#...or does she have magic? that's for her to know and you to never find out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

riteliso · 1 day ago

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S02E06

Alright I just sighed and wistfully thought to myself "I should really hurt some people" so let's continue these to try to gain SOME sense of normalcy

Also I just had some ice cream :)

Oh it's the Mystacor backstory episode uhhhhh

Well first off it clues us into this taking place in the past by showing us the unruined statue

Shadow Weaver and Micah both use their magic to fight during what is supposed to be a peaceful excersise, showing their competitive nature that will eventually go on to impact how they raise their ward and child respectively.

Micah takes the first swing with his projection, as he's a plucky kid, and while Shadow Weaver is impressed, she doesn't have the humility to let it lie, so she re-summons her phoenix to kill the goat.

Shadow Weaver's representation of a phoenix is probably to show how she will be reborn from her own ashes, and Micah's representation of a goat is likely because to her, he's a sacrificial lamb.

Part of why I'm bummed I don't see more analysis of this show is BECAUSE so much of its symbolism is so surface level, but subtle. If you're looking at all for symbolism, you'll latch onto these projections instantly, but if you're not-- you probably won't. At least not your first time watching.

Micah does genuinely look up to Shadow Weaver at this point in her life, but also IS trying to flatter her to convince her to teach him new things.

The flattery eventually works, because flattery usually works pretty well on narcissists.

This bitch only been here four days and accepted her death already? Pa-THETIC.

We love being cruel and mean in this household

Oh yeah and with the four days thing I was jokin cos I have no fucking clue how long she's been here

I don't know if all these tallies are her, if some of them are shading, or what, because if these are ALL SUPPOSED TO BE HER TALLIES, she's FUCKING WEIRD AND DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THE POINT OF TALLIES

WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY DISJOINTED GROUPS OF 3 AND 4

IF I GOT IN THAT CELL AND THESE WERE ALL ALREADY ON THE WALLS I'D BE SO BORED AND ANNOYED I'D SCRATCH ALL OF THEM UP TO FIVE JUST FOR THE SAKE OF MY TEMPORARY LIVING SPACE NOT BEING MISH-MASH TRASH

Also when Catra dropped the tray nothing spilled not even the water damn

Catra gasps and feels palpable fear seeing Hordak out of his armour, very classic trope for fantasy in general, especially sci-fi fantasy.

Alright, plenty to go over here.

Catra feels a sense of ownership over Shadow Weaver. It's the same unhealthy feeling of ownership that Shadow Weaver always felt for her, a punching bag with no other choice, someone who has to do whatever you say whenever you say it.

Catra really enjoys being on the opposite end after all the torture she was put through.

But she also deeply cares about Shadow Weaver, whether she likes it or not. I think it's extremely multilayered and complex-- I don't think she views Shadow Weaver as anything even APPROACHING a mom-- I don't think she even sees her as that much of a guardian. But she's someone who was SUPPOSED to take care of Catra. When you spend a really long time with someone who's supposed to take care of you but doesn't, stuff gets really twisted around into knots inside. She's the closest Catra HAS to a maternal figure, and that's depressing.

The way she cares about Shadow Weaver is very different from the way she cares about her friends or Adora. Her relationship with Shadow Weaver is 99% resentment, 1% vapid wishes that are about to be taken advantage of and dashed in record time.

But she still cares, and since, unfortunately for her, she's a good person inside, she's not going to send someone she cares about to Beast Island.

Speaking of, she's getting worse at hiding that she's a good person. She's never been great at it, but as her friends break down her walls and she finds new and meaningful connections, she's caught off guard whenever she realizes those walls aren't there anymore to make it look like she doesn't care.

She's more vulnerable than ever, and she's starting to realize that.

Vulnerability is important to be human, yeah, but it also fucking sucks ass. And when you're in a terrible place with terrible people that vulnerability WILL be taken advantage of.

Also she's wrong as always. Not just because I hate Shadow Weaver, but SW is just genuinely a very dangerous piece to be on the board. Hordak is correct in wanting to get rid of her, pragmatically speaking.

Scaredy-cat

This guy's a dick

Catra's in a particularly awkward spot in this dynamic. Which is why it gets so far under her skin and once she acts impulsively, she leaves it be, because she'd rather have it sorted than open back up this can of worms.

Entrapta is not the kind of person that Hordak would ever like. If Hordak were actually what he successfully pretends to be. Entrapta is both incapable of and disinterested in acting like somebody she's not.

Entrapta is Catra's prisoner, then Entrapta becomes her friend, and then Entrapta spends a lot of time hanging out with her terrifying and cruel boss who can and will have her banished or executed at a moment's notice.

This succeeds in making her feel betrayed by both of them. She feels like she's being replaced by Hordak, despite her area of expertise being entirely fucking different from Entrapta, who is quite incapable of fighting, and she feels betrayed by Entrapta because Entrapta can't tell how uncomfortable it makes her that she's gotten so buddy-buddy with Hordak. Catra is unable to tell if Entrapta is actively trying to undermine her or not. This also all began being an issue for Catra when Entrapta broke a promise that Catra worded EXTREMELY clearly, which both her friends failed to keep.

Entrapta sneaking in anyway and Scorpia failing to keep tabs on Entrapta really doesn't matter to either of those two. They were small tasks or promises, and breaking them didn't REALLY do much harm, if we're speaking-- look, in larger contexts, they do a lot of harm, but in small contexts they do very little.

But Catra sucks ass at trusting people, and two people she ATTEMPTED to trust failed her at the same time, and then shit starts getting weird with how one of them cuddles up to her abusive boss.

Like, this situation just sucks for her to be in. There's a lot of emotional push and pull for her. Her friends are mostly good to her, sometimes in ways not even ADORA was, because romantic partners can't provide some of what normal friends do, but also they keep testing her patience and trust.

As far as I can tell, she's somewhat lost on how to feel. Becoming closer with her friends feels nice, but having what little vulnerability she's capable of showing being gently needled at every turn doesn't exactly inspire her with the confidence to continue growing.

Lots of stuff going on during a very brief few moments. She's given an unrealistic time limit, told that regardless of what she manages, she'll need to banish the person she cares about, and then we get the repetition of

"Do you understand?"

I'm not sure how many OTHER times we've heard it, if we have, but it's notable for its use in the flashback as the final thing Shadow Weaver says to her after berating and threatening to kill her.

She turns back. Catra often LOOKS behind her, LOOKS at what she's lost, LOOKS at the other side, but we've never seen her actually try to chase down or keep any of it.

Of course this also just shows how disgruntled she is with the whole situation of these two getting along so well.

SEASON 2

Hey sorry to everyone who hates how long that last post is when you're looking for fanart and shipping tidbits instead of a dissertation

But here's another

Shut the fuck up

ALRIGHT SO

we cold open on violence and fighting to bring us back into the setting, and we're quickly introduced to a miscellaneous status quo change that throws some people off

Frosta is nice now

Some people I've seen, it throws them off enough that the show kinda loses them, and I can understand that.

This is a show that lives by strong character writing, so an immediate tonal shift DOES feel strange. I'm not gonna deny that, and I'm not gonna say that the version of Frosta we get for the next little while isn't my least favourite version of her.

I think we end UP with a happy median. Where she's childlike, but she takes things seriously, and doesn't like to be talked down to. That's why she makes such a good character foil for Micah. I personally believe that's her at her best, but she also had a very strong introduction, so I can't BLAME people for getting attached to that version of the character, and disappointed when they take things in a different direction.

It's strange, and it's something that this show doesn't really-- DO. I get that it can be explained away in universe with her putting on a brave and uncaring and rough exterior for the ball she was hosting, but we also literally JUST saw her at the very end of season 1 and she was acting the same.

It's not a bad change, this version of her is fine, but it's unusual and in a perfect world the transition between the season 1 version of her and the version we end up with as the character gets more depth would have been smoother.

The splash screen is still the same >:(

I don't remember when they start changing I was hoping it'd just be once each season (with one exception) so that it'd be easy for meeeeeeeeee

Now I have to pay ATTENTION

UGH

VOICE DIRECTION

First off, it's odd that this isn't the first time that we've had a fake Catra.

Secondly, she sounds weird here in a way that's kinda hard to explain. She sounds kinda like a caricature of herself, which makes sense?

It's a tiny detail. But it kinda falls flat on your first watch because we just saw Frosta acting weird, anyway.

As with all holodecks in sci-fi, this one's primary use is lesbian sex

Also it's an amazing fight scene, I won't show YOU the frame-by-frames, but they're good frames

The amount of times she will be fighting Catra and we get to see her expression soften the moment she gets ANY amount of upper hand

If you pay enough attention to take a shot each time you'll be more of a wine mom than Shadow Weaver

We hear this in not strictly Catra's voice, it's distorted, because it's Lighthope speaking THROUGH Catra, not just EMULATING Catra.

Lighthope wants this cat dead. I mean I don't blame her I just don't agree with her reasoning of "I want this cat dead so that this lesbian follows my orders better"

Yeah :(

Also I don't believe her when she says it's meant for total accuracy

I think it's probably PRETTY accurate

But also it's based off of ADORA'S memories which is why Catra actually has the troublepuffs to hold her hand instead of being a whiny little baby.

Somehow Adora is under the impression that Catra is brave which is fucking insane

She's not brave she is just filled to the brim with unimpeded violent hubris

Catra thinks that the point of the myth of Icarus is that "at least his wings melted from the sun and not the sea"

Also it's been a month take note

Not for any particular reason, it's just good to know how long these breaks in time are

Girl me too and for equally stupid but very different reasons

As we learn later they weren't mistakes they were being a decent fuckin person

Do you think when nobody's around Catra puts on the glasses and kisses this robot

Or does she not because she doesn't like She-ra she still just likes Adora

You are such a pathetic show-off

MOUSE

Nah but fr the fear of stepping on a mouse is too real I don't wanna FEEL THAT

PEOPLE JUST POINT AND LAUGH AND SAY IM AN ELEPHANT WHEN I TELL THEM THATS MY REASONING

She really is bored

She needs a hobby besides vengence

Y'see when they actually fight she gets into such a slump and she's so ANNOYING about it

The moonstone is super-charged by the way

It doesn't hold much relevance and I guess that shows that due to the princesses uniting all of their powers have improved

Everyone is a bitch and they all hate each-other

#she ra and the princesses of power #spop #live watch #she-ra rewatch #she-ra

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methoughtsphantom · 6 months ago

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Jason “my family doesn’t know im alive” Todd and Danny “my family doesn’t know I’m dead” Fenton going alongside each of their plans my beloved. like Danny will absolutely go head-to-head with all of Gotham to support his new best friend on all his crime lord endeavors while he drags Jason to also attend collage with him. They are roommates and there never seems to a mention of family from either side. It’s an unspoken understanding they have. They met because Crime alley as a ghost lair thrummed with so much loneliness, it was at first the perfect place for Danny to hide his ecto signature in. But then he saw the dumbass whose lair it was lean his motorcycle just a tad too much when making a sharp turn to an alley, he sweeped the floor through a lifted chain link that passed his body but not his helmet. Yep that’s right the red thing got stuck. Danny who at the moment happened to be watching through his window snorted. Much to his horror because if not a ghost that dude could’ve gotten his head flung off.

Still, the scene was ridiculous.

On a whim he irrationally sees the police closing in on the guy and panicked at the thought of the guy using intangibility to free himself so Danny phased them both through his apartment wall and left the guy sprawled in his couch. Jason didn’t freak out but that’s normal when one’s got a concussion, one the guy immediately denied having as Danny laid out the medical supplies. The idiot proceeded to almost flatten four steps to the door with his stubbornness. He also said “I’m asexual” in the most deadpan voice as Danny dropped him back in the couch.

Danny sighed. Clearly though, he’d done so too early in the night because the guy kept trying to go, kept trying to knock Danny out, kept trying to slash him with knifes Danny didn’t know he had stashed. He’d only disarmed the guy from his guns. The visible ones apparently, cause at one point the guy did take out a gun and shoot until the ammo ran out and then teetered the thing like it was an art prop and hit his moon lamp.

Danny "yeah you aren’t officially my friend until you’ve tried to kill me" fenton my guys.

Anyways both keep having the same argument over if Danny technically kidnapped Jason or not. Danny holds the fact that the police at least didn’t see the guy make the ridicule. Jason argued that happened cause he was sporting a concussion. Danny argued he got that after.

Jason at first thinks the guy's a meta, but no. Danny introduces himself, sheepily now that he recognizes this is who the lair he invaded is from. He bandages him and tries to cook for him. If Danny didn’t have ice powers he most certainly would’ve burned the apartment. Jason then proceeds to kick him out of his own kitchen and make them both enchiladas. It’s the most normal both had in a while with another person and the air seems oddly settled. From then on, Jason constantly invited himself over, under the pretense that this was his territory and therefore he could drop in unannounced. Danny who has actual powers says he only allows this because Jason cooks very well.

Danny stays away from the crime fighting business unless his buddy is in deep shit he can’t get himself out. Also it’s Danny’s turn to cover for his vigilante friend which Sam and Tucker give him so much shit for. (but also advice)

And they were roommates. (omg) Danny effectively derails Jason’s big comeback plans by casually dropping ghost lore every two days. Like,

Jason, talking about how he doesn’t want Bats snooping on his territory:

Danny: Just don’t let them in

Jason: ??

Danny: yeah!! Hasn’t Batman died and got revived??? You can totally kick out death touched people you don’t want entering on your lair.

Jason: …I can?

Danny: Yep dude, your lair’s supposed to feel safe.

Jason: wait does that mean I can kick you out?

Danny: First this is my apartment. Second, im dead, not dead touched. Third, it’s too late to get rid of me. bitch.

Anyways Jason is super excited. You mean to tell him he can actually deny people over to his territory haunt?? (Yes it’s only to people who have died and came back but still!! The sample size is exactly the type of people he doesn’t want to see—!)

Joker my beloathed can’t step foot in Crime Alley.

(Jason’d feel a lot safer if the clown was dead but the possibility of his murderer turning into a ghost and their little loophole not applying on the clown is too scary to contemplate.)

Anyways, Jason loves experimenting with the power. It can go from simply making people shudder and not want to enter crime Alley to straight up not letting them enter like there’s an invisible wall blocking the way.

Jason because he’s hurt that Bruce never even patrols Crime Alley and also because he’s petty put B under the category of “invisible wall” blacklist. His reasoning is that the man doesn’t even attempt to enter Crime Alley. To him it’s surely just a place shadowed in tragedy. (anyways that’s it’s the place he met Jason)

Ironically, Jason totally forgets that Batman does venture into Crime Alley one day in the whole year. The day he met Jason.

Okay. He didn’t forget at first. The first year Jason remembers cause it was only a few months till then but then the next— Jason forgets that today’s the anniversary of the day’s Bruce’s parents died. He forgets to allow B in when he feels a slight tug and dismiss the feeling that prompts Bruce to investigate because he literally can’t enter Crime Alley. He starts the trialsTM, he scouts on the very edge and sees people the whole day enter and get out and cross with no problem but Bruce can’t.

It’s literally just Bruce.

Time to call Constantine, i guess.

#bat shenanigans ensue #JSJSJS okay so i dont have a well versed timeline of events but two years after utrh who HASNT died of the batfam #cause those are the ones who are gonna go undercover to find what shady shit is this: )#im going with timmy cass and duke #sorry steph i KNOW you have died #the others have plausible deniability from my part #the trio is gonna come down hard on this unsuspecting pair #let's just say constantine just had one spare magical rune for each of them so they'll be able to identify who was powerful enough to do it #and duke found civvie jason. cass found civvie danny and tim also found jason a la squared. in his red hood get up later that night #the only useful photos are from tim's side but anyways since they got three suspects (one suspected to be the other. so really-- two)#they decide to split each other up and tag one each (whoever doesn't get the correct guy loses)#tim calls dibs on the twink. cass rolls her eyes and narrows her eyes at the red hood and duke smirks when he gets to keep his guy #he's not cheating if he didn't protest to getting to have the guy he already saw the aura of. he's sure he is IT #coincidentally duke happens to be the only bat jason doesn't recognize (and vice versa)#meanwhile cass is gonna be the one shadowing red hood which at this point he doesn't kill that much since he has his rules verymuch enforce #he does kill tho #so at some point they're gonna clash but at the start of the investigation no #let them be siblings your honor #big sis cass and her little brother 6'4 jay #and tim finally is gonna be the one to smoothly get himself in the conversation with cryptid roommate civilian danny fenton #genius dumbasses protection club #their first meeting is of course arranged but no less meet cute coffee shop au #anyways jason wants to know why the fuck hes got a bat tagging along with him so out of the blue and also why can't he fucking chase her of #cass is curious about how the red hood's mood constantly changes within her range yet he never attacks her despite his hurt-longing-anger #the boy who doesn't make noise fucking screeches when she sneaks up to him #and duke fucking brings his hands to block the chernobyl reject glow stick sun that's stands next to tim #while tim looks like his whole system is rebooting cause that's jason todd #dp x dc #danny phantom #jason todd

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batsandbirdbrains · 21 days ago

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Do I want good dad Bruce with magically brought back bad grandparents Thomas and Martha? Yes, yes I do. So anyway

The setting is season 1 yj, Mount Justice. Batman was on a mission with a couple JL members, and Robin was training with the team. Batman comes back from his mission, and he’s calling out, “Robin! Come here, please!”

And Dick is immediately on high alert, because that’s not Batman’s voice. Thats Bruce’s voice. Thats his proud dad voice, his Oh, yes, Dick is actually starting high school a year early. He’s a real prodigy, didn’t you know that? bragging dad voice.

“B?”

And Batman is there in an instant, his hands holding onto Robin’s shoulders, spinning him around to look at the couple standing there. And Dick’s mind goes blank. Because he swears he’s looking at Thomas and Martha Wayne. But that can’t be possible.

“Robin, these are your grandparents,” Batman says so softly, kneeling down, a big smile on his face as he kneels beside Robin. “Mom, Dad - this is your grandson.”

Dick’s heart is beating so fast and so hard in his chest, and he backs up so he’s pressed against Bruce’s chest.

“B?” Dick says, his voice a little strangled. He lowers his voice to a whisper, “Are they ghosts?”

Bruce is chuckling, and he can tell that all the others in the room are startled at Batman even being capable of laughter.

“It’s magic,” Bruce says softly. “They’ll only be here for a couple days. But I had to introduce you to them right away. We’ll go home in a minute for a proper introduction.”

Dick turns to his adopted grandparents, a nervous smile on his face.

“Hi,” he says carefully, holding one hand up to wave awkwardly. “B’s told me a lot about you. Agent A has, too.”

“How old are you?” Martha asks, skipping the pleasantries.

“I’m, uh, thirteen.”

She gasps, a hand in her chest as she turns her head to Bruce.

“You were twelve?” She questions.

Thomas looks livid.

“Who’s the mother? Is she in prison?”

Dick’s eyes are wide behind the mask, and he can feel Bruce go tense. He can also hear Wally asking no one in particular, Wait, does that mean Batman is only twenty-five?

“He’s adopted,” Bruce says quickly, carefully. “There was nothing - nothing bad happened or anything.”

“Adopted?” Thomas scoffs. “You adopted an heir? You better be planning on having an actual son!”

Bruce stands up now, but he keeps a hand gripped in Dick’s shoulder.

“He is my actual son,” Bruce insists, his jaw tight. “And if you have a problem with that-”

“Of course it’s a problem!” Martha insists. “You need to have an actual child, to give us an actual grandchild!”

Dick presses himself closer to Bruce, stepping slightly underneath Batman’s cape. He’s trying very hard not to get upset, but he never thought this was an argument he’d hear from the people who were supposed to be his grandparents. He’s heard it from the press before, from rude socialites who want Bruce to marry them or into their families, but Alfred and Bruce always said that Thomas and Martha would have loved him. And this is very quickly proving them wrong.

“You’re not going to talk about him like that,” Bruce says quickly, but his voice is very quickly turning back into his Batman voice, his You’re a dumb henchman who just hit my Robin, prepare to get your shit rocked voice. “He’s my son. He’s your grandson. Whether he’s adopted or not is irrelevant.”

“We’re your parents!”

“And in a couple days, you’ll be gone again,” the way he says it makes Dick so sad, because he doesn’t even hesitate. “And in a couple years, I’ll have had him longer than I ever had you. So if you have a problem with my son, I’ll find somewhere else for you to stay until the spell wears off, because you won’t be staying anywhere near him if this is how you’re going to act.”

“How dare you-”

“No, how dare you!” Bruce argues. “I’m your son. He’s your grandson. You should be thrilled to get this chance to know us, to know him!”

It quickly devolves into an argument, and Bruce decides that his parents will stay on the Watchtower while they’re here, because he won’t let them come back to the manor with them. He’ll visit them every day, and he’ll bring Alfred to see them, but he won’t let them around Dick again if they don’t start acting like decent grandparents.

#dick grayson #bruce wayne #young justice #martha wayne #thomas wayne #fic ideas

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bootycallin · 5 months ago

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ACTUALLY PLEASE DO A PART TWO?? I NEED TO KNOW WHAT I DOES TO READERS CLIT ❤️

OOH—BETTER THAN ME?

꩜ .ᐟ basically; vi made a proposal. imagine what i can do, she said. not that you could've ever even imagined, imagined, anyways.

cw: wlw. porn with slight plot this time!! not a direct continuation but sort of. vi catches u jorkin it. implied perv!vi (lol). masturbation. mutual masturbation. bsfwb? fingering. bushvi (!!). reader’s briefly described as smaller than her. scissoring. swearing. vi's a sweetie pie. begging. overstim. aftercare? v fluffy ending. not proofread.

a/n: dinner is fucking served

NSFW UTC

now, the real question is, how’d she get you so addicted?

damn, it’s not like you’ve never had sex before. quite the opposite, you have sex pretty often.

but she was different.

maybe cause she showed something you could never really do. maybe because it was one time and you’re best friends and you’re overthinking. or maybe the dick was just really good. god knows. one way or the other, you can’t stop thinking about it.

you don’t know it, but vi can’t either. so when she hears you whimpering from your room, she can’t fucking help herself.

what kind of fucking black magic does she have? there’s no way your fingers are just short. you’re trying, you really are—legs wide, lips spread so you can press two of your fingers inside your saturated hole. it’s not enough. you’ve been neglecting your clit, as well—because supposedly, you should be able to do it.

it’s not enough. your clit’s twitching, breath shaky, curling your fingers—not enough. thrusting them in? not enough. just briefly smacking the tip of your clit with your palm? not. enough.

you’ve been trying to avoid it, but you need her.

“fuck, vi…” and what is it they say? about speaking of the devil?

‘cause she’s right there. say her name three times to summon, or some bullshit? because you could’ve fucking sworn you were alone—as you are most times when you’re masturbating.

(well, that’s what you think. vi’s conscience is a little heavy because of that. can you blame her? she’s just a woman!)

you barely have enough time to realize it. pulling your fingers out, grabbing the nearest blanket there was to cover your body as if she hadn’t already seen enough of it to know exactly what you look like. shit.

“vi—“ again. broken record, much?

“‘s fine,” she mentally scolds herself for how her voice sounds. shaky, unprepared, even—she’s been behind that door for a hot second and she’s already aching. she can’t deny it, damn it, she needs you. now.

“can’t…?”

“no.”

whether that’s you asking her to stop or confirming her thoughts, god knows. she does, too, apparently, as she hums slightly. there’s a smirk on her face, but she’s just as needy, just as nervous as you. fuck, she needs you so bad.

and at the opportunity, she’s rushing into bed with you, lips crashing against yours. she’s missed this so much. the feeling of your lips against hers—she really could get used to this. like, really get used to it. dare she say, she wants it. she grasps at the covers you used to shield your body, pulling them down so she can see your bare skin. she’s been imagining this for so long.

her teeth nip at your bottom lip, looking up at you to find your half-lidded eyes that widen when she spreads your legs open, settling comfortably between them.

“this okay..?”

“yes.”

what kind of question even was that? you knew damn well she could see how you were practically buzzing at the idea of having sex with her again. is this normal? yeah, no. but it’s happening and you’re definitely not thinking twice about it.

you stop her midway through kissing down your neck, hands softly grasping at her hair, making her gasp. your eyes are flitting down to her lips, but most importantly, the damned tank top. not that it didn’t look good on her.

just that it would look better off.

“vi-“ there’s barely enough time for you to even speak, as you grab at her shoulder straps and pull, leading her to nearly rip the shirt off altogether.

and there she is. between your legs, bare in all her glory. damn, you knew she was muscular, but fuck…

she can practically feel you eye-fucking her. trailing up and down, on her sculpted and. you could swear they used to make greek statues based off of her. oh, and when your eyes catch that little bit of red poking out from the hem of her boxers—

“y’alright?”

“yeah…” you mumbled, dreamily. your hands reach for her so you can run your hands over her body, over the mark of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts, the dips of her abs. fuuuck. you can barely hear how vi gasps, her eyes laser-focused on the way your smaller hands run over her skin. she’s been dreaming of this.

“baby,” she whispers, breath shaky. her own hands find yours, guiding one down to run down her body, fingers briefly making contact with the hairs of her happy trail. that’s enough to drive her insane.

she let’s go of your hand to grab at the hem of her shorts, nearly ripping her goddamn boxers off. it’s the first time you’ve really, really seen vi’s body. her pussy’s fucking throbbing just by the way you look at her. damn.

there’s really no words not to be said. you don’t want to talk. you want her, and that’s it. you grab at her shoulders, making her gasp at the sudden eagerness. your lips crash against hers, she nips at your bottom lip. it’s messy. eager and messy and so fucking hot to both of you. your tongue meets hers, spit mingling and all—

she can’t take it.

she pulls away, making you whine and in turn making her smirk. cute.

(she’s acting like she’s not just as giddy. if not more. if you were to press your palm against her chest, you’d probably be a little concerned she’d have a heart attack. you’re just so pretty).

her hands run down your body, over the length of your thighs, spreading them open carefully. she can see how your eyes narrow a little at the stretch, but fall half lidded again when she ends up resting your legs atop of hers. she’s now sitting comfortably between your legs, your thighs sitting above her muscular ones.

“you want me to help you again, baby?” fuck, if that doesn’t make your face burn. she knows damn well what you want. if she didn’t, you wouldn’t be naked in front of each other like this.

“please…” even you are surprised at how whiny your voice sounds. you’re just frustrated. again.

“i-i can’t—“

“‘s fine.” she leaned forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, something almost a little too heartwarming for the ‘best friends’ situation you two had. not that you were complaining. her lips were soft. vi was soft. for someone like her, you’d think she’s a little more… well, jagged. but, nope.

she’s soft through and through. principally when it comes to you.

her lips trail down your forehead to your nose, then to her cheeks, one of her hands—namely her right one—following the same pace, except down your body. over your belly, down to your lower navel, down until…

she swallows the moan you let out when her fingers just barely brush over your clit. she can’t help wondering if you’re really that sensitive or she just has the power to do that to you—which would definitely be an ego boost. gods, she hopes that’s what it is. you whine when she starts drawing slow little circles over your hood, your thighs tensing on instinct, breath catching.

“you want me to help you, yeah?” she asked, trailing her fingers further below—not before briefly smacking the nub of your clit with her middle fingers, an almost embarrassingly large gush of pre leaving your already sopping pussy. her mouth’s watering just thinking of it.

“violet,” not the usual vi. you sounded like you were trying to sound demeaning, but it really just came out as whiny. vi raised an eyebrow like you had insulted her.

but she herself was way too needy to give a damn. even if you did. her hand trailed down, fingers parting your lips and eyes laser-focused on your wet cunt. her index briefly prods at your hole, ripping an audible whimper from you which she just loves. but she doesn’t slip her finger in yet—not like she couldn’t. you’re wet enough that it would be like butter.

“wha…?”

“i just,” she looks up at you, free hand rubbing your thigh, “just had a thought.”

before explaining, she grabs one your hand, pulling it down so it hovered right over your pussy the same way it was when she first walked in the room.

“just…” her breath was slightly heavy, as she cupped the back of your hand. she spread her fingers so they matched yours, and you could only watch as she moved your finger to prod at your hole, tip just barely sliding in.

there’s not a lot of resistance. after all, you had already been doing it before she even got to this point. she’s watching your reaction carefully to see if there’s any discomfort, looking like it’s the most attention she’s ever given something. Her eyes are surprisingly wide. not scared. rather, it’s almost puppy eyes—she just needs to see it. needs to see you let go. needs to see you break again. needs to see you whine and scream her name again, like it’s the one word you know.

her hand guided your movements, one finger pushing your knuckle so your finger moved in and out, not a lot of movement, but enough to feel it. you let out a few pleasured sighs and slightly whimpers, but not compared to the whines and screams she managed to rip from you that time. both of them were good, though—she could deal with it. she was patient. unfortunately, you were not.

“i don’t feel it.”

“that’s fine,” she muttered, continuing to hide your movements. she watched your face, your body as it squirmed slightly. not necessarily from any great reaction, but rather because you just needed more. and because she was here. watching. she could watch you masturbate for hours. not that she hasn’t—well, imagine it… she’s overthinking. either way, it’s fine if you don’t feel it. that’s what she’s there for, isn’t it?

“do this.” she takes your hand away from yours for a second to show you how, finger doing the usual come-hither motion. you tilted your head back, a groan escaping from the back of your throat. obviously, you didn't take that all too seriously.

“it doesn’t work,” you’ve tried it already. never really did anything for you. you weren’t lying when you said you only did manage to cum when you played with your clit… well, not until vi, but that’s besides the point.

“trust me,” she mutters, staring at you, her gaze subtly speaking: you should. you know what she can do, don’t you? if there’s anyone you should be trusting, it’s probably her.you pouted and whined a little more, just to show her you didn’t like that whole idea. if you kept doing that, she might just have to wreck you—well, not that she wasn’t going to in the first place; she’s been holding back from jumping your bones since that last time.

a second of silence, and you end up doing as asked. it really makes no difference for you. people tried to make it sound better than it really was. you guess, because it really just didn’t work like that for you. never had that pornographic sensitivity to immediately squirt whenever you tried to reach your g spot, you don’t think you’ve ever even found it yourself.

it does feel a little different, but you’re guessing it’s just because vi is right there. between your legs. watching. you don’t know why she makes you feel like this. every little touch. it’s you’re a sleeper agent and she’s your goddamn activation. one little sexual touch or comment, and you already wanna fuck.

she has to hold back a groan when you do as she says. “yeah. like that,” she murmured, voice low and dangerous, “good girl…”

vi’s not even thinking when she says that. her brain isn’t really working, honestly. she’s way too preoccupied with watching as your face twists, the blood that rushes up your cheeks, flushing it a pretty pink she just wants to kiss so bad. her words had an obvious effect.

she shifts up slightly and you can only watch as her other hand, previously on your thigh, moves up to your lower belly, pressing down with the pads of her fingers right over your bladder.

you immediately stop when she does that. after all, it was just… a weird sensation. that same one from last time, but it still caught you off guard. a curse leaves from between your lips in a hiss, teeth catching your bottom lip briefly.

“‘s fine.” she reassured. “just do it.”

if she kept using that honeyed voice, you’d probably do anything she told you to. her free hand slides down to move another digit of yours inside, “just do as i told you.”

and of fucking course you do. because who the fuck are you to disobey her? it would be embarrassing if you didn’t like it so much, but god knows you do. you move your fingers in that ‘come here’ motion, wincing and whimpering at the feeling as the pads of your fingers press against the top walls of your pussy. you can nearly feel them, pressing up against that spongy spot, vi’s hand pressing down right on top of your bladder just making that all the more real.

“yeah.” she groaned, “like that… good girl. keep going.”

vi sounded like she was trying to encourage you. you made a mess on her once, she’s not gonna freak out if you do it again. i mean, she was expecting that for a while, but of course she always has to make the first goddamn move.

“vi, i—“ vi hushed you just with a sharp little glare that told you don’t test me. if she kept looking at you like that you’re sure you would discombobulate.

and of fucking course you do it. because if she tells you to, you’re more than likely doing it. at least here. you continue moving, her eyes locked in on you. on your body, your reactions. watching your face twist slightly and the little shakes of your thighs.

“vi…”

“fuck.” she groaned, moving to press her face against the crook of her neck. she kissed at the skin, just barely biting down, canines pricking. she herself was getting impatient. her pussy was fucking aching to just feel you and she couldn’t really think straight. the only part that managed to stop her from completely letting go is that she’s focused on your own pleasure.

but when she looks down, looks at your slick covered fingers—that sweet clit she wanted to touch—she couldn’t help it.

she lowered herself, lips latching to the nub. she made a point to ignore your surprised noise, how your hips jerked away. you seemed to relax soon enough. she looked up at you, noticing your fingers had halted.

“continue.” she muttered against the hood of your clit, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there. you whined but obeyed, fingers moving in that same motion she just showed you. it’s definitely affecting you more when she’s kissing and licking your clit.

vi’s a messy eater. she’s always been messy, but it comes down even to that. she flicks, sucks, nips, laps. likes licking up from your hole to your clit, lapping up whatever comes like a needy dog. she feels like one right now. she’s practically humping the mattress in a desperate need to get some friction while pleasuring you. it always came first in her head.

“vi, fuuuck,” you gasp. she’s still lapping up at your clit, flicking the bean with her tongue in quick movements, better than any fucking vibrator you’ve ever fucking used. you’re sensitive, bit almost hurts a little, but it’s good. hurts so good you don’t want to stop her. you find that your fingers get quicker before you can even think about it, curling up over and over again ‘til you’re soaking.

“fuck.” she pulls away before you can get your high, though. before you can ask, she’s stopping your fingers, pulling your hand away from your heat. you whined, but shut up when she switched your fingers with hers.

“ah-!” a sharp gasp comes from your throat. vi’s fingers were thicker, bigger than yours. you like to think that’s why you can’t make yourself cum, but when she starts moving, you start realizing the problem really is that you just can’t finger correctly.

“shiiiit…” you drawled out, head tilted back and everything. you’re embarrassingly wet. not that vi really cares, anyways; you should know that.

“been waiting… f’so fucking long,” she drawled out, panting, shifting so she’s upright. “so fucking long to play with this pussy.”

“vi…”

your hand reached out to grab her wrist, but it’s worthless, as her thumb manages to poke through to tap at your clit briefly. that alone sends you over the edge in probably the quickest orgasm you’ve ever had. your vision blur and you can swear you see stars.

for vi, all she can see is how you wet her fingers, little liquidy gushes spraying from you the most she curls and rams her fingers into your g-spot, until you’re practically shaking. your whining doesn’t stop until she removes her fingers, pussy clenching around nothing, hips bucking into air. it’s truly a sight for her sore eyes.

but she needs more.

she grabs your thigh, pulling it closer to her until your leg’s basically hooked over her shoulder, holding the back of your knee. you barely have enough time to process till you feel the tickle of crimson hairs, as her wetness swipes right over yours.

“shii!—“ you hiss. it’s a feeling like never before. you’ve felt her fingers, her tongue, the silicone of that strap she dicked you down with a bit ago—but not her own pussy. you didn’t even think to realize it, you’ve never really touched her there before. mostly because vi seemed to prioritize having your pleasure over her own more than anything. (she’s probably converted you by now. god, you don’t want another guy inside you ever again).

“cupcake,” her rough voice rasps, mouth hung open in a way that’s almost too needy for her pride, heavy panting making her chest heave. what else is there to say? she's been fantasizing about this shit for the longest time. finally getting to feel you like this, rubbing her cunt against yours 'til neither of you can fucking think right.

not that she is exactly thinking about anything when she starts humping against you like a bitch in heat. her head hangs, eyes squeezing shut on instinct. she's desperate, feeling the heat building up in her lower stomach quicker than before. no pillow could ever replace the wet warmth of your cunt, the slick that coats her folds, sticky and messy and so fucking good.

"fuck, fuck, fuck—" vi's really hardly hearing you, her own groans being the one thing she can hear. you cum easily. after all, she had just ripped one from you, and here she is again, taking yet another one. all she can really discern is that you're impossibly wetter, essentially just lubing her up and making her own job easier. there's a whimper that tries to escape her throat, desperate, but she forces it out as a groan, head falling and top teeth tugging at her bottom lip.

"fuck, princess..." she growled, hands a vice-grip on your thigh. "please, fuck. yeah, shit, give it to me, give it to me..."

she's like a broken record, chasing her own high, while you tried to keep from screaming, body trembling and jerking with the aftershocks of your second orgasm.

"viii!—" a pitchy whine, ripping from your throat, strained at the angle of your head tilted backwards. "'s too much! gh-- too much!"

"fuck, baby," vi groans, a deep growl that rose from her throat, "shit, i know, i know. you can take it. you can take it, right?" her voice drops even lower, as she spoke through pants. her free hand shoots up to grab your face, making you look at her. powdery blue eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide, face flushed, sweat dripping down her temple. she looked like an angel.

"you can take it, right? fuck, please, baby..." her voice is borderline whiny, getting pitchier the closer she gets to the edge, which is rapidly approaching. how could you say no to a face like that? she half expected you not to answer.

"yeah, vi," you pant, trying to keep your voice as stabe as possible. "keep... g-"

"shit!"

she hissed, her abdomen locking, pussy gushing right over yours, not stopping, only jackhammering her clit against yours 'til you're cumming yet again, a silent scream leaving you, chest heaving. she has to bite the skin of your knee that's hooked over your shoulder so she doesn't cry out. you can tell, though, by the vibrations that run down your skin.

vi collapsed on top of you when she was finally done, her own body trembling. she has half the mind left to kiss up your neck, arms wrapping around your waist.

you both lay in the afterglow for a few minutes, not bothering with words. just the way she holds you is good enough, more than words can speak. she eventually lifts her head, eyes meeting yours, gentle and loving like you've never seen.

"you alright?" vi asks, voice like raspy but still like sweet honey. "i didn't hurt you, right?" yeah, she might've acted like a brainless mutt back there, but she's can recognize she overstimulated you. she liked hearing your cries, sure, but she doesn't want to hurt you.

"no. of course not." you reassure her, hand reaching to cup the back of her head, then her cheek. she found herself leaning into it like a needy cat, nose nuzzling into your palm.

"you sure?" she asked yet again, pulling a genuine chuckle from you.

"yeah. i promise," you rub your thumb down the slope of her cheel, the slight bump of her cheekbone. she's always been sculpted like a greek goddamn statue. beautiful.

“mhm." she grumbled. she hated that you could get her like this. so weak, so... vulnerable. but if it was for you, she'd probably be able to handle it.

"fuck, i-" she starts, without thinking, "i love you..."

before she can panic over her words, nervously meeting your eyes, you replied, "i love you too."

and she can rest easy knowing that you love her, that she didn't fuck it up. that all this was worth something, not just a quick fuck to you. to her, it never was.

you've always been more than her best friend to her. way, way more than that. her love.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 © bootycallin on tumblr. do not copy, translate or cross post without permission. ᛝ

#╰┈➤BOOTYCALLIN⨾#lesbian #wlw #arcane #arcane smut #arcane x female reader #arcane x reader #vi arcane #vi x fem reader #arcane vi x reader #vi x reader #vi x you #x female reader #vi x female reader #league of legends x reader #x reader #wlw smut #vi smut

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beloveds-embrace · 3 months ago

Text

(more of fae poly 141 x human queen reader || Masterlist)

It begins, as all fae things do, with something half-whispered and half-willed into being.

The Queen Mother watches from her high balcony, swathed in robes stitched from starlight and spider-silk, a goblet of elderflower wine in hand, and eyes like knives turned on her sons- indeed, only John may be her son of her own blood, but the other three have been married to him long enough she sees them all the same. Now, she is not subtle in her disappointment, but subtlety is not what’s needed now.

She wants a grandchild.

You are the wife, thus you are the womb. You are also- unfortunately- entirely unconvinced.

Which is a problem.

So the court changes. Just a little. Just enough- and all by the Queen Mother’s hand.

You notice it in the morning, when your tea no longer arrives lukewarm but steaming gently in a mug carved with delicate runes for comfort and staying warm. In the way the wind, once cruel and clawing, now stirs only to brush your hair back like a mother’s hand.

You find moss blooming along the path you take to the greenhouse- soft, lush, easier on your feet when you leave your shoes behind, as you often do. Glowy flits at your shoulder, a small sun in a kingdom that loves its shadows. Thrain trails behind with his antlers lowered, his hooves never once clicking on the stone, for the castle shifts beneath him now. Quiet, respectful for the being its Queen finds comfort in.

You don’t understand the change. You assume it’s the Queen Mother’s doing, for it certainly could not be your husbands’.

And you are not wrong- but you do not see the rest of it, nor do you understand why.

You do not see Johnny kneeling in your study after you’ve gone to sleep, trying to decipher the new system you’ve carved into court documentation like sacred text. He is muttering under his breath, muttering your name, because he can’t figure out how the taxes flow this smoothly without magic.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, frowning at a sheet full of overlapping glyphs and sigils. “How does she even- ?”

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, defeated. “Nae way queenie’s human. No way.”

He cannot do what you do, and it terrifies him as much as it excites him.

You do not see Simon standing outside your window at dusk, his silhouette caught in the trembling light of a fae firefly swarm. He doesn’t knock. Just watches. He thinks about the way your shoulders sag when no one’s looking. He doesn’t know how to help without breaking something, yet he doesn’t acknowledge that his inaction might be just as cruel.

“She’s always tired,” he says quietly, to no one but the trees that stare at him in silent judgement and accusation. “Don’t think we’ve ever asked why.”

You do not see Kyle trimming the hedge maze into gentler curves he’s the one who shapes the new garden path into a spiral, the human symbol of devotion. You won’t recognize it, not right away, but he hopes that someday you’ll walk it barefoot and feel safe, and the thorns will no longer prick your fingers or get tangled in your dresses.

“Be nice,” he murmurs to the leaves. “If she had something made for her. Not for show. Just… hers.”

And John… he leaves you a book. Not a weapon, nor a command, but a book; a soft, leather-bound thing from the human realm, tucked into your pillow. One you’d spoken about months ago in passing when you were trying to strike up small talk, the kind of memory no one was supposed to hold on to.

But he remembered, and he knows well enough not to tell you it was him who got that book for you, because he knows you wouldn’t believe it the same way you don’t believe any of them.

“She won’t believe it’s from me,” he says to the mothlight above your bed, and Glowy sharpens its light at him, unimpressed. “But maybe she’ll enjoy the story anyways.”

Their attempts feel like guilt wrapped in ribbons, like pity painted gold, so you wear your silence like armor. Your glamours grow sharper and darker, and become even more of what they always wanted you to be: untouchable, mysterious, other. Anything except human.

Not because you want to, but because it is safer.

And they- gods, they don’t know how to undo it.

They, the fearsome four. Masters of strategy, of illusion, of war. A beloved, respected King and his beloved, respected advisors.

They are helpless in the face of your doubt. Fools, all four of them.

Which is why the Queen Mother begins to meddle in earnest.

She speaks in circles at court dinners, drops names of fertility rites and lucky moons. She gives you gowns lined with moonstone and roses that only bloom when kissed by love. She leaves baby shoes- handwoven from frost-leaves- on your writing desk like a curse you make no mention of because acknowledging it is terrifying.

And still, she does not pressure you. Not directly, anyways.

Only… makes space. Opens doors. Makes them walk through them until one by one, they begin showing up.

Johnny brings pastries he says were “extra” but are clearly from the bakery in the fae city you once mentioned yoy liked. He never stays long, just drops them off, scratches Thrain’s fur for the five seconds the great stag lets him before it tries to bite his hand and head cleanly off, and mumbles about going.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, ears flushed, hands in his pockets and away from Thrain’s hungry maw. “Jus’ thought you’d like the wee apple ones. You always looked happier w’ apple.”

Kyle hums near your bath, not entering, but talking idly through the steam about human songs you’d once sung with the will-o-wisps. He doesn’t ask to join. He just exists nearby- even less than the time Johnny had kept you company.

“Remember the one with the moon and the river?” he asks, softly. “They still echo it down the west wing.”

Simon sits on the couch of your office and watches you. Never interrupts. Just… listens. Like he’s learning you all over again, but this time he is paying attention.

“You breathe differently when you’re upset,” he murmurs one day, not looking at you. “Didn’t know that before. I do now. Let me look at that ledger.”

John brings Glowy closer to your chair when you read. Doesn’t speak. Just adjusts the wings so the glow warms your feet, and then he watches in amusement as Glowy hisses at him for his audacity to reposition it like that- yet it eagerly stays in that spot to provide warmth for you.

You glance up, and his eyes catch yours.

“Light-… Glowy was too far,” he says simply. “Can’t have you freezing.”

It is not much- but it is more than nothing.

And still, you do not trust it; love should not come only after loss; love should not bloom only when you have nothing left to give.

But the court begins to whisper. Softer now. Not prey, not little queen.

Yours, perhaps, after all.

And when you wake one morning to find your glamours replaced by simple fabric, soft and real- no magic, no sharpness, no enchanted jewellery, just skin and breath and linen- and none of them flinch, none of them turn away, not even when you catch their stares and look back, unadorned…

You wonder, just a little, if something has begun to change.

You wonder if they see you now.

Thrain noses your wrist, grumbling deep from his belly, the sound happy. Glowy settles into your collar with a delicate fwmp of its wings. The wind, the fae wind, brings you petals instead of thorns.

And beside your pillow- tucked gently against the spine of your beloved book- is a letter, penned in four distinct hands, tied with gold thread and sealed with wax.

You open it with trembling fingers, and inside it reads:

We’d like to take you to dinner. No court. No masks. Just us. At the gazebo. Say yes, and wear whatever you like. We’ll be waiting.

Yours- if you’ll still have us.

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jksarchives · 3 months ago

Text

volume 3

[ 35/35 ]

ᯓᡣ𐭩

❖ proposal — by @hansolmates

Jeon’s the editor-in-chief for Big Hit Publishings, a closet romantic with a penchant for antagonizing his assistant on the reg. When his work visa is in the process of being renewed and he takes a trip to Norway, his eligibility to stay in America is on the line. However Jeon Jungkook doesn’t go without a fight, and in order to save his job he offers you a proposal you can't refuse. | 20.1k [f, a]

❖ magic stick — by @badbtssmut

Jungkook is kinda sad because he has never been with a girl who could take him balls deep because of his size, reader doesn't believe him and she wants to see, but he tells her that he can't atm bc he's not hard. She is wearing this kinda halter top style with no bra so she looses the top and shows her tits to him and let's him touch them. After he's hard he shows her his dick and she says she's willing to try to take it all and she rides him into the sunset. | ? [s]

❖ crazy — by @girlygguk

you know it sounds twisted. that most people would see hyungwon as the perfect boyfriend. healthy, balanced, all the things that relationships should be. that’s when you realized... you weren't like most people. but that's okay. because neither is jungkook. | 15.5k [s, f, a]

❖ we are all dreamers — by @yoonia

Jeon Jungkook is a cocky bastard. Not only does he have the pride and insolence twice the size of his head, but he also has an anger that could open up the door to hell on itself. As he continues to refuse to believe on the soulmate system, he keeps on unknowingly hurting you, punishing you for what the universe has thrown at him in the past. Would he change his ways as he finally meets you? Or would you run away, giving him the exit that he had seemed to desire so greatly? | 16.5k [a, s]

❖ comfort inn ending — by @joonbird

“It was you who Jungkook gave his heart to- that is, until the day you broke it. And it is you now, hoping that some faultlines can be repaired, and that some broken hearts can be put back together again.” | series [a, s]

❖ angel’s trumpet — by @hansolmates

one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life. | series [ a, f, s]

❖ the habits of a broken heart — by @softykooky

jungkook and you are soulmates. so says the matching crescent moons on both your wrists. however, things are never as easy as they seem, and you are quick to learn that falling in love with someone who does not believe in love is a one-way ticket to heartbreak. | 26.3k [a, f]

❖ animal — by @cutaepatootie

series [a, s]

❖ a fallen bookmark on a thursday afternoon — by @cutaepatootie

He came to you like the air comes into the train station after the fast arriving of the machine. It comes fast and unexpected, making you hoist your head to look at the long vehicle and the people inside. It is so fast you can't even distinguish the different wagons. As the train comes to a stop, the wind that it creates plays with your hair, leaving you breathless. That's how Jeon Jungkook came into your life. | 19k [a, f, s]

❖ scattered stars — by @taegularities

It’s easy to despise Jungkook when your contradicting magic doesn’t allow you to touch each other without fatal consequences - but what if your eternal enemy turns out to be your soulmate with whom you, unfortunately, do fall in love? | 17.9k [f, a, s]

❖ welcome to the heartbreak show — by @numinousher

you’re in love with your partner in class that everyone fears (and loves) due to his stoic facial expression and the way he rejects girls rather harshly. as you get to know him, will he be able to handle your heart that you so willingly gave him to care for or, will he break it due to his hatred for people who are in love with him? | 28k [a, f]

❖ mutt — by @letsbangts

when you realize you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. | 6k [s, a]

❖ answer your phone — by @letsbangts

when the consequences of his actions come calling. — 12.8k [a, s]

❖ the love prognosis — by @awrkive

for as long as you can remember, you've always been a hopeless romantic. the girl who’s always dreamt of cheesy encounters with her soulmate, grand love declarations, and a cute little beach wedding to boot. but reality pretty much slaps you hard right on the face, because love, unfortunately, doesn’t come grand — it’s simple and it’s quiet, but it is quite painful, especially when the love that you’ve been seeking for all your adult life has just been right under your nose all this time. | series [f, a, s]

❖ lie with you — by @girlygguk

in which jungkook doesn't realize what he has until he just about loses it. | 8.4k [a, f]

❖ out of gas? — by @97kuu

It was a setup between Taejoon and Jungkook to get him to hook up with you in the car. However, his guilty heart and physical desire revealed that he wanted more than what he was willing to confess that night.. | 3k [s]

❖ ordinary things — by @lovieku

after a lost match, jeongguk’s only source of comfort is you. | 6.9k [a, f]

❖ cosmic balance — by @explicit-tae

Every universal realm has a positive and negative - good or bad. Jungkook manages to cross the portal from his dystopian world to your utopian one and decides that he'd do anything to stay with you. | 8.7k [a, s, f]

❖ seven storms — by @wintaerbaer

As a young woman of considerable wealth, it has always been your father's expectation that you would marry one of the local aristocrats once you came of age. Your family's stable hand? Certainly not an option. | 9k [a, s, f]

❖ first class— by @girlygguk

in which you are just another spoiled, bitchy, annoyingly gorgeous trust-fund baby who has everyone at Yonsei University eating from the palm of your hand. and jeon jungkook, your spoiled, fuck-boy, annoyingly gorgeous trust-fund baby best friend, is always first in line to take a bite. | 25k [a, f, s]

❖ when she loved me — by @jungkookstatts

How does one live when life is bound to end? | 11.2k [a, s]

❖ staged for the season — by @voyter

Going back home for the holidays meant facing his ex — the one he still couldn’t let go of. determined to win her back and spark a little jealousy, he brought you along… as his fake girlfriend. — 18.3k [f, s, a]

❖ guilty as sin — by @gldrushh

You are stuck in time, and Jungkook doesn't stop running from it until he eventually does, and you learn that grief doesn’t wait for death, that love isn't all that dignifying. — 17.3k [a, s]

❖ mature — by @jiminrings

The good thing about professing your feelings to jungkook is that it'd be over with, whether or not he likes you back — the bad thing is that he rejects you, even if you haven't confessed. — 8k [f, a]

❖ 6 AM — by @neimaami

Jungkook wakes you up at 6AM for more than just morning cuddles. — 4k [s]

❖ year 22 — @rkived

‘‘I knew you’d be standing in my front porch light, and I knew you’d come back to me.’‘ — 11.5k [a, f, s]

❖ tangled webs — @ughseoks

Soulmates are tricky thing. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their destinies intertwined with their missing piece. Signs come in dreams for those fortunate souls; short bursts that are barely memorable when the sun rises. As for you? Flashes of red and blue are your only indicators to the identity of your other half. — 14.1k [a, f]

❖ fighting hearts — @kooktrash

Never living a life of luxury, Jungkook does what he has to do to make ends-meet. right now that means fighting in underground clubs, getting beat black and blue until he wins. he knows there’s a better life out there for him but he never let himself think about it. until you came along and suddenly a weight is being lifted off his shoulders letting you through his guarded walls. you’re everything he needed and you make him want to fight for more. — 15k [a, s, f]

❖ a thousand reasons why — @taegularities

After leaving to work towards his dream rather than the bonds that shackle him to home, you didn't expect to see Jungkook again years later at your best friend's wedding. And even less, for love to rekindle at second glance. — 43.1k [a, f, s]

❖ can’t be without you — @ahundredtimesover

One night you’re gushing over rom-coms and Jungkook’s cooking; a few nights later you’re tending to his beat-up face. But while it’s his stubbornness that’s saved you countless times before, it’s that same quality that constantly puts him in danger. OR your best friend just can’t let go of underground fighting and so, drama ensues. — 30.4K [f, a, s]

❖ tangled thoughts — @hongcherry

It wasn’t easy to leave your boyfriend of two years, but the constant lies made you question your relationship. You tried to move on, but you were somehow constantly tangled in his web. After being captured by an unknown, yet familiar, enemy, Jungkook wondered if he was doing the right thing by keeping his secret identity from you. Was it too late to come clean? — 10.5k [a, f]

❖ warning signs — by @hongcherry

Spider-Man is a beacon of hope for most residents in Seoul; although, it causes you to feel a little useless to society. With determination to be a change in the world like your masked boyfriend, you find yourself involved in a secluded organization meant to eradicate underground gangs. However, you’re deeper than you expected—leaving Jungkook trying to discover who this ‘new you’ is alone. — series [a, f]

❖ kiss me better — by @jaykaysthicthighs

Jungkook said some really mean things to you when you started coming home so late. when he realizes how horrible he was, he tried making it up to you. — 4k [a, f]

❖ disney+ & blast — by @1kook

There’s a pounding on your door a little past noon, so hard and rough, that you almost think it’s the police finally coming to catch you for all your years of illegally pirating Phineas and Ferb. It’s not. It’s just a really drunk boyfriend wailing for your forgiveness at the door. — 13k [f, a, s]

❖ blackjack — by @kpopfanfictrash

Bangtan is one of the most vicious mafias on the west coast. Only six members are known by name though, with a mysterious seventh member dubbed only as ‘the shadow.’ When you become indebted to the worst of the worst – how, exactly can you find a way out? — series [s, a, f]

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orphicsun · 3 months ago

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hey! i just saw ur post from 7hrs ago. Can u please please do reader cockwarming sevika?

sevika + fem!reader. warnings: cockwarming, strap on sex (r! receiving), nipple piercings on sevika, degrading names (whore).

"Alright, stop movin'." Her voice is gruff, her breath hot against your ear, and you can't help but instinctively clench around the jet black invasion below. Sevika picked that one from Zaun's adult shop specifically because, as she so bluntly put it, "black contrasts nicely with the white."

She wasn't wrong; every time she pulls out of you, all you can see is your milky-white cum splotched in random spots of the dildo. You're glad she can't feel silicone, that it's not a body part of hers, because you would never hear the end of it if she knew how much the walls of your pussy tighten around her favorite cock while you pretend it doesn't affect you as much as it does.

Sevika already teases you enough for how often you clamp down on her meaty fingers, so you have a small, discreet section in your heart that is extremely grateful that is all she can feel.

But right now, you don't even get to feel her grab your hips and fuck deep into you until your cervix is sore for days after, until she tries to slip into the shower with you for a quickie the next morning and you pry her off of you gently because she got too rough with you and you need time to recover.

You're sitting on her lap with your back pressed against her chest. Your shirt is still on your body, the only article of clothing left on you, but Sevika is completely bare. You can feel the steel of her nipple piercings press into your shoulder blades, and you initially shivered at the feeling. It drives you crazy.

It'd be easier to handle the teasing if she let you bounce on her cock like you'd die without it, but instead, she prohibits you from getting off. You can't move a muscle save for the ones deep inside your pussy, but she can't be mad at that. That is uncontrollable.

And it would be much easier to deal with the way the head of the particular jet-black cock nudges at your cervix so it fills you completely, the prominent veins pressing against your sweet spot, if you could at least look at her. But you're sitting on her lap, and she would grab your face and turn it right back around if you tried to turn your head for a glance at hers.

"Please, 'Vika. I need it. I need more." It's embarrassing how your cunt is already filled to the brim, stretched so tightly it aches even with enough lube, and you're still begging for more and continuously dripping all over her thighs.

What is even worse? You feel a few hairs from her bush against your ass, reminding you of what is underneath the harness. You'd rather be on your knees with your tongue in her pussy than this torture.

"I feel how wet you are. Just say the magic words, honey. I'll fuck this pussy 'till it's all sore and you're whining about it." Sevika promises, and you know she means it.

But saying what she wants to hear is worse. It's worse than torture of being impaled on Sevika and unable to fuck yourself on her cock.

Still, losing your dignity doesn't seem that bad compared to the thought of sitting here all night and knowing that Sevika won't hesitate to pull you off of her in the morning when she has to run Silco's errands. You don't have all night to stall.

"O-Okay, fine." You mumble, cheeks burning with shame; your hole leaks with excitement you keep hidden, however. "I'm a whore for you, Sevika. All I want is to be fucked by you. I.." You stammer, growing more embarrassed.

"C'mon, baby." Her hands find your hips and she gives you a single deep thrust, forcing a loud moan from your lips. She is giving you a taste of what you crave, what you need. "You can say it for me. I know you can."

"I want my pussy stuffed with only you." You say it quickly and quietly, but it's enough.

Sevika's grip on your love handles tightens, and she begins to fuck you rough and deep, the sound of her hips meeting your ass filling up the bedroom.

"Fuck! Sevika, oh my god—" you gasp out, struggling to find something to grasp onto to brace yourself. You can't stop yourself from melting against her like a popsicle on the sidewalk. She gives you what you need.

"That's it. You wanted this pussy stuffed, that is what you said, baby. I'm doing it for you," she huffs out. "Gonna stuff this sweet pussy all night long."

You're in another level of torture and a new category of bliss. You're insatiable—you crave more and more until your heart can't take the rapid thumping against your rib cage because you just need it that rough. You want it until the sun rises and you're exhausted, but you drag yourself to work and pass out on Sevika's mattress as soon as your shift at the bar is through.

But you're too caught up in your head to realize that Sevika is flipping you over, and you're now bent over the bed, Sevika towering over your body from behind.

The new angle along with one harsh thrust makes you realize that you're going to be calling in 'sick' the next morning.

taglist: @mytaping, @pryncess123, @saturnhas82moons, @eradicatedbythenightmare, @vixxxen, @prettyinpink69, @aceywaycy, @hellokittyfeenie, @starberr1, @ruelezz, @abbysbutch, @ladybugb0ng, @deluxism, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie, @lonelysapphic, @fruitit00tie, @x0x0xkimara, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @starryeyedlovergirll, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @waitaminuteashh, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs want to be tagged? click here

#requests #sevika x reader #sevika x y/n #sevika arcane #sevika #arcane sevika #sevika x you #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane x female reader #arcane x you #lesbian #lesbian sex #sapphic #sapphic smut #wlw smut #wlw #dividers by wittlpuppi

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stardustedknuckles · 11 months ago

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*scrubbing hands down my face* how can you compare magical ability to cocaine with a straight face and also support that the solution is to give Laudna unrestricted access to the cocaine. What mental gymnastics are you doing for that to make any sense. I know marisha used the metaphor. I also know people use metaphors that most closely match their life experiences and if parental/guardian/whatever broad mentor category Delilah belongs to abuse was something she'd struggled with, she very likely would have made that comparison instead! Creators are in fact fallible and trying their best with limited vocabulary and/or experience. It's not an entirely bad metaphor, but it does not take motivation and narrative impact as far as abuse and in fact puts Laudna in unflattering light that she doesn't deserve.

The magic wasn't making Laudna a worse person. Delilah was, and could also crucially physically take over her body to do shit she didn't want and which, again crucially, she was not actually responsible for. The magic was not interfering with her ability to live her life. Delilah was. And if anyone was hungry for power, it was Delilah.

Addicts are accountable for the actions they take in the name of getting their next fix, even though those actions are not what they would do without the disease of addiction and they are so often horrified by them and feel out of control. Laudna was never accountable for the things Delilah forced her body to do. The only possible blame she could take was MAYBE for not trying harder to get rid of Delilah earlier, which. She had fifty years to learn that wasn't fucking possible so forgive her if that certainty took time to change in the presence of powerful and kind friends giving her strength to not only try, but to even want to try.

Addiction as a metaphor for Laudna and her whole deal with Delilah would squarely assert by extension that everything Delilah did to her and through her was her own fault. The term for that is victim blaming.

Hey so can we stop with the addiction metaphors now that Delilah's been bejeweled. It was never a great metaphor and followed more along the lines of an abusive relationship, and now Laudna is in control of her life. Like. Addicts don't recover by continuing to access the thing that made them feel powerful, because again. Addiction was an incomplete and inept metaphor for that whole deal. The cocaine does not throw itself at your face and taunt your every waking thought, because it is in fact an inanimate object. Manipulators do that. People do. And when people do it, that's abuse.

#And also. Like. I did see the cooldown/4sd where marisha made that comparison #But even if I had not #I would still be right #I don't need to know what she thinks to be able to point to something and go 'I see where you were inspired for this metaphor #But it does not serve the story the way you think or as good as another situation many of us have actually been in'#I know people who have worked with people with addictions and they were looking at this and shaking their heads #From the first time it came up #I can see how Delilah taking over Laudna's body to force her to absorb magic could look like addiction #Which also feels like a force taking you over even though what you're doing isn't what you want #Like I do see it #But without victim blaming bc addiction is a disease #PEOPLE DON'T LITERALLY HAVE DRUGS IN THEIR HEAD #Laudna didn't get hooked on anything but the idea that it might be nice to stay alive!#And to find literally any agency in her situation!#And she found that agency by using the power Delilah was forcing her to feed on to her own ends to help her friends and save the world #She decided this shit went both ways and if Delilah could use her then she could use Delilah #Literally none of that is drugs are you kidding me #Also I know it looks like I'm talking to op but I am in fact op and I've never tried to hide that. So.

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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

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64.media.tumblr.com

White Horse - Chapter 12: January 2024

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, Me trying to write therapy sessions, Oscar being a lost little duckling.

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

It was still early when Isabelle woke, the pale winter light just beginning to slip through the windows. The apartment was hushed and still, the kind of quiet that usually came after a heavy snowfall — though Monaco was too warm for that kind of magic.

She padded out of the bedroom, still half-asleep, wearing one of Max’s sweatshirts that hung past her fingertips. Jimmy and Sassy trailed after her lazily, Lilly darting ahead like a tiny, excited shadow.

It wasn’t until she rounded the corner into the living room that she froze.

There, sitting in the corner, overlooking the harbour…was a piano.

But not just any piano. A baby grand.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t ornate.

It was warm, polished wood — beautiful and simple and steady, like everything Max touched.

The keys gleamed in the soft morning light, waiting.

Isabelle blinked hard, as if she might be dreaming.

There was no giant bow. No sign, no dramatic announcement. Just the piano, standing quietly, like it had always been meant to be there.

Like Max had known she would find it this way — in the quiet, when she was still soft and unguarded and half-wrapped in sleep.

She took a hesitant step forward, breath catching in her throat.

There was a small note propped against the music stand.

For you, Belle. Always for you. Love, Max.

Isabelle pressed a hand over her mouth, the tears coming hot and fast.

She crossed the room slowly, reverently, sinking down onto the bench. Her fingers hovered over the keys, shaking slightly.

It had been so long.

So long since she had allowed herself to want something without permission.

So long since something had been given to her without conditions, without expectation.

Just love.

Quiet, steady, unshakable love.

She pressed a key — soft, uncertain — and the note rang out, warm and clear, filling the apartment.

Behind her, she heard Max’s quiet footsteps.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a scene. He just wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder.

"You deserve to have something that’s just yours," he murmured against her hair. "You always have."

Isabelle closed her eyes, the tears slipping down her cheeks freely now.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice cracking.

Max tightened his hold around her, steady and safe.

"I know," he said softly. "I love you too."

And Isabelle, sitting there with Max’s arms around her, her hands resting on her very own piano, finally believed it:

This life — this home, this love — was hers.

Not because she earned it. Not because she proved anything.

But simply because she was her.

Max’s arms remained around her, his warmth seeping into her skin as he rested his chin lightly on her shoulder. The soft echo of the single note she had played still hung in the air, but now, Isabelle felt a pull inside her, a quiet yearning to play something more.

Something just for herself.

She didn’t know where the courage came from, but it settled in her chest, gentle and slow.

With a shaky breath, Isabelle’s fingers moved to the keys again, more assured this time. She played a few more notes, her fingers awkward but familiar, like the rhythm was coming back to her slowly, like a memory she’d forgotten she had.

The melody was simple — a soft, gentle tune she used to play when she was younger, when she could escape into music without thinking of anything else. It was the first song she had learned, back when she’d felt light, before everything had gotten complicated.

Max’s arms tightened slightly around her as she played, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched her, his eyes soft, as though she was doing something precious — as though she was gifting him something sacred.

Isabelle’s fingers danced slowly over the keys, a little uneven but full of heart, a fragile kind of beauty to the imperfect notes. The song wasn’t perfect. It was quiet, tentative, but that was okay.

She didn’t need to be perfect. Not right now. Not with him.

***

The building wasn’t intimidating.

It wasn’t cold or sterile or echoing like she half-expected.

It was just a quiet house with a blue door and a neat little garden out front, where someone had hung tiny bells from the trees. They tinkled in the breeze — soft, low, like a heartbeat.

Still, Isabelle’s hands were sweating.

She almost didn’t go inside.

She could so easily just turn around, pretend she’d gotten the date wrong, pretend—

No.

She wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes for a second, then pushed the door open.

The waiting room smelled like lavender. There were cozy chairs. A stack of puzzles on a low table. A woman behind the desk smiled at her — not a fake, forced smile, but a real one, warm and inviting.

"Hi, Isabelle," she said gently. "You can head right in. Second door on the left."

Isabelle nodded, throat too tight to say anything, and walked down the hall on shaky legs.

The therapist — Simone — was sitting in a wide armchair, a notebook balanced on her knee, wearing jeans and a knitted sweater. She looked more like someone’s favorite aunt than a stranger you were supposed to spill your soul to.

Still, Isabelle’s pulse thudded painfully against her ribs as she sank into the couch across from her.

"Take your time," Simone said, smiling. "We’re not in a rush."

Isabelle twisted her fingers together in her lap.

"I don’t really know how to do this," she blurted out.

Simone chuckled softly, not unkindly. "Most people don’t at first. That’s okay. You’re already doing it, just by showing up."

Isabelle blinked rapidly, her throat burning.

She hadn’t even done anything yet and she already felt like she might cry.

"Why are you here today?" Simone asked, her voice like a soft blanket.

Isabelle swallowed hard.

"Because..." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Because I keep giving and giving, and it’s never enough. Because I bend myself into pieces trying to be what everyone else needs, and it’s still not enough."

Simone nodded, patient.

"And how does that make you feel?"

Isabelle let out a brittle, broken laugh.

"Small," she whispered. "Invisible."

The words tasted like blood and freedom all at once.

Simone didn’t flinch. She didn’t rush to fix it. She just sat with it, with her.

For the first time in a long time, Isabelle didn’t feel like she was crazy or dramatic or ungrateful.

She just felt... seen.

Over the next hour, she talked more than she thought she would. About Christmas. About her brothers. About the way she always tried to be good enough, even when she knew it would never matter.

She cried — ugly, gasping tears that embarrassed her — but Simone just handed her tissues and nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And when it was over, when Simone said "We’ll figure this out together, at your pace," Isabelle didn’t feel magically fixed or healed.

But she did feel a little lighter.

Like maybe she had put down one tiny piece of the weight she’d been carrying alone for too long.

When she walked out into the late afternoon sunlight, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Max: Proud of you, schatje. Come home. I’m making tea.

Isabelle smiled, the first real, unforced smile she’d felt in days. Her chest still hurt. Her eyes were raw.

By the time she made it up the stairs to the apartment, her body felt heavy.

Not in the bad way, like it sometimes did after her family — no sharp shame slicing through her, no desperate scrambling to be more.

Just… tired.

Like she had finally let herself breathe and her bones didn’t quite know what to do with it.

The door swung open before she could even fish her keys out.

Max stood there, barefoot in sweatpants and an old hoodie, his hair a mess, like he’d been pacing or half-listening for her steps all afternoon.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask how was it, didn’t push for answers she didn’t know how to give yet.

He just opened his arms.

Isabelle didn’t think. She went straight into them, dropping her bag by the door, burying herself in the safe, solid line of his chest.

Max hugged her like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

He kissed the top of her head, slow and lingering, and murmured, "Tea’s ready."

She let him guide her gently inside, his hand warm and steady at the small of her back.

The living room was already set up — a big blanket draped across the couch, two steaming mugs on the coffee table, her favorite candle flickering in the corner. It was simple. Ordinary.

But somehow, it felt like the most extraordinary thing in the world.

Max handed her a mug and pulled her down onto the couch without letting go, tugging the blanket over both of them.

He didn’t say anything else — didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t try to "fix" her.

He just sat there with her, thigh pressed to thigh, his fingers slowly tracing mindless patterns over the back of her hand.

Isabelle took a shaky sip of tea. Chamomile, of course.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to do anything to be loved.

She could just be.

Tired. Quiet. Raw.

Still loved.

Max pressed another kiss to her hair, then rested his cheek against the top of her head, like they had all the time in the world.

"You’re doing good, Belle," he murmured. "Really good."

A tear slipped free before she could catch it, landing hot against her cheek.

Not from sadness.

Not from exhaustion.

From hope.

She curled closer into him, letting herself be small, letting herself be held — no strings, no expectations.

***

Date nights at home had become Max’s favorite thing.

There was something about the quiet — no cameras, no pressure, just Isabelle curled up in one of his hoodies, bare feet tucked under her on the couch, the cats sprawled everywhere — that made Max feel more at peace than anywhere else in the world.

Tonight, after dinner and a movie, they were sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by empty plates and a half-finished bottle of wine. Sassy was asleep on the back of the couch. Jimmy was passed out belly-up by the coffee table. Little Lilly was chasing a stray sock like it was her mortal enemy.

It was perfect.

Until Isabelle turned to him, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"I want to try your sim," she said, like it was the most reasonable idea in the world.

Max blinked at her. "You... what?"

"You learned to ride a horse for me," she pointed out, nudging his knee with her foot. "The least I can do is try racing."

He stared at her, torn between immediate amusement and something warmer — because God, he loved her mind, the way she thought everything should be balanced, even when it absolutely didn’t have to be.

"You really don’t have to," he said, laughing.

"I want to," Isabelle insisted, already getting to her feet. "I’ll probably be terrible. But it’s only fair."

Max pushed himself up, grinning. "Okay, schatje. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Setting her up in the sim was half the fun.

She was too small for the seat, so he adjusted everything — pedals, steering wheel height — while she sat there pretending to be very serious, like this was a championship-deciding race and not just a bit of fun at home.

When she finally settled in, gripping the wheel with comically stiff hands, Max had to bite his lip to stop from laughing.

"Relax," he said, reaching over to gently adjust her hands. "You’re not trying to strangle it."

"I’m focused," she said with faux dignity.

"Sure you are," Max chuckled, stepping back.

He queued up a simple track — Monza. Long straights, easy corners. Should be safe.

Famous last words.

The lights went green, and—

Isabelle immediately floored the throttle, spun the car in a perfect 360, and smashed straight into the pit wall.

Max burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against the sim rig.

Isabelle sat there, blinking at the crumpled virtual front wing, utterly unimpressed. "That was... fast."

"You crashed before you even crossed the start line," Max wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Technical victory," she deadpanned. "I established dominance early."

He laughed even harder, stepping in to restart the session.

The second attempt wasn’t much better. She fishtailed through the first corner, cut across the gravel, and sent a string of bright orange cones flying into the air like fireworks.

Max could barely breathe from laughing.

"You’re worse than a rookie in a rental kart!" he managed to choke out, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

Isabelle rolled her eyes, adjusting her seat with far too much concentration. "I have zero control sensitivity. I’m delicate. I’m used to steering horses, not turbocharged lawnmowers."

"You’re not delicate," Max laughed. "You’re a menace."

She turned to look at him, arching a brow. "You learned to canter. I can figure this out."

"Eventually," Max said, still grinning like a complete idiot.

He watched her with endless fondness as she barreled down a straight and completely missed her braking point, flying into a gravel trap again.

And the crazy part was — he loved this. Loved her. Loved that she didn’t care about being bad. Loved that she laughed just as much when she failed as when she succeeded.

She wasn’t trying to impress him. She was just... being with him. Sharing something. Meeting him where he lived, the way he had met her on horseback.

He crossed the room and crouched beside the rig, grinning up at her.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "given your last name, I really thought you’d be better at this."

Isabelle stuck her tongue out at him and spun the car in another glorious, out-of-control loop.

"I contain multitudes," she declared, laughing.

Max laughed too, reaching up to pull her down into a kiss, his hand curling around the back of her neck.

"You’re perfect," he murmured against her mouth. "Even if you drive like an absolute disaster."

She kissed him back, smiling against his lips.

And honestly?

He wouldn’t have changed a thing.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/iracingwatchdog: uhhhh i just spotted max verstappen on a random iracing lobby and guys… GUYS. he’s driving like he’s never raced a car before 😭

@/iracingwatchdog: he just spun out entering the pit lane. THE PIT LANE.

@/iracingwatchdog: bro he’s oversteering like a maniac and braking about 10 years too late at every corner… i am concerned.

@/iracingwatchdog: MAX JUST FULLY MISSED TURN 1 AT MONZA AND BARELY EVEN TRIED TO RECOVER

what is happeninggggggg

@/iracingwatchdog: i swear to god this is either max trolling or he’s drunk there’s NO WAY this is real

@/raceweekpanic: are we SURE it’s max?? because the way this person is cornering looks like they’ve literally never played before

@/simteaworld alternative theory: one of the cats is driving 🐾

@/wheel2wheeltrash: nah imagine it’s his girlfriend or something trying it out for fun and none of us know 😭😭😭

@/SimRacingWorld: Can someone explain why Max Verstappen is driving in iRacing like he’s had 5 Red Bulls and no sleep??

@/f1teaaccount: ok so is max drunk, sick, or secretly letting a 5-year-old play because what am i WATCHING

@/verstappenupdates

HES SPINNING IN THE PIT LANE

I REPEAT

SPINNING

THE

PIT

LANE

@/f1shenanigans: someone check on max like actually… he's driving like he’s never seen a car before 😭

@/paddockinsider: lowkey worried about max until i realized he’s probably messing around because he can

@mclarensupremacy

I’m starting a conspiracy theory that Sassy the cat is driving the sim rn and honestly it would explain a lot

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: (mock seriously) Max. We need to talk about yesterday.

Max: (laughing) Oh no. What now?

Gianni Vecchio: You know what. iRacing. Monza. Turn one. The pit lane. The gravel. Every single lap.

Chris Lulham: Bro, you spun in the pit entry and then reversed into the tire wall!

Gianni: We were watching it like, “he’s trolling,” but then it just kept getting worse.

Chat:

OMG HERE WE GO it was SO BAD max what happened max blink twice if you're ok were you racing blindfolded???

Max: (shaking his head, laughing) Okay, okay, listen… I wasn’t driving.

Chris: WHAT???

Luke: Excuse me??

Max: It was my girlfriend.

Chat:

AHHHH LMFAOOOOOOO she drove like a GTA NPC 💀 MAX WTF who is she 👀👀👀👀👀

Gianni: YOU JUST LET HER ON YOUR SIM?? UNSUPERVISED???

Max: I was right there! I was… supervising.

Luke: Max you call that supervision?? She took out a traffic cone on the straight.

Max: In her defense, she did say, “I don’t understand how people drive these turbocharged lawnmowers.”

Chris That’s a direct quote???

Max: Dead serious.

Chat:

crying turbocharged lawnmowers 😭 please marry her

Luke: So what, this was like a date night?

Max: Yeah. She said I learned to ride a horse for her, so she wanted to try racing. It was very… chaotic. But fun.

Gianni: How long did she last?

Max: Like an hour. I lost count of how often she crashed. Then we gave up and had dessert.

Chat:

real love 😭 i want what they have MAX YOU’RE WHIPPED tell her she’s welcome on track any time 😂 WHO IS SHEEEE

Luke: Okay but seriously… is she available for endurance races?

Max: Only if you want the race to end in flames. And a very dramatic DNF.

Chat:

FIA: investigating 10 second penalty for Max for emotional damage LET HER DRIVE AGAIN

Gianni: Okay but imagine she gets decent. We’re never hearing the end of it.

Max: (smiling) She doesn’t have to be good. She just wanted to try something that matters to me. That’s enough.

Chat:

😭😭😭 soft max is best max he’s IN LOVE i’m crying in sim rig

Gianni: Okay but next time we need a stream of this. For science.

Max: Absolutely not.

Chris: Chat: you know what to do. We’re starting a petition.

***

Charles liked running in the early morning. It was one of the few times Monaco felt quiet, like the city hadn’t quite opened its eyes yet. The sea breeze was cool, the streets were still, and the only sound was the rhythmic slap of his sneakers against the pavement—and Arthur huffing beside him.

“Don’t start sprinting again,” Arthur muttered between breaths. “It’s not a race.”

“You’re just slow,” Charles shot back with a grin.

They rounded a bend near the marina, heading up toward the promenade, when Charles caught sight of a familiar figure running toward them.

He blinked. Squinted. Then blinked again.

“…Is that Isabelle?”

Arthur straightened, peering ahead, his expression one of surprise. “Huh. Yeah.”

Isabelle was wearing leggings, a pale blue top, hair tied up, earbuds in. She looked… like someone who ran regularly, which was completely confusing. Since when had she been a runner?

Charles slowed his pace, waving her down as she approached.

When she reached them, she pulled out one earbud, her pace naturally easing. “Bonjour.”

Charles frowned. “What are you doing?”

Isabelle looked at him, unimpressed. “Running.”

“No, I mean—since when do you go running?” he pressed, still confused.

She blinked at him like the question was absurd. “Since always? You don’t own the rights to early morning runs, Charles.”

Arthur, who had been quietly observing, now chimed in, still catching his breath. “You run…?”

“Yeah,” Isabelle said with a shrug, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. “I run. It’s good for you.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “You’ve never said anything about this before.”

Isabelle shrugged again, eyes darting between the two of them as if she was trying to decide how much of her life to explain. “You’ve never asked. I do Pilates too.”

Arthur blinked, still processing. “You do Pilates?”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “It’s good for my posture.”

“Since when?” Charles asked, sounding more bewildered with every word.

She gave him an unamused glance. “For a long time. I don’t broadcast everything about myself, Charles. Some things are private.”

Arthur was too stunned to respond, still panting. Charles stared at her as though he’d just discovered a completely different side of her he didn’t know existed.

“Where are you coming from?” Arthur asked, the question escaping before he could stop it.

Isabelle tilted her head, looking at them both like they were ridiculous. “Up near the gardens. Looped around twice.”

“Alone?” Charles asked, though there was a strange note in his voice — part concern, part disbelief.

Isabelle shot him a look that was sharper than he expected. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Before Charles could respond, another figure appeared from around the corner. Jogging steadily, sunglasses on, effortlessly matching Isabelle’s pace — it was Max Verstappen.

Charles’s jaw dropped as Max closed the distance between them, barely acknowledging either of them. Isabelle, as if the meeting of their gazes was the most normal thing in the world, smiled at him, still catching her breath.

“You dropped your pace on the last hill,” Max teased, grinning at her.

Isabelle rolled her eyes, clearly amused but playing it cool. “Only because you were chasing me.”

Max laughed, his tone warm and easy. “You were running like you were being hunted.”

Charles’s mind was racing. He turned to Arthur, then back to Max and Isabelle, his confusion deepening.

“Wait,” Charles said slowly, blinking, his words coming out slower than usual. “You… run together?”

Both Isabelle and Max spoke at the exact same time, their answers almost synchronized.

“No,” Isabelle said, a little too sharply.

“Not really,” Max added, shrugging with the same indifference.

Arthur blinked, staring at the two of them like he was waiting for the punchline to a joke he didn’t understand.

Charles’s frown deepened. He glanced at Arthur again, back to Max, and then to Isabelle. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly lost for words. “Uh… okay.”

Isabelle had already popped her second earbud back into her ear, casually starting to jog away without waiting for a response. Max fell into step behind her, matching her pace without even looking back at Charles or Arthur.

“Monaco’s small,” Isabelle said casually, almost too casually, over her shoulder. “You’re bound to run into people.”

Max added, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Total coincidence.”

Charles and Arthur watched them jog off, completely baffled. The faint sound of their footsteps fading into the distance left a lingering silence between them.

Arthur blinked. “Did… did you know she runs?”

“No,” Charles replied, shaking his head, still not sure if this was real life. “I didn’t.”

Arthur paused, frowning deeply. “Did she just… blow us off?”

Charles was still staring down the promenade where Isabelle and Max had disappeared. “I think she just did.” ***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Lorenzo, you will NOT believe what happened this morning.

Arthur: seriously

Arthur: prepare yourself

Lorenzo: what now 😭

Charles: we went for a run this morning

Charles: like normal

Charles: and we ran into ISABELLE

Arthur: RUNNING.

Charles: like properly Charles: workout gear Charles: earbuds Charles: focused

Lorenzo: ?? Lorenzo: What do you mean, running? Lorenzo: like… going somewhere or actual jogging??

Arthur: actual jogging Arthur: with proper form and everything Arthur: she even looped around the gardens twice

Lorenzo: SINCE WHEN DOES ISABELLE RUN???

Charles: EXACTLY we asked her and she just said “i’ve always liked it”

Arthur: she also said she does pilates Arthur: FOR HER POSTURE

Lorenzo: pilates??????????

Charles: i don’t even know what’s happening anymore

Arthur: why do i feel like she has five other secret hobbies and we’re just going to find out by accident

***

The room was the same — the quiet lavender smell, the cozy armchairs, the soft hum of a heater in the corner.

But Isabelle felt different.

Still nervous. Still shaky sometimes.

But a little less like she was walking into battle without armor.

Simone smiled at her, that same calm, steady smile that made it easier to sit down, to breathe.

"Last time," Simone said, crossing one leg over the other, "we talked about how much of your energy goes into taking care of everyone else. Your family in particular."

Isabelle nodded stiffly, hands twisted in her lap. It still hurt, even just hearing it out loud.

Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but sure.

"I think it’s time to give you a little homework."

Isabelle's stomach twisted. She hated getting things wrong. Hated disappointing anyone.

But Simone must have seen the panic flash across her face because she smiled again, reassuring.

"This isn’t about getting a gold star, Belle," she said. "This is about learning where your responsibility ends and theirs begins."

She slid a small notepad across the coffee table.

Written at the top in neat, careful handwriting was a simple title:

“What am I responsible for? What am I not responsible for?”

Isabelle stared at it.

"I want you to start separating what's yours and what's theirs," Simone explained. "When your brothers expect you to fix Christmas dinner, or smooth over a fight, or carry their happiness—whose job is that, really?"

Isabelle swallowed hard. It sounded so simple when Simone said it. But it felt impossible, tangled up inside her chest.

"I don't know how to say no," she admitted in a whisper. "It feels... selfish."

Simone’s expression softened even further.

"Setting boundaries isn’t selfish," she said. "It’s self-respect. It's saying, I love you, but I also love myself."

The lump rose thick in Isabelle’s throat.

"For next time," Simone continued, her voice like a balm, "I want you to practice two things. First, notice when you feel resentful — that’s usually a sign a boundary is being crossed. And second..." She smiled gently. "Practice saying no. Even if it's just small things."

Isabelle let out a shaky laugh.

"I don't even know how to say no."

"You'll learn," Simone promised. "And when you do, you’ll realize the world doesn’t end. The right people won’t leave. And the wrong ones? Maybe it's okay if they get uncomfortable."

Isabelle stared down at the notepad, the words blurring slightly.

What am I responsible for? What am I not responsible for?

It felt terrifying. It also felt a little bit like hope.

Maybe she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life bending herself into shapes that hurt just to keep everyone else comfortable.

Maybe she could love her family — and still choose herself.

Maybe she could belong to herself first.

When the session ended, Simone walked her to the door with another reassuring smile.

"I know it’s scary," she said. "But you’re doing something incredibly brave."

Isabelle nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs.

And as she stepped out into the crisp winter air, notebook clutched tightly in her hand, she whispered to herself, barely audible:

"I deserve to take up space."

By the time she got home, Isabelle’s head was buzzing.

Not in the good way — not like excitement or energy — but heavy and slow, like she’d been carrying a backpack full of bricks all day.

The notepad from therapy was stuffed into her bag, the words “What am I responsible for?” still flashing in her mind.

She didn’t want to mess this up.

She didn’t want to be a disappointment — not to Simone, not to Max, not to herself.

The apartment smelled like dinner. Something warm, maybe pasta, simmering on the stove. She could hear Max humming under his breath from the kitchen, the low, tuneless kind of hum he only did when he was completely relaxed.

It made her chest ache.

Part of her wanted to collapse into him. To let him pull her into his arms and make everything quiet again.

But another part — a new part, small and shaking but there — whispered:

You’re tired. You need space. It’s okay to need something.

Isabelle hovered by the door for a second, her heart hammering. She could picture it already — Max’s face falling if she said no, the guilt swamping her, the inevitable backpedaling—

Max isn’t them, she reminded herself. Max loves you.

Still, her throat was dry when she said, "Max?"

He appeared around the corner, wiping his hands on a towel, smiling wide.

"Hey, schatje! How was—"

"I’m really tired," Isabelle blurted out before she could lose her nerve. "I don’t... I don’t think I can talk about it tonight."

She twisted her hands together automatically, bracing herself.

For disappointment. For hurt. For the shift in the air that always came when she wasn't exactly what someone wanted her to be.

But it didn’t come.

Max blinked, then immediately softened.

"Okay," he said simply.

No anger. No guilt-tripping. No but I made dinner or but I want to hear about it.

Just okay.

He crossed the room and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, careful like he knew she might break.

"Go get comfy," he said. "I’ll bring you a plate later, if you’re hungry."

And then — impossibly — he just went back into the kitchen, humming again, like it really was that easy.

Isabelle stood frozen in the doorway, something hot and unfamiliar prickling at her eyes.

He didn’t leave. He didn’t get mad. He didn’t make her feel like she was selfish for needing space.

He stayed.

The right people won’t leave.

Simone’s words echoed in her mind.

She didn’t have to earn her place here. She already had it.

Isabelle slipped into the bedroom, pulling on one of Max’s old hoodies, and crawled under the blankets. The exhaustion hit her fast now, uncoiling from the inside out — the good kind, the safe kind.

Just as she was drifting off, she felt the edge of the mattress dip.

Max’s hand slid under the blanket, finding hers.

He didn’t say anything. He just laced their fingers together, warm and steady.

And Isabelle, for the first time in a long, long time, fell asleep without feeling like she owed anyone anything.

Just loved.

Exactly as she was.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Hey 💛 just checking in on you. How’s everything going?

Isabelle: Hi 🥹 I’m okay. It’s been… a lot.

Emilie: How’s therapy?? are you still going?

Isabelle: Yeah. I’ve had three sessions so far. It’s weird but good? I cry basically every time though.

Emilie: That’s not weird. That’s called “having emotions”, which you’re allowed to have, by the way 🫶

Isabelle: It’s just strange… to have someone actually ask about me and listen. Without making me feel like i’m being dramatic or selfish

Emilie: Because you’re NOT being dramatic or selfish. You’re just finally being heard. You deserve that, Belle, always have.

Isabelle: 🥹 Stop, you’re going to make me cry again…

Emilie: Cying is healing.

Emilie: You got any homework yet?

Isabelle: Yes. I have to practice “setting boundaries”... aka saying no without feeling like the earth will swallow me whole

Emilie: That sounds hard. But also?? You’re literally one of the strongest people I know. You can do this.

Isabelle: Thank you. Isabelle: Seriously, I don’t know what i’d do without you

Emilie: Probably still be apologizing for existing 💀

Isabelle: rude but true

Emilie: rude but said with love 💛

Emilie: I’m so proud of you, Belle. Emilie: like genuinely proud Emilie: doing the work is hard and you’re doing it anyway… that’s HUGE

Isabelle: Thank you Isabelle: it still feels messy most days but i don’t feel as stuck as i used to

Emilie: Good Emilie: because you’re meant to move and grow and thrive not stay trapped where they left you

Isabelle: i love you 🥹

Emilie: love you more 🫶 Emilie: also if you want to bail on family events ever again just say the word… I’ll stage a fake emergency for you anytime

Isabelle: emotional support getaway driver

Emilie: anytime. no questions asked 😌

***

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He’d gone to the grocery store because he was craving sour candy and he was bored — winter break was weird like that. Quiet. Too much time to think. Too much space to accidentally run into people you didn’t expect.

People like Max Verstappen.

Lando spotted him near the bakery section first.

And he didn’t clock it immediately because Max was just... standing there.

Looking normal.

Poking at a loaf of bread.

Holding a shopping list.

And not just any list — a handwritten one.

With little loopy letters.

With hearts over the i’s.

Lando froze.

No. No no no.

He hung back behind a display of discount panettone, peering around it like he was in a bloody spy movie.

Max was seriously grocery shopping. Like full-on, responsible adult grocery shopping.

Reusable bags. Price comparing brands of oat milk. Muttering something under his breath about "the blue cap one" being the one she liked.

She.

Lando’s stomach flipped.

He knew exactly who "she" was.

It was one thing to know Max and Isabelle were secretly together — a horrifying truth he and a select few others carried like a ticking time bomb.

It was another thing entirely to witness Max being... domestic.

He watched, slack-jawed, as Max tossed three different kinds of cat treats into the cart. Max. Verstappen. Choosing cat treats based on flavor preferences.

This was like spotting a lion delicately picking wildflowers.

Lando stared in horror as Max doubled back toward the dairy section, checking off items on his list with actual focus.

And — worse — smiling.

SMILING.

In the dairy aisle.

He ducked further behind the panettone display as Max approached, humming to himself under his breath — humming — like someone’s bloody husband.

Lando felt like he was watching a nature documentary. “Here, we observe the once-wild Max Verstappen in his natural habitat... the household aisle.”

He was still staring, frozen in existential terror, when Max looked up — and spotted him.

Their eyes met over a crate of oranges.

Lando gave a weak wave. Max raised an eyebrow like you good?

Slowly — calmly — Max pushed his cart toward him, totally unbothered.

"Forgot the sour candy, didn’t you?" Max said, smirking, like he could read his mind.

Lando nodded mutely, heart pounding.

Max tossed a bag of sour gummies into Lando’s basket — how the hell did he even know which ones Lando liked? — and said casually, "Don’t forget the fizzy ones. Belle likes those."

Belle.

BELLE.

Lando was spiraling internally, but he managed to squeak out, "Thanks," like a semi-functioning human being.

Max just grinned, patted the side of Lando’s basket like he was proud of him, and went back to selecting oat milk.

Lando stood there for a solid minute after Max disappeared down the aisle, trying to remember how to breathe.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo and Carlos Sainz Jr.)

Lando: guys Lando: GUYS

Oscar: what did you do

Lando: I just ran into max Lando: grocery shopping Lando: in MONACO

Daniel: ok? and?

Lando: NO. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. Lando: HE HAD A LISTLando: AND TWO REUSABLE BAGS

Carlos: ...domesticated verstappen???

Lando: LIKE FULLY. Lando: he was holding a shopping list with her handwriting Lando: you know that girly loopy handwriting that screams “i color code my entire life” Lando: he was comparing products Lando: like price comparing

Daniel: I’m sorry is he...budgeting?? 😭😭😭

Lando: and he had cat treats Lando: THREE kinds Lando: one was fancy and he said “the little one likes the fish flavor” Lando: I’M PRETTY SURE HE MEANT THE KITTEN

Carlos: I can’t. I physically can’t. this is too much

Daniel: so we’re just casually accepting that max verstappen is out here being someone’s wife

Oscar: someone = isabelle… and we’re all going to die when charles finds out

Lando: do you think he’ll find out via grocery store gossip or die of shock first

Carlos: I’m still convinced max will just forget and casually say “I’m going home to belle” in front of charles and then disappear from existence

Oscar: disappear as in “dragged into the sea by Charles”

Daniel: ok but like we’re not going to tell charles right??? we’re just...vibing in terrified silence?

Lando: OBVIOUSLY

Lando: do I look like I have a death wish

Lando: the point is max was like smiling in the dairy aisle

Daniel: ew

Oscar: actually adorable

Carlos: horrifying

Lando: I swear he said “she likes the oat milk one with the blue cap” like it was a normal sentence Lando: I swear to god max has memorized her milk preferences

Oscar: this is worse than I thought

Daniel: this is SOFT max. we are witnessing rare footage.

Carlos: and when charles finds out we’re all getting hunted for sport

Lando: I’m buying a burner phone and changing my identity

Oscar: do we have a code word for “charles found out and is currently loading a very expensive revenge plan”

Daniel: I vote for “we’re going to karting”

Lando: no he’ll definitely follow us to karting

Carlos: I hate how real this all feels

Oscar: I’m scared

Daniel: as you should be

***

The café was tucked into a quiet street just outside the old town, all warm wood and soft sunlight. Isabelle arrived ten minutes early, notebook in hand, nerves tucked just beneath her ribcage.

She had worn a skirt and a simple, soft blouse — elegant but understated. Not stiff. Not corporate. Something that felt like her.

Daniel was already there when she arrived, seated at a corner table, waving her over the second he spotted her. Beside him sat a man with silver-streaked hair and warm eyes, dressed in a well-worn linen shirt and tortoiseshell glasses.

“Isabelle,” Daniel said, standing to greet her. “So good to see you again.”

He kissed her cheek in the French way, smiling genuinely. “This is my husband, Jules. Jules, this is the one I’ve been raving about.”

Jules smiled as he shook her hand. “So you’re the woman who saved our villa from becoming an Ikea catalogue. I’ve heard stories.”

Isabelle laughed, surprised. “I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, he lies,” Daniel said smoothly, sitting again. “You did everything.”

They chatted for a few minutes — light, easy — over coffee. Then Daniel pulled a slim leather portfolio from his bag and slid it across the table.

“The property,” he said. “We closed two weeks ago. It’s not a huge place, but it’s old, and charming, and in desperate need of someone with taste.”

Jules leaned in. “We want to keep the bones. No gutting. No flattening history just to make it sleek. We want to live in it — with it — not bulldoze it into something else.”

Isabelle flipped through the photos: stone floors worn smooth with time, shuttered windows, exposed beams, a crumbling courtyard begging for sunlight and life.

It was beautiful.

Quietly, undeniably beautiful.

She looked up. “This is lovely.”

“Exactly why we thought of you,” Daniel said, eyes lighting up. “You understood our last place before we even did. You made it feel like it had always been that way. And we’re hoping… you might do the same here.”

Isabelle hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because she didn’t want it.

But because, for the first time, it would be her name on the contract. Not Atelier Renard. Not a faceless firm. Just Isabelle Leclerc.

She drew a slow breath. “I’d love to take it on.”

Jules smiled like they’d just won the lottery. “Fantastic.”

“We’d like to do this properly,” Daniel added. “You send over your contract, your terms, your timeline. Whatever you need. No middlemen.”

No middlemen.

It echoed in her chest like a bell.

They wanted her.

Isabelle smiled, a real smile, warm and sure.

“I’ll have everything to you by Monday,” she said. “Thank you, both, for trusting me.”

Daniel raised his cup of coffee. “To new beginnings.”

Jules clinked his gently against hers.

And Isabelle sat there in the sunlit café, feeling something settle in her chest — not nerves, not dread, but something else.

Belonging.

Not borrowed. Not background. Not earned through endless overwork.

Just hers.

***

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something sweet — Max had left pastries out for them before heading off to the simulator for the afternoon.

Jimmy was asleep in the sunbeam by the window, Sassy perched on the back of the couch supervising the room like a queen, and Lilly, the kitten, was zooming around chasing a toy.

And for the first time in a long time, Isabelle didn’t feel... trapped.

She felt nervous.

Excited.

Hopeful.

Emilie sat at the table across from her, tapping a pen against the notepad between them.

"Okay," Emilie said, dramatic, "your empire needs a name."

Isabelle laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. "I wouldn’t call it an empire."

"Yet," Emilie corrected, grinning. "But give it a few years."

Isabelle shook her head fondly. "It's just a small thing. One single freelance project."

"One single amazing freelance project," Emilie said pointedly. "You deserve to put your name on it. Make it real. Make it yours."

Isabelle hesitated, tapping her fingers against her coffee cup.

She hadn't really thought that far ahead. It had been enough just to start — just to admit she didn’t want to do what everyone else expected anymore.

Now it was real.

"So," Emilie continued, flipping the notepad to a fresh page. "What do we want it to sound like? Fancy? Minimalist? French? English?"

Isabelle thought for a long moment.

"Simple," she said finally. "Something clean. Not... showy. Just... mine."

Emilie nodded. "Got it. Let's brainstorm."

They went through a dozen terrible ideas first — most of them jokes.

"Isabelle Designs" ("Sounds like a Disney princess is doing your kitchen.") "Leclerc Interiors" ("Too many racing people will show up expecting a trophy room.") "Isabelle’s Spaces" ("Cute, but also sounds like a daycare.")

They laughed through all of them, Isabelle feeling her chest loosen a little more with every bad suggestion.

After a while, Isabelle leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen against the pad.

"I kind of like the idea of using just a letter," she said slowly. "Something small. Private. Like... a little piece of me, but not all of me."

Emilie lit up.

"Okay. Like... 'Studio something'? Studio I?"

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. "Studio I sounds like a bad iPhone prototype."

Emilie snorted into her coffee.

"What about B?" Isabelle said quietly after a second. "For Blanche. For... for the parts of me I don’t want to lose anymore."

She expected Emilie to tease her, to say it was too sentimental.

But Emilie’s face softened instantly.

"Studio B," she said aloud, like she was tasting the words. "Simple. Clean. Yours."

Belle smiled — small, but real. Warmth bloomed in her chest.

Studio B.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud. It was hers.

"Studio B," she repeated, like she was daring herself to believe in it.

Emilie reached across the table, squeezing her hand.

"I love it," she said. "It’s perfect. Just like you."

Belle squeezed back, feeling a tear slip down her cheek before she could stop it — but it wasn’t a sad tear. It was something else. Something brighter.

This was hers. Finally, truly hers.

And she wasn’t going to let anyone take it away.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Hey. Max: can you keep a secret?

Emilie: absolutely not. Emilie: but i’m listening. 👀

Max: I want to get Belle an engagement ring.

Emilie: MAX. EMILIAN. VERSTAPPEN. Emilie: IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME

Max: Is that my full government name?

Emilie: It is when i’m screaming at you with love and excitement

Emilie: also—finally???

Max: Can you help me?

Emilie: Yes. Obviously. Emilie: Give me five seconds.

Max: Wait, what do you mean five seconds?

Emilie: [link] Emilie: this is a google doc i made six months ago: “Operation: Ring for Belle 💍🧁🐎”

Max: six MONTHS???

Emilie: You think i didn’t plan for this??? Emilie: Max, i’ve been emotionally preparing since June 2023

Max: …there are chapters

Emilie: Yes. Emilie: Chapter 1: styles she likes Chapter 2: what not to do (i.e. no silver, no dainty bands, and for the love of god nothing with hearts) Chapter 3: yellow gold & emeralds — because she literally cried once over a vintage emerald ring on instagram Chapter 4: sizing info — she’s a 50. Tab 5: sentimental inscriptions ideas (don’t look unless you want to sob)

Max: I’m scared and grateful

Emilie: As you should be Emilie: I take best-friend duties very seriously

Max: I want it to be right. Max: She deserves the right one.

Emilie: You’re already the right one, Max. Emilie: The ring’s just the bow on top.

Max: Thank you. Really.

Emilie: Anytime. Now go look at chapter 6. It’s where i’ve shortlisted ethical jewelers with custom design options. And yes, i’ve already contacted three of them for quotes.

Max: You terrify me.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Hey. Quick question.

GP: usually not what you lead with when it’s actually a quick question

Max: Do you know anything about engagement rings?

GP: … what

Max: like buying one?

GP: Max

Max: yeah?

GP: are you asking me for engagement ring advice

Max: Yes.

GP: So you’re really doing it?

Max: Yeah. I’m gonna ask her.

GP: wow

Max: Is that a bad wow or a good wow?

GP: It’s a holy shit the kid grew up wow.

GP: and also a little bit of i’m emotionally unprepared for this wow

Max: you and me both

GP: Do you have any idea what kind of ring she’d want?

Max: Belle’s best friend gave me a Google Doc

Max: yellow gold emerald no silver no hearts nothing dainty she has opinions

Max: so like is there anything else I need to know? like when you bought your wife’s ring did you do something special? or is there a secret protocol I don’t know about

GP: Okay first of all GP: No one gives you a ring briefing before this GP: You’re just supposed to panic and hope you survive

Max: Fantastic

GP: secondly GP: Buy something that feels like her, not something that looks like everyone else’s.

Max: That’s helpful actually.

GP: Also make sure the setting won’t catch on her sweater sleeves or a horse’s reins or a cat collar or anything chaotic in her life

GP: You’re gonna be fine, Max. She’ll say yes. Belle loves you like mad.

Max: I love her like mad too

GP: I know GP: You’ve got this, champ.

Max: Thank you.

GP: Good luck GP: And send me a picture of the ring… for purely professional telemetry reasons

Max: Thanks, GP. You’re the best.

***

It started innocently enough.

Max had been the one to mention it, offhand, while they were having coffee one morning. "Oscar’s moved into Monaco properly now. He’s hopeless though. Doesn’t know where anything is."

Belle had laughed, imagining Oscar wandering the winding streets, politely stubborn, somehow getting even more lost.

But then, a few days later, she actually ran into him — standing outside a bakery near La Condamine, looking deeply confused and holding his phone at arm’s length like it had personally betrayed him.

She hesitated.

Watched him look like a lost little duckling.

Then sighed.

And crossed the street.

"Oscar?" she called gently.

He turned, immediate relief washing over his face. "Oh, hi! Uh—yeah. I’m… a bit lost."

Belle smiled, amused. "Where are you trying to go?"

"This coffeshop Lando mentioned. It’s like…orange?" he said sheepishly, questioningly. "Or at least I was. Now I’m not sure."

"You're two neighborhoods off," she said kindly. "Come on. I’ll walk you."

And somehow... that turned into the whole day.

Oscar was, as it turned out, endearingly awkward when he wasn’t behind the wheel of a car.

Polite. Curious.

Asking a thousand questions about bakeries, markets, hidden cafes, and which parts of town weren’t secretly tourist traps.

Isabelle didn’t mind.

In fact, she kind of… liked it.

She pointed out her favorite patisserie tucked between two apartment buildings — "best croissants in the city, no competition" — and the tiny flower shop where she bought fresh eucalyptus when she needed to clear her head.

She showed him the quieter marina, the one tourists didn’t know about, where the locals walked their dogs early in the mornings.

The secret bookstore hidden in an alley, where the owner always kept a stack of English novels in the back.

Oscar listened to all of it, nodding like he was mentally cataloguing every detail.

At some point, without either of them noticing, she started giving him advice.

"You need to learn the local market schedules. The Thursday one near Place d’Armes is the best for produce."

"Don’t bother driving on Grand Prix weekend. Just walk. It's faster and less stressful.”

"If you get lost, find the cathedral. It’s the easiest landmark to navigate from."

Oscar listened intently, nodding along, asking the occasional polite question.

At one point, standing on a sun-warmed stone stairway overlooking the harbor, he turned to her and said, almost out of nowhere, "I didn’t think I’d feel so out of place here."

Belle softened instantly.

"It’s normal," she said. "Everyone pretends Monaco’s easy. It’s not. It’s beautiful, but it can be... lonely too."

Oscar nodded, like that made more sense than anything he’d heard so far.

By the time they looped back near his building, Belle realized she had somehow collected Oscar like an extra pet — somewhere between Jimmy the cat and the tiny Bengal kitten they’d adopted weeks ago.

She didn’t mind.

Oscar was quiet, easy company.

And he had the kind of polite stubbornness that reminded her a little too much of herself at his age.

"You have a lot of notes," she teased, glancing at his phone.

"Survival guide," he said seriously. "Belle's Rules for Monaco."

She laughed. "Rule number one: Don't try to drive through the old town during tourist season."

He nodded solemnly. "Rule two: Always bribe the bakery lady with compliments."

"And rule three," Belle said, pretending to be serious, "If you get lost, just call me."

“This was really nice. Thanks, Belle.”

She blinked. “It’s no problem.”

“No, really.” He smiled, shy and genuine. “You didn’t have to do this. You’re, like, busy and important.”

Isabelle laughed softly. “I’m not that important.”

Oscar shrugged. “This helps. It makes it feel a little more like... home.”

Something warm settled in Isabelle’s chest.

“Good,” she said quietly. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

He smiled at her — wide and open and completely unguarded — and Isabelle decided, then and there, that she would keep an eye on him.

Not because he needed it.

But because everyone deserved someone who noticed when they needed a map, or a croissant, or just a quiet corner of the world to feel like they belonged.

Especially someone like Oscar.

***

Max found Belle curled up on the couch when he got home, one leg tucked underneath her, her laptop balanced precariously on the armrest, a cup of tea cooling beside her.

Jimmy and Lilly were tangled up at her feet, Sassy perched regally on the back of the couch like a disapproving queen. It was, Max thought, his favorite kind of scene: quiet, domestic, theirs.

He toed off his shoes, dropped his bag by the door, and made his way over to her.

"Long day?" he asked, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Belle hummed in response, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. "Not bad. Eventful."

Max raised an eyebrow and flopped down beside her, draping his arm lazily across the back of the couch. "Eventful how?"

She closed her laptop with a click, setting it aside, and turned to face him fully.

"I ran into Oscar today," she said. "Outside La Condamine."

Max snorted. "Lost, was he?"

Belle smiled, fond and a little exasperated. "Completely. Poor guy looked like he was one wrong turn away from accidentally ending up in Nice."

Max laughed, low and warm, tugging her a little closer against his side.

"And let me guess," he said, grinning. "You adopted him."

Belle blinked innocently. "I just helped him find his way."

"You gave him the tour, didn’t you?"

"Maybe," she admitted, nudging him playfully with her shoulder. "Showed him where to get good coffee. The decent bakery. The secret bookstore."

Max shook his head, amused. "You gave him the locals only map. Schatje, you realize he’s yours now, right? He’s going to follow you around like a duckling."

Belle rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. "He needed help."

Max watched her quietly for a moment — the way her hands moved absently, soothing Lilly as the kitten climbed onto her lap, the way she tilted her head like she was already mentally planning the next dozen things she could do to make Oscar's life easier without even thinking about it.

And something in his chest twisted.

Because he saw it then — saw the way Belle stepped into the spaces other people left empty. How she mothered, and guided, and steadied, without expecting anything in return.

She should have been someone’s safe harbor years ago. Should have been celebrated for it. Cherished for it.

Instead, her brothers — the ones who should have known — had treated her like she was invisible. Like she was just there, background noise to their louder, shinier lives.

Max’s fingers tightened slightly around her hand without meaning to.

Belle looked up, sensing the shift immediately. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, kissing her knuckles lightly. "Just thinking."

"That’s dangerous," she teased, eyes sparkling.

Max chuckled, but the weight stayed in his chest.

"You’re good at it," he said after a beat. "Being a big sister."

Belle blinked, startled.

He smiled, soft and real. "Oscar’s lucky you found him."

Her cheeks flushed a little, and she ducked her head like she didn’t know what to do with the compliment.

Max tugged her closer, until she was tucked under his arm properly, her head resting against his shoulder.

"You deserved better, you know," he said quietly, threading his fingers through hers. "From them."

Belle didn’t say anything — didn’t have to.

He could feel it in the way she leaned into him, the way her grip tightened just slightly, like she was holding onto the words she couldn’t quite say out loud.

Max kissed the top of her head again, lingering there.

She wasn’t invisible here. Not with him. Not anymore.

And if she wanted to collect stray drivers and teach them how to survive Monaco, Max would let her.

Across town, Oscar was probably still saving her emergency contacts into his phone, none the wiser that he'd just been unofficially adopted by Monaco's fiercest secret weapon.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo and Carlos Sainz Jr.)

Oscar: Guys. I think I accidentally got adopted by Belle today.

Oscar: It’s weird though? like she just helped me all day today?? Showed me around, got me coffee, told me which parts of monaco not to die in… like it was NOTHING

Carlos: Because that's just Isabelle.

Oscar: She’s SO NICE… like ridiculously nice

Carlos: Yep. Carlos: she’s the best of them

Oscar: and her brothers just forget she exists half the time????

Lando: it makes me SO MAD

Daniel: it’s so fucked up honestly Daniel: like how do you have someone like belle in your family and not treat her like a national treasure???

Oscar: They don't deserve her

Lando: They really don’t Lando: sometimes i think about it and it makes me actually want to fight them***