done.

it’s something he enjoys, something he’s good at, and he rarely lets you lift a finger when it comes to meals.

so when you tell him, “i made something for you,” you expect a scoff, a teasing remark, maybe even a lecture about how he should be the one cooking for you.

what you don’t expect is for him to hesitate.

it’s barely noticeable, but you catch it—the slight pause, the flicker in his expression before his arms cross over his chest.

“you what?”

you huff, nudging the bowl toward him, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “i cooked something for you.”

his red eyes flick down, scanning the dish like he’s assessing its structural integrity.

it’s nothing fancy—just something simple you put together while he was out. but his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for it immediately.

“…what’s the occasion?”

you blink at him. “nothing. just wanted to.”

his brows furrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite understand the concept of someone cooking for him just because they felt like it.

but after a moment, he exhales through his nose, jaw shifting as he grabs the chopsticks.

“you didn’t have to, y’know.”

you smile, resting your chin on your hand. “I know.”

he doesn’t say anything else before taking a bite.

the first one is quick—just a taste.

then the second comes almost immediately after, slower this time, more thoughtful. his chewing slows just a fraction—contemplative. his brows furrow, but not in a bad way.

he’s thinking.

then, without a word, he goes for a third bite.

you watch him, amusement curling at your lips. “well?”

he chews, swallows, and sets his chopsticks down with a casual motion.

“…it’s good.”

you stare.

then squint.

“just good?”

his ears tint the faintest shade of pink, and he scowls, looking at anything but you. “what, you want a damn trophy?”

you snort, shaking your head. “a simple ‘thanks’ would work.”

his mouth presses into a tight line, and for a second, you think he might just grumble his way out of this. but then, just barely above a mutter—

“thanks.”

your grin widens, warmth blooming in your chest as he goes back to eating, and even though he doesn’t say anything else, you don’t miss the way he finishes every last bite.

it happens again.

not immediately, but enough that it starts to become a habit.

one night, you make an extra portion without thinking, setting it aside without a second thought.

another night, you leave something for him when you know he’s coming home late, the dish waiting on the counter like a quiet reassurance that he isn’t alone.

you don’t always expect a reaction, but you always get one—even if it’s just a muttered “’preciate it” or the way his shoulders shift ever so slightly when he sees what you’ve left for him.

and then, one evening, you catch him sneaking extra bites.

you’re pretending not to watch, seated at the kitchen counter with a drink in hand, your body angled just enough to keep him in your peripheral vision.

katsuki eats like he always does—quick but deliberate, each motion efficient, no wasted movements.

his back is straight, his expression unreadable as he makes his way through the plate of curry you set in front of him.

then, the second you turn your head—

a blur of movement. a quiet clink.

your eyes snap back to him.

katsuki freezes, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, a second helping clearly stolen from the pot sitting on the stove.

his jaw tightens as he chews, his expression carefully neutral, but you don’t miss the way his fingers tighten slightly around his chopsticks.

your brows lift. “did you just steal extra?”

a beat of silence.

then, his red eyes flick up to yours, his chewing slowing slightly as he glares, unimpressed. “what?”

your gaze drops to the now slightly emptier pot.

a slow grin spreads across your face.

“you did.”

he scowls, shoving another bite into his mouth like it’ll somehow erase the evidence. “it’s good. so what?”

you rest your chin on your palm, amusement flickering in your eyes. “you could just ask for more, you know.”

he clicks his tongue, gaze flicking to the side, suddenly finding the tiled floor far more interesting. “dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

after that, you start paying more attention.

to the things he likes, the things he doesn’t say outright but that you pick up on anyway.

you learn that he prefers meals fresh off the stove, that he eats fast but never wastes a single bite. that he loves spice—but sometimes, just sometimes, it even gets to him.

you catch the way he drinks more water when it does, the slight furrow of his brows when the heat creeps up on him.

“you good?” you ask once, watching as he takes another gulp of water.

he clicks his tongue, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “’course I’m good.”

you just shake your head, amused.

even when he’s exhausted, dragging himself through the door after a long shift, he still eats whatever you make. no complaints, no hesitations.

just a quiet moment where his shoulders loosen and he sits down without a word.

and no matter how much he huffs and grumbles, no matter how much he acts like it’s nothing—

he never says no to your cooking.

one night, he comes home later than usual.

you’re already half-asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, when you hear the door open.

heavy boots thud against the floor, the familiar sound of him kicking them off near the entrance. there’s a rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his hero jacket, the soft clink of his gear being set aside.

then—

a pause.

you blink groggily, rubbing your eyes as you push yourself upright. “katsuki?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stands there, his gaze fixed on the covered dish waiting on the counter.

his shoulders loosen slightly, the exhaustion still clinging to him, but there’s something softer in the way he moves now, like the sight of the meal has pulled some of the weight off his shoulders.

“…you made somethin’?”

you yawn, stretching your arms above your head. “yeah. thought you might be hungry.”

he doesn’t say anything at first. just strides toward you, stopping in front of the couch, and before you can react—warm lips press against the top of your head.

it’s quick, fleeting, but it lingers in the way his breath ruffles your hair right after.

his voice is quieter this time. “thanks.”

your chest feels light, a soft warmth settling beneath your ribs, but before you can process it, he’s already moving again. he grabs the plate, lifts the lid, and takes in the meal.

then, he makes his way back to you, dropping onto the couch beside you.

his thigh presses against yours, his body radiating warmth, and then an arm drapes over your shoulders, pulling you in.

you blink, a little surprised, but you don’t resist, sinking into him as he picks up his spoon.

he eats in steady bites, quiet, comfortable. then, without a word, he scoops up another bite and holds the spoon out to you.

you hesitate for half a second. “you don’t have to—”

“just eat.”

you huff, but open your mouth anyway, letting him feed you.

the flavors settle on your tongue, familiar and warm, but you barely notice because katsuki’s watching you now, eyes flicking over your face like he’s waiting for your reaction.

you chew, swallow, then smile a little. “tastes good.”

his mouth twitches, and he clicks his tongue, looking away. “’course it does. you made it.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[tonycries]

AITA For F*cking My Sugar Daddy's Son?! - G.S.

Synopsis. When your sugar daddy just isn’t paying attention to you, can you really be blamed for fúcking his son? Especially when his son is absolutely obsessed with you.

Pairing. Rich boy! Gojo Satoru x Sugar baby! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, jealous Satoru, créampie, dirty talk, manhandling, marking, Satoru’s dad is not really present, oral (female receiving), overstim, másturbation (male), thigh riding, cúmplay, Satoru is really really down bad and filthy for you, CEO’s son! Gojo,  pet names, swearing.

Word count. 8.1k

A/N. Will proofread later, lowkey scared to post this, but I just wanted it out of my mind. And in my mind, Satoru’s dad is FINE asl so-

The first time you meet Gojo Satoru is when you’re all dolled up for his father. 

Designer dress just a bit too tight, running on a few too many shots of tequila, wanting to be anywhere but at this stuffy gala. Everything was too bright - too polished.

And it really didn’t help that no matter how many scathing looks or whispers that followed you, you just had to be here - it was in your contract, after all. Because luckily for you, you just so happened to be the infamous little plaything hanging off the arm of the head of Gojo Corporations.

Well, usually. Right now your sugar daddy was too busy entertaining his business partners, leaving you off to the side, praying for something - anything - to save you from this-

“Damn if I’d come to these shitty galas a lot more often if it meant I’d get to see a beauty like you.”

You jolt out of your bored little reverie, eyes immediately snapping up to meet the tall man suddenly in front of you. When did he even get so close? 

You can’t help but drink him in from head to toe, from the overpriced, slightly-disheveled suit to the tiny dimple at the end of his mischievous grin. Strangely familiar white locks fell effortlessly to curtain his eyes. Eyes that were a startling blue - the kind of blue that had your cheeks flaring and knowing exactly who this was. 

Oh.

At your silence, he tilts his head with the air of someone that owns this entire venue and everything in it because, well, he did. Twinkling gaze searing into your skin as it roams appreciatively all over your body, plowing on, “Though, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm around these old coots.”

You sigh, pinching your nose at the curious glances around you. Not even able to find it in yourself to put on that plastic smile anymore, “Oh y’know, just soaking up my popularity with the masses after being stranded here.”

“Oh? Here with anyone?”

“Yeah.” you blurt out, “Your father.”

You watch in amusement as Satoru’s mouth falls into a delicate oh! eyes flickering over his shades between you and the handsome man on the other end of the venue, oblivious and fully enjoying himself in the company of his secretary. A bit too much without you. 

“Y’know…” he starts, shaky and sounding only half the insufferable heir he was before, “I would say that’s a hilarious version of a ‘your mom’ joke but you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. Though it would make a good punchline, huh?” You huff out a laugh at the way he was suddenly less of a smooth-talking playboy and more of a lost puppy. The gears turning in his head as he processes that oh shit you were the sweet lil’ thing his dad’s been suddenly rushing off to meet straight after work. And the reason why all those old fossils here were clutching their pearls in scandal.

He just didn’t expect you to be this…gorgeous. And for the first time in forever, he’s suddenly so intrigued.

Because ah, you should’ve known better than to think that this little hiccup would deter the infamous Gojo Satoru. No, in fact that million-dollar smirk only makes its way back onto his unfairly pretty face, like he’s about to spill the juiciest gossip of the century.  

“So you’re the latest armcandy my ol’ man has picked up, huh? I hafta say, dear old dad has good taste.�� he muses, stepping in close enough that his expensive cologne makes your head spin. “Why don’t you and I ah-” You follow Satoru’s gaze to where he was staring at the way his father was now making a beeline through the crowd. Straight for the two of you. 

“Gotta run before I get my share of the company revoked.” he flashes you a quick smile, fulling intent on saving his father’s delicate ego. But not before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “But jus’ saying,” voice a pretty little purr, “I wouldn’t ever leave you standing here so alone and gorgeous, princess.”

You can only stand there, reeling from the sheer audacity as he darts into the crowd with a wink, not caring if he stepped on a few too many overpriced coattails than necessary. Wondering whether this was some bizarre dream induced by too much tequila and not enough common sense.

“Hi, sweetheart. Investors held me up, you know how it is. Having fun, huh?” A toned arm wraps around your waist as your sugar daddy finally arrives by your side. And as he went on about his latest business branch, only two thoughts ring through your mind - 1. You were seriously reconsidering this arrangement. And 2. This was going to be interesting. 

And oh was it interesting. 

Because Satoru always managed to find you, wherever you were. No matter if it was another droning function or a chance meeting at the sprawling Gojo Estate, Satoru always swooped in whenever his father was too busy for you. Which, fortunately for Satoru, happened to be a lot.  

Hell, he seemed to find you even when you least wanted him to. Like that time he had to drag you away mid-argument with a particularly rude one of his snobby aunts. That was not a fun family reunion. 

All unabashed confidence and pretty smiles where his father was cold, cold calculation. Ready with a smart mouth to bicker with you and bright eyes that seemed to linger on you a bit too long. But you didn’t mind - why would you? Because all things considered, Satoru was a very attractive man. Sure, his father was extremely handsome, too - in a clean-cut, DILF-y way, in fact. But his son was dangerously attractive.

So much so that sometimes when he swept you away from insufferable galas to talk, some strange little part of you wished it was him that you came here with instead. Just for a second. 

“So, what do you see in my father anyway? His company?” Satoru asked you one day. Draping himself over his cool office desk, so comically out of place in the stiff corporate room. Legs kicking in the air as he waits for your response.

You tear your eyes away from the way his biceps were straining so deliciously against his snug button-up to deadpan, “I mean, I am his sugar baby after all, Satoru.”

“But think about it,” he whines, batting those long lashes at you. Fully intent on driving you as dangerously close to a stroke as possible before his father finishes up an important business meeting. One that he missed - whoops. “There’s close to nothing redeemable about the man. His idea of a family bonding activity is a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings.”

“Satoru.”   

“And either way- I’m getting the company in a few years, would ya be my sugar baby then, princess?”

Ah, there it was. 

It’s been a few weeks of knowing Satoru, and those little comments still made your head spin. Second-guessing the nature of this strange little…friendship? You didn’t even know anymore. Because yeah there might’ve been a few, stupid little lingering touches - like a trace on your hips, or your hand firmly in his as he led your (temporary) escape from another lonely gala. But those meant nothing, right?

“Nah, I’d poison you and take over the company instead.”

“Hey!”

Well, whatever, he was just your sugar daddy’s son. His sharp-mouthed, dangerously handsome son that just couldn’t seem to leave you alone. Not that you were complaining, really. Your relationship with his father was not exactly exclusive - you already knew that secretary of his was a bit suspiciously close - but that’s all he’ll ever be. Right?

Or, well, that’s what you stupidly thought. 

It wasn’t until one night late in the Gojo Estate, cursing those ridiculously long hallways, that you get an inkling of exactly how wrong you were. 

“Ugh, fucking rich people.” you mutter under your breath, wandering around trying to find whether the fuck the bathroom was. Because it doesn’t matter how many companies and businesses Gojo senior ran, the man still sucked at directions. You hiss, rubbing the tiny bruise on your neck - and aftercare too, clearly, even though that was in that damn contract. Something about an urgent business call with his secretary. Ugh. 

After three wrong doors, a trip around the in-home planetarium (seriously, who even needed that?), and chugging a full water bottle from the third kitchen in exhaustion, you finally find yourself walking towards what hopefully looked like the bathroom.

Hand reaching for the doorknob to swing it open. Ah, this better be the one or so help you-

Now, Satoru thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. And you - hair mussed, and dazed, standing there in nothing but a large button-up, falling just below your panties - looked like a sinfully beautiful lil’ demon here to lure him into hell. And oh how gladly he’d go if it means he got to see this ethereal view more often. 

“Ah! Wha- Sato-” 

You don’t even know if you want to scream or not - torn between taking in the sculpted chest smushed against your face and not wanting to alert security downstairs. Reeling backward you drink in the sight before you and God how you wish you didn’t - it wasn’t too good for your heart. 

Satoru’s hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his hair like diamonds. Skin soft and damp and smelling so delicious. Bathroom light bouncing off his rippling muscles, pecs flexing, as his strong arms reach out to steady you as you reel backwards. 

Traitorously, your eyes snake across his sculpted body. Dipping below once. Twice. Cheeks flaring as a pang of disappointment hits you at the damp towel wrapped around that slutty torso. Wondering what’s underneath-

“Y’should take a picture, it lasts longer.” Satoru grins, like the shameless bastard he is. Though he wasn’t in any better state - eyes flickering between you and any sliver of exposed skin his eyes could reach. 

“I should be saying the same to you.” you mutter, caught red-handed, shuffling your feet in embarrassment. 

Satoru lets out a low chuckle as he pulls you closer minutely, presence practically enveloping you. “Oh, me?” he says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. Thumb tracing that little spot on your neck, “S’hard not to when y’look so appetizing.”

And you don’t even try to pull away because fuck this is Satoru and he looks so good - so warm under your fingertips, even when you jolt at the realization of what exactly he was talking about. Your hand coming up to cover that tiny mark left on your skin from not-too-long ago. A shameful little reminder that this was his son. 

You grapple for some - any - sense of normalcy. Warning, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Satoru.”

He leans down impossibly, quirking an eyebrow. Both amusement and something unreadable flashing across his face. “Oh, but it’s got my father somewhere?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.”

You startle, taken aback by the blunt confession. So direct and something so Satoru. The word hands in the hair’s breadth between you two now, sending your mind reeling. And you can’t help but repeat, “Jealous?”

“Fucking yes.” There it was again. 

But this time, Satoru plows on, voice barely above a whisper but ringing in the thick air. “Jealous he gets to have you all to himself but still doesn’t kiss you like you should be.”

“What do you-”

“Your lipstick.” he interrupts, swiping a thumb over your bottom lip, “Why’s it as perfect as since you came in?” And, indeed, you realize with a jolt that no you really haven’t been kissed the way you wanted - not enough to leave your make-up so sinfully ruined. 

Minty breath fanning your face so dangerously now, and you barely even realize that you’re leaning into it, “If it were up to me, princess, I’d ruin that pretty lil’ lipstick of yours every chance I got.”

A delicious little shiver runs down your spine, head spinning at Satoru and his words and Satoru- And it’s all you can do to get out a shaky, “So why don’t you?”

And then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - like neither of you had the strength nor the will to stop. 

Satoru tasted just like candy, such an intoxicating sweetness that had you gasping as his soft tongue licked at the seam of your lips. Intertwining with yours as he breathes you in desperately. So sloppy. Such a sinful little mix of saliva and teeth and pure need.

His chest is soft under your greedy hands, lips searing against yours, and you could feel his hands wandering across every inch of skin they could find. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again because fuck he knows that he might just not. 

Long fingers dance delicately underneath that shirt to feel- oh fuck, you weren’t even wearing panties. Such a pretty lil’ slut and by God was he a goner. 

Groaning into the kiss, he lets you loop your arms around his neck, hardened nipples rubbing against his abs as you tug on his damp hair. Honestly, fuck that thin shirt, Satoru thinks he might just pass out right here right now.

“S-Satoru.” you whisper against his lips, legs hiking up to grind your bare cunt against the throbbing erection straining against his towel. Already so wet from water or precum, you had absolutely no idea. You couldn’t give less of a fuck in fact, needing to see if Satoru’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him right now. Hands urgently dipping below the hem, starting to tug and-

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you find the bathroom?”

Shit. Fuck. Wonderful - perfect, in fact.

You would’ve thought Satoru burned you with how quickly you pushed him away. Cheeks burning, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Almost slipping on the tile as you try to compose yourself at a safe distance - one that wouldn’t end up with you jumping his bones again. 

But all rational thoughts of that and your sugar daddy - Satoru’s father - almost go out the window once you take in the heavenly sight before you. 

Satoru’s lips swollen, hair disheveled, towel hanging slightly too low off his hips. Giving you such a pretty peak of those tufts of snowy white hair at the bottom. 

“W-we shouldn’t…” you trail off, as the footsteps get louder and louder. Something prickly and uncomfortable pooling in your stomach with each beat. 

Luckily for you, Satoru probably catches on to how you looked like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now. Voice low and control as he agrees, “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t.” No care in the world for his steadily approaching father as he lazily adjusts his towel, a gesture so nonchalant yet distracting. 

You swallow hard as he moves to walk past you, thinking that if this just so happened to be a dream then by God was it a good one. But of course - when has Satoru ever let you have it easy?

Because he stops abruptly in his tracks, fingers only ghosting the doorknob. Immediately turning back to walk to you with two, big steps, eyes gleaming, dimple flashing. And before you even know what’s happening, his lips are on yours. Featherlight and fleeting. But so so addictive. Nipping at your bottom lip, savoring you on his tongue.

It’s over before you know it, and a pathetic little disappointed whine leaves you as he pulls away. A smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he mutters lowly into yours, “Y’look prettier like this.”

Ah, you weren’t happy to see him leave but how you loved watching him go. Bathroom light so pretty against all the dips and curves of his figure as he walked away. White hair reflecting the warm hue, muscles flexing, hips slightly swaying with such a slutty little confidence that only Satoru could have. 

As you watch him disappear around the door, you almost forget the unwelcome visitor hot on your heels any second now and - wait - what was it that he’d said? “Prettier like this”?

Turning to the mirror and- 

Oh. Shit. 

You better have brought your make-up remover.

God, Satoru’s never ran to his room as fast as this since that time he was caught using his father’s elite golf clubs to play pool with Suguru.

Because as soon as that goddamn door is shut, he’s ripping his towel off. Letting it drop to the floor in a damp pile God-knows-where as he immediately fists his swollen cock.

With a groan, he leans against the shut door.  Eyes scrunching in such sinful ecstasy as he squeezes the base, pulsing and so achingly hard for you. A warning and a reprimand. Shit, how the fuck did he get this hard just from kissing your pretty lil’ lips?

Ah, whatever, right now he doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity to think too hard about it. Smearing the precum beading at his weeping tip, wetting his palm so sloppily. 

Neat little crescents searing into his skin where you’d grabbed him before, only thing on his mind - how would you do it?

Would you ease him into it? Or would you start up a hasty, desperate little pace like he was doing right now? Shallow, quick tugs on his thick cock like you wanted to milk him deliciously. 

Satoru’s hand was cold on his angry, hot cock. And with how many times he’s slipped his into yours, he knew yours would feel better around him. Both hands wrapped around his cock but still not covering all of it. So soft and warm, your nails scraping gently across his throbbing veins. 

“Shit. Hngh-” he breathes out, voice almost-pathetic, “J-jus’ like that, princess.” 

And what would you say? Tell him to shut up and just take it? Would you whisper into his ear as you let him fuck himself into your pretty fists? “So hard n’ big all f’me?” Satoru’s knees buckle at the thought, hand speeding up. “Y’look so pretty like this, y’know.”

Slam! Palm slamming against the poor drawer beside him hard enough to make its legs tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing. 

But oh his fist doesn’t stop. No, he doubts he ever will - not that strong of a man to keep himself from getting off so filthily to the image of you standing at the doorway of the bathroom. You looked so ethereal - Satoru couldn’t help but imagine how even more sinful you’d look if he was the one done with you. Shit, you wouldn’t even be able to stand if he had his way. 

“F-fuck, princess. M’gonna ruin you, gonna fuck you till you don’t know anything but m’name.”

He grips tighter on the base, thumbing under his slit in a way he knows your devious little hands would do. Fucked-out little grunts leaving his swollen lips each time his fingers meet his flushed tip.

“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he mutters hoarsely, letting out a low, broken little call of your name. “More. Need more, princess.” He wanted you so badly that it hurt.

What the fuck did that sleazy old man have that he didn’t? And that little bite? That would be nothing compared to what Satoru would do if he got his hands on you. Yeah, he thinks, body shuddering violently, he’d mark you up till everyone knows you’re his. Leave bites that peak out from your collar, all the way down to your pretty thighs.

“Y’belong with me pretty, could fuck you so much better.” Sweat drips from his brow, splashing onto his erratic fist. Thighs quivering, heart pounding wildly in his chest. 

Satoru would almost be embarrassed by how desperate he was acting if he was in any better state of mind. Head only filled with you, and your hand and you-

And fuck for the sake of his sanity he can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel inside your pretty lil’ cunt. All he can think of is the way you’d keen so prettily, mewling out a little, “Oh s’too big.” 

Would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you milk his cock? Or would he have to ram his dick into you, because shit as much as he loves that  bitchy mouth, it would look so much better gasping and stuttering as he fucks you dumb. 

“Oh yeah.” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Such a good lil’ slut f’me. Taking m’so well.” 

God his hand was so sloppy on his dick that he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Just wanting to fuck you and have you do this f’him. 

Ah, your plushy walls would suck him in so nicely. One hand speeds up on his cock, while the other reaches down to cradle his balls. Tugging and pulling at the same jerky rhythm they would smack your ass while he stuffs you full. 

So much better than any other sugar daddy ever could. Oh how Satoru would love to mess up your pretty pussy and your lipstick. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on if he could.

And you’d be able to do nothing but gasp and whimper into his lips, cockdrunk and dazed, “Shit shit shit- Toru m’gonna - Hah- Wanna cum. Please wan’ cum-” Oh how he’d burn down this entire fucking world to hear you call him that. 

“Fuck,” he curses, bucking into his fist, tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, princess.”

“Cum f’me, Toru. Fill me up with y’cum- wanna take all of it.”

And then he’s cumming. 

A ragged, raw moan of your name leaving his lips. Thick, hot ropes of cum that should be painting your pussy white - but, alas, he’s spilling into his fist so shamefully. And amongst the stars behind his eyes he’s sees you - you you you-

You, fucking your cunt deeper onto his cock to take every drop of his cum. You, whispering sweet little praises as his seed gushes down your thigh, telling him that oh he’s doing so well, and he’s the best boyfriend ever and you already want more-

You, at the arm of his father.

Shit, he needs to shower. Again. 

---

Ever since that little incident that night, everything changed. 

At this point, you didn’t even feel that usual little bitterness whenever your sugar daddy canceled for some urgent business. And, well, it made you blush to admit but you found yourself heading over to the Gojo Estate more and more frequently, often just to catch a glimpse of Gojo - or a quick kiss in the stuffy broom closet. Whichever left you more time to run away from looming security and his father. 

But that was exactly the problem. 

Because no matter how thick the tension lingering in the air between you two was, nothing had gone past heated kisses and touches. Either you were brought back to reality with the possibility of being arrested for indecent exposure at those galas, or someone just had to interrupt. Seriously, with how many times Satoru has had to pay off his poor personal assistant, you’ve been wondering whether he actively seeks you two out. 

And it really didn’t help that Satoru always tasted so goddamn delicious. Fingers searing on your skin, cologne heavy in the heady air, it was hard to keep your hands to yourself. 

But, hey, desperate times bring devious measures.

Which is why you were here right now - sinking into the plushiest bed at the Gojo Estate, clad in your delicate light blue lingerie. One that was custom-made in this specific shade of blue. Because while your sugar daddy preferred you in red, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind you using his credit card for other ulterior motives, right? 

You just hoped that Satoru would just so happen to get a peak when you sneak out to use the bathroom later. What would he say? Would he like it? Would his eyes roam over your body, fingers twiddling with the flimsy lace?

But more importantly - would it be enough to make him break? Even if just a little bit?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You’re startled out of your little whirlwind thoughts by knocking on the door. Steady, and matching your racing heart. Ah, Satoru’s father, you hastily get up to fix your hair.

“Yo, princess, are you naked or can I come in? Or can I come in when you’re naked?”

That wasn’t your sugar daddy. 

Not even thinking of your current outfit anymore, you rush to throw the heavy wooden doors open to see that, yes, it really was Satoru standing at the door. All bright grins and flushed cheeks as he drinks you in. Brows raising as his eyes move down from your face once. Twice. Thrice. 

Success. 

“What’re you doing here, Satoru?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. Trying to hold back the smirk threatening to curl your lips at the way he gulps.

“Uh- My father’s off to some urgent b-business.” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “Told me to tell you he’s sorry and wishes you the breas- best.”

Oh. 

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Satoru’s father has canceled on you. But it would be the first time that he’s canceled on you so conveniently enough to leave you alone with his unfairly hot son. Now, you couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste, right?

You lean slightly against the door, body ghosting Satoru’s, teasing him, “Well, when is my dear sugar daddy coming back from his business? Tell him I miss him.”

It’s a joke - and both of you probably know it. But that doesn’t stop Satoru’s brows furrowing ever-so-slightly, suddenly a different man from the flustered one he was just a few seconds ago as he mutters, “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”

“Aww, must be some important business.” 

He clenches his jaw aggressively at that, gritting out a clipped little, “You do know that ‘business’ of his is his secretary right?”

“I know. What a shame, right? Guess I’ll just have to go home n��� wait for him then?” you mockingly sigh - God, someone give you an Oscar. Moving to close the door in Satoru’s face, only to be stopped by a large hard smacking into the doorframe - as you knew it would. 

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come out looking like that and let you go home without tearing it to shreds.”

And that’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.

The door is slamming shut before you know it, and you’re shoved against it. Satoru’s lips such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit. Hands just everywhere - cradling your cheek, teasing your nipples through your bra, running down to squeeze and grope your ass. He just couldn’t get enough of you. 

Fuck twiddling with the lace, Satoru seemed well and fully intent to rip it off of you. And you’d let him. Just like he was letting you shove his overpriced button-up down his toned shoulders. Soft little rips sounding in the heady air at the urgency but neither of you could give less of a fuck. 

All you could think of is the way Satoru was so pretty and muscled. Drinking in all the dips and curves of pale skin underneath your fingertips. 

“Fuck, princess. Chose this color on purpose, huh?” his fingers dive under the hem of your bra, “Wanted to drive me crazy, mm?”

“Y-yes, Satoru.” you gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. “Wanted you to look at it. Got it custom-made all f’you.” words muffled as he sucks on your tongue. Satoru was always such a messy kisser, licking at the seam of your lips and intertwining his tongue with yours with no shame or shyness. A delicate trail of drool already starting at the corner of your mouth. 

Ah, it was too much for him. Satoru almost thinks he could cum in his pants right now at your sinful little admission. 

Which is why he pulls away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting out a broken little hum of appreciation into your skin. “Thought so.”

And then your bra’s hitting the floor, tits spilling out into the cold bedroom air. But only for a split-second because Satoru’s immediately groping each and every inch of skin he can find. 

“Look so fucking beautiful like this.” Rolling your swollen nipples between two fingers as he mutters - more to himself than you, “Was gonna let him see you in this slutty lil’ thing, too?” leaning down to tongue lazily little circles on one nipple. Words muffled as he wraps his lips so prettily around your tit - tugging, just grazing with his teeth, “Matching my eyes, huh? Fuckin’ gonna be the death of me shit-”

Satoru was insatiable. Wanting all of you all at the same time. And you follow his line of sight to see him locked on your dripping cunt - soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. Clenching around nothing as his pretty pink lips fall into a soft oh! at the sight. 

Like a madman, he immediately drops to his knees. But you don’t think he even feels the pain as he bites down on the hem of your wet panties. Looking up at you with dazed eyes - miles away. 

Breath ghosting your quivering cunt, tugging lightly with his teeth, “Next time, I’m gonna be the one buying you these.”

Then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds. Grinning so devilishly around it as he gets his first sight of your pretty pussy.  Oh you were so perfect for him. So mouthwateringly wet. 

“Shit, princess. Can’t believe you were fucking holdin’ out on me.”  he muses in wonder, eyes wide at the way your sloppy pussy was glistening in the dim lighting. 

“You were the one that-”

And usually, Satoru loves hearing you run your mouth, but this time he’s shutting you up by diving face-first into your dripping cunt. Cute little mewls leaving you as he presses so shamefully deep that his nose was against your throbbing clit, rubbing languidly as he licks a thick stripe up your swollen folds. 

And then it was like something snapped. 

Because one taste of you and Satoru’s going wild. Throwing a leg over his shoulder to lick more desperately all all over your cunt, lapping up all the juices that gush out of you. Already so addicted because shit you were so much sweeter than in his dreams. 

“Ah! Hngh- please.” you mewl, as he wraps his glossy lips around your swollen clit. All you get is a feral little grunt, his jaw parted, eyes looking like he’s on cloud nine as starts to suck harshly. Filthy little squelches filling the air as Satoru rolls his tongue across your clit. “Feels, s’good, Satoru.”

But your cute little whines turn into one of disappointment as Satoru pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Call m’Toru.” he slurs.

And he doesn’t waste any more time, tongue swishing in his mouth to spit on you once. Twice. Missing ever so slightly, and splattering on your thigh. You flinch, gasping out a breathless little, “Toru!”

“Oh shit, princess. Yeah- say m’name jus’ like that” he groans, ragged and raw. The last thing out of his mouth before he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your snug cunt. Dipping into your sloppy hole in and out in and out in and-

“He ever made you feel this good?” he moans into your cunt, the vibrations making you fuck yourself deeper into his unrelenting tongue. 

“W-what?”

“He ever made you feel this good? Cum so hard you see stars?”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “N-no. Want to- Wan’ you to make me cum, Toru. Make me cum around your tongue.”

And, well, what his girl wants - then she’s going to get. Because Satoru’s lapping at your cunt even more greedily than before. 

Stretching you out, breathing you in, looking up at your cute expression through his long lashes. Already so fucked-out for him. 

Nose rubbing purposefully in small circles on your clit. Fucking you with his tongue the way he wants to with his cock and he didn’t give a fuck if he suffocated in-between your thighs - he fucking loved it. 

“Hngh- shit shit shit yes!” your nails are digging into Satoru’s scalp at this point. The only thing steadying yourself to prevent you from collapsing onto the ground. And you really can’t help but angle his head just right so that his tongue curls against that one spot inside your plushy walls. 

Thankfully, he gets the memo. Because Satoru’s letting out a strangled little grunt at being so used by you as you drag your cunt across his pretty mouth. Body jerking into his as he hits that spot over and over-

“T-Toru- hah!” thighs quivering, Satoru’s grip bruising as he holds you up. “M’m gonna-” Your plushy walls sucking him up, thighs squeezing around his face. 

“Mhm?”

“Cum! M’gonna cum- ah- fuck fuck fuck-”

He groans huskily into your cunt. Throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to let your slick slide down his throat - greedily waiting for more that was to come. “Then show me how you cum, m’girl. Cum all over my tongue.”

And then you are - all over Satoru’s pretty face. And fuck he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier. Holding his head in place as you rock your hips into his waiting mouth, letting him drink you in so greedily. Clamping down on his tongue like you were trying to milk him. 

And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d notice the delirious little heart eyes that Satoru was giving you, your cunt firm on his face and swollen lips letting out such pretty whines of his name. Toru Toru Toru - like a prayer as you fucking use him for your high. 

Ah, he could stay like this forever, he thinks. But no, an empty house and you all wet n’ pretty for him means there’s too much more to do. 

Which is why he’s pulling away, your slick decorating his lips so prettily. Smeared across the bottom half of his face and dripping onto the hardwood floor in a maddening little drip! drip! drip! 

And Satoru knows, with the way you watch him so intensely, mouth parted, eyes glossy. Which is why he runs a thumb along his mouth, pooling your juices on his fingers and popping them into his mouth. One by one. 

Your jaw drops a little in disbelief as Satoru licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your addictive taste. Oh he was ruining you without even touching you. 

“Not enough, princess.” he chuckles. “C’mon, gimme a kiss.”

And, really, how could you ever say no to that face? Because you’re pulling him to you as soon as Satoru stands to his full height. Capturing his lips in such a sloppy, filthy kiss - forcing you to taste yourself and you half-lucidly wonder whether Satoru loved the taste almost as much as you because it was so him.

Bodies so close that your dripping cunt was seeping into his unfairly tight shirt. Forming a lewd little dark patch when Satoru lifts you effortlessly to guide you to the bed. Tongue still entwining obscenely with yours as he splays you out on the soft mattress for him. Drinking in that adorable lil’ shock on your face as you bounce on the bed, so drunk off of him that you didn’t even realize he was taking you to the bed. 

“Shit, y’look the prettiest like this, princess. S’a wonder m’not fucking passing out right now.” he hisses into your lips.

“Toru-” you whine, and shit the way his cock jumps at the mere sound of your voice makes you think that this will be a little trick you’re using more often. “Wan’ your cock s’bad. Wanna-”

You don’t even have the patience to finish the sentence before you’re fumbling with his belt. Something hefty and overpriced but you can’t possibly think about that right now because fuck you get the first sliver of milky skin. 

Satoru’s thighs were so sculpted and thick. It made your mouth absolutely water to wonder what it would feel like to ride them to insanity.

“Y’wanna ride my thighs? Fuck princess, you really are driving me crazy.” 

Shit had you said that out loud? 

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter because Satoru’s pulling his boxers down - so tight with his swollen cock, a dark patch right where his weeping head was. And you almost pout at losing the opportunity to take them off but oh how you’re distracted by the sinful sight before you. 

Satoru was massive - so long and flushed your favorite shade of pretty pink. Shit, you were going to have to get a lingerie set in this color one of these days. He was achingly hard and throbbing, springing up to smear precum all over his abs. 

And before you can even react, Satoru’s pulling you to him. Manhandling your pretty self so easily to straddle one, large thigh. 

“Oh- hngh, Toru.” you look up at him all doe-eyed and teary as he doesn’t even wait for you to register what’s all happening. Grip bruising on your hips as he rocks your hips so sluttily on his leg. “F-feels s’good. Ah-”

“Yeah? Y’like it? Like getting yourself off like a lil’ slut on my thigh?” he groans into your ear, low and husky with need. 

You nod wildly, sloppy pussy dripping all over his thigh, seeping into his skin as you grind your hips to meet his movements. “Like it s’much- ah-”

“Mhm? Better than anything he could ever do?”

“Yes yes yes, Toru-” you sob, cheeks burning as you realize that you’re humping him like a bitch in heat - but oh judging by the carnal little glint in his eyes, he liked it. Loved it, even. Because Satoru could feel the way your swollen folds spread to grind against him, clit pulsing so maddeningly against his skin. So filthy and messy as you used him to get yourself off. “S’much better- the best-”

He just didn’t expect to feel a soft hand wrapping around his cock. Eyes flying open to see you - all glassy-eyed, and fucking yourself on his thigh - wrap a hand around his cock. Starting to move in shallow, unsteady little motions up and down his throbbing cock to get him off at the same time as you.

“Wan’ you to cum, too, Toru.”

“Oh fuck.” he grunts, letting his hips fuck up into your fist in mindless little motions. “Y’don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

And with that his fingers were digging into the skin of your hips, forcing you to hold on for dear life as he drags your dripping cunt faster and faster across his thick. Movements erratic and frenzied now. 

Of course, you were not one to be out-done. 

Satoru’s precum spilling down your hand, your wrist now aching and wet, becoming so, so sloppy trying to get both yourselves off. But you still tighten your fist around his pulsing cock, desperately flying up and down his length. Pulling in quick, jerky motions to milk him for all he’s worth again and again and-

“You’re so oh- good f’me, princess.” he hums. “Your hngh- hands are so p-pretty wrapped around my cock. So perfect for me.” Bucking his hips wildly to meet your hand now, fucking your fist with no shame. Pulling you harsher on his thigh. “S’such a shame you had to hah fuck- meet my father first. I’d have been so much better.”

“Toru!” you squeal as one hand moves deftly from your hips to draw quick, hasty little circles on your throbbing clit. The friction from his thigh and fingers too much to handle. 

“I’d make you happier.” Your body is shaking now, hands messy and trembling around his swollen cock. “I’d make you laugh more and give you all m’time.” You can’t even look at him at this point, eyes scrunched close in ecstasy as Satoru whispers these maddening little phrases into your open mouth. 

“I’d make you cum harder.”

Oh and then you are - tears in your eyes, body convulsing into his as you cum. And of course he’s smirking smugly as he watches you ride your high out on his thigh, brows furrowed and bottom lip bitten in concentration as he holds off cumming. Not now. Not yet. 

“So, better than him or not?”

But shit was it hard. 

Especially when you raise your pretty, barely-lucid eyes to meet his, whimpering out a soft little, “I don’ know yet, Toru. Gonna hafta stuff me full of your cock if you wanna know.”

And perhaps for the first time since you walked in on him after the shower that night, the great Gojo Satoru is taken aback. Eyes widening in surprise, kiss-bitten lips falling into a soft oh! of disbelief. But not for long - never for long - because a devilish little grin breaks out across his face immediately afterwards. 

“Shit, y’really are perfect f’me, princess.”

With a low growl, Satoru is easily pulling your body - limp and boneless in his hands - to straddle his toned hips. 

You let out a yelp at the feeling of his fat tip just kissing your swollen folds, dragging teasingly along them, collecting the slick beading out of your sloppy cunt. Back and forth-

“Who’s got you feeling this way?”

“You, Toru.”

And then he’s pushing in, swollen cock bullying into your snug pussy. Thumbs drawing steady little circles on your hips - yes to reassure you but also to fight off that feral little part of himself that just wants to stuff your pretty lil’ pussy full until his heavy balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust. 

But no. No, it was so much better when you were the one desperately trying to suck up his cock. Gasping and moaning out strangled little whimpers of his name as you sink yourself down on his throbbing dick. Inch by fucking inch. 

“S’too big- Hngh! I-is it even halfway in?” you whimper out, and Satoru could almost laugh humorlessly as he tilts his head to glance downwards and shit- he was barely a quarter in. 

“No.” 

“F-fuck” cute little tears streaking down your face now, thighs trembling, “Toru, I-I don’t think I can-”

“You can. And you will.” Fucking up into you in short, rapid little jabs to squeeze himself deeper into your tight pussy. Shit, it was such a squeeze, you were milking the ever-loving soul out of him. And it only made him impossibly harder inside you, making you whine and grind down - torn between chasing the feeling of being so deliciously full and the sheer pressure. “Shit, love when your pussy’s sucking me up so good.” 

One hand is on your hip, sliding you farther and farther down his cock, the other drawing urgent, quick patterns on your clit. Not even circles anymore because shit Satoru doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity for that. Throbbing veins rubbing so sinfully against that one spot in your dripping cunt, splitting you apart to the same rhythm as the pulsing. 

And as soon as your ass meets his heavy balls - already so wet with precum and slick - Satoru doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore. Mind spinning, he doesn’t waste any time at all. 

“Fuck yes.” Satoru hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” He pulls his hips back, far enough that his angry, red tip is just kissing your sloppy entrance, surging forward, forward, forward- “Y’don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this, princess. Needed this s’bad, so so bad you don’t understand. Shit.”

And, hey, his girl deserved to be fucked dumb, right?

“Needed this ever since I saw you at that goddamn gala.” he whispers into your lips, ragged and so fucked-out. Each word punctuated by a harsh, heavy thrust. Ones that have you keening and grasping Satoru’s broad back for support. Nails raking down his shoulders as his pace gets faster. More purposeful.

And you can do nothing but take it, barely even able to form any coherent sentences. So prettily sat on Satoru’s lap as he fucks into you, babbling sweet little nonsenses made for your ears only. “Ever since I saw that murderous little glare you threw at those snobby guests.”

His balls smacking against your ass over and over. A quick, steady little tempo that you were losing your mind to. “Ever since you let me take your hand and drag you away to that secret bar to take shots instead of champagne.”

You don’t know whether you’re even crying at this point - all you know is that your cheeks are wet and your voice is broken as your let out a little, “F-fuck, Satoru- but your fa-”

“Fuck that.” he whines, and you could almost laugh at the adorable pout that makes its way onto his face. And at that you can feel him jolt so deliciously, head snapping up to meet yours. “I’m the better one.”

And as if he’s trying to prove it to your cunt, he’s drilling into you faster. Harder. Hips burning now as he fucks you like some animal. Hitting that sweet spot over and over. “I’m the one with the personality and the looks.” Long fingers almost a blur on your clit as he matches his place. Cock hot, and throbbing inside you. 

“I’m the heir, I get the company, too, if that’s what you like.” He’s bouncing you on his cock animalistically now. Hungry gaze taking in the way you’re sucking him up so well. “And I’m funnier one, I’m the one that should be by your side.”

You see stars behind your eyes at both the pleasure and sheer overstimulation as Satoru starts fucking your cunt as best he could without fucking breaking you  - but, honestly, he didn’t give a shit if you cried. He just wanted to stuff you full and have you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

“Fuck- fuck yes m’gonna cum Toru- hngh.” You pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “M-make ah! Make me cum, fill me up please, Toru.”

You feel him shudder inside you, balls squeezing so painfully. Hips sloppy and absolutely soaked with precum and slick. “Sh-shit, you’re not too good for m’heart. Ngh, f-fuck- I should be the one to make you cum. Over and over until you don’t know what it feels like to not.”

“Toru!” your eyes fly open, “Yes yes yes- it’s you. Only you-”

Oh, like something snapped then Satoru’s surging forward to bite down on the crook of your neck. Hard. You’d almost think he was out to draw blood. And then with a low groan, and one, harsh little thrust, Satoru’s cumming and cumming inside your pretty pussy. And you are too - back arching as you milk his cock through his high. 

Fingers digging into your skin as he holds your hips to his, letting your cunt be filled up so sloppily. Pumping thick, hot ropes of seed that dribbled out of you each time he pumped his hips into yours. Fucking it deeper and deeper inside you. 

And then you’re both collapsing, the exhaustion suddenly hitting the both of you as Satoru moves you both to lay on the mattress. Fuck, Satoru watches in wonder as his cum gushes out of you and forms a wet little pool on the expensive sheets as he starts to pull out. One round might just not be enough. 

Yet not yet - he can feel his eyes drooping, muscles aching as he pulls your sticky body closer to his. And Satoru knows he should get up and wipe you both down. But right now, he’s too drunk off the heat of your body and that angry little bite on your neck. Distracted by the cute lil’ expression on your face, so tired and thoroughly fucked out. Fingers playing with his hair, looking at him with an expression so fond - just like in his dreams. 

Nothing more is said. And all is quiet in your strange little heaven. 

That is, until - “So, princess. Wouldn’t ya wanna be an heiress instead of a sugar baby?”

A/N. How we feeling???

Plagiarism not authorized.

[powermove102]

all those 'list of 5 things I could talk about for 1 hour without prep:' posts really underestimate the power of The Big Yap

[demaparbat-hp]

Hiya!! 👋🏼😄 How's it going? Your fashion taste for Zuko in a Modern AU seems to be artsy, or maybe "formal" is the word. That shirt he wore when he gave Sokka romantic song advice looked Versace🧐. Anyway, I was wondering how you came up with it, he always struck me more as the type that didn´t care much about fashion, so I'm curious about other´s opinions and heacanons about it. And do you have any other fashion headcanons for the rest of the GAang? Also, their music tastes. How did you come up with them? Especially Katara's! 😍

Hello! As it happens, I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings™ about this, so I'm leaving these over here, and the rest of my ramblings down below the cut!

Let us begin with the Gaang, shall we?

SUKI always struck me as that Pretty Girl from the Gym. She is so incredibly fit it isn't even funny. She could kick anyone's ass, and we'd all thank her. She has this casual gym style that somehow always looks glorious on her, as it should! Comfy yet fashionable clothes for a nice workout or a day in town.

Her music tastes are basically any and all power songs from the eighties and nineties. (Eye of the Tiger, anyone?) She also enjoys metal via Toph, and bands like BSB, NSYNC, or Boyz II Men with Katara. My girl has a very eclectic Playlist and we all love her for it.

SOKKA is That Guy™. Loose T-shirts and shorts everywhere he goes, no matter the weather. He's stupidly into fashion but it doesn't show! At all! And everyone teases him about it. His closet is about 90% Cactus Juice merchandise, hence the "it's the quenchiest!" shirt.

His fashion and music tastes are pretty much the same. He loves poetry but isn't really into lyrics. He'll misinterpret just about anything you place in front of him. His Playlist is mostly vibes and tiktok songs he kind of enjoys. He isn't really into music...at least not as much as his sister.

AANG owns exactly one hoodie, one pair of shorts, and one beanie (THE beanie). Oh, and the crocs—don't forget the crocs. Somehow, he's always wearing the exact same outfit. Every. Single. Day. Ancient Gaang lore suggests that the day Aang goes out without his beanie, it's the end of the world.

His Playlist is the poppiest, most bizarre thing ever. Every single song is Happy by Pharrell Williams levels of happy. Yet sometimes, among the bouncy dance-to songs, you'll find the strangest of things... (He does know what Good Day by Twenty One Pilots is about. That's the reason he likes it so much, actually. And it's so weird.)

KATARA is all about sundresses and loose pants. The epitome of comfortable loveliness. Light fabrics in blue shades, careful embroidery, delicate shoes, and little to no accessories—hers is a simple, yet quite adorable, style. She just needs to add more colors to her usual palette...

She is, first and foremost, a Florence + The Machine girl. It's the Dark Goddess of the Sea vibes, to be honest. Florence Welch is her idol and yes, she will fight you about lyrics interpretation, and win. It may not seem like it, but her music tastes are also very varied.

She draws a little from each member of the Gaang, so you'll hear her humming along to Gorillaz (where did you even find out about them, Aang?), The Weeknd (I...don't think this song means what you think it means, Sokka...), and Hozier (Zuko why did you dedicate Talk to me, Zuko WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY THAT).

TOPH...ah, lovely girl. I'll summarise everything about Toph’s fashion sense in two words: comfort and rebellion. Stuffy dresses forced on her by billionaire parents? No thank you! Give her tank tops with loose shirts and short pants. Bandaids shared with Aang, bracelets from Katara, and even piercings she got in tandem with Sokka. Shoes? What even is that?

Something I love about this fandom is our collective agreement that Toph is into the dirtiest, heaviest, most ear-splitting and soul-crushing death metal of all times. Her Playlist is full of the most obscure names to ever exist, and she can and will blast through your walls with the sheer volume of her speaker.

Zuko. ZUKO.

Even in a modern AU my boy must suffer. That being said, I envision Tales from the Couch as—well, exactly what it is: an ATLA modern AU. While there is not a war to fight, and a lot of plot lines are discarded or expanded upon, much about the core story remains the same.

This is my way of saying that Zuko still goes trough his redemption arc, and it reflects on his fashion choices.

The way you described it works perfectly because of one single reason: in this AU, Zuko is an artist. He had to suppress his love for writing and drawing because of his background and the expectations Ozai had for him (taking over the family company), and a very large part of his redemption arc directly affects his relationship with art.

In the Couch equivalent of S1, Zuko has fallen out of Ozai's graces, and is desperate to protect his place in the company and the Kasai household. He's pretending to be someone he isn't and trying to live up to his Father's image of a perfect heir while still being somewhat cut-off financially, and it shows.

He's all about imposing long coats and a semi-formal style, imitating what he knows Azula and Father would respect. He's striking and sharp and dark. But no matter how he dresses or carries himself (that air of cold superiority and arrogance)—it won't help him when he needs it the most.

In S2, Zuko has hit his lowest point. He's officially disinherited and tossed away by his father, and would be out in the streets if it wasn't for Uncle Iroh. He goes from sharp, high-tailored outfits to old second-hand clothes that hang loosely on his frame. He starts smoking and cuts his hair off, forgoing the undercut for the first time in years.

But then...Father accepts him back. When Zuko returns home, it's with respect to his name and a very high position in his father's company. He's finally the perfect Kasai heir, dressed in overly expensive suits and finery, even at home... But Father forbids him from wearing Lu Ten's earring, and Zuko can no longer recognize himself without the familiar glint of gold dancing on his peripheral vision.

When Zuko leaves the Kasai name behind him and goes back to living with Uncle Iroh...he's finally at peace with who he is, and what he wants in this life. The sharp edges aren't gone (they'll always be a part of him, after all), but now they're dulled by looser clothes and softer hairstyles.

He's an artist, and for once in his life, he is determined to pursue his own ambitions. Zuko's outfits may not be designer-made anymore, but he takes what he has and makes himself look like he wants to look, like the person he wants to be.

He doesn't read fashion magazines or keeps up to the latest trends like Azula does. He's just...Zuko. And his newfound confidence makes everything he wears look like it belongs on him.

As for music...well, Ursa raised a literature boy.

He loves lyric-heavy music and natural voices, be they soothing or powerful. Dissecting song meanings and possible interpretations with Katara is one of his favorite parts of the day. They're both very passionate and strong-minded individuals, so it stands to reason that their debates can get quite...heated.

Zuko's Playlist is both incredibly eclectic and somehow very...him. There's a common thread that binds together every song and artist he likes, and he's hilariously unaware of this. To take a look into his Playlist is a higher honor reserved only for those closest to him.

In the wide spectrum of things, it is no wonder that Zuko is, first and foremost, a Hozier man. But though Andrew is his God in all aspects of this life, there's someone else that has had a huge impact on him...

Two someones, actually.

Zuko refuses to tell anyone how he got into Twenty One Pilots, but it's kind of a moot point when the beginning of his obsession is nothing compared to everything that came after. They have just about the right amount of everything that makes Zuko...well, Zuko. The poetic lyrics, the soothing or raging music, the heavy, intensely resonant themes...

Up there, in the second artwork, I placed an album cover behind each period of Zuko's life. The election of these records is intentional, as I feel like their general themes work incredibly well with Zuko's arc and growth.

Blurryface in S1. For the demons within us. For giving a name to our fears and shame.

Trench in S2. For escaping the confined walls of a depression city, and fighting to understand the depths of the map of your mind.

Scaled and Icy in the first half of S3. For returning to places you had left behind. For convincing yourself and everyone around you that you're fine, that you're perfect, even though everything is crumbling inside...

Clancy in S3. For recognizing that you can backslide, that you can have fears and shame and pain—but you're shaping yourself with each step you take. For knowing that seeking help from others is okay. Nobody learns to walk on their own.

(And, in the end, you'll always be better than the person you were yesterday. If only because you're still here. You're still alive. You're still yourself.)

.

Overall, I rambled a bit too much, don't you think?

If you made it all the way down here—thank you so much for reaching out and being interested in this crazy AU! I hope you enjoy these ideas and tell me some of your own ❤️

[diana-aj]

Urgent Relief ... 🙏🇵🇸

"Save what's left of our souls . . . 👨‍👩‍👦

My name is Diana, a Palestinian from Gaza.

A mother of two beautiful children, Riad (6) and Ahmed (4). We live together with my mother, my brother and his wife.

Verified by ✅✅

@90-ghost ✅ here.

To donate, click here 🙏

It is difficult for me to ask for a little financial help from you But I will not let my innocent children go without a fight until my last breath

I was about to achieve my dream of becoming a teacher but the war destroyed all my dreams. Most schools in Gaza have been destroyed.💔💔

Unfortunately, our house was bombed and destroyed during the recent events,

which caused us severe psychological and physical damage due to the catastrophic situation we are currently living in. We were forcibly displaced due to the heavy bombing from the north of Gaza to the south, where we have no shelter except a tent that does not protect us from the cold of winter or the heat of summer.

We are now living in catastrophic conditions, in particular my child Riad who was born with a hole in his heart and also pulmonary valve stenosis. At the age of 6 months, he underwent open heart surgery.

Unfortunately, during his regular checkups after surgery, exactly 2 years ago, we noticed that problems had started to appear again.💔

My child Riad often falls ill due to his weak immune system and the severe shortage of food, supplies and medical supplies that we suffer from, in addition to the high prices that make it difficult to meet our basic needs.

We don’t even have access to clean drinking water. The loss of our home has exacerbated our suffering, and our daily lives have become a constant struggle for survival.

My family and I thank you all from the bottom of our hearts! ❤️❤️‍

I understand that we all go through tough times, so anything helps. Whether it's your love and support, donating, sharing my story, or sending love, prayers, positive vibes, and healing. Everything is appreciated and accepted..🙏

"Save what's left of our souls . . . 👨‍👩‍👦

To donate, click here 🙏

With all appreciation and thanks,

Diana❤️

My campaign has been verified by :

@90-ghost ✅ here.

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[strnilolover]

⌗ . . . STEPBROTHER!CHRIS CATCHES YOU AND STEPBROTHER!MATT FUCKING IN THE LIVING ROOM

WARNINGS : SMUT. PNV. VOYEURISM. EXHIBITIONISM. DIRTY TALK. HAIR PULLING. ASS SMACKING. (let me know if i forgot anything).

you always disliked when your mom threw little get togethers with her friends and co-workers. your house always being packed inside the house and then the backyard—so you always stayed far away from it. not because you didn’t like them, you just hated the crowds.

and today was one of those days. everyone in the backyard on a hot summer day—the sounds of voices buzzing through the air. you were hot and angry, the sun making you feel like you wanted to peel your skin off, but you couldn’t leave—not while your mom kept her eye on you.

she forced you to stay outside and socialize with people—people who probably wouldn’t understand anything you try to talk about.

you huffed, crossing your arms and trying to sit as much in the shade as you could without bumping into other people. but it was no use. you groaned and turned in the direction your mom was in—seeing her back turned to you with people surrounding her.

when you saw that, you took your chance, slipping in through the back door and trying to walk quickly from the living room—out of her sight. the AC was cold on your skin, your heartbeat finally starting to slow once you made it far enough inside.

“two hours? really? you couldn’t last any longer out there?” a voice said from over by the couch. your feet stopped, whipping your head into the direction it was coming from. matt was standing near the couch, a cold drink in one hand.

you rolled your eyes, letting out a breath as you wandered over to him. “you try lasting out there in ninety-five degree weather for two hours. i promise it isn’t fun.” you snapped back, reaching your hand out as you stood in front of him, snagging his water. matt just watched you, eyebrow raised and a small smirk tugging at his lip.

“why the attitude hm baby?” he asked, watching the way you lifted the cup to your lips, taking a sip from the ice cold water. you glared at him, finishing your sip before holding the glass out to him. “i don’t have a fucking attitude.” that was a lie—you definitely did.

you watched as matt hummed, taking a sip of water for himself before setting his cup down on the table. “no?” he questioned, slowly walking around your body until he got behind you. you could feel the heat from his body as he pressed closer—it wasn’t helping your irritation.

“matt fuck off.” you spat, going to take a step away from him. you didn’t get very far. matt’s arm reached out and wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush to his chest.

“god, you’re such a brat.” he muttered into your ear, his hot breath trailing against your neck. you shivered, even though the air inside was cool. his hand was splayed flat on your lower stomach, keeping you tight to him. “matt. don’t.” you warned, voice wavering, despite yourself. you glanced over your shoulder, but no one was inside. still, the hum of voices and music from the backyard was way too close for comfort.

“don’t what? don’t do something about your attitude?” he gritted, his hand tightening on your flesh slightly. “you’re the one being a fuckin’ brat and talkin’ back.” you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, feeling the way your body lit up from his words.

matt grinned, feeling the way your body reacted. “you know,” he whispered, starting to push your hips forward until your thighs hit the arm of the couch. your body bent forward, hands coming out under you to catch the fall. “i think that’s what you want isn’t it? acting up just so i’d do somethin’ about it.”

you shook your head. “no..” you mumbled, but the way your body was practically buzzing said a different story. he hummed, splaying a hand on your back and pushing you down farther, making your back arch—ass high up in the air. you gasped when you felt his fingers toy with the hem of your dress, slowly slipping his fingers underneath.

“matt!” you hissed. “they’re outside!—my mom’s—” your words were cut off when matt’s hand came down to strike against your ass, a moan slipping from your lips as the pain blossomed across your skin. “shh keep that pretty mouth shut baby, unless you want them to hear you.” and you couldn’t help the way your body tingled at the thought of someone hearing you—or catching you. you were so out in the open, one good look through the giant glass door and everyone would see what was going on.

you squirmed, your ass wiggling in front of matt—practically teasing him. he groaned, grabbing the fabric of your dress and pushing it past your ass to rest on your hips. his eyes glanced down, seeing the growing wet patch in the center of your panties.

“look at you.” he cooed, bringing his freehand down to ghost along your inner thighs, leaving light taps. “such a wet pussy for someone who said she wasn’t acting up just to be punished.” you could hear the mocking tone in his voice—feel the way his fingers would inch closer and closer to the edge of your panties before slipping away.

you whined, pushing your hips back as your mind began to turn to mush, forgetting about the party just outside those doors. “tsk tsk.” matt clicked his tongue, his hand coming back down again on your ass, your skin reddening. your body jolted at the contact, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you felt your slick flow out of you more.

“such a little whore.” he said, his hand hooking into your panties and dragging them slowly down your thighs, past your knees, until they rested around your ankles. “stay right there yeah? don’t. move.”

and then he spat on your folds—watching as it trailed down your slit. you whimpered, thighs twitching from the sensation alone. his fingers dragged through it, spreading it over your pussy, up and down, slow and messy. “fuck.” he hissed under his breath as he slid two fingers through your folds again, watching the way you clenched around nothing and whined, your back arching deeper.

“gonna fuck you right here baby. y’gonna let me?” he whispered, leaning down to talk against the shell of your ear—his chest flush against your back. “right where anyone could easily see?” you shook your head, but your moan betrayed you the second his fingers circled your entrance.

“mhm thought so.” he grinned, leaning back up and grabbing at your hips. his other hand reached down to tug his sweats down, freeing his cock. he gripped the base, leaning forward to spit, letting it trail down his dick before be gave himself a few pumps. your heart was pounding in your ears, it was so quiet in the house, except for the muffled music coming from outside. your head lifted slightly, looking in the direction of the back door—you could see so many people outside, but their attention wasn’t focused anywhere in the house.

your head turned, looking over your shoulder at matt. and fuck did he look good. with his hand wrapped around his leaking cock—the hem of his shirt pulled up and tuck between his teeth to keep it up. you shuddered, your hips moving back towards him. “matt, please.” you whined softly, the ache between your legs becoming too much now.

matt smirked, moving to line himself up, his other hand still gripping the flesh of your hip. “please what, hm? be a good girl and use your words or you ain’t getting what you want.” he said, pressing forward. you could feel the tip of his cock press inside you before he moved back. you whined again, pressing your face down into the cushion of the couch. “please—please..want you to fuck me.” you whispered, your face reddening in embarrassment.

“mm good girl. that wasn’t so hard was it?” he praised, his hips pushing forward again, dragging his cock along your folds before he pushed inside again—filling you inch by inch. you gasped as he stretched you open, your hands coming out to grab at the cushions below you. “o-oh fuck.” you moaned, your walls clenching down around him.

matt grunted, his head tipping back at the feeling of your cunt swallowing him whole, dragging a filthy curse from his lips as he bottomed out. his fingers dug deep into your hip, holding you in place as he started to move slowly. “so fuckin’ pretty.” he muttered—his head falling back down to look at you. his free hand coming up now to tangle into your hair, tipping your own head back.

his hips began to pick up the pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the living room along with your moans and his groans. “god—you’d love it if someone walked in right now hm? watching the way your cunt greedily takes my cock.” matt grunted, feeling the way your walls clamped down around his cock. your mouth dropped open, a loud almost pornographic moan coming from your mouth. all you could do was grab at the couch, trying to ground yourself as his tip continued to kiss your g-spot over and over again.

but what either of you didn’t know—is there was someone watching as matt’s hips slammed into your own. watching how he fucked you dumb, loosing all coherent words.

his brother chris. your other stepbrother.

he was outside with everyone else who seemed to be too oblivious and caught up in what they were doing to notice you getting bent over the arm of the couch.

the second he’d come around the corner with a drink in hand and seen you bent over the couch, bare and taking matt deep—he stopped. he hasn’t meant to stop and watch—to get so wrapped up in watching the way you took every inch his brother gave you. the way your face contorted with pleasure every time matt’s cock kissed your cervix.

god he was entranced by how good you looked.

his body was still, heart thudding heavy in his chest as his eyes locked on the sight through the glass. he couldn’t hear you—but he didn’t need to, to know you sounded like a fucking angel.

his breath grew heavier the longer he watched, feeling the way his cock became painfully hard in his pants. he let out a shaky breath, pulling his gaze away from you to look around the yard—no one had noticed still. chris swallowed thickly, his free hand reaching down to adjust himself as his eyes landed back onto your figure.

he watched matt’s hand in your hair, pulling your head back just to make you arch more. your ass jiggling from the force of each thrust of matt’s cock. watched as matt leaned down and whispered something into your ear, making your eyes roll back as your own lips moved to reply. chris didn’t know what it was matt said—but what he did know, is it effected you.

your body began to shake—teeth digging into your bottom lip to stay quiet.

chris knew you were getting close, and god he wanted to stay to watch you cum—but he knew if he didn’t leave now, he’d cum in the next few second just from seeing you. so quickly and quietly—without dragging attention to himself—he slipped away. the image of you burned into his mind.

back inside—your brain was mush. you were chasing your pleasure. matt’s cock hot and thick as he dragged it along your walls. you could feel him pulsing—feel just how close he was to cumming just like you were.

“y’gonna cum baby?” he moaned, fucking his cock deeper into you. “gonna make a mess all over my fucking cock hm? such a messy fucking slut.” his hand in your hair pushed your head down into the cushions.

and that’s what pushes you over the edge.

“pleasepleaseplease—oh my fuck—“ you cried out, your mouth open and drooling against the cushion. you felt your whole body lock up and shake as you came. your walls fluttering around his cock—milking him for all he has. he groaned, his hips faltering for a second before he kept moving, fucking you through your orgasm.

you collapsed against the couch, the only thing holding you up now was matt’s own hands, his hips moving to chase his own high. “gonna fill this pretty pussy up—fuck.” you could tell he was so close, your hips shallowly moving and fucking yourself on his cock despite how tired you were now. “put your panties back on and send you out there with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

his thrusts were getting sloppy now, hips stuttering. you lifted your head and looked over your shoulder at him again, looking at his face. his brows knitted together and his teeth digging into his bottom lip. “c’mon matt—shit—want you to fill me up. please.”

that seemed to be his breaking point.

he groaned loudly, both hands grabbing at the flesh of your hips as he buried himself deep in your cunt—spilling inside you. you could feel each spurt painting your insides white—and how full you felt of him.

his hips moved a few more times before he finally pulled himself out slowly, watching as some of his cum began to leak out of you. he smirked down at you, seeing how you were already beginning to doze off. quickly he began to tuck himself back into his sweats before turning his attention to you.

he reached for your underwear that was around your ankles, slowly sliding them back up your legs and pulling them snugly over your hips to where they belonged. you whined at the feeling, your body shuddering. matt continued to fix your clothing before he reached down and gently pulled you up and into his arms.

he fixed your hair and dress, making sure you looked presentable before even thinking about sending you back out there. the last thing he did was trail his hand down and press his fingers against your now clothed and soaked pussy, making you gasp and grab at his shirt due to how sensitive you were.

“gonna keep my cum right in there yeah?” he whispered, beginning to circle his fingers. you nodded, legs shaking and threatening to give out from under you. he smiled, pulling his fingers away. “good.”

and just then you both heard the door open, your heads whipping in the direction as you both peeled yourselves away from one another, just as your mom stepped inside.

“there you are!” your mom said with a tone of relief like she was looking for you the whole time—she probably wasn’t. her eyes panned over to matt, giving him a small smile before turning her attention back to you. “i see you and matt are finally getting along, that’s good for you guys.”

you nodded, cheeks reddening as you looked at him from the corner of your eye. your mom smiled wide, already beginning to turn away from the both of you.

“come on you two, i need your help with handing out food.” she spoke as she already began to walk towards the kitchen. you and matt both looked at one another, a smirk tugging on his lips as you began to walk. his hand came out and landed a firm smack to your ass.

“get goin’ baby. don’t keep your mom waiting.”

a/n : guys…is this too freaky?

[dissimul0]

SAY IT

remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On your way home from Bible study you run into two boys looking for trouble. Thankfully, Remmick's there to help you out. But he wants some... compensation, for his help.

wc: 4.1k

smut warning: dom!remmick x fem!reader. second-person pov, fingering, manipulation, blood, biting, violence, death, oral (fem receiving), mentions of religion, mild harassment, idk i think thats it

a/n:  before watching sinners i hadn't written anything in MONTHS, and remmick was so incredible fine he cured me of writers block, because after the movie i went home and started writing this. this is also my first time posting on tumbler so, hiii (ignore how the tense doesn't stay consistent, i hate writing in 2nd person pov)

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

The sun was swiftly sinking beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. Its vibrant hues of orange and pink painted the sky, gradually deepening into richer tones as the evening approached. The light dimmed as shades of deep blue and indigo crept across the horizon, enveloping the landscape in a cloak of darkness.

You were heading home from Bible study, which ended much later than you had anticipated. The air was thick with the oppressive summer humidity, one of those evenings where the heat lingered even after the sun had set. As you distanced yourself from the busy part of town, the streetlights became sparser, and the shadows deepened. You hastened your pace, your heels tapping against the rough pavement, eager to reach home.

It was almost kind of peaceful. The nighttime chatter from the town gradually faded into soft murmurs, creating an almost soothing atmosphere. Until, of course, a couple of idiots had to ruin your night.

Two figures stepped out from a dark alley up ahead — and you barely had time to react before they were already blocking your path, grinning like they owned the damn street.

“All by yourself, baby cakes? Ain’t that dress a lil’ short for that?” One of them whistled, licking his teeth all nasty.

You took a step back, holding your Bible tightly against your chest as if it were a shield. “I-I don’t want any trouble,” you stammered.

“Naw, of course you do,” the other sneered, taking a step closer to you. “You over here dressed like trouble.”

Your eyes flickered anxiously as the two boys edged nearer, their strides slow yet certain, their intent unmistakable. You took a step back, and another, feeling the space around you shrink, the world closing in as they advanced without a word. They spread apart slightly, moving to encircle you like wolves to prey.

God, help me.

A voice sliced through the tension like a blade through fog. “There a problem here?”

It came from behind you, sharp and unexpected, shocking the air with its presence and freezing the moment like a flash of lightning. The two boys stopped, surprise flickering across their faces as they cut their eyes in the direction of the sound. You turned, eyes meeting a man standing a few feet behind you.

His hands, nonchalantly tucked into the deep pockets of his trousers, accentuated an air of indifference perfectly matched by his carelessly practical attire. The rumpled shirt, slightly untucked, and the well-worn shoes suggested a disregard for convention. He didn’t seem like he belonged, not in the slightest.

There was something about him, an intangible aura, that sent a shiver of unease through the air. It was as if he carried an invisible weight that pressed heavily on those around him, making them shift uncomfortably without knowing precisely why.

“Who the hell are you?” One of the boys called out, his voice a wavering mixture of uncertainty and defiance. The other shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to size up the strange figure before them, and more unsure of what reaction to expect.

“Why don’t you answer my question first?”

You glanced between your harassers, the adrenaline that had spiked through your veins at the sight of those two creeps faded, replaced by a different sort of tension. Your throat went dry. You wanted to say something, to stop this and just finish your journey home, but you just couldn’t.

When you locked eyes with the unfamiliar man, your stomach twisted in knots. There was something about him—someone familiar but unplaceable—that set off your instincts, urging you to flee.

One of the creeps let out a laugh, a high-pitched, mean-spirited cackle, his mocking grin wide with menace and delight. It was like you were long forgotten, their attention now elsewhere. They crowded around the man, jostling shoulders and nudging elbows, and one of them spat the words like a challenge: “Little white boy thinks he’s got spunk!”

The man’s eyes shifted from the boys to you, slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. “Now, now. I just wanted to make sure this young lady was alright,” he said, his eyes glinting with a steely resolve that cut through the tension like a knife.

The boys didn’t quit though, repeating their threats like taunts, brutal little chants in the fading light. They surrounded him, shirts loose, untucked, grins mean and prowling the way packs do.

The strange man didn’t seem to be intimidated; In fact, he looked past the boys, giving you an almost…sympathetic look. “You might want to close your eyes, darlin’.”

In a flash, he lunged at the nearest boy, a blur of movement disrupting the circle. The act was savage and swift, his teeth sinking into his soft neck with a feral intensity. There was a stunned silence, a moment where the world seemed to hold its breath, and then a scream. The boy screamed, high-pitched and frantic, red blooming on his white collar, voice shredding the dusk as he stumbled back.

Blood, hot and streaked, spilled down the boy’s chest as the man held him tight, his face smeared. Frozen by the violence seared through the darkening street, the other boys’ eyes went wide, his shouts dying in his throat. 

The grip seemed relentless, inhumanly strong, the boy’s knees buckling, and then, with a quick flick of his arm, the man sent him crashing to the pavement. The boy writhed, clutching at his neck with a gurgling sob, while the other could only stare in mute horror. It was as if the man enjoyed their terror, a gleam in his eye as he turned his ferocious gaze on him, daring him to fight or flee, hungry for his next move.

The second boy stood frozen, his face a mask of horror as he watched his friend collapse to the ground. For a heartbeat, he seemed paralyzed, caught between flight and fight, his body trembling with indecision. Then, with a strangled cry that was half rage and half terror, he fumbled at his waistband and pulled out a small pocket knife, the blade catching the dim light as it snapped open.

"You—you fuckin’ psycho!" he screamed, his voice cracking with fear. He lunged forward with the knife held out, a clumsy, desperate attack born of panic rather than skill.

The strange man sidestepped the thrust with almost lazy grace, a small smile playing at his bloodstained lips. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the boy's wrist and twisted. The crack of bone was audible even over the boy's shriek of pain, the knife clattering uselessly to the pavement.

"Bad choice," the man whispered, his voice almost gentle as he pulled the struggling boy closer, like a lover drawing in for an embrace. "Should've run when you had the chance."

The boy's struggles grew frantic, his feet scrabbling against the ground as he tried to wrench himself free. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat of exertion and fear. "Please," he sobbed, all bravado gone, "please don't—"

His plea was cut short as the man's teeth found his throat.

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Your lungs seized as if gripped by an invisible hand, the Bible slipping from your fingers and hitting the pavement with a dull thud that seemed impossibly distant. The world narrowed to pinpricks of horrific detail: the blood spray painting the concrete, the wet, tearing sounds as flesh gave way, the gurgling screams that didn't sound human anymore.

Your knees buckled. A wave of nausea crashed through you, bitter bile rising in your throat as you pressed your hand against your mouth. The taste of your dinner threatened to return as your stomach convulsed. The edges of your vision darkened, tiny black spots dancing like static.

"Oh, God," you whispered, the words barely audible even to yourself. Your body trembled violently, uncontrollably, like you were standing in Arctic winds rather than the summer night's heat. The scene before you refused to make sense—it couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. People didn't do this. People couldn't do this.

But he wasn't people, was he?

You stumbled backward, one foot catching on the other, nearly sending you sprawling. The movement seemed to happen in slow motion, disconnected from your will. Your chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths that didn't seem to deliver any oxygen to your brain. The metallic smell of blood hung thick in the air, coating your tongue, inescapable.

Somewhere in the fog of your shock, a primal instinct screamed at you to run, but your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive, as if the horror had severed the connection between your mind and body.

The second boy's body crumpled to the ground with a sickening finality, joining his friend in a spreading pool of crimson. The stranger straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear across his pale skin. His eyes found yours, and the world seemed to contract to just the two of you standing in the night.

"Yer still here," he remarked, sounding almost surprised. His voice was different now—smoother, more controlled, the earlier tension gone from it. Blood dripped from his chin onto his shirt, blooming like dark flowers against the fabric. His eyes held an unnatural red gleam in the dim light.

Your legs finally remembered how to work. You stumbled backward, nearly tripping over your own feet, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The Bible lay forgotten on the ground between you and the carnage. "Demon," you whispered, the word tasting like ash in your mouth

He laughed, the sound startlingly normal, almost pleasant. “You go on home now.”

You remained frozen, disbelieving of your apparent reprieve.

"Go," he repeated, more firmly this time. "’Fore I change my mind."

Your legs moved of their own accord, carrying you past him in a wide arc. You couldn't help but look at the bodies as you passed, their forms already seeming less human somehow, more like discarded dolls than the threatening figures they'd been minutes ago. You ran, your footsteps echoing in the empty street, not daring to look back again. The night air burned in your lungs, and tears streamed down your face, but you didn't dare look back.

You just kept running. 

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

 You couldn't sleep that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it all again—the blood, the strength, the way his teeth tore into flesh like it was nothing. Sleep was impossible. You sat on the edge of your bed, trembling hands clutching a mug of tea that had long gone cold, staring at nothing.

The day after felt like hell on earth. The morning light was harsh and unyielding, striking too brightly through the windowpane, but you made no move to get up to close the curtain.

You were too tired, too... worn out. Your legs felt like jelly and your eyes were swollen from crying, and there was a pain in your chest, an ache so deep you could have been bleeding, if only it meant relief.

But you were just numb.

You didn't even go down for breakfast. Just layed in bed. You laid there until the insistent throb of hunger became too much to bear. Only then did you involuntarily get yourself out of bed, muscles aching.

As you made your way to the kitchen, the aroma of breakfast lingered in the air, and your eyes landed on the remnants of the morning meal scattered across the table.

"Thought you'd never come down," Mom remarked, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she looked over her shoulder from her spot at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water.

"Guess I was pretty tired," you replied, a yawn stretching your lips as you slumped into a chair, reaching for a piece of cold sausage. The temperature was irrelevant; it was the savory flavor of the meat that captivated your senses, grounding you in the moment.

"Where's your Bible?" Mom's voice cut through your thoughts like a knife, her eyebrow arched in that familiar, questioning manner. Her hand poised on her hip, she awaited your explanation with a knowing look.

Your chewing halted, heart sinking as last night's events replayed vividly in your mind. You opened your mouth to respond, but words seemed to falter and die before they could form.

Mom clicked her tongue disapprovingly, disappearing into the living room, only to return moments later. She placed your Bible on the table with a gentle thud, the sound echoing in your ears as your heart plummeted further, eyes reluctantly meeting hers.

"W-where'd you find this?" you stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Found it on the front porch. You must've dropped it on your way in last night," she replied, her tone a blend of concern and reprimand.

You swallowed hard, the events of last night swirling like a storm in your mind. You hadn't dropped it on the porch; you had left it behind, abandoning it on the ground as you ran, thoughts in chaos. "I guess... I must've," you stammered, forcing the guilty lie out.

"Mmhm. You best be more careful next time. You know this Bible was a gift from the Pastor," she reminded gently, yet firmly, turning back to the sink, the sound of running water a soft backdrop to the tension in the room.

You acknowledged your mother's words with a quiet hum and a nod. Your eyes settled on the Bible lying on the table, and you reached out for it with hesitation.

As your fingers traced over the embossed letters, your mind wandered back to the previous night. The vivid nightmares nearly made you recoil. You closed your eyes tightly, giving your head a slight shake to dispel the dark thoughts.

—————————————————

The day rolled on, hours slipping by in a confused haze. Tasks that needed doing bled into others, all mundane, all repetitively the same. Towels to fold, clutter to corral—each chore like the next, stretching out endlessly. Words were exchanged, hollow, drifting and weightless in the air.

The day felt longer than it had any right to be, its passage still haunting, leaving only a weary fog. A great heaviness set in, like a weight on the eyelids, as evening wore on.

While everyone else slept, you're wide awake. Sitting on your bed's edge, you face the window. The pale, blue moonlight casts its glow on you as you sit there, gazing out at the front yard.

You're unable to tear your eyes away, as if something or someone might be out there. You rise from the bed, cautiously approaching the window. With a finger, you unlock the latch and lift the window, which opens with a slight creak.

Leaning on the windowsill, you peer outside, eyes fixed intently for any sign of movement. But nothing unusual occurs; only the breeze and the rustling trees accompany your breathing.

This is pointless.

You pull away from the window frame and turn to head back to bed, but a snapping branch halts you. Slowly, you turn back, step toward the window, and shut it with frustration.

Resting your head against the cool glass, you close your eyes, feeling its chill against your skin.

After a moment, you reopen your eyes and gaze into the yard once more.

Tiny pinpoints of light flicker among the trees, and you squint, searching the darkness. Still cloaked in the forest's shadows, the two points of light draw nearer, stopping just a few feet from your window. You blink, and the lights blink back.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as those twin points of light remain fixed on your window. They're eyes—you know they're eyes—glowing with an unnatural red luminescence that no human could possess.

Slowly, a figure detaches itself from the darkness. He steps forward, moonlight gradually revealing him inch by inch: first the outline of broad shoulders, then the familiar rumpled shirt, now stained dark with what you know is blood. His face comes into view last, pale and beautiful in its terrible way, those glowing eyes fixed unblinkingly on yours.

It's him. The man from the street. The monster who tore out those boys' throats with inhuman strength and savage teeth.

He stands perfectly still at the edge of your yard, hands in his pockets just as they had been before, casual as if he were merely a neighbor stopping by. But there's nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze, the way it pins you in place even through the glass and distance between you.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips, and he raises one hand in a gesture that might almost be friendly—a little wave, as if acknowledging an old acquaintance. The simple humanity of the gesture makes it all the more chilling.

You want to scream, to call for help, to wake the household—but your voice is trapped in your throat. Besides, what would you say? Who would believe you? And what if your cries only invited him in?

He takes a single step forward, then another, moving with deliberate slowness toward your window. Each footfall is silent on the grass, predatory grace in every movement. The distance between you shrinks with each passing second.

He doesn't stop until he's merely inches from your window, eyes boring into yours. Your breath hitches, and you try to step back, but you can't. It's like you're frozen.

His breath fogs the glass between you, a reminder of the thin barrier separating you from whatever he is. He raises one pale finger and traces a pattern on the window, the squeak of skin against glass making your skin crawl.

"Y'know," he says, voice muffled but still audible through the glass, "there are rules to these things."

You remain frozen, unable to speak, but he continues as if you'd asked a question.

"I cain't come in uninvited." His eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—crinkle slightly at the corners, almost amused. "Old magic. Very inconvenient."

He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching the glass. "But you could invite me in. Just a few 'lil words. 'Come in.' That's all it'd take."

Your throat constricts with fear, but you manage to shake your head slightly.

He sighs, a surprisingly human sound. "I saved you. Those boys—" he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, "—they had very specific plans fer you. Nasty ones." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "I could've let 'em. Would've been much easier fer me."

The memory of those boys blocking your path flashes in your mind, their leering faces, their threatening postures. You shudder.

"See? Y'know I'm right." His finger traces another pattern on the glass, almost hypnotic. "Just a little invitation. A thank you for my... intervention. That's only polite, ain't it?"

Something in his tone shifts, grows harder. "Or I could wait. I'm a very patient man, sugar. I could visit every night, watchin' you. Waitin' for that moment when you step outside alone after dark, or when you get home late from bible study." His smile widens, revealing teeth that are too sharp, too white. "Wouldn't it be better to just... get it over with? On yer terms?"

You feel a strange pull, a desire to reach for the latch, to open the window wider and speak those fatal words. Your hand even twitches at your side, as if it might move of its own accord.

"Just say it," he whispers, eyes boring into yours. "Invite me in."

Your fingers tremble against your thigh, caught in a war between reaching for the window latch and clenching into a fist. Something shameful and electric pulses through you—a feeling you don't want to name.

There's terror, yes—raw and primal—but beneath it lies something more disturbing. A fascination. A pull. Your eyes can't help but trace the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips now clean of blood, the way his shirt clings to the contours of his body.

"This ain't right," you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

His smile deepens, knowing. "Few worthwhile things are."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you hate yourself for it. How could your body betray you like this? How could you feel anything but revulsion for the creature who tore out human throats before your eyes? The memory of violence should repulse you, drive you away—instead, it mingles with his current gentleness in a cocktail of confusion that makes your head swim.

You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but that only intensifies your awareness of him—his scent somehow reaching you through the glass, something ancient and dangerous. When you open your eyes again, he's watching you with a patience that spans centuries.

"Yer afraid," he says softly. "But not only afraid."

Your cheeks burn hotter. He sees through you so easily, this predator at your window. The worst part is the thrill that runs through you at being so thoroughly seen.

"I don't want this," you say, voice barely audible.

"Ohhh sure you do, darlin." His head tilts slightly, curious. "Your heart says otherwise. I can hear it—racing not just with fear, but with somethin' else."

You press your hand against your chest, as if you could quiet the betraying organ. "You're a monster."

"Yes," he agrees simply. "And yet, here you are. Still lookin'. Still listenin'."

He's right, and you hate that he's right. You should be running, screaming, praying—anything but this strange, suspended moment where you can't tear yourself away from his gaze. "You know I can't..."

He takes a deep breath, clicking his tongue in thought. "Yer really gonna make me beg for it, huh?" He said, his voice dropping to a conspiring whisper. "I can make you feel so good, lampkin. You just gots to let me in."

"I won't."

"You will."

Your hand trembles as it hovers near the window latch. One simple motion, one whispered invitation, and he would be inside. The thought sends shivers of fear and anticipation down your spine.

"What would happen?" you ask, your voice barely audible. "If I let you in..."

His eyes gleam in the darkness. "Aw, don't be coy, now." He continued, his voice low, "Aincha tired? Of playin' the good girl?"

"I ain't playin."

"Then let me inside."

Your jaw clenched, and you pressed your lips together, like if you opened them, you wouldn't know what would come out. But, God, you wanted to. You wanted to just say that one word to let him in and receive all the pleasure and indulgence he was promising. But your silence hung loud. You were afraid.

And you could tell he knew it too.

His hands tightened perilously around the frame of the window, a cage of fingers desperate to pull you in while keeping him locked out. The tendons in his wrists flexed like claws. His breath caught, a raw rasp in the air. When he spoke, his voice was shredded with wanting: "Open this window. And. Let. Me. In."

His words dissolved the fragile armor you had tried to build against him, slipping silently into your gut like a seduction turned weapon. It was over; you knew it then. A warning shrieked from the rational recesses of your mind—run, hide. Yet something deeper, something primal and inexplicable, whispers that perhaps death isn't the worst fate imaginable.

You shuddered beneath the weight of your own surrender, and a tiny gasp escaped your lips. "Come in," you finally caved, voice barely even audible. With a trembling hand, you reached for the latch and started to open the window for him.

He climbed through the window almost as soon as you opened it, his movements quick and jerky. One moment he was outside, the next he stood before you, close enough that you could feel the unnatural coolness radiating from his skin.

His eyes never left yours, that unblinking gaze holding you captive. The red glow had dimmed somewhat, but still flickered in their depths. His lips curled into a satisfied smile, revealing just the barest hint of those terrible teeth.

"There now," he murmured, his voice somehow more intimate, more dangerous in the confined space of your bedroom. "Was that so hard?"

The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity as he took a single step closer. You instinctively backed away, your calves hitting the edge of your bed, but there was nowhere left to retreat. He raised his hand slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to flinch away—but you remained frozen, caught between terror and that inexplicable, shameful fascination.

His fingertips brushed your cheek with unexpected gentleness, cool against your feverish skin. The contact was feather-light, almost reverent, yet it sent a jolt through your entire body as if you'd been struck by lightning. Your breath caught in your throat, and your eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, your body betraying you once again.

"So warm," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I'd almost forgot what it feels like."

His touch traveled downward, fingers trailing along the column of your throat where your pulse hammered wildly against your skin. He paused there, feeling the rhythm of your fear and anticipation beneath his fingertips, a small smile playing at his lips.

Then his mouth was on yours, crushing, demanding. His body crowded yours, a solid wall of desperate need, pinning you against the momentum. Tongues tangled, a frantic, messy collision – less kiss, more claiming. He tasted your surprise, the faint saltiness, a familiar sweetness underneath. He pushed harder, fueled by years of starvation, a blind drive to consume. The world tilted. Balance lost. You went down in a tangle of limbs, hitting the floor with a muffled thud.

SMUT WARNING!!

He landed mostly on top, the impact insignificant. Air sawed in and out of his lungs. Below him, you. Your eyes wide, lips swollen, glistening with saliva – his saliva. The sight sent a jolt straight to his groin, his trousers suddenly, painfully tight. A trace of drool beaded at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.

You gazed up at him, eyes shimmering with pent-up desire, chest heaving with each rapid, anticipation-filled breath. "You're droolin'," you ogled.

He smiled.

"It ain't my fault you taste so good." He crawled over your body and caged it under his with his pelvis slotted between your thighs, "I want you to beg for it. Beg for me." Between layers of your nightshirt and his trousers, his cock ground into your mound while his clawed hand slid along the warm skin of your thigh. Your nightshirt rode up, until he reached your hip where the fabric of it bunched, its soft flesh dimpling in his bruising grasp.

"Say it," He crooned into your neck, breathing in your scent, his red eyes dilating beneath eyelids that fluttered closed. "Say, 'Remmick, please give me what I need.'"

Remmick. That was his name?

You let out a whimper, quickly biting down hard on your lower lip in a desperate attempt to muffle the wanton sound. "P-please... Remmick," You begged, staring up at him with pleading eyes.

A sinister laugh rumbled through Remmick, the sound dark and gravelly as it shook against your chest. "Atta-girl," he growled, nipping sharply at your earlobe. His hand, clutching your hip, slipped between your thighs, where he discovered you were bare under your nightshirt, and he hummed delightfully. He dropped his forehead against your shoulder as a groan rumbled deep in his chest when he found you wet and swollen, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone.

The tip of Remmicks nose skated along your sweat-slick neck until his lips found your ear and brushed against the shell of it as he spoke. "Yer soaked." He whispered, fingers finding your clit and circling it with torturing slowness, rolling the slick bud beneath the pad of his fingers.

You gasped, back instinctively arching on the floor as you craved more of that sweet friction. "S-stop teasin' me," you whined

"Why? Did you need somethin'?" He taunts. You want to snap at him to go faster, but getting irritated would only delay it more. "Use yer words, sugar." He sank his middle and ring fingers inside you, grinning devilishly against your neck, before delivering a sharp bite.

You let out a strangled moan, turning your head to the side to try to escape Remmick's' sharp teeth and scorching breath. "What do you need?" He asked, words muffled as they sawed between his teeth and your flesh. He curled his fingers into the bundle of nerves at the front of your walls. "Say it."

You clenched your thighs together, trying to trap his invading fingers, but the slick heat of you only allowed them to sink deeper. "I need you," you writhed, unable to keep still.

Remmick's fingers never ceased their brutal pumping, plunging in and out of your soaked, clutching heat. As he worked he watched you struggle, your nails digging into the wood floors. For a few minutes there's nothing but the obscene sound of your arousal, mingling with the creaking of the wood floors and your increasingly ragged breaths.

Your spine twisted into knots at the bottom of your back, hips bucking to meet the angle of fingers. The muscles in your stomach clenched, and your head lolled back, eyes closed, unshameful moans of pleasure quietly resonating through the room. Just when you felt the consistent building of your orgasm about to release, insides twitching around his fingers, he withdrew them, lifting his head up just enough to meet your gaze.

Looking up at him in confusion, your eyes followed his fingers as he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a predatory hum. He removed them with a wet pop, grinning wildly as he saw your lips part in protest.

"What? You want'a taste?" He teased, saliva-soaked fingers glinting in the dark light. He brought his hand close to your mouth, stopping when the pads of his fingers grazed over your lips. "Open wide."

The tips of his fingers pushed past your lips, and your mouth parted farther, making space for his digits to wedge further inside. He leaned in lips brushing against your temple and he buried his nose in your hair and breathed. He groaned, fingers pushing deeper into your mouth. You choked quietly, but that didn't stop him. He watched as you struggled to take his fingers, your lips around him.

His cock throbbed at seeing you like this. Quivering and needy. It was almost enough to make him come right then and there.

Remmick slowly pulled his fingers out of your mouth, smearing the spit across your lips.

He captured your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his smoldering red eyes as he loomed over you. His own gaze was dark with lust and a twisted sort of affection, his pupils blown wide and dilating as he looked at you, drinking in every expression and breath.

HIs other hand slid up from your hip, claws raking lightly over the soft skin of your belly before cupping the swell of your breast. He could feel your heart pounding beneath his palm, could feel the way your nipple pebbled against the thin fabric of her nightshirt. He tweaked the sensitive nub between his fingers, rolling and pinching it until you gasped, back arching off the floor.

"It feels good, don't it?" He murmured, his breath hot against your neck. His lips found yours, claiming your mouth in a demanding kiss. His tongue pushed past your teeth, invading, conquering, laying waste to any resistance you might have left.

He could feel you melting, could feel the fight draining out of you as he touched you, kissed you, filled you.

He broke the kiss, leaving you gasping and panting beneath him. "Now," he said softly, almost gently. "I'm gon make you feel real good."

He positions his arms on either side of you, and lowers his mouth onto your neck. The sudden feeling of his lips made you whimper, and he chased after the sound, trailing down your throat towards your chest... down your stomach... down your thighs.

As he pulled closer to your heat, you couldn't help but squirm under him. He gripped your thighs and lifted them off the floor, getting on his knees and lowering his head between your thighs. He slowly made his way upwards, breath hot against your skin.

When he reached your core, there was a pause before he pressed his mouth against you. You let out a pathetic moan as his tongue licked a warm, wet strip to the center of your cunt. Your head lolled back as the feeling of him lapping at you was so overwhelming you didn't know what to do.

He drags his tongue up your clit, wrapping his lips around the bud and sucking. Hard. You practically scream out in pleasure before slapping a hand to your mouth, remembering where you were.

You feel him grin into your pussy as he sucks harder and you twitch. Your hand flies into his hair, gripping the strands and pushing his head deeper as you chase your climax. He doesn't seem to mind it though.

"I'm gonna - fuck," you said, breathless as you feel your orgasm building inside you. You clench your thighs around his help, but his grip on your hips tightens, spreading them apart again.

"Remmick - wait," you said, but he doesn't stop. He wanted you to come undone in his mouth.

He watched you hungrily, eyes on your throat as your head fell back, restless whimpers falling from your lips. He delivered one finally suck, the pressure driving you over the edge. You let out a ragged cry, legs closing around his head. Your hips shoot upwards, grinding into him as you ride out your orgasm.

You lay, worn out, chest heaving. You stared at the ceiling, eyes heavy, hands falling to your sides. Remmick stayed between your thighs, dragging his tongue around your skin to clean you up. "You alright?"

You let out a drowsy hum in response, eyes following him as he climbed on top of you. You watched as he smiled down at you, lips brushing against your temple tenderly. He kneeled back, observing you lying there. Without warning, he lifted you up.

You murmured in protest, but he hushed you softly, "Shhh, stay quiet." He carried you to your bed and placed you gently on the mattress. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, feeling unexpectedly calm given the... circumstances.

"I've gotta' leave now," he said softly, brushing your hair away from your face.

"And why is that?"

"'Cause I just have to." You let out a small huff, but he merely laughed quietly. "Best you sleep now." He stood up straight, taking a step backwards towards the open window. "But, I'll be back soon enough." 

A shiver coursed through your body, not of fear, but of anticipation. It was as if the very air around you had changed—charged with a new energy. The weight of fear had lifted, replaced by a sense of exhilaration and readiness that warmed your core. Something had shifted within you, and you realized you were no longer afraid of him. Not even in the slightest. 

[yanderenightmare]

The Four Seasons as Boyfriends

♡ AN: from the Promptlist

♡ TW: nsfw and fluff, really soft yandere, if yandere at all

♡ GN reader

Autumn is always half awake but never fully asleep. 

In the morning, he likes pairing coffee with a smoke out on the balcony—standing shirtless, black tattoos on his pale skin, despite the cold wind, watching the sun rise, sporting tousled hair and dark sunken eyes. 

He spends his days more or less the same way. There’s a briskness in the breeze and rain every other day, and all the leaves have turned shades of brown and orange, matting the ground in wet heaps, leaving the trees to look like skeletons. He likes going for short walks just before the sun goes down, when the sky is a warm pink and there ain’t a soul to be seen, and it feels like the two of you are the only people who’ve stayed behind before the apocalypse came.

At night, he’ll stay up late, watching Halloween movies with you in his arms, drinking something stronger than coffee, and smoking something different than cigarettes. He’ll never flinch when the gory scenes play. He’ll just run his thumb up and down your arm and hold you close with a low chuckle.

He’s a quiet guy who spends his time observing more than talking, a real philosopher, writing down things on this old typewriter he has, anything from crime novels to other horrific things. He’s somewhat grim that way—you think he might have been a mob boss in his previous life. 

But he’s got this dry-humored side as well, and a romantic one too—one that whispers awfully heart-gripping things to you in bed, gives you small gifts on all your anniversaries. Half-mast dark eyes without a smile on his lips, bringing your palm up for a kiss. 

Maybe it wasn’t a past life, you think, maybe he’s a vampire who’s been plenty of things. Come to think of it, you’ve only ever seen him outside when the sun has been safely hidden behind a veil of grey clouds. You don’t know, he just seems like he’s come from another age in the way he’ll treat every day like something to be enjoyed slowly, every moment together to be savored, and every detail of your face something to be not just remembered but cherished.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Shigaraki, Dabi, Aizawa, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Megumi, Toji, Yuuta, Choso, Higuruma ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Kuro, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Suna ♡ CSM – Aki, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Tomioka, Genya ♡ HxH – Chrollo, Illumi, Feitan

Winter wants to spend all his days inside, wrapped up with you in bed like a bear in hibernation. You have to all but fight your way out of his hold in order to get up. 

He groans when you leave, whimpering at the cold, but eventually, he musters up enough willpower to follow you. He’ll have the duvet wrapped around him still, slippers padding towards the smell of breakfast. He’s still sleepy until he gets a good, warm cup of chocolate coffee. 

Clad in a warm blue sweater, pilled from wear, but cozy still, and a pair of baggy corduroys and fuzzy socks in all sorts of colors. 

He’s super reluctant about leaving the house—will literally find any excuse not to and do anything to avoid having to. He’ll stand in the mudroom with you like an obstinate brat as you dress him, putting on his scarf, hat, and gloves for him before pulling him into his jacket. 

He’s pouty at first, whining about his nose freezing, but after a while, he gets more than happy-go-lucky in the snow. Acting just like a dog, bounding about, tackling you down, and rolling around with you so that you’re both sure to catch a cold. 

You build a snowman together, make angels, and a little igloo where he’s deadset on the two of you sleeping tonight. Yeah, not likely, is all you think, knowing him and how the minute the two of you get home, he’s going to hunker down with all the duvets and blankets he can find and cry about how he’s never going outside again. 

And sure enough, the two of you trudged home, freezing cold and exhausted from all the frivolity, he in a whiny mood. You enter the shower together, and he just stands there, arms around you, draping you with his entire body under the water, defrosting. 

Like before, you end up doing things for him. Shampooing the sweat out of his hat-hair and soaping the rest of him up, then doing yourself the same way.

He’s just as clingy when you’re done. Dressed in fluffy robes, he’ll hold you close on his lap and put on a Christmas movie, something funny, something for children, The Grinch or Home Alone, or a romcom you’ve watched a thousand times before.

He’ll eat gingerbread men instead of dinner, drink one too many cups of eggnog, and tell you how he wants to curl up inside your heart where it's nice and toasty and stay there forever—meanwhile, his hand explores your naked body under your robe.

♡ BNHA – Denki, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Toaya, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Mahito, Gojo ♡ HQ – Hinata, Tanaka, Kuro, Lev, Bokuto, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma, Zenitsu ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

Spring is an early bird. Big breakfast spreads every day, wild flowers on the table in a hand-painted coffee mug, toasted bread with a dozen types of spreads, sliced meat, cheese, scrambled eggs, different jams, strawberry, peach, blueberry, apricot, raspberry, and all the currants.

He’s always got a big goofy smile on his face, wearing baggy dongeries and bright pastel-colored T-shirts—green, pink, yellow, and blue. His hair is fluffy, his eyes are round, and he’s always got a new pair of suede sneakers on.

He’d make a great dad, having the personality of a guy who’s a kindergarten teacher, the way he’s all about DIY easter decorations. He has his own craft cart, fully equipped with different colored paper, patterned tape, and glitter in all pretty colors.

He’s never been a very traditional guy, always raving about new ideas, dreams he’s had, things he’s seen when scrolling through Pinterest—you can't hope to keep up...

Your walls have all been painted—not like other walls—but as if the wallpaper were canvas. All your chairs have been bought at yard sales and other second-hand stores, refurbished by him, and hand-painted in different colors with cushions in different fabrics. Your coffee table is an old wine crate he found at a junkyard. All your blankets are knitted with spare yarn from all his other projects.

He also scrapbooks like no other, filling the pages with receipts and tickets he’s saved from your outings and vacations, and Polaroid pictures he’s taken of you, with dates and locations written along the white bottom.

Not to mention, how in the kitchen window, he’s hung the empty egg husks from breakfast, decorated with swirls and dots, with letters spelling Happy Easter!

He also makes you love letters—indulgent paragraphs with an overwhelming amount of love-bombing and hopes and dreams about your future together, always with the wording of a five-year-old child talking about their favorite type of food. 

Yeah, he’s no poet, but it’s the thought that counts, and so A for effort!

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuji ♡ HQ – Hinata, Sugawara, Bokuto, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ DS – Zenitsu ♡ WB – Nirei, Umemiya

Summer is tan with tan lines from his swimming trunks. He’s all smiles and loud laughter, too careless for shades and sunscreen, and so you’re the one who’s left running after him when he sprints towards the water, like a parent, shouting at him to put on some protection.

He filled the cooler up with sodas and beers before you left home, and has brought along firelighters, making a bonfire on the sand for grilled fruits, vegetables, and meats, so that the two of you can spend the day.

His hair is sun-damaged and bleached with saltwater, but he makes it look good with his freckled face, looking as though he lives on the beach. He’ll go in the water several times, never tiring.

He likes to promenade in flip-flops like he’s on constant vacation,  always shirtless, letting his swim-trunks dry while the two of you walk along the shore as the sun gets low, giving you his sweater once the air gets a little chilly. Making plans for how you can fill the rest of the summer. 

He’s got never-ending ideas, you don’t think you’ll have time for it all—hiking, biking, camping, festivals, outdoor movies, picnics, farmers markets, berry picking, kite flying, ice cream, gardening, going diving, sailing, fishing, hot air balloons, parachuting, bungee jumping, skydiving—yeah, his ideas get progressively more extreme as he goes.

But at home, when he’s all drained out from the sun, he’s a quiet presence. Warm still, but calm, lining up pretty seashells and dried-up corals along all the windowsills, before the two of you hit the shower. Washing off salt and sweat, and about a bucket's worth of sand that remains between the cracks in the tiles.

He’ll leave kisses against your neck and shoulder, murmur things in a voice you don’t recognize from the day, but a grainier one belonging to the night, telling you all the dirty things he’s going to do to you now that the sun’s fully down.

♡ BNHA – Denki, Kirishima, Touya, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Gojo, Yuji ♡ HQ – Hinata, Sugawara, Tanaka, Kuro, Lev, Bokuto, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira, Shido ♡ WB – Umemiya

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[teaboot]

Because a few have asked

Teaboot's Super Okay Guide To Developing A Brain That Makes Art Work

Or: How to get your eyes to talk directly to your hands without your brain micromanaging you

Or: How to draw better

⚠️ Warning for super fast gifs cause they all gotta be 5 seconds or less or else my phone shits the bed ⚠️

1. Do the following exercises. Don't just think about doing them or figure out a clever way to not do them, just do them. Yes even the boring ones and the ones that look ugly

2. If you have any pride, crush it. Kill it. Crunch it up into itty bitty bits and feed it to the ducks at the park. You have no talent and don't know anything and everything you make is hot garbage. Believe that. Make yourself believe that. That is where you live now. Surrender any indignation or shame you have to the void and embrace rock bottom.

3. Read step 2 again and actually do it this time. My methods will not work if you try to make this process pretty. Don't.

4. No drawing from your imagination on these. Actually draw from real life. If it's boring like eating day old oatmeal in in beige room but your usual art still feels wonky then I'm talking to you specifically. You can't write poetry until you learn words and yes learning words is as dull as horseshit sometimes but do you wanna be Robert Frost or not

5. Pick up some cheap paper and a ballpoint pen. Grab a small object, between the size of your hand and the size of a microwave. Set a timer for fifteen minutes. Put the tip of your pen to the paper and press "start".

Now without looking at your paper, only looking at the object, draw the object in as much detail as you can. Do not break contact between the paper and the pen tip until the timer goes off.

This is a continuous line drawing, and you're doing it in pen because you need to know what rock bottom looks like and rock bottom looks like no eyes no erasers no shading no do-overs.

6. Sit down in a public place. As someone walks by, draw their their body in as much accuracy as you can before they are no longer in view. Once you can't see them anymore, the drawing is done. No adding details. Pick someone else and do it again. No "base sketch". Just them. If it barely looks human you're doing great

7. Get a black pen. Put a small object on a dark, flat surface. Now draw the surface without drawing the object. Don't draw the outline of the object. Don't do a sketch. Just draw the surface that is visible around the object until only a silhouette remains. No time limit just do it.

The ability to draw accurate proportions from sight comes from learning to see what exists between a thing and the absence of a thing and if that hurts to think about then you need to do it more

8. Keep doing these until you are Ready.

9. You will know when you are Ready. It will make sense when you are Ready. You will Understand.

10. Unwind with some goofy shit so you don't forget why you wanna improve to begin with

[suliigwp]

Hiii, im sorry if there is any mistake english is not my first language. But I have a request? Or idea??

So kimi bringing reader to paddock for imolia but she is a classmate so no one knows they are dating. So it's just random times when the media and other drivers are wondering if kimi and reader are dating.

Thanks🫶

(Can I be 🦕 anon?)

CLASSMATE? YEAH RIGHT.

Kimi Antonelli x reader

SULI: Hi 🦕 Anon! Oh it's so exciting to have a named anon! Thank you for being here and for requesting a very cute scenario.

Warnings: texts, Twitter posts

The classroom buzzed with low energy. It was late in the day, and the teacher’s voice was beginning to blur into background noise. You were doodling in the margin of your notebook when the door creaked open and Kimi walked in, late as always, a soft nod to the professor as he slid into his seat near the back.

Nothing about him stood out—plain hoodie, notebook closed, no effort to catch up on what he missed. But when the teacher called for the end-of-class announcements, Kimi suddenly raised his hand.

Everyone turned.

The teacher blinked. “Yes, Kimi?”

He stood, stuffing one hand into his jacket pocket. “I have something.”

You raised your eyes, curious. Kimi didn’t talk much in class. Actually, Kimi didn’t talk much—period.

He cleared his throat. “The Imola Grand Prix is this weekend. I talked to my team. I got passes for everyone.”

Silence.

People looked around, unsure if he was joking.

Kimi gave a half-shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “If you want to come. Full paddock access. You’ll get to see the garages, meet the team. Everything is covered. Just let me know by tomorrow.”

“Wait—what?” someone whispered.

Another classmate laughed, “You serious, dude?”

Kimi nodded. “Yeah.”

The teacher looked stunned. “Kimi… are you saying the entire class is invited to Imola?"

“Yeah,” he said again, like he was offering snacks, not a world-class motorsport experience. “It’s a good track. You’ll like it.”

The room exploded with chatter.

“No way—”

“Do we get to meet Hamilton?”

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“I don’t even like racing, but I’m going—”

You sat frozen in your seat. He hadn’t looked your way, hadn’t singled you out. Just kept his gaze steady toward the board.

But you knew what this really was.

Not a flex.

Not a PR stunt.

Not just for the class.

It was the only way he could invite you—without anyone asking why.

And when the bell rang, and people gathered around him in a mix of awe and excitement, he finally glanced at you, the smallest flick of his gaze, quiet and deliberate.

...

...

The bus hissed as it came to a stop just outside the security gates. Your classmates practically jumped out of their seats, crowding toward the front. Excitement buzzed in the air like electricity.

You glanced out the window.

There he was.

Kimi stood just past the gates, flanked by two Mercedes staff. His team polo was tucked neatly into black slacks, lanyard around his neck, hair messy like he hadn’t bothered with it much since morning warm-ups. He looked calm—quiet—but even from the bus, you could tell his gaze was scanning the vehicle.

Looking for someone.

He found you.

Just a flick of his eyes. Just a second. Then he looked away.

No one else seemed to notice.

When the doors opened, the class spilled out, voices overlapping.

“Holy crap, that’s really the paddock!”

“Is that Ferraris motorhome? It’s huge.”

“Wait—is that Charles Leclerc?!"

You stepped down, slower than the others, keeping your eyes shaded behind sunglasses. Kimi didn’t move, but his hand shifted slightly, thumb tapping once against his leg—a subtle tic you recognized.

“Welcome,” said the Mercedes rep, a woman in her thirties with a polite smile. “You’ve all been cleared for full access this weekend. Please stay together for the initial walkthrough.”

Your professor clapped Kimi on the back. “Very generous of you, Antonelli. I imagine you’re the first student in school history to hand out paddock passes to their whole class.”

Kimi shrugged, voice low. “Better than doing a presentation.”

There were chuckles from the class, but a few people started whispering as eyes shifted to you.

As the group moved toward the paddock, Kimi stayed behind, just enough to walk near you but not beside you. When the rest of the class turned a corner, Kimi slowed.

He didn’t look at you—just spoke quietly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You?”

“Bit of a risk inviting everyone.”

“You did it to cover for me.”

You walked for a moment in silence before he added, voice quieter, “They’re already talking.”

“They always do. Don’t listen.”

You glanced at him. “Do you?”

Now he looked at you. Just briefly.

“Only to you.”

The moment passed. A photographer called his name. Kimi stepped forward again, already slipping back into the poised, untouchable driver everyone thought he was.

But he glanced back once, just to make sure you were still there.

...

The paddock was alive. Engineers rolled tires across the concrete, media crews weaved through with cameras, and somewhere in the background, the roar of an engine cracked through the sky like thunder.

Your class had been split into two smaller groups, each assigned a team liaison to walk them through the technical side of the weekend. You stuck with the group heading toward the Mercedes garage, but Kimi wasn’t there.

Not visibly, anyway.

“So this is where the cars are prepped before sessions,” said the engineer guiding you. “The driver debriefs happen over there, behind that glass. You probably won’t see Kimi right now—he’s in a strategy meeting with the engineers.”

You nodded along like the others, but you knew better.

He wasn’t in a meeting.

He was watching.

You felt it.

And you were right.

When the group stopped in front of a spare chassis and the engineer got pulled aside by a call, you wandered toward a cooler, supposedly reaching for water. The others were too busy snapping selfies to notice the door behind you crack open.

“Kimi,” you whispered without turning.

“Hi.” His voice was soft, lazy.

You turned, pretending to walk away, hand tightening around the water bottle. The moment had already been too close, too risky. Someone could’ve seen.

But you only made it two steps.

Grip.

Fingers closed gently around your wrist and tugged — not hard, but firm enough to stop you. You turned just as the door behind you opened wider, and Kimi pulled you in with practiced precision.

The door clicked shut.

The room wasn’t what you expected. Not the open garage floor, but a smaller prep room off to the side — dark, quiet, the kind of space people only passed through, not stayed in. A table with data sheets. A wall of monitors blinking gently.

And Kimi.

He stood in front of you now, a little breathless like he hadn’t fully thought this through, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you with that steady, unreadable look he always wore before a race.

“Kimi,” you whispered, glancing toward the door, “if anyone saw—”

“No one saw,” he cut in. “They’re all by the car.”

Silence fell between you. The kind that hummed with something more dangerous than noise.

He looked at you for a long second. “You looked like you were going to disappear.”

“I was. Because we said—”

“We said we’d be careful,” he murmured. “Not distant.”

You didn’t answer.

His hand found your wrist again — slower this time. Warmer. He ran his thumb across the inside of it, where your pulse beat a little too fast.

“I hate not being able to talk to you,” he muttered.

You let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “You invited the whole class.”

“Because I couldn’t invite just you,” he said again, this time quieter. “I wanted to.”

The words were so quiet they barely reached you. For a second, it was just your breathing and the dull buzz of electricity from the monitors.

Then he leaned forward, forehead brushing yours, voice nothing more than a whisper.

“You looked bored out there.”

You closed your eyes, just for a moment. Let yourself feel the soft press of his hoodie against your arm. The way he was still holding your wrist like it meant something.

“I wasn’t bored,” you whispered. “I was looking for you.”

He pulled back slightly, eyes on yours, and for a flicker of a second, his face softened as he smiled.

And then—

A knock at the main garage door. Loud. Startling.

Both of you jumped.

“Group’s moving!” a voice called.

You jolted upright, brushing your hands against your jeans, your heartbeat now racing. Kimi stepped back into the shadows.

“You go first,” he murmured. “I’ll wait a minute.”

You hesitated, then reached for the door handle.

Before you left, you turned back once more. “Kimi?”

“Yeah?”

You tried to smile, even as your heart pounded in your throat. “You’re worth getting in trouble for.”

His gaze softened — something small and real in the corner of his mouth.

“So are you.”

You slipped out, closing the door behind you, and jogged back to the group just as they were rounding the corner.

But your pulse was still racing, and your wrist still burned where he had touched you.

...

The post-session haze hadn’t worn off yet — Kimi’s race suit was half-zipped, chest rising and falling under his white shirt as he sat on the edge of the padded bench, sipping on electrolyte water. His hair was slightly damp from the helmet. The door creaked open and George strolled in, tossing a towel over his shoulder.

“Solid lap,” George offered, flopping into the seat across from him.

"Thanks."

George leaned back, glancing toward the tinted glass that looked out into the paddock below.

“You’ve got some fans today,” he said lightly.

Kimi didn’t look up. “Media?”

“Nope.” George grinned. “School group.”

That made Kimi glance up for a half-second.

George caught it.

“Didn’t know we were doing career day,” he teased, voice easy. “Or… was that your idea?”

Kimi’s face gave nothing away, but his grip on the bottle tightened just slightly. “Everyone got invited.”

“Everyone,” George echoed, feigning a thoughtful nod. “Right. Even that girl in flared jeans who keeps standing near the ropes by the garage? Real subtle.”

Kimi looked at him now, but his voice was calm. “Her name’s Y/N.”

George gave a lopsided smile, one eyebrow raised. “Of course you know who I'm talking about. Everyone was wearing jeans."

Kimi didn’t answer right away. Just turned back to the water bottle, rolling it between his palms.

“She likes the engineering side,” he said finally. “It made sense.”

George watched him for a moment, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Mate,” he said quietly, “I don’t care if she’s your girlfriend or your lab partner. But the way you were looking at her by the pit wall earlier…”

Kimi stiffened.

“…was not the way I looked at my lab partner.”

Silence.

George clapped him on the shoulder, playful again. “Just don’t get caught sneaking her into the sim. You’ll start a rumor faster than Toto can shut it down.”

Kimi rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth — not quite a smile.

George stood and headed for the shower, tossing the towel into the hamper. But just before he stepped out, he called back:

“She’s cute, by the way. Good taste.”

Kimi said nothing, but when the door clicked shut, he pulled out his phone.

...

...

Sunday Night

The Italian night was warm and buzzing, a light hum of engines still lingering in the air from earlier that day. Below, Imola had already begun winding down. Above, on the rooftop of the hotel where the team had booked rooms, the air was quieter.

You found Kimi sitting alone near the edge, his team jacket still on, his cap pulled low. His phone was face-down beside him, untouched.

He didn’t look up when you sat next to him.

You didn’t say anything for a while, just stared at the dark sky with him. There was a slight breeze, tugging at your sleeves.

“They called it a ‘learning weekend,’” he muttered finally, voice flat.

You glanced over. His jaw was tight.

“I think that’s their way of saying it sucked without actually saying it sucked.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “It wasn’t a disaster.”

He huffed a short laugh, but it was dry. “P11. I missed points. I locked up twice. I made mistakes.”

“You’re eighteen,” you said gently.

“I’m not allowed to make rookie mistakes anymore,” he snapped. Then his tone softened. “Not here. Not in that car.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration radiating off him like heat.

You watched him for a moment, then leaned over and rested your head lightly on his shoulder. He tensed — not because of you, but because he was so used to being on all the time. Then, slowly, he let himself breathe.

“You know what?” you said after a pause. “I think you’re allowed one bad weekend.”

“One,” he repeated.

“Maybe two. But don’t push it,” you teased softly.

He finally looked down at you, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You pulled back just enough to see his face, but stayed close. “Also, how did we get away with it again? The whole class was here and literally no one clocked us.”

Kimi raised an eyebrow. “George asked.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Yesterday. Said, ‘So, is there something going on with you and the girl with flared jeans?’ I said you were just ‘a classmate.’” He smirked. “Worked again.”

You snorted. “Unbelievable.”

He nudged your side. “You’re the one who bolted every time someone looked our way.”

“Maybe because your idea of being subtle is pulling me into a storage room.”

“...They didn’t catch us.”

You both laughed quietly, the kind that bubbled from relief and affection and the thrill of a secret well-kept.

Then you leaned your head back on his shoulder.

“You’re still my favorite driver,” you whispered.

Kimi didn’t say anything, but you felt the way his arm brushed against yours, his pinky finger barely grazing your hand like a silent thank you.

For now, that was enough.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 17: May 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

Alexandra didn’t mean to become an investigator.

It wasn’t like she’d shown up to the Monaco GP Qualifying with a magnifying glass and a corkboard. But when you’d been dating Charles Leclerc long enough—and surviving his family dynamics even longer—you learned to pay attention. To the tone. To the silences. To the details no one else saw.

Which was why, as she sipped her matcha in the shaded calm of the Paddock Lounge, Alexandra looked across the table at Carmen Montero Mundt and said, without preamble:

“I think Isabelle has a boyfriend.”

Carmen snorted. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Alexandra said, leveling her with a look. “She has a Chanel bag and a new bracelet. And she isn’t flinching when her brothers snap at her these days.” 

Carmen blinked, clearly caught off guard. “That’s… quite a list.”

“She’s glowing,” Alexandra continued. “Like, actual glowy skin, soft hair, new moisturizer who this kind of glow. And she’s started saying no to her brothers. You don’t wake up one day and grow a spine for no reason. Something changed.”

Carmen laughed, a little too loudly. “Okay, okay. I mean… that’s crazy, though. Right? Isabelle? Dating? In this paddock?” She waved a hand. “Wild idea.”

Alexandra narrowed her eyes.

Carmen looked away.

“You know something,” Alexandra said flatly.

“What? No. I just—”

“Carmen.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You’re squirming,” Alexandra said, setting her cup down. “You know something.”

Carmen opened her mouth. Closed it. Fiddled with her sleeve.

“If I did know something,” she said carefully, “Charles would absolutely not be allowed to know.”

That was confirmation enough.

Alexandra leaned back, lips twitching. “Oh my God.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Carmen said quickly, holding up her hands.

“You just did,” Alexandra whispered, eyes wide. “She’s seeing someone. She is.”

“I never confirmed that,” Carmen insisted, eyes darting. “This is purely hypothetical.”

“But you said Charles can’t know,” Alexandra replied, voice low. “Which means it’s someone Charles would hate. So. Let’s play a game.”

“No games,” Carmen said immediately.

Alexandra smiled sweetly. “Is it Lando?”

Carmen visibly short-circuited.

Carmen choked on her coffee. “What? No!”

Alexandra narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Lando is—no. No. Absolutely not.”

“Is it Lando?!” Alexandra repeated, scandalized. “Oh my god.”

Carmen clutched her water bottle like it might save her. “Alex, I’m begging you—I didn’t say it was Lando!”

Alexandra’s brain was already spinning. “Wait. It’s someone in the paddock, isn’t it?”

Carmen made a noise that could’ve been a cough or a plea.

Alexandra gasped. “It’s someone in the paddock. You just confirmed it!”

“No I didn’t.”

“You totally did.”

“I absolutely didn’t.”

“You’re panicking, which means I’m right.”

Carmen buried her face in her hands. “I hate you.”

Alexandra grinned. “You love me.”

“I will never survive Charles finding out.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

Carmen peeked through her fingers. “You won’t?”

“No,” Alexandra said, a little too gleefully. “Because I want to figure it out myself. And then I want to sit front row for the chaos when Charles does find out.”

Carmen groaned. “You’re evil.”

Alexandra took a victorious sip of matcha. “Isabelle has clearly been holding out on us.”

She glanced across the paddock, just in time to catch a glimpse of Isabelle—composed, chic, wearing that ridiculous bracelet that no one on her salary bought herself—speaking calmly to a Ferrari engineer.

Alexandra smiled.

Game on.

***

Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting golden streaks across the navy-blue sheets. The faint hum of the city below filtered through the open balcony doors, mingling with the distant sound of waves hitting the rocks. The air smelled like salt, fresh linens, and a hint of Max’s cologne lingering on the pillows.

Isabelle stirred, shifting slightly beneath the covers. Before she could open her eyes, a warm hand slid over her waist, pulling her back against a familiar chest.

“Stay,” Max mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

She smiled, settling against him. “We have to get up soon.”

Max let out a low hum, nuzzling into the back of her neck. “Later.”

She turned in his arms, finally opening her eyes to find him watching her with that soft, drowsy expression he only ever wore in the mornings. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and there was a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looked at her like he had nowhere else to be, like nothing in the world mattered but her.

His lips curved into a slow grin. “Happy birthday, Schatje.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. “Thank you.”

Max propped himself up on his elbow and reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a small, velvet box. “I know you said no gifts until tomorrow, but…” He handed it to her. “I want you to have this today.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow but took the box, flipping it open. Inside, a pair of delicate diamond studs glimmered in the morning light. Simple, timeless—exactly her style.

Her throat tightened.

“Max,” she whispered, brushing her fingers over one.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Your real present comes tomorrow,” he promised. “But I wanted you to have something for today, too.”

She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. “I love them.”

Max grinned, looking satisfied with himself, before rolling over her to reach for his phone. “We have time before we leave. Do you want scrambled eggs?”

She laughed, pushing at his chest. “You just want an excuse to make a mess in the kitchen.”

“I would never.”

She let him pull her out of bed anyway.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: 🕯️ I have lit the ceremonial birthday candle 🎂 You have officially survived another year of Leclerc-related nonsense 🪩 Proud of you, love you, and am mentally blowing up balloons in your honour.  (Also: do not lift a single finger today. Your brothers are on their own.)

Isabelle: It’s 6am. But thank you 🖤

Emilie: You’re welcome. Now go eat something sugary and dramatic and let Max spoil you.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria:  Happy birthday, Belle 💛 Victoria:   The boys made you a card—well, Luka drew a race car and Lio ate half a crayon, but it’s heartfelt. 💛 Victoria:   There’s cake waiting when you come up next ❤️We miss you.

Isabelle: Thank you, Vic ❤️ Tell the boys I love them. And I accept race cars with open arms.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: Happy Birthday, Belle! I know the day will be loud, but I hope someone takes a quiet moment just for you. You are thoughtful, steady, and stronger than you think. And you are so very loved.  Thank you for everything you’ve brought into Max’s life. Into ours.  We’re lucky to have you.

Isabelle: Thank you, Sophie. That means more than I can say.

Sophie: No need to say it. Just know.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Oscar Piastri

Oscar: Happy birthday, Belle! Lily says I have to include emojis so: 🎉🎂🧁💐 Thanks for adopting me into Monaco and teaching me how to not get run over by mopeds. (And how to find the best cheese…and saving my back from that couch.)

Isabelle: Thank you, Oscar 🧡 You were an excellent Monaco adoptee. Very teachable. Solid cheese instincts. 10/10 dodging reflexes. Good Luck today!

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lando Norris

Lando: happy birthday, belle!! i was going to say something cool and poetic but i’m not awake enough for that. you’re a legend even when you scare me a little. (in a good way.)

Isabelle: thank you, lando 🧡 You’re not so bad yourself—even when you’re making that face you make mid-qualy. Legend recognizes legend. Appreciate you. Good Luck today!

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lily Zneimer

Lily: 🎉🎂 HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY TO MONACO’S MOST UNDERAPPRECIATED GEM 💄👑 I hope today is full of peace, good coffee, and zero passive-aggressive family drama. (But just in case—it’s me. I’m your escape plan. Say the word, and we’re disappearing into McLaren hospitality with iced matchas and moral superiority.)

Isabelle: You had me at iced matcha and moral superiority. I’ll find you if the walls start closing in. Thank you, lily. Truly.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Daniel Ricciardo

Daniel: 🎈🎂 BELLE DAY!!! 🎂🎈

The only person I trust to emotionally manage Max Verstappen. Hope someone brings you flowers. And maybe a pony. If they don’t, I will personally cause a scene.

Isabelle: Thank you, Dan🩵 If a pony appears on my balcony, i’ll know who to blame. 

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lewis Hamilton

Lewis: Happy birthday, Belle. I hope someone reminds you today how deeply you’re appreciated—not just for what you do, but for who you are. Thank you for keeping half the grid emotionally intact. Sending love. 

Isabelle: Thank you! Sending love right back. Good Luck today! ***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Gianpiero Lambiase

GP: Happy Birthday, Belle. Hope today brings you at least half the peace you bring Max. (And maybe a cupcake that isn’t from a sponsor.)

Isabelle: You saying that means more than a dozen cupcakes. (Though, for the record, I am on the lookout for a non-sponsored one.) Thank you 🩵

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Jos Verstappen

Jos: Happy birthday, Belle.

Isabelle: Thank you 🩵

***

The garage was buzzing already.

Ferrari reds were everywhere—technicians checking monitors, Charles pacing with purpose, Arthur trying to look official in his headset like he wasn’t a nervous wreck. Pascale stood just outside the garage in heels that defied logic, talking animatedly to a photographer. Lorenzo was in full PR mode, coordinating something Belle didn’t want to know about.

It was chaos. Familiar, electric chaos.

No one had said anything.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even Arthur’s usual teasing “how does it feel to be ancient?” that she half-dreaded every year.

She didn’t know why she’d expected anything different. The race had swallowed them whole—Charles was starting on pole in Monaco. Nothing else existed. Not today.

Belle stood off to the side, near the rows of tire blankets, half watching the team run through final checks. Her arms were crossed loosely, her Ferrari pass swinging gently at her hip. She was calm. Mostly.

No one looked at Belle.

Not one person.

Not even the Ferrari comms girl who usually remembered these things and handed out team cupcakes with candles and Instagram captions.

Belle didn’t say a word about it.

She stood near the tire warmers, half-watching the screens, arms folded in her red windbreaker like she belonged—like she wasn’t a little hollow around the edges.

She didn’t need much. A nod. A quiet “happy birthday” from someone who shared her blood. 

She wasn’t a child. But she wasn’t made of stone, either.

“Belle,” came a voice from behind her, low and steady.

She turned. Carlos.

He was already in his suit, helmet in his hands, gloves off. His brows furrowed as he stepped a little closer, angled out of earshot from the others.

“Did they really all forget?” he asked quietly.

Belle gave a noncommittal shrug. “Race day. Everyone’s focused.”

Carlos looked unimpressed. “You’re Charles’ sister. You’re part of this team.”

“Not when he’s on pole at Monaco,” she said, her voice smooth. Not bitter. Not angry. Just… flat.

Carlos hesitated. “I could say something.”

Belle looked up at him, her eyes steady. “Please don’t.”

Carlos turned to face her more fully. “Belle—”

“I mean it,” she cut in gently, but firmly. “Don’t tell them. I don’t want a pity cupcake rushed from hospitality at the last minute. I don’t want a half-hearted ‘Oh my god, I forgot!’ over Charles’ shoulder after he wins Monaco.”

Carlos clenched his jaw, visibly holding back the urge to argue.

Belle folded her arms. “Let them forget. At least then it’s honest.”

“That’s not how it should be.”

“I know,” she said, softly. “But it’s how it is.”

Carlos looked at her for a long moment. 

A beat passed between them—quiet, unsaid, respectful.

Then Carlos exhaled, stepping back. “Feliz cumpleaños, Belle.”

“Gracias, Carlos.”

And just like that, he rejoined the team, already putting on his gloves, focus shifting toward the grid.

Belle didn’t move for a long time.

The noise swelled again. Charles laughed somewhere in the distance. Her mother was likely telling a cameraman how proud she was. Ferrari staff bustled past her, not one making eye contact.

Belle stayed silent.

She didn’t want fanfare. She didn’t need attention. But what she did want—to be remembered, without being the one to remind them—was clearly too much today.

So she folded her arms, stared at the screen, and reminded herself it was almost over.

And next year, she’d spend her birthday somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from red walls and cheers that weren’t for her.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos: we have a situation.

it’s belle’s birthday.

and her entire family has forgotten.

including ferrari.

including CHARLES.

it is 20 minutes to lights out and not. one. word.

Oscar: I’m going to throw something.

George: You’re kidding. Please say you’re kidding.

Carlos: do i look like i’m joking?? she’s just standing there. like nothing’s wrong. like she’s not quietly dying inside.

Lando: okay well now i’m dying inside

Alex: I feel physically ill

Daniel: WHAT EXCUSE ME???

Lewis: You’re joking Please tell me you’re joking

Carlos: no. I asked her. no one said anything. not a text. not even a joke. not even her own mother.

Lando: is this a new low?? is this the actual lowest the Leclercs have ever gone??

Daniel: I’m in a race suit and I want to cry. WHAT DO WE DO??

Oscar: We should tell Max, right? Like. Surely he should know??

Carlos: If we tell Max he’ll cause a scene.

George: He would literally buy out all of Cartier Monaco mid-race and hand-deliver it to her at parc fermé.

Fernando: Do not underestimate that man. 

Lando: we’re going to hell for this but do we… see how long it takes before someone notices?

Lewis: We don’t tell them. We watch and we wait. Let’s see how long it takes them to remember without her saying a word.

Mark: Ten bucks says they still won’t realise by the time Charles gets to the podium.

David: Make it twenty. I’ll double it if their mother starts crying and still doesn’t remember.

Alex: Yes. I want data. I want timestamps.

Daniel: I want Ferrari’s social team to panic at 8pm when they realise they posted five shots of Charles and zero birthday wishes for the sister in their garage.

Sebastian Vettel: We’ll make it up to her later. But let them feel this silence.

Carlos: She said not to tell them. she said—and I quote—“I don’t want a pity cupcake.”

Oscar: I respect her so much it hurts

George: She’s the most composed person I’ve ever met And they just… forgot

Nico H.: This is going to haunt me until I die

Alex: We need to do something. Like now.

Sebastian: Tell her we remember. That we care. Also—flowers. Immediately.

Mark: Seconded. No one ignores that girl on her birthday.

Nico R.: Are we sending a coordinated surprise or staging an intervention?

Oscar: What’s our over/under on how long it takes for Charles to realise

Alex: If he wins: never.  If he DNFs: thirty seconds

Fernando: Either way, he’ll make it about himself

***

Text Messages: Carlos Sainz Jr. & Max Verstappen

Carlos: I know it’s race day. But I need to tell you something.

Max: Is Belle okay?

Carlos: She’s fine. She’s… not saying anything. Her entire family forgot her birthday. 

Max: …What?

Carlos: No one said a word. Not Charles. Not her mother. Even Ferrari didn’t acknowledge it.

Max: You’re sure?

Carlos: I asked her. She shrugged it off. Said not to say anything. Said she didn’t want a “pity cupcake.” She’s just standing in the garage. Alone. Like she’s used to it.

Max: I’m going to kill someone. I swear to god.

Carlos: She said let them forget. She meant it.

Max: I can’t just do nothing.

Carlos: I didn’t say do nothing. I said let them do nothing.

Carlos: You do what you do best. You show up for her.

Max: I always do.

Carlos: I know. I just thought you should know before she pretends it didn’t matter.

Max: Thanks. I owe you.

Carlos: You don’t. But I’ll take beer.

Max: Done.

***

Max’s helmet rested against his hip like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

The garage was loud—buzzing with the usual tension of Monaco race day. The sound of compressed air guns, the low thrum of engines firing in intervals, the blur of pit wall calls and tire heat readings. But he barely registered it.

His whole body hummed with fury.

Not at Ferrari. Not at Charles.

Not even at the race.

At them.

Her family.

Carlos had texted him in a quiet moment, just minutes before Max was supposed to get in the car. He’d said it carefully, like someone diffusing a live wire.

She’s fine, he’d said. Her entire family forgot her birthday. 

Max hadn’t spoken for a full fifteen seconds.

Not even Charles. Not Arthur. Not Lorenzo. Not her mother.

Not the people who called her sweet when she baked for them. Not the team that draped her in red when it suited their image. Not the brother whose name she still defended in interviews, whose wins she supported even when her own milestones went ignored.

Max should’ve expected it.

He had expected it, in a cynical, detached sort of way. He’d seen the patterns—how easily they forgot her. How quickly they looked through her. Belle had always been the quiet background to their spotlight. The steady one. The peacemaker. The girl who remembered everyone else’s birthdays.

But this?

On her birthday?

On the day Charles was starting from pole in Monaco—his home race, his fairy tale, his childhood dream teetering on the edge of reality—they couldn’t spare a moment to remember her.

Not even Arthur’s usual teasing. Not a cupcake. Not a card from Maman. Not a stupid “Happy Birthday” badge from Ferrari’s comms team.

Nothing.

She hadn’t said a word. She never did. She was standing in that garage—arms folded, expression unreadable, surrounded by people in red who didn’t see her at all. Like she was just a shadow of the name stitched into their driver’s suit.

Max hadn’t seen her yet. But he didn’t need to.

He felt it.

He always felt it when she was hurting.

He turned slowly, trying to quiet the storm behind his ribs, and found GP near the telemetry monitors.

“GP,” he said, low and tight.

GP looked up immediately, blinking at the look on Max’s face. “You okay?”

“No,” Max said. “But I’ll deal with it. I just needed to say it out loud.”

“Say what?”

“They forgot her birthday,” Max said. “All of them.”

GP went still.

“Her brothers. Her mother. Ferrari. All of them. Not a text. Not a smile. Nothing.”

GP swore softly.

“She told Carlos not to say anything,” Max added, jaw clenched. “Didn’t want a ‘pity cupcake.’”

GP didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Max exhaled hard. “And Charles is about to win Monaco.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

Because he couldn’t even bring himself to feel bitter about that—not really. Charles had worked for it. Earned it. Fought tooth and nail for years to cross this particular finish line. But the fact that his win would be the reason Belle went unnoticed? That the whole paddock would celebrate while she stood quietly in the shadows?

It made Max’s skin itch with something close to rage.

He hated them for it.

He hated how easily they took her for granted. How they smiled when she made their lives easier and then left her to disappear behind the noise.

And he hated that this would become a story Belle told herself—proof she wasn’t worth remembering. That her soft presence, her quiet kindness, her constant steadiness, somehow made her forgettable.

She wasn’t.

Not to Max.

Never to Max.

“I’m going to finish this race,” he said quietly, voice like steel.

GP met his eyes and nodded. “Yeah. I know you are.”

“And after that, I’m taking her home.”

“Good.”

Max didn’t move for a beat. He stared at the garage wall across from him, past the chaos of prep and the blinking monitors, and thought of her.

He thought of the way she still smiled at her family like she was proud of them.

He thought of the way she folded into his arms like it was the only place she was ever allowed to fall apart.

He thought of how easy it would be to make today better. To remember what they didn’t. To hold her hand and say, I see you. I always see you.

He pulled his helmet on.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1HistoryMaker: HE DID IT. HE FINALLY DID IT. CHARLES LECLERC WINS HIS HOME GRAND PRIX.

@/MonacoMagic16: I’M CRYING, YOU’RE CRYING, THE ENTIRE PRINCIPALITY OF MONACO IS CRYING.

@/RedFlagged: Ferrari actually didn’t ruin his race. Miracles do happen.

@/​​PitLaneProphet: Charles Leclerc winning Monaco is like a fairy tale finally getting its happy ending.

@/ScuderiaSimp: Charles crying, his team crying, the whole of Monaco crying, me crying in my living room—this is cinema.

@/RacingRoyalty: Not to be that person, but isn’t it also Isabelle Leclerc’s birthday today? Like… what a day for their family.

↳ @/F1Detective: So Charles wins Monaco on his sister’s birthday? This man really said, “Happy birthday, Isabelle, here’s the greatest achievement of my career.”

@/MonacoMonarch: Not to be dramatic, but I think the entire country of Monaco is going to declare today a national holiday.

@/ScuderiaFaithful: CHARLES LECLERC. MONACO GRAND PRIX WINNER. WE WAITED. WE SUFFERED. WE PRAYED. AND FINALLY, IT HAPPENED.

@/FerrariTifosi: Ferrari finally gave Charles a functional strategy in Monaco. I need a moment.

@/ScuderiaForever: CHARLES LECLERC WINS MONACO. I AM SCREAMING. I AM CRYING. I AM KISSING THE STREETS OF MONTE CARLO.

@/F1StatsGuy: Charles Leclerc becomes the first Monegasque driver to win the Monaco Grand Prix in 93 years. And all it took was years of heartbreak.

***

When Charles crossed the finish line, the world broke open around her.

The Ferrari garage erupted—screaming, fists in the air, champagne already being shaken loose from the back fridges. There were hugs, backslaps, high-pitched shouting in Italian. Team radios buzzed and clicked, Charles’ voice half-choked with emotion as he screamed in disbelief over the comms.

He’d done it.

 He’d won Monaco.

His home. His heartbreak. His ghost track.

And Belle was happy.

 Genuinely, undeniably happy for him.

She stood in the shadow of the celebration, just out of the camera frame, tucked near the telemetry screens with her arms loosely folded across her chest. Her lips were curved in something like a smile, her eyes glassy but bright. She clapped when the others clapped. She even let herself cheer when the Ferrari engineers surged forward like a wave.

She watched Arthur leap into Charles’ arms. Watched Pascale cry and kiss both her sons like the world had ended and been reborn in red and gold. Lorenzo filmed the moment on his phone with the focus of a man who would post it ten seconds later. The garage was shaking with joy.

And no one looked at Belle.

Not even once.

No passing “Happy birthday.” No late realization. No elbow nudge from Arthur, no cheek kiss from their mother. Not even the Ferrari comms girl with her clipboard full of media notes and scheduled shoutouts.

Nothing.

She didn't even know why she was still waiting. She should've known. She did know. But hope was funny that way—it always showed up, uninvited.

The hollowness wasn’t sharp. Just heavy. Just tired.

She felt it most when she watched Charles climb the fence to his team, red gloves in the air, face split in triumph. She felt it when the anthem played and the grandstands sang with him. She felt it in every photo she wasn’t in, every cheer she smiled through, every red flare that lit up the sky without once glancing her way.

It wasn’t malice. Just absence.

And Belle knew absence better than most.

Carlos found her at some point in the swirl of it all. He didn’t say anything. Just passed her a bottle of water, stood beside her for a while like a silent sentinel. She didn’t speak either. He didn’t need her to.

Later, when they followed the team up toward parc fermé, someone handed her a headset and someone else ushered her toward the group photo. She stood on the end. Smiled. Did her part. She had practice, after all.

She caught Charles’ eye once—just once—as he grinned like the world was finally giving him what he’d fought so long for.

After the photo, Belle quietly stepped away. Back into the shadows of the paddock. Back to silence.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t sigh. She just… breathed. Steadily.

She was proud of him. She really, truly was.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

***

Instagram Story: @/isabelleleclerc

***

He was waiting for her that evening. After the race…after the celebrations…she had texted him that she was on her way home…and he had come downstairs to wait in the lobby of the building they lived in…

He knew something was wrong the moment she stepped into the elevator with him and the doors closed. 

Belle didn’t move like herself.

She was too still. Folded in. Shoulders curled inward like she was trying to disappear into the seams of her own body. Her hands were clutched in the sleeves of her windbreaker. Ferrari Red. Worn over a cream coloured ress. 

She didn’t look at him—not when the doors opened, not when they slid shut. Just stood there blinking, like she wasn’t crying yet, but would be. Soon.

Max—who knew every version of her—recognized this one.

This was Belle when she’d given too much and received nothing back. When she’d swallowed every hurt and pretended it was fine until the silence pressed against her ribs.

She was unraveling. Quietly. Completely.

“Hi,” he said softly. Like a rope thrown out to sea. “I knew you’d leave early.”

She didn’t answer.

She took one small step forward.

Her knees buckled.

He caught her before gravity could.

She fell into his chest like the air had left her lungs. Her hands clutched at his hoodie—white-knuckled, shaking. Her face buried itself just beneath his collarbone. Her breath hitched, shallow and sharp. Not sobbing. Not yet.

But he felt it coming.

And God, he wanted to kill someone for it.

“They forgot,” she whispered.

Max closed his eyes.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“All of them. Maman. Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Even Ferrari.” Her voice caught on the name. “Not even a text. Not even a joke.”

His jaw tightened until it hurt.

Max wanted to scream. He wanted to take every single person who called themselves her family and demand how they could stand beside her and not see her. Not notice the way she always noticed them. How she remembered birthdays, anniversaries, meaningless preferences about milk and Spotify playlists.

Belle held the whole damn family together like an invisible thread. And they’d looked straight through her.

“They looked through me,” Belle whispered, her voice breaking completely now. “Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just… invisible.”

Max wrapped his arms around her like armor.

“You’re not invisible,” he said fiercely, pressing his mouth to her hair. “You’re everything. And I see you, Belle. I always see you.”

She made a sound then—small and broken—and the dam burst.

She sobbed like it had been building all day. Her whole body shook against his. The kind of grief that wasn’t about one thing but all of it—every quiet dismissal, every missed moment, every time she’d made herself small so someone else could shine.

Max didn’t speak. Just held her. Let her cry. Let her fall apart the way no one had ever given her permission to do before.

By the time they reached their floor, her legs barely worked.

Max carried her inside.

He didn’t ask if she was hungry. Didn’t ask if she wanted to talk.

He filled the bath instead. Lit candles. Got her out of her Ferrari red windbreaker and the cream dress she had worn and into the water, slow and careful, like she might shatter if he moved too fast.

He washed her hair in silence. Brushed it back from her face. Whispered her name and little nothings—soft words meant to ground her, not fix her.

Belle didn’t say anything more.

She just curled into him, damp and shivering in one of his old Red Bull shirts, and shut down completely.

He got her into bed. Tucked the duvet around her like a shield. Slipped in behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, face pressed to the back of her neck. The cats climbed up and curled against her legs—silent, instinctive.

She didn’t move. Barely breathed.

But slowly, eventually, her breathing steadied. Like maybe the worst had passed. Or maybe she just couldn’t carry it anymore.

Max lay there, wide awake, rage blooming quiet and white-hot behind his ribs.

He thought of the garage. Of Charles laughing, soaked in champagne. Of Pascale gushing to a camera crew, pride sparkling in her eyes. Of Arthur pretending to be important in a headset and Lorenzo posing for photos.

Not one of them had seen her.

She’d stood there, right there, in her red jacket and her quiet grace and her heartbreak—and not one of them remembered.

Max hated them in that moment. All of them.

They didn’t deserve the version of Belle they so often took for granted.

And in the quiet, he made himself a promise.

They would never get to hurt her like this again.

Not by accident.

 Not by carelessness.

 Not by forgetting the girl who remembered everyone else.

Let them celebrate Charles. Let them flood Instagram with podiums and champagne and family pride.

He would be the one who never forgot her.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos:Charles still hasn’t realized.

Oscar: I thought he’d realize when Ferrari posted the celebration gallery.

Lewis: You’re telling me he looked at her IN THE GARAGE on her birthday, won the most emotional race of his life and still didn’t realize she was standing right there and it was her birthday??

Carlos: Yes. That’s what I’m telling you.

Daniel: WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM.

Alex: Everything.

Nico H.: This is the most committed man has ever been to the concept of obliviousness.

Mark: I think he deserves a prize for this.

Sebastian: A slap is a prize now?

Fernando: We should start a timer. See how long it takes him.

Lewis: We already are. George made a spreadsheet.

George: Currently it’s at around 16 hours. 

Oscar: Should we… drop hints?

Carlos: Belle doesn’t want pity cupcakes. Remember?

David: What happens if he remembers a week late?

Lando: We release the tapes.

Alex: There are tapes???

Lando: There are always tapes.

Nico R.: How do we not tell him?

George: Because now it’s a scientific experiment and also a moral failing.

Sebastian: Also because if he finds out now, it’ll be a dramatic guilt spiral and Belle will have to comfort him and she deserves better.

Mark: Can we send her flowers anonymously again?

Sebastian: Already handled.

Oscar: We should send her a plaque. “Survived the Monaco GP and her entire family’s emotional incompetence.”

Lando: New merch idea???

David: I want in on that.

Kimi: this chat is insane

Daniel: That’s rich coming from you.

Kimi: tell leclerc he’s an asshole.

Carlos: She told me not to.

George: So we do nothing.

Oscar: Except passive-aggressively track it like the disappointed siblings she deserves.

***

Belle woke up in the quiet.

The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the early sea breeze. The city was still sleeping off champagne and street rubber. And Max… Max hadn’t moved.

He was lying beside her, still in the same hoodie he’d held her in last night, one arm curled protectively around her waist like he’d never once let go.

Her eyes were dry. Her throat sore. Her chest hollow.

But she wasn’t crying anymore.

Belle just felt still.

Slowly, she shifted beneath the blankets. Max stirred instantly, his hold softening so she could move, but his eyes opened the second she sat up.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “How do you feel?”

Belle pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them loosely. Her voice came out steady. Too steady.

“I’m done.”

Max blinked. “Done?”

“I don’t want anyone to say anything to them,” she said. “Not yet. Not today.”

“Belle…”

She shook her head. “I want to see how long it takes. How many days pass before someone notices.”

Max sat up beside her, eyes on her face. “That’s going to hurt.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a long pause. The kind where most people would fill the silence with softness or sugar.

But not Max. He just waited.

“They forgot me,” Belle said. “And I think part of me always knew they would, eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be… so easy for them.”

Max’s hand brushed gently down her back. “You don’t have to forgive them.”

“I don’t even want to talk to them,” she said quietly. “Not right now. Not this week. Maybe not ever. I don’t want explanations. I don’t want excuses. I don’t want Charles saying he was too focused or Maman pretending she got the date wrong. I don’t want a retroactive Instagram post or some half-wilted apology bouquet.”

She turned her head and met Max’s eyes.

“I just want silence. Because that’s what they gave me.”

Max nodded once, slow and sure. “Then they get silence.”

She exhaled. Closed her eyes. Rested her cheek against his shoulder.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t bitter. She wasn’t even angry anymore.

She was just done.

She didn’t need to rage. She didn’t need to beg. She didn’t need to remind them why she mattered.

They should’ve known. And now, she was done teaching them how to love her.

The silence stretched again, but it felt easier now. Not so sharp around the edges.

Max stayed still for a moment longer, just letting her lean against him. Letting her breathe. Letting her exist without needing to perform for anyone’s comfort.

Then, he kissed the top of her head and stood.

Belle didn’t ask where he was going. She just stayed curled beneath the duvet, watching him move through the bedroom with quiet purpose.

When she finally followed the smell of something warm and toasty, the kitchen was already glowing with morning light. Monaco’s buildings gleamed gold just beyond the windows, and the sea sparkled like it didn’t know what day it was—or what it had cost her yesterday.

Max was barefoot, still rumpled from sleep, flipping something on the stove with quiet concentration.

Belle leaned against the doorframe. “You’re making pancakes?”

Max glanced over his shoulder. “Kind of,” he said. “You had a rough day. I figured a breakfast that doesn’t ask too much of you was a good idea.”

She blinked. “Pancakes ask nothing of me.”

“Exactly.” He nodded at the table. “Sit. I made tea.”

There were two mugs already waiting. Her favorite blend. A little honey on the side. A tiny bowl of berries that definitely hadn’t come from their fridge.

“Did you go out this morning?” she asked, touched but suspicious.

“I have resources,” Max said, which usually meant “I bullied someone over text until they delivered groceries before sunrise.”

Belle sat.

He placed a plate in front of her a moment later—pancakes with lightly caramelized edges, fresh raspberries (her favourite), and just a touch of powdered sugar. Not fancy. Not showy. But thoughtful.

Just like him.

Max sat across from her, sipping his coffee, watching her with the kind of quiet that meant he didn’t need to talk unless she wanted him to.

They ate in near silence. Belle didn’t finish everything. She didn’t need to. Max didn’t comment on it.

It wasn’t until he stood to rinse the dishes that he finally said, with a little smile tugging at his lips— “So,” he said. “Now that you’ve had coffee and carbs and emotional catharsis…”

Belle raised an eyebrow.

“…do you want your actual birthday surprise?”

She froze.

Max smiled, crooked and careful. “I know yesterday made it hard. And I didn’t want to push. But I have something for you. Well. Two somethings, technically.”

Belle narrowed her eyes. “Two?”

Max stood, offered his hand. “Trust me?”

She didn’t hesitate as she took it. “Always.”

He pulled her to her feet gently, not rushing her, not asking her to smile. Just kissed her knuckles and said, “Put on something comfortable. We’ve got a drive ahead.”

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Max Verstappen

Oscar: Hey. Just wanted to check in on Belle. How’s she doing?

Max: She cried herself to sleep yesterday. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her fall apart like that.

Oscar: Shit.

Max: Yeah.

Oscar: Is she… okay today?

Max: She’s quiet. Said she’s done.

Oscar: Done like…?

Max: She doesn’t want to talk to any of them. Doesn’t want apologies. Doesn’t want excuses. She just wants silence. Said it’s what they gave her, so she’s giving it back.

Oscar: She’s allowed to be done.

Max: Yeah. I’m not going to stop her.

Oscar: You shouldn’t. They don’t deserve her patience.

Max: They never did.

Oscar: Is there anything you need?

Max: No. I’ve got her. Just… make sure people don’t push her. Don’t try to fix it.. She’s drawing the line.

Oscar: Got it. Tell her we’re here if she needs anything.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Oscar: Update from Max: Belle cried herself to sleep last night. And this morning she said she’s done with all of them.

George: …Jesus.

Lando: This is actually heartbreaking. I feel physically sick.

Carlos: She didn’t even look sad. That’s the worst part. She looked like someone who expected it.

Daniel: Max must be losing it.

Oscar: He is. But he’s also calm. The kind of calm where you know someone’s promising vengeance in five languages.

Lewis: And she still doesn’t want anyone to say anything to them?

Oscar: Nope. She just wants silence. Said it’s what they gave her, so she’s giving it back.

Alex: I’m going to scream.

George: How long do we think this goes before Charles realizes?

Fernando: Forever.

Mark: Until she is pregnant and married and they notice the child, maybe.

Sebastian: Even then, they’ll probably ask if it’s a friend’s baby.

Lando:  She stood in the garage on her birthday and they all just looked past her. I can’t get over that. 

Alex: And she didn’t say anything. She gave them every chance.

Sebastian: She gave them years of chances.

David: That’s the part I can’t get past. She was right there.

Carlos: I asked her if she wanted me to say something. She said, “At least this way, it’s honest.”

George: She always showed up for them. Every birthday. Every event. Every podium.

Sebastian: And they never noticed when she needed someone to show up for her.

Alex: I hope they feel that silence for a long, long time.

Mark: They will. Max will make sure of it.

***

The drive was short—fifteen minutes, maybe twenty with traffic—but Belle didn’t ask where they were going. She just watched the streets of Monaco blur past the passenger window, the sun bright against the water. Everything shimmered with the afterglow of race day.

The city was still coming down from its high.

Belle, however, was just beginning to breathe again.

When Max pulled onto a narrow road, Belle blinked. She knew the turn. Knew the uneven curve of the gravel path. Her heart tugged hard against her ribs.

“Max,” she whispered, sitting up straighter.

He parked, turned off the engine, and looked at her.

“We’re here,” he said softly.

Her favorite stables—one she had visited countless times over the years. Where she still had her twice weekly riding lessons. 

“Max…”

He just smiled, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Come on.”

She followed him, her steps a little hesitant, excitement bubbling beneath her skin. The barn was already awake with morning energy—horses shifting in their stalls, soft neighs filling the air, the scent of hay and earth grounding her instantly.

And then she saw her.

A grey mare, soft-eyed and dappled silver, resting quietly in the corner of a sun-warmed paddock. She turned as Belle approached—calm, regal, familiar in a way that made Belle’s lungs forget how to work.

It was like looking through time.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Max moved beside her, voice low. “Her name’s Fleur. Short for Blanchefleur. She’s Blanche’s daughter.”

Belle’s knees nearly gave.

“I found her,” Max went on, voice low. “She was in Italy. Pregnant. Due in a couple months. Emilie helped me track her down.”

Belle’s legs went weak. She reached for the fence without thinking, steadying herself with one hand.

Fleur lifted her head and looked straight at her—calm, curious, and somehow impossibly familiar. Those eyes. That stillness. Belle hadn’t realized how much she missed that kind of stillness. The kind that didn’t expect anything from her.

“She looks like her,” Belle whispered. “Her eyes—God. Max…”

Max reached for her hand again. Her fingers trembled when they laced with his.

“I know I can’t bring Blanche back,” he said. “But I thought maybe… you could have a piece of her. And something for the future, too.”

Fleur stepped toward the gate, nosing at the wood gently. Belle lifted her hand without thinking, fingers trembling as she touched soft fur. The tears started behind her eyes, hot and dizzying.

“She’s beautiful,” Belle whispered. “She’s so beautiful.”

“She’s yours,” Max said simply. “Both of them are.”

Belle looked at him, wide-eyed, stunned. “You… bought her?”

Max nodded. “She’s yours. To ride. To keep. To just visit, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to prove anything to her. Or to me. Just be hers. Let her be yours.”

Belle didn’t know what to say. She only knew how it felt—like someone had placed the missing piece of her life back into her hands, quietly, without expectation.

Her throat closed up with emotion. “Max…”

“I know they’ve taken things from you,” Max said, his voice breaking just a little. “Blanche. Your birthday. The way they look through you like you’re air. I can’t give it all back. But I can give you this. Something no one can take away.”

Belle turned fully toward him—and that’s when he moved.

He sank to one knee in the sand, quiet and sure, pulling a small box from his jacket pocket. Her breath hitched.

He looked up at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to protect.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Max said softly. “And I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you’re never invisible again. Not for a single moment.”

Belle didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then he opened the box.

A ring. Elegant. Understated. An emerald set in gold—delicate and bold all at once.

She made a sound—barely a breath—and dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands flying to his shoulders, tears spilling freely now.

“Marry me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. 

She pulled him into her arms, face buried in his neck, both of them kneeling in the sand and sunlight and soft smell of hay and horses.

“Yes,” she said again, just to say it.“Yes. Max. Of course, yes.”

Because this time, she wasn’t forgotten. She was chosen.

And Max had made sure of it.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes. Max. Of course, yes.”

***