#and calling his wife a burden at home

[jonstarks]

bitches be like picking fight with everyone at work and wondering why no one wants him to be the head division

[thecampbellclub]

i need some drunk sad hughie on the edge of the gun after robins death for morale boost

[borgeslabyrinth]

Ah, the familiar rage that one always feels towards the husband in a horror novel. I would simply tear this man apart limb by limb.

[mariocki]

Thirty Minute Theatre: Not Counting the Savages (BBC, 1972)

"I didn't look round, of course, but when I went round to tidy the other side of the grave, I... became aware of a man standing up against the wire fence. At first I thought that he'd caught his handkerchief or something white on it, and then I realised what it was."

"What?"

"He was exposing himself. Exposing himself to me."

"Well, you've seen one before."

"But I was... I was terribly upset. You can't know how distressed I was! I still am."

"Why? You're an old woman. Why should you be upset? It was play-acting. You're an old woman."

[lilgynt]

mom and i had an annoying conversation on the phone and now im re annoyed she got in someone’s business and got our asses groped like i cannot emphasize how little this was her problem but noooooooo

[lotussokka]

hey idk if any of you are pastors but you should not do a sermon about how humans are inherently undeserving of love and how adopted children are undeserving of adoption and dont ask to be adopted (???) during a funeral, especially during the funeral of a woman with an adopted grandchild

[odinsblog]

“I first started noticing the journalists dying on Instagram. I'm a journalist, I'm Arab, and I've reported on war. A big part of my community is other Arab journalists who do the same thing.

And when someone dies, news travels fast. Recently, I pulled up the list that the Committee to Protect Journalists has been keeping and looked at it for the first time. There are 95 journalists and media workers on it as of today.

Almost everyone on it is Palestinian. Scrolling through, I started to get angry. These were the people carrying the burden of documenting this whole war.

Israel is not allowing foreign journalists into Gaza, except on rare occasions with military escorts. These people's names are being buried in a giant list that keeps growing. What I want to do is lift some of them off the list for a moment and give you a glimpse of who they were and the work they made.

I'll start with Sadi Mansour. Sadi was the director of Al-Quds News Network, and he posted a 22-second video on November 18. That was a report from the war, but it also gave me a picture into his marriage.

Sadi's wearing his press vest and looks exhausted. He's explaining that cell service and the Internet keep getting cut off, and it's often impossible to text or call anyone, including his wife. So they've resorted to using handwritten letters to communicate while he's out reporting, sending them back and forth with neighbors or colleagues.

He ends the video with a picture of one of these letters from his wife. In it, she writes,

‘Me and the kids stayed up waiting for you until the morning, and you didn't come home. We were really sad.

I kept telling the kids, Look, he's coming. But you didn't show up. May God forgive you.

Come home tomorrow and eat with us. Do you want me to make you kebab or maybe kapse? Bring your friends with you, it's okay.

And give Azeez the battery to charge. What do you think about me sending you handwritten letters with messenger pigeons from now on? Ha ha ha.

I'm just kidding. I want to curse at you, but we're living in a war. Too bad.

Okay, I love you. Bye.’

A few hours after he shared that letter, Sadie and his co-worker Hassouna Saleem were at Sadie's home, when they were killed by an Israeli air strike that hit his house.

His wife and kids, who weren't there, survived.

Gaza is tiny, and the journalist community is really close. Reading the list, you can see all the connections between people. Like with Brahim Lafi.

Brahim was a photojournalist, one of the first journalists to die. He was killed while reporting on October 7. He was just 21, still new to journalism.

On his Instagram, you can see that in his posts just a few years ago, he was still practicing his photography, taking pictures of coffee cups and flowers. Then he started doing beautiful portraits and action shots. You can really feel him starting to become a journalist.

Clicking around on Instagram, I found a tribute post about Brahim from his co-worker Rushdie Sarraj. In this photo, Brahim staring intently at the back of a camera, his face lit up by the light from the viewfinder. He looks so young.

The caption reads, My assistant is gone. Brahim is gone. Rushdie himself was a beloved journalist and filmmaker.

And I know that because he's also on the list. He was killed just two weeks after Brahim. I read the tribute post to him too.

I saw this over and over again. Journalists posting tributes, who were then killed themselves soon after. And a tribute goes up for them.

And then the pattern continues.

Thank you.

Something else I saw over and over on the list, journalists later in the war who had become aware that they could be making their last reports. They'd say it at the beginning of their videos. And those were the hardest to watch, especially when it was true.

One video like that was posted by Ayat Hadduro. Ayat was a freelance journalist and video blogger. Her videos before the war covered a wide range from what I can tell, interviews about women in politics.

She even appeared in a commercial for ketchup-flavored chips. She clearly liked being in front of the camera. Once the war started, Ayat's pivoted to covering bombings and food shortages.

On November 20, she posted a video report from her home. You can hear the airstrikes hitting very close to where she is. It's scary.

‘This is likely my last video. Today, the occupation forces dropped phosphorus bombs on Beit Lahya area and frightening sound bombs. They dropped letters from the sky, ordering everyone to evacuate.

Everyone ran into the streets in the craziest way. No one knows where to go.

But everyone else has evacuated. They don't know where they're going. The situation is so scary.

What's happening is so tough, and may God have mercy on us.’

She was killed later that day.

Targeting journalists, in case you didn't know, is a war crime. So far, the Committee to Protect Journalists has found that three of the journalists on the list were explicitly targeted by the IDF, the Israeli military. Investigations by the Washington Post and Reuters, Human Rights Watch and the United Nations have also raised serious questions in these three cases.

And the Committee to Protect Journalists is investigating 10 other killings. When we reached out to the IDF for comments, they said, quote, the IDF has never, and will never, deliberately target journalists. That's the answer they always give in these situations.

Meanwhile, dozens of seasoned reporters have fled Gaza. Journalists who worked for Al Jazeera, the BBC, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Reuters, Agence France-Presse. So many media offices were demolished in Israeli airstrikes that the Committee to Protect Journalists stopped counting.

It's not just individual lives that have been destroyed. It's an entire infrastructure.

Thank you.

The name on the list that was hardest for me to look at was Issam Abdullah, because I'd crossed paths with him once. Issam was a Lebanese journalist, a video journalist for Reuters for many, many years. He had just won an award for coverage of Ukraine.

I'm Lebanese and still report there sometimes, and I'd worked with Issam a couple of summers ago. He helped me film a sort of random story in Beirut. I was interviewing this entrepreneur who had started a sperm freezing company after an accident where he spilled a tray of hot coffee on his private area, burning himself.

I know, ridiculous. It was a really silly shoot. Right after we said cut and started to rap, Issam started this whole bit about being in his late 30s, reconsidering his own sperm quality and everything he now realized he was doing to hurt it, and no one could stop laughing.

It was a really good day that felt good to remember and to remember him that way. Issam was killed by the IDF on October 13. His death was one of the three that the Committee to Protect Journalists has identified as a targeted killing.

He was fired upon by an Israeli tank while standing in an empty field on the Lebanon-Israel border with a small group of other journalists. Everyone was wearing press vests with cameras out. They were covering the Hezbollah part of this war.

A few other journalists were injured in the attack, which was captured on video. The IDF says they were responding to firing from Hezbollah, not targeting the journalists. But multiple investigations, including by Reuters, the United Nations, Amnesty International and the AFP, found no evidence of any firing from the location of the journalists before the IDF shot at them.

The journalists in the group and video footage confirmed that there was no military activity near them. I had only met Issam once, barely knew him, but it affected me so much when he died. I know that he understood the risks of his job, but somehow it still felt so random and unfair that he would be struck down like that, following the rules, wearing his press vest and helmet, and a pack of reporters on a sunny day in an open field.

I find myself thinking about him all the time. His last Instagram post was commemorating another journalist, this iconic reporter Shereen Abou Aql who had been killed by the IDF. When I first saw that post in October, I thought how ironic because a week later, Isam also was killed by the IDF.

But then, after spending time reading the list, I realized how common this had become. I still haven't finished going through the list and looking up the people on it. I keep finding things that stick with me, like the funny way this one radio host would cut off a caller who was rambling on for too long.

A tweet from reporter Al-Abdallah that quoted Sylvia Plath. It read, What ceremony of wars can patch the havoc? I'm going to keep going down the list, even though this story is over now.

Just for myself. My own way of bearing witness. Which is, in the end, all that these journalists were trying to do.”

—DANA BALLOUT, The 95. Dana sifts through a very long list—the list of journalists killed in the Israel-Hamas war, and comes back with five small fragments of the lives of the people on it. Dana is a Lebanese-American, Emmy-nominated documentary producer.

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐈𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.8k (help???)

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Married couple, Wife!Reader, burnout, overstimulation (not sexually), arguing, angst followed by fluff, kiss and make up, virginal fingering, kisses galore, EVENTUAL SMUT, pregnancy sex, bit of body worship (he loves your pregnant body) cowgirl position, sensory deprivation sex.

𝐀/𝐍: I poured my heart into this one, not that I don’t always do but this one in particular just hits closer to home. And yes it’s a vent fic so very very self indulgent.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’re tired. He’s tired. There’s only so much stress you can withstand before you reach your tipping point. Luckily your husband is here to keep you grounded

It started off with a throbbing in your head and as irritating as it was, it wasn’t bad enough to disrupt your daily routine. But as the week rolled on, the throbbing sensation began to get worse.

You were becoming easily irritated and it didn’t help with the workload you had to tackle. Even Miguel noticed a change in your mood but whenever he would bring it up and ask you about it, you would deflect his questions and tell him you were fine.

You couldn’t bear the thought of burdening him when your struggles especially when he had his own responsibilities and duties to fulfill.

You knew that if you admitted the stress you were feeling, he would insist that you rest, which was the last thing you needed, especially with how much you needed to get done this week.

You tried your best to ignore the nerves that were stretching to their limits now, but it was proven more difficult with each passing day. You would feel a sense of dread as soon as you got out of bed, mentally bracing yourself for the overwhelming day you had to face.

Your mind was preoccupied now as you reached over the high shelf for the spice jar. Your stomach was jutted out with the new life brewing inside of you, making it harder for you to manoeuvre around.

Just as your fingers brushed against the jar you were after, a sudden voice tore through the room, snapping you out of your trance.

“¿Qué dije sobre pedirme ayuda?” Miguel called out before he went over and stood behind you to take the spice jar you were reaching for. “What if something fell on you?”

“I don’t need help,” you insisted, reaching over to reclaim the jar back from him.

Miguel arched his brow in mild amusement. “You’re struggling to reach the spices, and you’re saying you don’t need help?”

“I’m fine, I’m trying to make dinner,”

“I know I know. But I’m here now so you don’t need to do that tonight,” You knew he was trying to emphasise the fact that he willingly took the time out of his day just to be with you.

Normally, you would be beyond appreciative towards his gesture. With his duties back at Spider Society HQ breathing down his neck all the time, it was a rarity that you both had an evening together like this.

He would either be saving the city or in another dimension, and although you would still be able to contact him through your watch, it would never be the same as having his physical warmth with you.

But right now, you were driven by your stress and too wrapped up in getting the job done to be in the right state of mind and properly enjoy the night.

“Why not? I can still cook you know,” you resorted, pouring some of the spice in the pot before stirring the content.

“And yet, I don’t want you to.” He said firmly before he turned you around to face him and rested his hands on your growing belly, silently conveying his concern for your wellbeing. “Now go sit,”

As the food continued to bubble on the stove, you retreated from his touch defensively. His face twisted in confusion as you questioned, “Why the hell are you doing that?”

His face fell further at your change in tone, “Doing what? Touching you?”

“No, treating me like I’m a basket case,”

“I’m treating you like the mother of my child. You’re pregnant and over exerting yourself,” he tried to reason with you. You attempted to conceal how much your senses were firing right now.

You couldn’t tell if it was the aroma of the cooking that was making you slightly nauseous but you were starting to feel agitated.

“I’m pregnant, not paralysed Miguel. I’m fully capable of doing this myself,” you could see the frown forming on his face and he definitely picked up the hostility of your tone.

“I never said you weren’t capable but I don't want you doing too much,” he argued back, his voice growing more insistent, mirroring your frustration. He wasn’t going to let your stubbornness sway him, even if it did irk you.

You could feel the heat of your vexation rising in your guts. You hated being interrupted in the kitchen especially when you were making dinner. Even if you were tired, you were still going to stand your ground and continue until you were done.

Throughout the last few days there had been a build up of tension that you have been bottling up and you refused to talk about it with him, even if he did ask you about it.

You had no safe outlet for your emotions and now you can feel it taking a toll on your daily tasks. It was almost palpable and you couldn’t control the sudden outbursts you were throwing at your husband right now.

A small part of you knew that he didn’t deserve this harsh treatment you were giving him. But that meek feeling of self awareness was quickly overshadowed by your clouded mind that was skewing your thoughts, unbeknownst to you.

Out of bitterness, you twisted the knob to switch off the stove before you turned to look at him. His annoyed expression didn’t falter, rather you could see his brows furrowed more. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Turn off the stove?”

“You wanted me to stop, didn’t you?” Now it was your turn to be confused, though you could still feel the lingering coldness.

He was so adamant on you not cooking so why is he still not satisfied when you turn the stove off? What was his problem?

“What are you trying to prove here?” He asked.

The question hit a nerve, the fact that he was insinuating that you had an ulterior motive just by a simple action. It was almost insulting. Was he trying to sound condescending just to throw you off?

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,”

Ouch.

“Oh please, enlighten me,” There was an obvious edge to your tone and he glowered at that. You could tell he was really starting to get annoyed when you saw his fangs started to emerge from his canines, something that was only stimulated in the height of rage or arousal.

“Cut the sarcasm. You’re purposely getting on my nerves and it’s working. Now, are you going to answer my question?” His voice demanded clarity from you and you weren’t sure if anything you said would satisfy him.

“Like I said, I’m doing as I’m told. Why are you getting mad?” You snapped back. You didn’t want to admit that what he said made the shadow of sympathy you felt early crawl back again.

He wasn’t aware of the emotions you were keeping inside of you and probably thought you were purposely reacting this way just to pull his leg.

“You know damn well that’s not how I meant with my words,” he was practically growling now and you could see the crimson in his eyes flicker like a flame.

With a weary sigh you pinched the bridge of your nose— a habit that you both seemed to share. You didn’t have the energy to deal with this argument now, it was clear that it wasn’t going anywhere.

The throbbing in your head was back, but now it felt like a pounding sensation reverberating in your skull. Without another word, you turned to leave the kitchen leaving the half-cooked food behind on the stove.

“Where are you going?” You heard him call out from the kitchen before he took a few steps in your direction.

“To the room, I lost my appetite,” You headed your way up to the bedroom. You didn’t hear his footsteps following after you as you closed the door behind you.

You climbed into bed with the blanket over you and made yourself as small as your pregnant belly will allow you. There was a sense of bleakness that was shrouding you now— the underlying stress you’ve been feeling was still there but it wasn’t as overbearing.

With the silence in the room, you’d think you’d be able to calm yourself down a little from the heated interaction you just had, but instead your mind was still racing. You couldn’t stop yourself from straining your muscles no matter how hard you tried.

You tightened your grip on the blanket and buried yourself deeper into the sheets, trying to block out as much of the lighting from the room as you could. You didn’t notice Miguel entering the room until you felt an additional weight on the bed beside you.

For a long moment, all you could hear was his steady breathing and the occasional bed creaking before he spoke out of nowhere. “Well, at least the silent treatment is an improvement from earlier,”

The sarcasm was uncalled for especially now. It made your blood boil. To make matters worse, he kept going. His voice, that you always loved hearing, now sounded like an irritating ring in your ear. “Are you just going to hide under the blanket until I forget about everything?”

“Stop talking….please stop talking!” you pleaded, your voice was quivering and on the verge of tears. You felt like you were at a tipping point, standing on the edge of something already breaking.

The sensory overload from the argument along with the tension was still present, and you desperately needed silence.

There was a long pause and your pulse was thudding in your ears. Even if you couldn’t see his face, you could tell he regretted his words just from his silence.

“Do you want me to turn off the lights and go?” His tone quickly switched, a soft caress. You poked your head out of the blanket to look at him.

You felt guilt tugging on your heart after everything that had just happened moments ago. Your husband didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of all of this. The least you could do now was end the night on a civil note.

“Turn off the lights but don’t leave me,” you requested. Without wasting a beat, Miguel got out of bed to turn off the lights before he climbed back in to embrace you.

The room was dark but you could still see his silhouette against the Nueva York city skyline from the bedroom window.

“Could you hold me? Please?”

“Of course,” his voice was a soothing balm against your firing nerves. Swallowing thickly, you pushed the blanket away and moved onto his waiting arms as he leaned against the headboard.

You settled onto his lap and you felt his broad arms wrap around you. Your eyes started to leak with your heated tears and before you could stop yourself, you broke into a sob.

“Just breathe, I’m not going anywhere. Take your time,” He muttered against the crown of your head. You rested your head against his chest with his heart thumping softly near your ear.

The throbbing was starting to ease and the relief that followed after came in waves. All that weeks worth of pent up tensity was released in one night through your tears.

With the absence of the lighting along with the silence, it was easier to reach the mellow state that your body was screaming for.

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” you rambled, a sense of remorse crashing down on you like a storm.

“It’s okay…I feel like we should talk about some things though,”

“Like what?”

“How we should handle potential fights in our marriage. I don’t really like the way we argue and get at each other's throats so quickly,”

You let his words sink in. The mere thought made your heart ache. The situation would’ve never escalated this far if you hadn't talked to Miguel earlier. Instead you let things boil over.

“It’s my fault…”

“Why do you say that?”

“I kept brushing you off when you wanted to be there for me,” you admitted, a bitter irony taunting your confession.

In retrospect, you’ve witnessed Miguel struggle to open up about his feelings while you were still in the early stages of the relationship.

Even during your marriage, it was a huge step for him to finally be completely emotionally open with you. You’ve noticed how much your relationship has flourished since then and how closer you felt with him.

But now the tables have turned tonight, with you leaving Miguel oblivious to the series of weary emotions you were experiencing. You knew it wasn’t healthy for you or the baby growing inside you to carry such stress alone.

“I noticed the way you were struggling the past few days. I just wish you were more vulnerable with me and not feel like you have to put on a brave face just for my sake,” Miguel explained.

“I dont…I don’t really know where to start,” You tried to rack your brain and coordinate how to express the tension you’ve been feeling the past few days. It was difficult to pinpoint on one thing and string the words together.

“Everything just feels so overwhelming and too much for my brain to handle…even the clock ticking makes me want to rip my head off,” you clutched onto his shirt, a feeble attempt to hold onto your crumbling composure. “I don’t know if it’s the hormones from the pregnancy or a burn out. Or maybe both,”

“I’m leaning towards burn out since you’re showing all the signs, you’re easily irritated and I can see you’re overstimulated from the smell of the cooking to the lighting in the room,”

“Maybe you’re right,” you agreed softly. A lot of issues could be contained just by not saying anything. You seemed to be acutely aware of your own hesitation when it came to voicing your emotions.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to share your feelings with Miguel; rather you didn’t know how to and feared the unknown reaction that may follow. You weren’t used to being this vulnerable.

You knew that you would rather hear Miguel share his emotions, even crying on your shoulder, than have him be silent. It was only fair that you took your own advice. Here you were advocating for openness, while grasping onto your own reticence.

“Could you do me a favour?” You asked in the midst of the silence that was shared between you.

“Of course,”

“I understand that you don’t want me to lift a finger especially while I’m pregnant but could you not try to intervene when I’m in the kitchen. I don’t like sitting around and I want to keep myself busy,”

You could sense the hesitance from him as he drew in a shaky breath before he spoke. “…yeah I can do that”

“You already have a lot on your plate,”

“I do, but promise me that you won’t leave me in the dark when you need something from me,”

“I promise.” You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “I’m glad we’re on the same page Spiderman,”

Even if your view of him was obscured by the darkness in the room, you could still see his lips twitching up from your comment. “Mhmm that’s not an excuse for me to be a neglectful husband to you. So don’t act coy with me,”

“Oh I know. I’m just finding an excuse to be a smartass,” you teased him further by kissing along his jaw. Feeling his body tense from your touch, even if it was subtle, was a huge ego booster.

“Was that supposed to throw me off or something,” you could hear the groan he was trying to hide at the back of his throat as he spoke and it made your stomach flutter.

“Maybe,”

“Uh huh, you definitely did that on purpose,”

“I’ll do it again,”

“And I’ll kiss you right back,”

“Alright bet,” Before he could retaliate, you were bold enough to lap over his lower lip with your tongue. A low moan could be heard from him in response.

It was rare for you to initiate such a confident move like this but there was an undeniable spark and you didn’t want it to go just yet. The bleak mood from earlier was now forgotten and was replaced with arousal.

You pulled away to reposition yourself so you were fully facing him on your lap, your legs on either side of his hips.

His grip on your waist tightened in response drawing you closer to him until your bump was pressing against his torso. “You have no idea what you got yourself into,”

Finally with a longing that built in your stomach, you leaned in until your lips met in a fervent kiss. The weight of your doubts and anxiety was now completely diminished as you felt a magnitude that pulled you into bliss.

You felt him run his tongue over your lips and you parted them slightly in response. He took this opportunity to deepen the kiss, completely taking over your mouth with a low groan.

As you pulled away, breathless with desire, you couldn’t help but tease, “Too much or not enough?”

To which he responded, “Not even close to enough,”

“Good, then I’ll keep going. You’re not getting the upper hand here,” you were beaming at your own words.

But your confidence was cut short when you noticed his hand reach over and slipped under your pants and past your panties until his fingers were grazing against your folds.

Feeling the air that brushed against your slickness was enough to humble you. You didn’t realise how soaked you were until you felt yourself suction around him greedily as he pushed both his middle and ring finger in.

“You’re saying that now, just wait until I’m inside you,” he was taunting you, completely throwing you off but you would happily let his fingers do all the talking now, even if it was at the expense of your pride.

Your hand immediately reached to grapple onto his biceps to keep yourself steady. If it wasn’t for your restricted mobility from your bump, you would’ve started rolling your hips to ride on his fingers.

But instead you allowed him to do all the work. Your head rested on his shoulder and you moaned into his neck as the pad of his thumb rubbed against the sensitive nerves of your clitoris.

He dragged his fingers out, now wet from your arousal, and slowly ran it over your folds. The first thing you felt after he pulled his hands away from your cunt was his hard on, pressed against you.

You would’ve started grinding against him with how needy you were if he didn’t hold you still. He held you by the side and moved you off his lap so he could remove his pants and boxers before lying down flat on his back.

You didn’t need the light to know that his dick was standing on its end with beads of precum leaking from the tip. You removed your own clothes and felt the cold air slap on your cunt.

“Ven acá amor,” his voice was inviting and you’d be a fool to deny him.

You let him guide you, given his enhanced vision that allowed him to see in the dark. Both hands were on your rear, spreading your cheeks before you felt the tip nudge into your folds.

“Oh God-” you whimpered. You felt yourself stretch to accommodate him, sinking yourself lower until you were balls deep. Your hips flushed against him with your stiff clit pressed against the top of his groin,

“No divinity. Just your husband’s dick inside you,” A wide grin spread across his face. His hands were all over your growing belly, feeling the warmth of you and the occasional kick of the baby.

“Que bonita,” he said in awe. A sense of pride washed over him knowing he was the one who knocked you up, the woman he loved and the mother of his future child. “Muy linda tu barriga,”

You seemed to be more sensitive to his praises especially given the fact that you were getting cock drunk now.

Ever since your bump was starting to show, Miguel never missed the opportunity to praise you. He wanted you to feel proud of your physique and not be hesitant on your changing body.

His hands reached over to hold your waist before he piston his hips up and took control of the pace. You could tell he was holding back from going rough, handling you with extra care.

The feel of him thrusting inside was enough to knock the senses out of you until you were high from bliss. He was making sure you felt every sensation in full capacity, feeling every crevice of his dick being caressed by your silky walls.

His hands reached over to the back of your neck to pull you in until your lips met again. The kiss was disoriented and breathy as he was still trying to maintain his pace.

Each brush of his lips on yours was feeding into your ecstasy. You pulled away and nestled into his neck, taking in his dick so well.

“That’s it, let me make you feel good. Let me make you forget about your problems, amor,” he whispered lovingly in your ear.

“Miguel…” you couldn’t form a proper response, your moans of pleasure drowning out your voice.

He was so good at making feel this way, reaching optimal pleasure from his touches. With the absence of the lighting you allowed yourself to just physically feel everything he was giving you.

His broad head nudging into your cervix.

His soft whispers fanning against your ear.

His hands all over and worshiping you everywhere he could reach.

“God, you’re so easy to please,” You could tell he was reaching his peak. With one final buck from his hip, he dragged his dick to reach the depth of your cunt before he reached his climax.

You felt the contraction of your walls around him as he drenched his balls inside of you. His grip on you loosened and his dick slipped free from your grasp before deflating onto his thighs.

You whined from the sudden withdrawal and the muscles of your walls relaxed. There were still remnants of his cum that was sticking between your thighs but you would deal with that later.

Miguel kissed the top of your forehead before letting out a deep sigh. You both lay together in each other’s embraces, basking in the afterglow with your breaths merging together.

Amidst the tranquil intimacy, your stomach let out an unexpected growl, reminding you that you skipped dinner.

Miguel chuckled softly, “So, have you still lost your appetite?”

You huffed. “Well it’s suddenly back now that I’ve worked it up in other ways,”

Hot take: cooking together in the kitchen is NOT romantic 🙅🏻‍♀️🗣️ move out of my fucking way and let me work

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @monarchberrysblog @strawberryjuice9 @lazyjellyfish300 @quack-ie @ghost-lantern

@ginanet @superstar-t20 @roreadsfanfics @francesca-the-1st @vanillapinkrose

@dfffghio @migueloharastruelove @nerdyninjaprincess @unhinged-reader-36 @maiyart

@nediks @ahcrie4help @cl3stevu @kodo1221 @boobsbeesbongos

@emelie-s-h @pretty-pink-princesss @safixiovi

Also reminder that I will be interacting and reblogging fic from my second account @lmaoyouwhore

[novaursa]

Valyrian Bride (Continuation)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon. 

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: Final Chapter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

Cregan Stark walked with the dragon princess by his side, feeling the eyes of his men and household upon them. There was a sense of pride that welled up inside him as they entered Winterfell’s stone halls. Not pride in himself, but in the fact that this fierce, regal woman—this vision of Old Valyria—was now his betrothed. It was no small thing to command the presence of such a creature, both her and the dragon she rode. The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders, but rather than burden him, it gave him a sense of purpose.

As they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, the murmurs of those gathered inside came to a halt. Servants, bannermen, and even the most hardened of his household retainers stared openly. They weren’t accustomed to such grandeur, and even in a land where strength was admired, there was something otherworldly about the princess. Her silver-gold hair, the grace of her movements, and the quiet power that seemed to radiate from her drew their eyes like moths to flame.

The warmth of the hearthfire flickered against the cold stone walls, but in the presence of the dragon princess, it felt as though the heat came from her. She walked beside Cregan with an ease that belied her strength, her violet eyes scanning the hall as if she were already its lady, its queen.

Cregan couldn’t help but glance at her from the corner of his eye, watching as she moved like liquid fire, confident and unyielding. He could see the tension in the shoulders of his bannermen, the uncertainty in the eyes of the women who served the household. They were all taken aback, and Cregan couldn’t blame them. He had lived his whole life without seeing anyone like her, and he knew, without doubt, that no one here had ever stood before the true blood of Old Valyria until now.

She was a flame in the middle of a winter storm, a vivid contrast to the world of stone and snow that surrounded her.

“I trust the halls of Winterfell meet your expectations, my lady?” Cregan asked, his voice low but carrying in the stillness of the hall. He wanted to draw her into conversation, not only to ease his own nerves but to learn more of this woman who would soon be his wife.

She turned her gaze to him, a small smile curling on her lips, though it was hard to read the full depth of her thoughts. “It is as grand as the tales say, Lord Stark. A stronghold of honor and tradition.”

Her voice was steady, yet it held an edge to it, as if there was always something more behind her words. It was as though she was measuring everything, assessing him, the people around her, and the place she would soon call home.

“I trust it will serve as more than just a stronghold for you, my lady,” Cregan replied, his eyes meeting hers directly, a subtle challenge of his own. “Winterfell is now your home, and you are its future lady.”

The princess didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Winterfell will be my home, but I have a home in the sky as well. I belong to both land and air, Lord Stark. Do not forget that.” There was a softness to her words, but it was clear. She may belong to the North by marriage, but her heart would always be tied to the skies, to her dragon.

Cregan inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I doubt anyone will forget, least of all after the sight of Vaetrix in our skies," he said, and then added, more softly, "She is a magnificent creature."

The princess's expression shifted slightly, pride mingled with affection as she spoke of her dragon. “Vaetrix is the daughter of Meleys, the Red Queen herself. Her lineage is one of fire and might. She carries the blood of dragons who have seen empires rise and fall, just as I do.”

Cregan’s brows raised slightly at the mention of Meleys. He had heard of the Red Queen, the swift and powerful dragon that had once belonged to Princess Rhaenys. Her reputation was legendary. To think that Vaetrix was her offspring made the connection between the princess and her dragon even more profound. "The Red Queen," Cregan murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "Your bond with her must be strong, then. I imagine not just any rider could command such a lineage."

Her eyes gleamed in response, as if the conversation about Vaetrix sparked something deeper within her. "A dragon and their rider are bound by more than blood, Lord Stark. We share a soul, a heart. Vaetrix and I have flown together since I was a girl. She is my closest companion, my fiercest ally."

There was a tenderness in her tone now, something almost protective. It made Cregan understand, even more clearly, the depth of the bond between her and the dragon. In a way, it reminded him of the wolves of his house—loyal, fierce, and bound by an unspoken connection. But this bond was greater, stronger, and far more dangerous. He respected it, even admired it.

“Then she will be an ally to the North as well,” Cregan said, his voice filled with conviction. "As you will be."

The princess turned her eyes back to him, her gaze sharp and knowing. "The North has been promised my fire, my lord. And I keep my promises."

Her words were more than just a vow—they were a reminder of the power she wielded, the power she had been born with. Cregan nodded in response, feeling a strange comfort in that certainty. He knew, without question, that she was someone who would fight with all her strength, for her family, her dragon, and soon, for the North.

They continued walking, Cregan leading her deeper into Winterfell’s great halls, where more of his household waited in silent anticipation. Every eye was upon them as they passed, but the princess seemed unbothered by the attention, as if she had long since grown used to the weight of expectation. Cregan noticed the way people parted in her presence, not out of fear, but out of reverence. She was the embodiment of fire, and all knew they were in the presence of something greater than themselves.

As they reached the heart of Winterfell, Cregan paused, turning to face her fully. “There will be a feast tonight in your honor. A celebration of our alliance.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “It will be modest compared to what you may be accustomed to, but we take pride in what the North can offer.”

The princess’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of warmth in her eyes. “The North has already offered me more than I expected. I look forward to seeing its hospitality, Lord Stark.”

There was no mockery in her voice, no hint of the condescension he might have expected from someone raised in the splendor of court life. Instead, there was a genuine respect, a willingness to embrace the new life she was entering. Cregan nodded, feeling that strange mix of pride and anticipation once more.

As the evening drew near, Cregan knew the feast would be only the beginning. He had secured an alliance, but in the dragon princess, he had gained something far more—a partner of equal strength, whose fire would one day burn alongside his own.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the low hum of voices as the feast unfolded, the hearths were burning high to accommodate a dragon princess in it. Platters of roasted meats and winter greens filled the long tables, while horns of ale and wine passed freely from hand to hand. The air was thick with the scent of food and the crackle of the great fires, but despite the bustle of the hall, all eyes kept drifting toward the high table, where Lord Cregan Stark and his betrothed sat in full view of his bannermen, retainers, and household.

Cregan himself sat straighter than usual, though his posture seemed almost relaxed, as if he were entirely at ease in this moment. His eyes often flicked to the princess seated beside him, watching her as she navigated the curious gazes of the Northmen with the same grace she had displayed all day. There was something undeniably striking about her here, amidst the rustic grandeur of Winterfell’s Great Hall—her silver-gold hair gleaming in the firelight, her violet eyes calm yet ever watchful.

When the time came for toasts, the hall fell into a deep silence as Cregan stood, his horn of ale in hand. The attention of every man, woman, and servant shifted to him, their lord. His voice, strong and sure, carried through the hall.

“Tonight,” he began, “we honor more than just a union between two houses. We honor the blood of dragons and the fire that has joined with the winter.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on the princess beside him. “The daughter of Princess Rhaenyra, the only daughter of House Targaryen, has come to the North. She is now our guest, and soon, she will be my wife.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, but it was tempered by the awe that still hung in the air. Many had never seen a woman like her, let alone one of royal Valyrian descent. To them, she was more legend than flesh and blood.

Cregan raised his horn higher, his eyes never leaving hers. “To the Lady of Fire,” he said, his voice full of pride. “To the daughter of Rhaenyra!”

The hall erupted in cheers, the echo of voices bouncing off the ancient stone walls. Horns were raised, clashing together in raucous celebration as the Northmen embraced their lord’s words. And yet, even amidst the noise, Cregan saw the way his men stole glances at the princess, admiration clear in their eyes.

The princess raised her own horn in response, a subtle smile playing on her lips as she inclined her head toward Cregan. "To the North," she said, her voice soft but carrying through the hall with a clarity that commanded attention. "And to the strength of its people."

The words were simple, but they carried weight. The hall seemed to settle after that, the conversations resuming with renewed vigor as the feast carried on. Yet Cregan’s focus remained fixed on her.

As the noise of the hall filled the space around them, Cregan leaned slightly toward her, his voice low so that their conversation would remain private. “You’ve impressed them already,” he remarked, his eyes glinting with a rare hint of amusement. “It takes much to win the respect of Northmen, but I see it in their eyes.”

The princess turned to him, her violet gaze meeting his with a certain calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity there too. “I hadn’t expected to win their respect so soon,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “But I do not think it is me they respect so much as the idea of the alliance—of what we represent.”

Cregan considered her words, his brow furrowing slightly as he mulled them over. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but it’s more than just an alliance. They see you, a dragon’s daughter, and they understand the power that you carry. You’re no simple marriage prize.”

Her lips curved upward, just a fraction. “Is that how you see me, Cregan Stark? A symbol of power?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low in his throat. “I see you as many things, princess. Power is just one of them.”

Her smile grew more visible now, and there was something lighter in her expression, as if she were pleased by his words, even if she did not show it openly. “And what else do you see, my lord?”

Cregan leaned in just a fraction more, his voice dropping. “I see a woman with a mind as sharp as the blade she wears. I see a rider whose bond with her dragon makes her stronger than any queen. And,” his eyes softened, the faintest glimmer of admiration in them, “I see someone who will stand beside me, not behind me.”

She studied him for a moment, as if weighing the truth of his words, and then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good,” she said, her tone firm but carrying an edge of warmth. “Because I have no intention of standing behind anyone.”

Cregan allowed himself a smile then, something rare and unguarded. It felt easy, natural in her presence, something he hadn’t anticipated. She wasn’t just a symbol of fire and dragons—she was alive, filled with strength and grace in equal measure, and with each passing moment, Cregan found himself looking forward to what the future might bring with her at his side.

For the rest of the evening, Cregan’s mood remained light, his smiles more frequent than anyone could remember seeing before. The hall, filled with food, laughter, and music, felt brighter somehow, as if the fire she had brought with her from the skies had seeped into Winterfell itself. There was a warmth there that was new, a change carried on dragon’s wings.

Years later, when scholars and storytellers recalled that night, they would write about how Lord Cregan Stark, known for his stoic nature, had smiled more during that feast than any had seen before, save for two other occasions—on his wedding day, and when the first child of the Dragon Princess was born in the cold halls of Winterfell. But for now, the legend was only beginning.

As the feast wore on, Cregan turned to her again, unable to resist asking, “Do you think Vaetrix feels at ease here in the cold North? It’s far from the warmth of Dragonstone.”

She tilted her head, her silver-gold hair catching the firelight once more. “Vaetrix is not concerned with warmth or cold,” she replied. “She is her mother’s daughter, bred for strength and flight, and the North’s cold will not trouble her. Besides,” her smile grew, more playful this time, “she knows I will not be far from her.”

Cregan nodded. “She is a creature of legend, like her rider,” he said softly.

The princess turned her eyes to him, the faintest flush of warmth in her cheeks. For a moment, the fire of her Valyrian blood met the unyielding strength of the North in Cregan’s gaze, and in that shared moment, both knew their bond would be one of legend.

The fire had come to Winterfell, and it would burn for generations to come.

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | series

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦."

summary: In the small town near Austin, Texas, you are trapped in a life of rigid expectations and silent suffering. As the preacher's daughter, you endure the mental and physical abuse of your father while your mother, bound by obedience, offers quiet love. Your longing for a father's warmth finds an unexpected solace in Joel Miller, your father's best friend and neighbor. In Joel's presence, you discover a forbidden sanctuary, where your yearning heart is met with a gentle strength you've never known.

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 1

masterlist of the series!

next | chapter 2

The Texas sun had a way of casting long, dramatic shadows across the sprawling landscape, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. In small town near Austin, the heat clung to everything, wrapping the town in a sweltering embrace that seemed to slow time itself. You, a preacher's daughter on the cusp of graduation, trapped in the rigid confines of a life dictated by faith and fear.

Your father, Reverend Gibson, was a towering figure in the community, his voice booming from the pulpit every Sunday, filling the church with sermons about sin and salvation. To the congregation, he was a man of God, a beacon of righteousness. But within the walls of your home, he was a tyrant. His heavy hand and harsh words left marks not just on your skin, but deep within your soul. Your mother, ever the obedient wife, offered what little comfort she could, but her love was a quiet, subdued thing, overshadowed by her fear of defying your father.

The Millers lived just a few houses down, their home a testament to both prosperity and tragedy. Joel Miller was your father’s best friend from high school, a bond forged in the fires of youth but strained by the paths they had chosen. While your father found his calling in the church, Joel built a successful construction business with his younger brother, Tommy.

Joel and Tommy not live far from each other, while your house is just one house away from Joel, Tommy is a few houses down from Joel's.

The Miller brothers were well-known and respected in the community, their work evident in the many buildings that dotted the town.

Joel’s life had been forever altered by a single, devastating moment. He had lost his wife and daughter in a car accident, an accident where he had been behind the wheel. The guilt of their deaths weighed heavily on him, a burden he carried in the lines of his face and the shadows in his eyes.

Since that tragic day, he had distanced himself from the church, finding solace instead in his work and in raising his adopted daughter, Ellie. Joel has adopted Ellie when she was only 10 years old with the help of Tommy.

At 16, Ellie was a spirited girl, one of your juniors at school. She attended church every Sunday with her uncle Tommy, her presence a reminder of the Millers’ lingering faith.

Tommy, married to Maria, had recently welcomed a baby boy into their family. The joy of new life was a stark contrast to the sorrow that had marked Joel’s existence. The Millers were a close-knit family, their bonds of loyalty and love a stark contrast to the fractured and tense environment of your own home.

You had known the Millers your entire life, their presence a constant thread in the fabric of your existence. Yet, as you stood on the brink of adulthood, your interactions with them took on a new significance. Your father’s sermons about the dangers of straying from the path of righteousness echoed in your mind, but so did your longing for something more, something real and tangible.

It was just another Sunday, and you were helping your dad with the after-service fellowship. The congregation mingled in the church hall, sharing coffee and pastries, their voices a low hum of conversation and laughter. You moved through the crowd with a tray of refreshments, offering smiles and polite nods, your mind elsewhere.

The Sunday service had been like any other, filled with hymns, prayers, and your father’s booming voice delivering his sermon. Today, he had spoken about temptation and the perils of straying from God’s path, his words heavy with the weight of his own fervent belief. As always, you felt the eyes of the congregation on you, the preacher’s daughter, the living example of his teachings.

You couldn’t help but glance towards the back of the room, where Tommy and Ellie stood, their presence a rare but welcome sight. Joel, as expected, was absent, his appearances in church growing increasingly sporadic since the accident.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Joel Miller. It had been years since the tragedy that had claimed his wife and daughter, leaving an indelible mark on him, transforming a once regular churchgoer into a haunted, reclusive figure.

You didn't really know or remember Joel's wife and daughter. Sarah Miller had been much older than you, and she passed away when you were only five. The memories you had of them were hazy at best, a blur of faces and voices that you couldn’t quite place.

Ellie caught your eye and waved, her smile bright and genuine. You waved back, feeling a pang of longing for the carefree spirit she embodied. She was one of the few people in your life who treated you like a normal person, not just the preacher’s daughter.

After the service, as the crowd began to thin, you found yourself gravitating towards Tommy and Ellie. Tommy, ever the warm and approachable figure, greeted you with a smile. “Hey, kiddo. How’ve you been?”

You returned his smile, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “I’m good, Tommy. How’s Maria and the baby?”

Tommy’s face lit up with pride. “They’re great. Little Luke’s growing like a weed. Maria’s over the moon, of course.”

Ellie nudged you playfully. “You should come over and meet him sometime. He’s the cutest.”

You laughed softly. “I’d love that.”

Tommy’s expression grew more serious as he glanced around the room. “How’s your dad doing with all the church activities? Keeping busy?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, he’s always got something going on. Keeps him out of trouble, I guess.”

Tommy chuckled. “Good to hear. Your family always looks so put together. It’s impressive, really.”

You shrugged, trying to brush off the compliment. “We just try to do our best.”

As you continued chatting, the weight on your shoulders seemed to lighten, if only for a moment. Ellie shared stories about school, her infectious laughter bringing a smile to your face.

“So, any plans after graduation?” Ellie asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

You hesitated, the uncertainty of your future looming large. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about college, but it’s complicated.”

Tommy’s expression grew serious again. “You should follow your dreams, kid. Don’t let anything hold you back.”

You nodded, grateful for their support. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Tommy.”

As you chatted with Tommy and Ellie, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Glancing around, you caught your father’s stern gaze from across the room. His eyes were a silent warning, a reminder of your place and the expectations that came with it.

Excusing yourself, you slipped out of the church hall, needing a moment of solitude. Your dad won't notice you are gone a little, your job has been taken by your mom.

The Texas heat hit you as soon as you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel parking lot. You decided to walk, the streets feeling empty because everyone was still in church. As you walked aimlessly, your mind whirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

You found yourself drawn towards the lake behind the church and the town, a place far enough to avoid everyone. The lake and the surrounding forest were comforting, a sanctuary from the oppressive atmosphere of your home.

Looking around to ensure you were alone, you carefully pulled out your cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag. Your parents never knew you were quite a smoker, especially your father. If he ever found out, the repercussions would be severe, his wrath swift and unrelenting. The thought of his anger made you shudder.

You decided to sit by the old fallen tree near the lake. It was very quiet, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. You loved to come here every chance you got, a hidden escape from the prying eyes and harsh judgments of your daily life. As you exhaled a cloud of smoke, you heard a rustling sound in the underbrush.

Startled, you quickly put out your cigarette and looked up. Emerging from the trees was Joel, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Your heart pounded in your chest as you met his gaze. "Joel?" you stammered, hoping he hadn’t noticed the cigarette.

He looked at you, then at the still-smoking cigarette butt near your feet. His expression was unreadable, but you felt a wave of fear. What if he told your father?

Joel approached, his steps slow and deliberate. "Didn’t expect to see you out here," he said, his voice as gruff as ever.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "I… I just needed some air."

Joel’s eyes flicked to the cigarette again. "That why you’re hiding out here? To smoke?"

You bit your lip, the truth hanging heavily between you. "Please don’t tell my dad," you whispered, the desperation clear in your voice.

Joel sighed, his expression softening slightly. "Your secret’s safe with me," he said finally, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Relief flooded through you, and you nodded gratefully. "Thank you,"

As you stood up, brushing off the dirt and bits of wood that had stained your dress, you noticed Joel's gaze lingering on the rifle in his hand and the heavy boots caked with mud.

"You didn’t come to church today," you said, your curiosity overcoming your apprehension. You had noticed his absence with the frequency that had become almost routine over the years.

He glanced at you, the stern lines of his face softening slightly. “Yeah, I’ve been... busy,” he replied, his tone clipped and noncommittal.

You took in the sight of him, his rugged appearance a stark contrast to the tidy, polished look of the other churchgoers. The rifle and the muddy boots seemed to tell a story of their own, a story that was far removed from the neat rows of pews and the polished wooden floors of the church.

“You know, Father always says that you used to come every Sunday,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He misses you at church. Everyone does.”

Joel’s expression hardened again, the hint of vulnerability disappearing behind his usual reserve. “Yeah, well, things change,” he said tersely, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “People change.”

You wanted to press further, to understand what had driven him away, but you knew better than to push too hard. Joel was a man of few words, his emotional landscape a guarded territory. You had seen it in the way he interacted with Ellie, the way he kept his distance, the way he seemed to be perpetually battling some invisible storm.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, your concern slipping through despite your efforts to remain detached.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something raw and unspoken. He shook his head, as if to clear the thoughts from his mind. "Just trying to get by, same as anyone," he said gruffly. “Out here, it’s a little easier to do that.”

You nodded, accepting his answer even if it left many questions unanswered. The silence between you stretched, filled only with the distant chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.

Joel shifted, breaking the silence. “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s quite a trek from town. This place isn’t exactly safe, you know.” His tone was a mixture of concern and curiosity, revealing a sliver of his protective nature.

You sighed, glancing around the lake and forest. “I needed a break. Just... needed to be away from everything for a bit. It’s peaceful here." You looked at Joel, your eyes subtly asking if it was okay to continue smoking.

Joel noticed your look but chose not to comment immediately. Instead, he took a few steps closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. You took that as an invitation and sat down under a large tree near the lake, patting the grass beside you.

“Feel free to join me if you want,” you offered, your voice light despite the heaviness of the situation.

Joel hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to you. His presence was a grounding force, even if he wasn’t the most expressive. He glanced at the cigarette pack you had placed on the grass between you.

“Want one?” you offered, extending the pack towards him.

Joel shook his head with a faint, rueful smile. “Nah, I’m good. I’m not sure it’s right to be smoking in front of you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge me for it.”

Joel chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to that. I’ve had my share of bad habits.”

You nodded, accepting his refusal. “How are you, Joel? I don’t see you much,” you said, your curiosity evident. It was true; Joel had been increasingly distant from the people in your town, retreating into a shell of his own making.

He met your gaze briefly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his features. “Just... getting by. Working hard, dealing with stuff. Not much else to it.”

There was a weariness in his voice that spoke of battles fought silently and wounds healed only with time. It was clear that the years had not been kind to Joel, even if he tried to mask it behind a facade of rugged determination.

You sensed that pushing further wouldn’t get you anywhere. Joel was not one to open up easily, and you could see that the topic of his feelings was closed off. You decided to shift the conversation, sensing that it was best to focus on something lighter.

"How’s school?” he asked, his tone shifting to something slightly more personal but still restrained. “Almost done, right?”

You nodded, a smile touching your lips despite the lingering tension. “Yeah, I’m just a few months away from graduating. It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joel replied, giving a slight nod. “High school’s a big deal. A lot changes after that.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your legs beneath you as you sat on the grass. “It is. It feels like the end of one chapter and the start of another.” You took a deep drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you in the still air. Exhaling slowly, you continued, “I just want to get out of here.”

Joel’s gaze, always direct, fixed on you. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the weight of your words to settle between you. He shifted his weight, leaning slightly on the rifle, his hands still coated in the grime of the day’s work. “Yeah?” he finally said, his tone soft but edged with curiosity. “Where do you want to go?”

You looked out over the lake, its calm surface reflecting the last rays of the sun. “Anywhere but here,” you said with a sigh. “I want to leave this town, start fresh somewhere new. I’ve been dreaming about it for a long time.”

Joel watched you silently for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes getting out can seem like the only way to find something better,” he said slowly. “But it ain’t always as simple as it sounds.”

You took another drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing brightly as you exhaled. “I know it’s not that simple,” you said quietly. “But it feels like I’m suffocating here. I just need... something different. Something real.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze not unkind but keenly observant. There was a protective instinct in him that had always been there, even when you were much younger. He sensed there was more to your words than just a desire to leave town. The carefully constructed façade of normalcy that your family projected wasn’t lost on him, though he had never delved into the specifics of your home life.

“You know,” Joel began, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone, “sometimes people want to leave for reasons that go beyond what they’re willing to say. It’s one thing to want a new place, but it’s another to be running from something.”

You stiffened slightly, the cigarette now nothing more than a stub between your fingers. You were careful not to let your emotions betray you. “It’s not just about running away,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s about finding a place where I can breathe.”

Joel nodded, his gaze steady. “And you think you’ll find that out there?”

“I hope so,” you said. “I just need to get out and find out for myself. It’s been hard to see beyond this place.”

Joel shifted his weight, leaning on his rifle. His rugged face, often set in lines of stoicism, now bore a hint of concern. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of folks runnin’ away from what they don’t want to face. Sometimes they find what they’re lookin’ for, sometimes they don’t. But it’s dangerous out there for someone who’s not ready.”

You looked at him, sensing the genuine concern behind his words. “I’m ready,” you said softly. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Joel studied you for a moment longer, his fatherly instincts kicking in. He could see the innocence in your eyes, the quiet strength that belied your troubled soul. He had been a father before, and he knew what it was like to want to protect someone from the harsh realities of the world.

But then, with a shift in his demeanor, Joel decided it wasn’t his business to involve himself further. He cared for you, that much was clear, but he also knew his boundaries. His expression hardened slightly, a testament to his tendency to keep people at a distance. 

“Look,” he said gruffly, his Southern accent thickening his words, “it’s not my place to get too involved in this. You’re gonna have to handle things your way.” His tone was direct, carrying the weight of a man who had learned to let his actions speak louder than his words.

Despite the coldness in his voice, there was a flicker of tenderness in his eyes, a brief glimpse of the protective instincts that lingered beneath his guarded exterior. Joel operated in a morally gray area, making decisions that were often difficult and controversial, and he understood the complexities of navigating a world where right and wrong were not always clear.

He wanted to help, but his experience had taught him that sometimes the best way to show care was to step back and allow others to find their own way.

“You know,” Joel said, shifting the topic slightly, “Ellie talks about you sometimes. Says you’re smart, and she admires you for stickin’ it out. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but she looks up to you. So, if there’s ever a time you need someone to talk to, or if you just need a friend, don’t hesitate to reach out. I may not be the best at this whole ‘talkin’’ thing, but I’m here if you need me.”

You appreciated his attempt to offer support, even if it came in a roundabout way. “Thanks, Joel. It’s nice to know that someone cares,” you said, smiling as you put out the cigarette.

Joel watched you with a mixture of concern and curiosity, as if weighing whether to press further. You could see that he was struggling with how much to say, his usual reserve at odds with the genuine warmth he was trying to convey.

“Well,” you said, glancing at the fading light, “I should head back to the church before Dad notices I’m gone.”

Joel shifted his stance, a hint of hesitation in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want a ride back? It’s a long walk, and it’s gettin’ dark.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of guilt for declining his offer. “I appreciate it, Joel, but I don’t want to trouble you. I can manage the walk.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, and he gave a firm nod. “It ain’t no trouble. It’s just a ride. Besides, I’d rather make sure you get back safely.”

His insistence made you feel slightly uncomfortable, but you also recognized his sincerity. Raised to be polite and considerate, you found it difficult to refuse when someone was being genuinely helpful.

“Alright,” you said reluctantly, “if you insist. Thank you.”

Joel nodded, his face softening a bit as he walked over to his truck. The vehicle was old but reliable, with a rugged appearance that matched Joel’s own. He opened the passenger side door for you, gesturing for you to get in.

As you climbed into the truck, Joel got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The interior was a mix of practical and worn, with a faint smell of leather and earth. Joel drove with a steady, practiced hand, the truck rumbling over the uneven terrain as he navigated the path back to town.

The silence in the truck was comfortable, with only the sound of the engine and the occasional rustle of the trees breaking it. You stared out the window, the fading sunlight casting a warm glow over the landscape. You could feel the weight of the day’s conversations settling in, and the quiet offered a moment of reflection.

After a few minutes, the truck rolled into town, the familiar sights coming into view. Joel slowed as he approached the church, where you could see the remaining congregants beginning to disperse.

Joel pulled up to the curb and stopped the truck. "We're here."

"Thank you once again, Joel. It’s good catching up with you," you said, giving him a grateful smile. Just as you were about to step out of the truck, you spotted your father from a distance. A sinking feeling washed over you as you realized he had seen you.

“Oh no,” you muttered, catching Joel’s eye. He turned to see your father walking towards the truck, a determined look on his face.

Joel, ever the gentleman, exited the truck as well. You followed suit, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. Your father, who had been conversing with some church members, excused himself and made his way towards you and Joel.

“Evening, Reverend,” Joel greeted, extending a hand.

“Evening, Joel,” your father said with his usual charming demeanor, shaking Joel’s hand firmly. “It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well.”

Joel’s expression was polite but reserved. “Can’t complain. Been keeping busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” your father replied smoothly. “You know, we’ve missed you at church. It would be good to see you back.”

Joel gave a noncommittal nod, his discomfort barely masked. “Maybe sometime.”

As your father turned his attention to you, his smile faltered slightly. “And where have you been, young lady? You were supposed to help with the service.”

You flinched at the stern tone, feeling his grip tighten around your arm as he spoke. “I was just taking a walk, Dad. Joel gave me a ride back.”

Your father’s grip was rough and unyielding, his fingers digging into your arm with a strength that was both painful and controlling. Joel noticed, his gaze briefly flicking to your father’s hand before returning to his face.

“Is that right?” your father said, his voice carrying a hint of disapproval. “Well, I hope you weren’t gone too long. We have responsibilities.”

"Yes, I'm sorry, father." You said smile a little to hide the pain he's causing you.

Joel cleared his throat, attempting to steer the conversation away from the tension. “I’m just making sure she gets back safe."

“Of course,” your father said, releasing your arm but maintaining a veneer of politeness. “We have a dinner invitation from Tommy and Maria next Saturday. I trust you’ll be joining us?”

Joel looked momentarily surprised. “Well, I'm supposed I am,"

Your father’s smile widened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Yes, they extended the invitation to our family. It will be good to catch up.”

Joel nodded, his expression neutral. “I’ll have to check with Ellie, but I’m sure we’ll make it.”

“Excellent,” your father said, still maintaining his charming facade. “It’ll be good for everyone to reconnect.”

As the conversation continued, Joel’s discomfort grew. He noticed the strain in your father’s demeanor and the way he seemed to be masking a more sinister undertone behind his polite words. Joel had been out of the social loop for a while, but he was perceptive enough to sense when something was off, even if he chose not to probe further.

“Well,” Joel said, his tone shifting to one of finality, “I better be on my way. Got some things to take care of. It was good seeing you again, Reverend. And you too,” he added, offering you a brief, reassuring smile.

You gave him a grateful nod, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. “Thank you, Joel."

Joel, giving one last nod before turning to leave. As he walked away, you could feel the weight of the evening’s encounters settling heavily on your shoulders. The brief respite you’d found in Joel’s company had been overshadowed by the return of your father’s control and the unsettling realization that your escape from this small town and its complexities might be more challenging than you had hoped.

After the Sunday service, you returned home with a heavy heart. The warmth of the day had turned cold, and the familiar feeling of dread settled over you as you approached the house. Inside, the tension was palpable, and the moment you walked through the door, you knew there would be consequences for your absence during the service.

Your father’s voice was stern and unforgiving as he called you into the living room. “You’ve abandoned your duties. Do you have any idea what that means?”

You tried to explain, but his anger cut you off. “I was just trying to get some fresh air, Dad. I didn’t mean—”

Before you could finish, he was on you, grabbing your arm with a grip that left no room for argument. He dragged you to the center of the room, his face a mask of fury. “You’ve abandoned your duty. It’s about respect and responsibility. You know how important this is.”

“No, please, Dad, don’t. I’m so sorry. I will not do it again,” you pleaded, your voice trembling.

The fear in your voice only seemed to fuel his anger. He disappeared into the hallway, returning with his belt in hand. The leather looked menacing, and your heart raced as you saw it.

“Please, Dad, I’m sorry,” you continued to beg. “I didn’t mean to disobey. I’ll make it right. Just please—”

Your father’s face was a mask of cold determination. “Take off your dress and face the wall,” he ordered, his voice steely. “You needs to be taught a lesson.”

You could barely keep your composure as you undressed, your body shaking with fear and dread. The scars on your back from a previous punishment throbbed with anticipation. When you were finally positioned with your back to him, every nerve in your body was on edge.

The first crack of the belt was sharp and painfully immediate. The sound echoed through the room, followed by a searing pain that made you flinch. You cried out, tears streaming down your face. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” you sobbed, your voice breaking with each cry of pain.

You could feel the belt cutting into your already tender skin, the sensation of bleeding mixing with the agony of the blows. Each strike felt like a betrayal of your trust, a reminder of the harsh world you were trapped in.

Your mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her face pale and tear-streaked. She wanted to intervene, but fear held her back. She could only watch helplessly as you were punished, her own sobs mingling with your cries of pain.

In a desperate attempt to mask the sounds of the abuse from the neighbors, she turned the gospel music up loud, hoping the noise would cover your screams and your father’s harsh words.

The music blared in the background, a twisted contrast to the suffering in the room. It felt like a cruel mockery, the joyous hymns clashing with the reality of your punishment. Your mother’s tears fell silently as she stood by, unable to offer more than the muted comfort of her presence.

As the beating continued, your strength waned. The pain was overwhelming, a relentless reminder of the control your father exerted over every aspect of your life. You could only endure, hoping for it to end soon, each moment stretching out painfully as you clung to the hope that this would be the last of such torment.

When he finally stopped, you were left huddled on the floor, your body aching and your spirit broken. Your father’s anger subsided, leaving him with a cold, resolute expression. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he said gruffly, his voice devoid of empathy. “Disobedience won’t be tolerated.”

Your mother rushed to your side as soon as your father left the room, her hands trembling, “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears, her voice filled with sorrow and helplessness.

You looked at her through blurred vision, your own tears mingling with hers. “I—It's okay, mama." you said weakly, your voice strained and shaky. “It’s my fault."

She helped you put your dress back on, her fingers brushing gently over the raw marks on your skin, causing you to wince. Each movement was a reminder of the pain you were enduring.

As you slowly gathered your strength, your mother helped you to a nearby chair, her hands still shaking. She sat beside you, her presence a small but comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions. The music from the kitchen blared on, a cruel backdrop to the quiet moments of shared sorrow between mother and daughter.

In the midst of the pain and turmoil, there was a flicker of hope that someday, somehow, you might find a way out of the darkness. For now, though, you could only cling to the small comforts and the hope that things might one day be different.

[risuola]

THANK YOU, MOM — F. READER x MEGUMI FUSHIGURO, who calls you mom for the first time

Megumi was used to handle things on his own, taking care of himself and barely asked for help, but this time he couldn’t deal with the damage alone and you were the first person he thought about.

cw: fluff, brief description of an injury, blood; reader is Satoru Gojo's wife — 1k words

a/n: I rarely write for Megumi in a sense of romantic topics, but I absolutely a d o r e the concept of him being Gojo's son. sorry not sorry, I'm in a desperate need for some fluffs

Happiness. A state, that psychologists define as a subjective well-being that a person experience. Happiness is as fickle as the wind. It comes and goes, sometimes in a rush of joy and sometimes in a lull of melancholy. Sometimes it’s as simple as a hot cup of coffee or a kind word from a stranger, but true happiness is a feeling that you couldn’t describe, even if you’d try. The warm, comforting sensation in the pit of your stomach, as if everything in the world was right where it should be.

Up until that point, you thought you were in that specific state many times. When Satoru asked for your hand, you were happy. You’re almost ecstatic every time you see your students’ successes. You tend to be overjoyed by the littlest things and if anyone asked you if you ever felt happiness, you’d most likely say yes.

But that day you realized that you never had a chance to experience the true, heart-clenching, tear inducing happiness before. Though you had shed some tears when at the altar you were staring into those beautiful blue eyes of your now husband, but not even once before you had an urge to ugly cry because you were so happy. Not before Megumi called you mom.

It happened in the privacy of your home, late into the night, when after a mission particularly roughed him up, he showed up at your doorstep late at night. Once you swung the door open, the sight of his bloodied uniform and the red gushing out of a wound on the side of his stomach made you forget how to breathe, your heart skipped a beat and time seemed to fade away. Quickly you led him inside onto the couch and gathered supplies to aid him. He should go to Shoko, both of you knew it, but you were also able to use reversed curse technique to some extent.

“What happened?” You asked him, carefully taking off his uniform jacket and lifting his shirt to assess the damage. You knew he’ll make it, you knew you won’t let him go, and yet you felt the terror inside your veins when his pale skin was right in front of your eyes, stained in fresh blood.

“Just a scratch,” he mumbled, his voice was out of breath, it was saturated in pain that you knew he tried to hide with the soft shrug he did. “A curse was stronger than it was supposed to be, and uh…”

You were going to confront Satoru with that information. It wouldn’t be the first time he pushed his own mission onto his students. Tough love, as he used to call it, learning through challenge and it worked, mostly, but seeing your boy struggling still made your heart clench and your eyes swell with tears.

Megumi was used to handle things on his own, taking care of himself and barely asked for help, but this time he couldn’t deal with the damage alone and you were the first person he thought about. He had always thought of you as the strongest person he knew, even though you were a wife to Satoru Gojo, but to Megumi, it was you who had given him the closest thing he had ever had to a parent. He felt small and vulnerable, heavy underneath your gaze so full of love and concern that and at the same time, light as a feather because somehow, your soft voice and caring hands had the ability to take the weight of any burden off his shoulders. He sat still while your cursed energy was healing his injuries, silently admiring the effort and compassion.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you sighed once the adrenaline in your system began to wear off. Megumi was fine. Injured, but fine, nothing threatened his life anymore. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”

“I’m okay,” he reassured, leaning his head back. The blood loss was getting to him, he was paler than usually, his forehead covered in sweat and he was panting slightly. Once done with the wound, you cleaned the blood as much as you could and quickly grabbed a clean, wet towel, a fresh t-shirt from Satoru’s closet and a blanket.

Sitting next to the boy, you pulled him gently onto yourself so he could lean against your chest, with the compress on his head and a cover over his body to keep him warm. Only then, feeling the steady beat of your heart and the warmth around him, he began to relax.

That was something Megumi remembered from his youngest years. When Satoru took him and his sister underneath his wing, you were there also and as much as Gojo had no paternal instincts towards them, you were always full of love. Countless times he was falling asleep cuddled to you, you were the safest place on earth for him and even now, as he’s already almost an adult, your embrace is something he’s always happy to come back to. Though he wouldn’t say it out loud, of course. But now, he could feel his body releasing the tension, his fight-or-flight mode slowly turning off because there was no need for him to stay alarmed when you were next to him. When your arms were around him, protecting him from the world itself. And hence why his mouth formulated these words without him thinking much of it.

“Thank you, mom.” Oh. The word left his mouth despite the fear he felt. Megumi had always been afraid to call you his mother, even though he thought of you as such. He was worried it would feel too close, too intimate and though he wished to let you know how much you meant to him, he was worried you’ll get angry. He realized what he said when it was already too late. “I’m s-sorr—”

“Don’t thank me, Megumi,” you cut his apologies, gently tightening the hug. You couldn’t describe the way you felt in this moment. It was such a simple thing, but it meant everything to you. That had to be the real happiness. “I'm always here for you, whenever you need me. And I love you too, you know?”

[s-4pphics]

errr hi cont to this or whatever combating my depression with horny crazy lesbians with parental trauma goodbye again

—

Guilt festers in Ellie like hornets.

She hardly remembers the last time she’s seen you. The turbulence that roared within you for months had finally reached its peak, and it sent you crashing into a static-filled void — an unsettling tranquility. Whenever she’s home, you don’t say a word to her, fully committed to the bind that reinforces your lack of autonomy. But still, the house stays clean, dinner stays served, and Ellie stays guilty.

She can’t pinpoint for what exactly — her aggression towards you throughout your marriage, her ignorance to your suffering, for leaving you alone to wilt while she goes and lives her life like you don’t exist, like the weight of the band on her finger doesn’t snare whenever they dig inside someone else.

Divorce. Divorce…

If it ever occurs, both families will bury you, then Ellie, then each other, only leaving behind wasteful bundles of inheritance and homes with no name. But death… It has to be better than this crushing burden in her stomach. It has to be.

There’s water running. Right above where Ellie sits on the couch with a bouncing knee, fiddling with her wedding ring. Her heart thumps in her chest when the rush stops. You must be in the bath.

The thought should make Ellie flush and stutter; the image of her beloved wife bare and surrounded by bubbles from the neck down, scented with lavender and incense, soft as ever.

But she can only see you drowning. Breathing water into your lungs as you fight against your own will to survive. Your screams are loud beneath suffocation, battered as you…

Call out to her—

“Ellie.”

She flinches at your presence from behind, heart racing at the sight of you in your robe and dripping hair, somehow disheveled despite your cleanliness. Ellie swallows dryly when water drips down your neck and seeps into your gown’s collar. The tie is synched around your waist and your breasts are pushed together from its tightness and Ellie’s lost her mind because she shouldn’t be gawking like this. Her eyes fly back to the vacant windows that bring such torture.

“I ran your bath.”

You turn to leave without another glance, already up three— five steps before Ellie mutters,

“Thank you.”

She sees your shoulders stiffen, and she shifts uncomfortably where she sits. It might be the first time you’ve heard any verbal appreciation from her. From anyone, matter of fact. Ellie’s heart thrashes in her chest at the look you give over your shoulder: confused… and so, so tired. The emptiness within them sends her stomach into knots, churning up that treacherous feeling that makes her ill whenever she really looks at you.

But then you smile, soft lips curled around pearly teeth. Dark. Empty.

“Anything for my wife.”

The term of endearment is poisonous on your tongue. Small hairs on Ellie’s arms are upright and thrum with fear and embarrassment and… shockingly enough, something else. Something dirty and thoughtless. It’s the maroon robe. It has to be.

“Should I prep you for the bath, as well?”

Your tone is hateful. Mockingly so. Why does Ellie’s face burn? Why do her nails dig into the cushion beneath her? Why is her breathing so shaky? Why is her body so hot? Because of you, of all people, and you’ve barely spoken to each other. You hate her and she hates you so why why why.

Disgusted eyes rake over Ellie’s squirming form, and a smirk grows on your face.

“I’ll be upstairs.” Voice soft as a feather, but your feet are weighted with each stomp up the stairs.

Ellie can’t halt her fear for what waits for her in your bedroom. Fear has never made her thighs rub together this much.

—

Ellie’s in a fever dream.

You put something in her wine from earlier. She’s knocked out cold and this is all a fucked up, sadistic nightmare. The lavender scent that floats through the marble bathroom isn’t real, the candles that burn with cinnamon aren’t real, the last sizzles from the bathbomb melting into the water isn’t real, your hands aren’t… She can’t feel them. They’re definitely not real. Not where they gently massage her shoulders.

But they are. How fucked up is Ellie. It’s been all of two minutes and she’s already memorized your fingerprints through her button up. Nothing but guilt, guilt, guilt and fear and arousal that makes her more guilty. What sick game are you playing at. You’re so fucking sick.

“You’re so tense, wife… You really needed this bath, huh?”

Your nails sink into her shoulders and Ellie can almost feel your venom eating away at her bloodstream. Her toenails scrap against the tile through her socks. She won’t stop fiddling with her wedding ring. A sign of guilt. An act of nerves.

Your hands drag from her neck to her collarbones and she shivers whenever your nails rake through her. They reach the top button of her shirt. Each pop of a button sends aggressive rattles to Ellie’s ribcage.

Before your meddling fingers stop.

Her flushed chest rises with rapid breaths. Your eyes sear and they’re electric. Ellie’s heart stops when she realizes where your attention is.

A blotchy, ruby-red bruise sits right in between her breasts. The bite glows blue where it fades. It taunts you. Ellie can see it where your jaw clenches. Guilt guilt guilt guilt—

“Who gave you that?”

You sound so innocent. Her anxiety will peak in an instant.

“No one.”

Ellie gasps sharply when buttons clatter to the floor, angered hands ripping open her shirt, prying the fabric from her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. She’s stiff as a board, unable to move, forbidding to combat your aggression. Why does she allow you to take?

“Who gave that to you?” You grit before reaching for her Louis Vuitton belt, pulling it from the loops and throwing it behind you. “Huh? A friend of mine? A family member? Someone I know?”

You smile like it excites you to know who wrecked your home. Who your wife abandoned you for, all for a fix — to exist outside of her body and not think about the world she despises. Ellie shakes her head. Why does she wish to appease you all of a sudden? She’s never cared; never hesitated to flaunt her lechery to you in the late hours of the night. Why now?

“How long ago? How gorgeous was she? Did she give you everything you desired—“

“Stop—“

“Maybe you should invite her over,” You suggest painfully, seductively while you treat her slacks with the same violence, “I’m sure our parents wouldn’t mind a third. More money, right? She’s rich, isn’t she?”

Your suggestion sends knives into her throat. Her hands clamp down onto your arms to get you off. To pull you closer. Fuck, fuck —

“Bring all your whores here, matter of fact!” You screech and fight against Ellie’s grip on your wrists. “I’ll let them fuck me with you if you want! I’m sure it’d please you, wife—“

Ellie nearly vomits when slick drips from her at the imagery; you completely engulfed by the pleasure you deserve for being such a good wife, fucked to peak after peak. Hands all over you, bruised to hell, stress-free. She’d give you that. Only she could give you that. No one else, fuck, just her—

She uses all her strength to shove you into the wall near the sink, ripping your hands from her pants and shoving them behind you, holding you still as you thrash and shout obscenities.

Her heart breaks when you release the loudest sobs she’s ever heard from you, and all she can do is apologize. Whisper calming words against your wet cheeks.

“Look at me, look at me, fuck, m’sorry—“

“Why me! What d-did I do to deserve this! Why — why —“

“I know, I’m sorry, I know I know—“

Ellie blows cool air all over your cheeks. Gentle brushes of wind that ice your boiling skin before your hollers turn to devastated whimpers. She watches you self-soothe, blows more air on your face, redirects your attention onto her.

“Look at me.” She says into your skin.

You whimper and shake your head, eyes downcast at her feet.

“Can you do that for me so we can talk?”

“I don’t wanna fucking talk to you.”

Ellie huffs a laugh at your insolence, “Fair, but I need you to calm down. Can we agree on that?”

“I didn’t drown you. That’s as calm as you’re gonna get.”

Ellie smiles sadly, “Also fair.”

“You’re fucking dead to me.”

“… Potty mouth.”

Ellie loosens her grip on your wrists when you shove her off you, head plopping onto the wall as you gaze at her, eyes filled with rage and possessiveness and lust. For once, your eyes mirror hers.

Your robe isn’t as tight after your fighting, a glimpse of a nipple peeking beneath the deep red cloth. She shouldn’t look, not when you're this vulnerable and hurt, but she can’t help it. She can’t explain it, but she wants you to see how hungry she is for you. So much guilt.

She doesn’t know how to love, to be kind, to dote like a wife should. She can’t do that with you. But she stares, gazes at you with territory. What she’d give to be all over you.

Her ogling pauses when you laugh to yourself, cheeks still glistening under the candlelight. Ellie frowns despite the butterflies in her stomach.

“You’re crazy.”

You don’t adjust your scattered dress, pushing yourself off the wall and into Ellie’s chest. You invade her senses like she wants; her body aches and shakes when your breasts touch hers. She can smell you. All you have to do is inch closer. Your noses almost touch. She just needs a bit more from you and you’ll have her. All to yours—

“Enjoy your bath…”

Your lips tickle hers,

“Ellie.”

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip when you vanish into the bedroom. She's never climbed in there with you, but she just might.

-

-

-

Ellie didn’t believe you when you said she was dead in your eyes, but now, she realizes you might’ve actually meant it. She assumed you to be a vessel of patriarchy, of status, of everything she loathes, but you’re unraveling before her eyes, inklings of your true self seeping through the cracks of your parents’ mold.

You might be just as vile as she is. You might even have her beat. You do want her dead.

What else can she think as she sinks lower into her bath to hide her shock, eyes glued to the glass dildo that still drips with your slick at the edge of the tub? Right next to your wedding ring.

How nasty would she be to use your cum as lube while she fucks herself in the shower? How gross would you be if you awoke from your slumber to watch her get off to you?

… Come to think of it, you both never consummated your marriage.

You deserve to wake up to something nice.

[97linelover]

don´t treat me like a baby - Kim Mingyu

18+ / mdi

summary: Being the only Daughter in the Choi Family made you Precious. What if your Dad hires Kim Mingyu as your Bodyguard.

And what if you develop a huge crush on him?

content: Bodyguard Mingyu x Rich Reader, angst, fluff, love, fight, both are stupid and stubborn.

wc: 3.6 k

a/n: I saw this picture and I need to write a Bodyguard Gyu FF. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do.

You lived in a world where wealth was normal, where the rich people made fun of the poor, and where the poor did not have anything to say.

You hated this lifestyle; you worked as a volunteer in an orphanage; and you donated to many different things.  But carrying the name Choi was your biggest burden; everywhere you went, you were always the daughter of. 

You loved your family; they gave you everything they could, but sometimes you just wanted to be normal. 

"Y/N?" Your father's voice echoed through your office. "Yes, Dad?" You got up, your heels clicking against the marble floor. 

"I want you to meet someone," he said, opening the door, followed by an unknown man. You smiled politely. "Y/N, this is Kim Mingyu, Mingyu; this is my beautiful daughter." The man shook your hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Choi," he said politely. 

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Kim," you answered while sitting back down. "So what owes me the pleasure?" You leaned your head on your hand. 

"Mr. Ko won't be guarding you anymore since his Wife just gave birth, so from now on he will be your bodyguard," your dad said with a stern voice. "He will have a spare bedroom in the house so that he is never that far away." You looked at the handsome guard and nodded. 

"Alright, when does he start?" You crossed your legs, and you saw how his gaze fell onto your legs. 

"Right now, I talked to him about the important things, and he is ready." Your dad nodded at him and left the room. 

"I will wait in front of your office, Ms. Choi," he said again. "Alright, I'll be meeting Deborah for dinner today at 8.". 

"Noted, I'll tell your driver." With that, he left the room.  You watched him, and you then sighed. 

This was also normal—a security guard following you everywhere you go. 

-

"Wait, so Mr. Sexy here is going to be by your side 24/7? Lucky you" Deborah groaned while taking a sip of her Martini. 

"Deb's, stop drooling over my guard," You playfully slapped her arm. "Let's talk about the upcoming collection for my store, please," you pouted. 

"Do you have any locations in mind for your store?" She asked while looking through the design folder, "No, not yet. I'm currently doing the men's collection, and I need to find the models." You sipped on your daiquiri. "Mingyu, are you hungry or thirsty?" Deborah asked him with a flirty smile. 

"Thank you, Ms. Johnson, but no, I already ate," he said, smiling and bowing. 

"God, he is too handsome," she muttered, and you rolled your eyes. "Back to business, please." 

You two discussed some things, and you got lost with the track of time. "Ms. Choi, it's past midnight; I think we should head back home; you need to be in the office pretty early." He kindly took the documents, and you got up. "Thank you." You smiled at him, but he remained unfazed. 

"I'll show you the room," you said to him, and he nodded, following you. He tried his best not to look at your body, but the way your hips were swinging and your legs were glowing made it harder than he thought. 

"You can make yourself feel at home; you can eat everything in the fridge, and you can use everything in this house," you said as you opened the door.  "I'm really thankful for you here," you smiled, "and I really hope you will call me Y/N from now on; we will spend too much time together." He chuckled slightly at that. 

"Alright, Y/N, goodnight," he said as he walked inside the room. "Goodnight, Mingyu," and with that, you walked away into your bedroom. 

-

The next two months were basically the same: you went to work, then out for dinner, and then back home.  Mingyu was always by your side, and you two could actually talk right now; he was actually pretty funny. 

But you knew why he was here, that this was work, and that he was just doing his work. During this time, you developed a little crush.  He was completely your type, and you wanted him, but for the sake of your sanity, you quickly discarded that thought. 

"Y/N, your next model cancelled," Mingyu said while walking into the studio where you were standing and looking at the photos. "What? No," you whined. "He was supposed to be my center," you groaned. 

"Mingyu," you gasped, and his eyes widened. "No," he said sternly, and you smirked. "Please, Gyuuu, no one will see them," you pouted. "I only need a vision," you pleaded. 

"Alright, but we will do it quick," he muttered, and you cheered. "Okay, undress yourself, Mr. Kim," you giggled, and he rolled his eyes. He took off his button up, and you watched every move he made. His tanned muscles, now on full display, were better than imagined. 

"Okay, now put this on." You helped him. Your finger tips were tracing along his skin. Mingyu looked away so that he did not need to look at you. "I think you could easily work as a model." You giggled, which made him chuckle. "You think so?" 

You tied a knot and nodded. "Freaking beautiful," you whispered, and he looked down at you. You both were so close, your lips nearly touching. You felt his hot, minty breath against your lips, and your eyes fluttered close. 

"So, um, should we take the pictures?" He pushed you away, and you let out a small whine. "Sorry," he whispered, and you blushed.

Kim Mingyu was the first man to deny your kiss. 

You quickly grabbed the camera and snapped some pictures, and this is no lie, but there was not a single failed shot; he was insanely beautiful. 

"Are we done?" He asked while scratching his neck, and you nodded. "Yes, sorry, you can change. I'll wait outside." You hurried out of the room and groaned.

Luckily for you, Mingyu did not utter a word about what had happened. 

Inside the car, your brother called you "Hey Cheol." You said happily, "Hi Y/N, I have some bad news.. dad and me can't make it to the store opening." You were not surprised.  "Oh, alright, I did not expect you two anyway," you muttered, and before your brother could say anything, you ended the call. 

You leaned your head against the window, and you felt some tears rolling down your cheek. "You don't need them for the opening, Y/N," Mingyu said softly. "No one will be there, Mingyu; I'm alone. I'm always alone," you sobbed. "I will be there," he whispered. "Because it's your job," you cried out. 

Mingyu could not say anything at that, and you scoffed slightly. You were alone. 

And when he parked the car, you rushed into your bedroom, just locking yourself inside the room.

And when the opening came, you were dressed in the most stunning dark red dress; your hair was perfectly made, and your skin was glowing. You looked like a dream come true, and Mingyu knew it as soon as you entered the building.

You had given him the day off, but he wanted to see you. He wanted to keep you company on this important day. He was standing in the corner, dressed in a black suit with a red tie that matched your dress. You had gifted him the tie when he began because you told him it was the perfect color for him. 

He hated ties, but for you, he wore them. 

And while you were standing on the stage, your body was illuminated by the lights. He felt like screaming; he felt like the world was yours. 

He wanted you, but he could not have you. 

When you spotted him in the crowd, your heart felt like it was bursting, and a smile appeared on your face. 

He smiled slightly, and when the crowd cheered for you, he walked through the hallway, finding an empty room where he could calm down for a second. He looked out  of the window when he heard the door open and then high heels. 

"I thought I gave you the day off." Your soft voice made him turn around. "I told you I would be there," he said, and you smiled. "You missed me already, huh?" You took some steps towards him, and he really tried to control himself. 

"I'm just a man that sticks to his word," he smirked, and your freshly manicured nails landed on his chest. 

"Well, that's right, Mr. Kim, always so good for me," you said seductively, and he bit his lip. You were dangerous; he knew it the moment he saw you in that office.

"Y/N," he breathed, and you wasted no time kissing him. The kiss escalated pretty quickly. He turned you both around, lifting you against the wall. A whimper escaped you, and he pushed his bulge against your core, kissing along your neck. "Oh god," you moaned, and all of a sudden he let you down. 

"Fuck," he whispered, and you looked confused at him. You were breathing heavily. "Mingyu," you said, taking his hand, and he quickly pulled it away. "This should not have happened, Y/N," he said while wiping his face. "Don't say that," you pleaded.

"Fuck Y/N, this was a freaking mistake," he groaned, and you felt the tears sting your eyes. "Don't say that; I felt the desperation in this kiss," You tried walking towards him. 

"Maybe you're delusional, Y/N, but this was nothing," he said, looking at you. His warm, brown eyes were dull. You laughed slightly. "Mingyu, don't say that." 

"God damn, Y/N, you're nothing like me; this is not okay. I'm working for you; fuck, I don't want you," he said, raising his voice. "You're lying, trying to push me away," you whispered. 

"You're a spoiled little girl; I'm straight from the bronx; while you powder your nose, I'm fighting for the right things; I could never want you," he said with so much honesty that you choked out a sob. 

"Don't say that; you know how I am," you pleaded. "You know that I'm not like them, Mingyu.". 

He shrugged. "This is bullshit; do you really think that I want you?" He took a deep breath. "I'm not interested in a pathetic little girl who needs a bodyguard." With that, you rushed past him. 

"From now on, you will only see me in the office, and when I'm leaving the house, I will no longer talk with you unless it's important or work-related. So please do me a favor; don't treat me like a fucking baby when I'm more of a woman than you'll ever have." With that, you rushed back down. 

The next morning, you were dressed in a beige suit, and the black high heels made Mingyu look up. "Ready to go?" he asked while taking the car keys.

You grabbed some fruits and walked straight past him. He opened the car, and you got inside, typing away on your phone. A giggle escaped you, and you felt him glancing over. "I need to go to the warehouse," you uttered, and he nodded. "But you have the appointment later.". 

"Yeah, I know," you said, looking back down at your phone. 

The next few weeks were horrific for Mingyu; you became another person—the person he claimed you were. 

You acted like a snob; you treated him like a fool, and Mingyu was tired of it; he felt like screaming at you. 

Tonight, he was relieved when you just walked into your bedroom; he knew he could just lay down and sleep some more. But when he heard the front door slam shut, he jumped up and ran down, seeing you drive away with your Mercedes. 

He groaned, hurriedly took some keys, and got inside the car. There was no way he was going to find you in Seoul, but he drove around either way. He called you a thousand times, but you never picked up. 

God damn, he was pissed. 

He then remembered that you gave him access to your location, so he opened his phone, seeing that you were out partying. 

Within 10 minutes, he was standing behind you and saying, "Mr. Sexy is here, and he's looking pissed." Deborah yelled over the music, and your eyes widened as she turned around. Mingyu was walking towards you. "Get in the car." He stated, his eyes dark. "No." You walked past him. "Y/N, I'm not kidding. Get in the car right now." His voice was deep, and you sighed. "Fuck you." You spat, and he chuckled. "If you don't want to be treated like a baby, don't act like one.". 

"You're a fucking asshole," you muttered, and you rushed out of the club with him behind you. You got in the car, locking the door and driving off. 

You could see him driving behind you, and you slammed your fist against the steering wheel. 

When you entered the house, Mingyu groaned, "Why the fuck did you leave?" He was furious, and you turned around. "I don't need a fucking babysitter, so go back to the room and leave me alone." You took your heels off, and he came dangerously close.

"Don't act like a spoiled brat, just because you can't handle my opinion," he said, lifting your chin. "I don't care about your stupid opinion, Mingyu," and you slapped his hand away. 

"You do, otherwise you would not act like this," he chuckled deeply. "But you know, this attitude of yours should be punished," his body pressed against yours. 

"Mingyu," you whispered, and he lifted you up. "You wanted this, right? You wanted to push me until I fucking gave in." The way he carried you with such ease made you dizzy.

"You don't get to treat me like a baby," you said while sighing. "Baby, I will treat you just right tonight." He opened the bedroom door and laid you down, his buff frame hovering over you. "Now open your pretty legs, baby," he rasped, and you quickly obeyed.

He pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his beautiful tan body, while he kissed your legs.  He wasted no time eating you out like a starved man; the way he circled his tongue around your swollen bud made you scream out in joy. 

He brought you over the edge once, and now his goal was a second; his fingers were pumping in and out of you. "Come on, baby, give me another one," he whispered while placing a kiss along your leg. 

"Mingyu god," you whimpered, and he smirked, feeling your legs shake. "Yes, there it is," His thumb circled around your nub, and your fists clawed into the bedding, feeling the second high of the night. 

You were breathing heavily, and he just smirked. "Are you able to take my cock?" he asked while getting up, and you nodded. "Please, Gyu," you pouted, and he chuckled. He took his pants off, and you were groaning at the sight in front of you. 

His dick was beautiful; it was standing tall and proud. Pre-cum was leaking from his shaft. "Condom?" he asked while pumping his dick a few times. "Oh yes, wait." You got up with shaky legs and wobbled into the bathroom, grabbing the box. 

Mingyu put it on and then hovered over you. When he glided into you, his eyes squeezed shut, and he groaned, "God, you feel so good.". 

He buried his head in the crook of your neck and placed some kisses there. He held you close while thrusting deep inside you. Your fingernails clawed into his back, and you were a whimpering mess. "I'm close," you moaned, and he felt you clench around him. 

"Me too, baby," His thrusts became sloppier. "Come on, baby, milk me dry," he groaned, and you kissed him. You kissed him through your orgasm, and it felt so good; no one ever made you feel like he did. 

He laid down next to you, and you closed your eyes. "You're actually so goodhow I imagined you to be," you whined, and he let out a laugh. "Wow, what a compliment!" He pulled you on to his chest, and you both fell asleep like that.

It was the best sleep you had for a long time, and when the morning came, you woke up with a smile on your face. You turned around when you saw that he was not there anymore. You got up, putting on your bathrobe. 

The walk to his room made you feel nervous, and you knew why, When you opened the door, Mingyu's stuff was gone; there was no trace of him. 

You laughed to yourself and got inside your room, getting ready for work. 

The way to your office was different; there was no Mingyu who made sure you were safe, no one who gave you some coffee and some fruit.  You knew he left because of what happened last night. 

"Y/N?" The voice of your brother snapped you out of your daze. 

"Cheollie," you smile while getting up, "what brings you here?" You grinned slightly, and he sighed. "Mr. Kim has quit, as you may have noticed; he said he could not work with you anymore, and he left immediately after."

Hearing the words made you realize how Mingyu must think about you—maybe he was right and maybe you were spoiled. Maybe, after all, you were unlovable. 

"Soonyoung will be back tomorrow," he said, and you nodded. "Will you excuse me for a moment, Cheol?" You looked down.

"What happened with him, Y/N?" He looked at you with concern written all over his face. "I fell in love with him, Cheol." You felt a single tear rolling down your cheek.

"Oh, Y/N," he sighed, and you tried to smile again. "It's alright, I know it; it's always the same; they use me, and then they dump me," you shrugged, and he pulled you close. "Mingyu seemed pretty shaken up when he left," Seungcheol muttered. 

"I don't care," you whispered, and he sighed. "You're so good, Y/N. Don't let this get to your head.". 

He kissed your head softly, and you nodded. 

Your brother truly was the best, but with him being away most of the time, your relationship suffered. 

With Soonyoung as your guard, you had one of your friends back by your side. Soonyoung was funny and cool to chill with. Mingyu had left over three weeks ago, and you started to forget about him. At least you tried. 

"Soonyoung, I'm going to run to the store real quick," you announced. "Wait, I'll join." He slipped on some shoes, and you walked down the street to grab some snacks. You were graving some hot sweet potatoes. 

"But you know what I meant, Soo," you giggled while running behind him, trying to catch him. "I know you love me, Y/N," he wiggled his eyebrows, and you laughed out. "You wish,"  you came to a halt. "Soo wait," you gulped when you saw him standing in front of your door. 

"HEY, WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Soonyoung yelled, and Mingyu lifted his hands. "I just want to talk with her," he said, and Soonyoung looked at you. "Is that him'?" You nodded and walked towards him. "Soo, will you let us alone for a moment?" He smiled softly at you and said, "Call me if you need me." He went inside the house, and you turned towards him. 

"What do you want?" You crossed your arms. "I wanna explain," he whispered, and you shrugged. "I don't wanna hear it, Mingyu; you made it clear." Mingyu's heart felt heavy. "Y/N, please let me explain." 

You took a step back. "Mingyu, we come from two different worlds; you made it pretty clear. I don't want you here right now. You think of me as a spoiled girl; fine, then I'll act like one.  You used me for your fun, and then you left," you chuckled. "Maybe I should've paid for that act, huh?" 

Mingyu grabbed your arm and pulled you close. "Can you maybe just shut the fuck up?" he whispered, and you looked at him. "I fell in love with you; I left because I fucking fell for you," he said, frustrated. 

"Your dad made it clear that if I touch you, he will talk bad about me; he will make sure that I'll never get another job. I knew the moment you laid in my arms fast asleep, I was fucked." You gasped at his words. "I quit because I thought that we could maybe then be happy," he whispered. "I needed to sort out some shit, and now I am here."

"You're shitting me, right?" You laughed out loud, and he shook his head. "I'm dead serious; I'm in love with you." He cupped your cheek. "So please let me love you." You smiled brightly at him and pulled him down so you could kiss him. Your lips moved in sync, and your heart felt like it would burst at any moment now. 

"Are you sure you want to spend time with a spoiled brat?" You asked, grinning, "More than sure, baby," and he kissed you again.

If you enjoyed it, leave a comment :)

[igotanidea]

The little bean: Anthony Bridgerton x pregnant!wife!reader

A/N: So..... After my "Too much" series I've been asked to do something with Antony and pregnancy trope. And since 1) I got baby fever and 2) Bridgertons are back, there is no better time than now.

***

“Y/N, my love, what are you doing?”

“I’m holding a book…?”

Ever since Y/N found out she was pregnant with the heir (which she would rather address as her precious little baby, instead of giving him titles before he or she was even born) Anthony entered right into an overprotective mood. If anything he would just keep her home, away from any prying eyes, that – in his opinion – might somehow take a look inside, at his baby and perhaps, see the little one before it came into the view of a proud viscount father.

Y/N could barely walk around the Bridgerton household, let alone the garden, without her husband chasing after her with a very concerned look, ready to carry her wherever she wished, just so that her feet wouldn’t touch the ground.

There were so many dangers on the way after all.

Wild animals. (i.e. bees, dogs and strays cats)

Speeding carriages.

Stones on which she might trip and fall.

Too much sun.

Too little sun.

And worst of all-

Members of the ton.

It was merely the first trimester and viscountess was torn between calming Anthony down (tactfully avoiding the information that the next months will be much more challenging) or just rushing away to her mother-in-law (yet, again) to seek aid in keeping him in check.

And just when she thought the oldest Bridgerton could not get any more obsessive, he took the lecture she was reading out of her hands.

“My dear, you cannot carry such weights. It’s straining and I am to protect you from threats.”

“It’s a book…” she frowned a little, but not without a hint of amusement in her voice

“It’s heavy.”  

“It's a 200 page novel…”

“It’s heavy.” Anthony’s voice was gentle, but firm. Both demanding and pleading.

“Anthony…”

“Y/N.”

“I can hold my own book.”

“We got servants for that.  In fact – let me call upon your maid and –“ he started walking towards the door in sheer purpose to liberate his dearest wife from the unnecessary burden.

Nonetheless his dearest wife had quite a different plan, reaching to grab his hand and stopping him in his tracks.

“My love. Please, come. Let us sit.” She guided him to the ottoman, still keeping the soft touch that was grounding to him.

Much to her surprise Anthony rushed to the furniture first, fixing pillows and blankets so Y/N could sit comfortably. And apparently that word, in his language, meant sitting half a meter in the air, covered from head to toe, regardless of the perfect spring weather outside.

“Here. Perfect.” He flashed a perfect smile, content with the spot he made for her.

“Anthony…”

“Yes, my love?” as he spun around meeting with her desperate look, the smile slowly disappeared from his face. “Y/N? Are you not feeling well?” Anthony grabbed both her hands in his, searching her face for any symptoms of malaise, dizziness, nausea. “Do you need some water? Or-“

“No, no, Anthony, please just listen to me for a moment-“

“Perhaps I should call upon Daphne, she already had a child of her own and she would be of help. Or maybe my mother could-“

“Anthony!” she laughed whole-heartedly at his  feverishness “I am not going to give birth in the fourth month of pregnancy! Please just calm down.”

“Just say a word and I’ll call for a medic immediately. Do not fret my dearest, I will take the best care of you. I swear on my life that-“

At that moment Y/N used the most effective way to stop his blubbering in the form of putting his hand on her slightly rounded belly in which their baby was healthily growing.

“Shh.” She whispered, putting her own palm on top of Anthony's, calming him down, letting him caress the stomach in hope to make him calm down. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I don’t need medic. Nor your mother. And certainly not your younger sister. I am feeling good and the only thing that concerns me is my husband's distress over nothing.”

“Nothing? You are carrying our baby!”

“And our baby needs his father to stop fretting.”

“But-“

“Here!” her eyes grew wide as she guided his hand to another place “did you feel it?”

“Was it--?” Anthony’s face expression mirrored the one of his wife.

“It kicked…” she whispered as their gazes met and for a second that extended into eternity, they just kept looking into each other’s eyes expressing so many feelings.

And then, almost as if in a dream, Anthony fell to his knees in front of Y/N, pressing his head into her belly.

“Our baby.” He whispered, kissing her body through the material of the dress. “our little baby.” He wrapped arms around her midsection with his ear pressed to the home of the child, almost hoping to hear him or her inside.

“Our baby…” she repeated with tears in her eyes. Despite knowing and obviously – feeling the imminent arrival of the new family member it was the first time she actually felt and knew. And it was beautiful. Her little bean was really there. Growing and waiting for the right moment to appear in the world, landing right into the waiting, safe arms of loving mother and father.      

“Do you think it can hear us?” Anthony pressed one ear to her stomach, his entire face lighting up at the possibility.

“Depends.” She chuckled

“On what?” his eyes travelled up to meet hers.

“If I say yes, will that mean you start talking to my insides?”

Anthony smirked.

“I will do that, even if you say no.”

“Then why the question?”

“Testing your knowledge.”

“I am not a doctor, Anthony. My expertise in the area might be a little limited.”

“Very well. Then give me an answer as a mother, not a medic.”

“Yes. Yes, I think it can hear us.” She cupped Anthony’s cheek in the affectionate gesture. There was something utterly heartening in seeing him like this. Holding her (and/or the baby) like she was the most precious thing in the world, needing the assurance that his child was already reaching to him.

That it could hear him, even if it wasn’t even born yet. Hoping for the love of the Lord that it was truly happening. That in a few months, that were going to pass by with extraordinary speed, the little one, a girl or a boy, would take a corporal form. That the viscount would not only be a noble and a husband but would also take on the new role – a father. A protector. Caregiver. A teacher, guardian and a guide. That somehow – his life would be complete. He’ll have his own little family. Something that was nearly impossible to him a few years prior.

And now-

“Anthony…” Y/N whispered, wiping a single tear from his eyes. “Sweetheart, what is wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong, love. It’s all perfect.”

“Then why are you-?”

“I’m not.” He cleared his throat and gathered himself.

“Of course not.” She laughed softly brushing his hair. “But if you’d want to actually talk to the baby, that would stay in this little circle.”

Anthony smiled lovingly, grateful for having his miracle of a woman in his life. She understood him so perfectly well.

“We’re waiting for you, little one.” He whispered against her attire, with a little muffled voice, be it from emotions or closeness of his lips on her body. “You are already loved by two people, with more to come.”

‘You can say it Anthony…” Y/N whispered, knowing what he was holding back.

“I love you my little one.” The viscount whispered with the softest voice, caressing the place where the kick was previously felt.

And they stood like that for a while longer, enjoying that moment of joy and thinking about the future that looked quite bright. 

[forteafy]

A House, A Home | CL16 & CS55

Summary: A loveless marriage usually comes after years, not before. You've always loved him, his best friend has always loved you.

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: Hard Angst, Cheating, Mentions of Sex, Death.

Note: This piece has two heavy inspirations. The first is @lxclerc's amazing pieces 'Moth to a Flame' and 'Call out my Name.' They are both incredible pieces and I highly suggest you give them a read. The second is from a TikTok Account called 'ForPercival,' they are currently doing a social media AU which I cannot recommend enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

Charles Leclerc is a husband. 

At least, he was your husband on paper. One year ago, a hidden agreement had been put in place between Scuderia Ferrari and the Leclerc Household; their son, the ‘Il Predestinato,’ of the team, (albeit one whom had had the most terrible season,) could continue to drive for the team, so long as he married the daughter of one of their longest-running investors.

That so happened to be you. 

You had been against the entire idea since the first day. After being introduced to Ferrari’s driver, you had instantly felt the divide between the two of you. You’d reluctantly shaken his hand and since then, had been thrown through a mixture of fake dates, a fake engagement and the fakest wedding that could possibly be imagined. The ceremony hadn’t even ended with a kiss, per tradition. 

It didn’t take long for your walls to crack; living with Charles, seeing him at his highest and lowest points, his most vulnerable behind the four walls of your home had caused your heart to soften. Forget being forced into this marriage, you’d grown to care, to adore the man who’d once burdened you with his presence. You dreamed of the day he would return your affection; how long would it take for you to realise you lived in denial? In your late-night fantasies, lying alone in one of the guest rooms you’d sought refuge in on moving into this ­house, you’d dreamt of lying in his arms, lazy morning breakfast, slow kisses when he would come back to you. To your home.

A home, however, is where you feel safe, warm, protected. You lived in a house with Charles. The man who would barely glance your way and after three months of your marriage, started coming home, smelling of rich perfume and lipstick marks littering his jawline.

The first anniversary of your marriage should have been special, even if he despised you in every known form to man. You’d woken up in your room, slipped on the silk robe which had been lying on the empty bedside and slipped out of the bedroom. In your heart of hearts, you knew there would be no significance of today; no flowers, no card, not even a simple text from your husband to signify the date in question. The only text you had received that morning, was a stern reminder from your father, that you were due to attend the Monza Grand Prix in less than one week. 

A soft sigh emitted itself from your lips; it was a routine you knew all too well. Every few races, the more significant ones; Monaco, Silverstone, Spa-Francorchamps, Monza, you’d play the doting wife; cheering for your husband whilst dressed in soft summer dresses, a forged grin if he managed to battle his way into the points. On those rare days when he would obtain a podium position, he’d greet you on the barriers with a soft kiss. It was all fake; a routine which had been performed so many times. Yet, each time his lips met yours, you could dream he meant something behind the affection. 

The train of thought had played through your mind for so long that you were unaware of the tears pooling on your lower lash line. So, what if Charles wasn’t at home for your anniversary? It was your thought for feeling any kind of emotion towards him in the first place. It was a business deal, after all. Did your husband enjoytreating you like this? His disappearance on that morning was a cold reminder that he felt nothing towards you. No sentiment, no adoration. 

Despite the tears which had bade your eyes that morning, until the mid-afternoon, you had a productive day. Of course, leaving the house was out of the question; what would the media say if devoted wife of Ferrari’s driver was seen without him, on their wedding anniversary of all days? 

Instead, you’d played soft music whilst re-organising your wardrobe, something you’d put off for a while now. Cooking a meal whilst lazily treading around the kitchen, experimenting with the spices that Yuki had gifted to you on your previous visit to a Grand Prix. The meal itself was too big to eat alone. Instead, you boxed up the remainders of what was left in the tray, carefully placing it in the fridge, knowing Charles wouldn’t actually eat it. 

Your evening had been…less productive. You’d found solace in a glass of red wine, lounging on the sofa of the main living area; usually, you kept as far away from that zone as possible. Charles would spend his evenings in the couch, eyes flickering between the television and his phone, no doubt sending longing messages to his mistress whilst his wife was in the home. 

The ­third glass had just about been drained. You were adamant upon gaining a fourth, no longer caring of any commitments you had the next day. Instead, you sat up abruptly from the sofa, hearing the gentle click from the front door. 

He had come back to the house. 

His green eyes barely took a second to meet yours, slipping off his shoes and placing them into the rack situated by the front door. A rustle of his jacket signified his option to stay. You saw him carry the garment over his arm as he trudged into the living area, set to lie in front of the television for some personal relaxation. 

With his entry to the room, you suddenly remembered your position. You’d hastily stood up from the couch, collecting the half-finished bottle from the low table, holding the glass to your chest to draw the attention away from your beverage. 

Charles said nothing; he’d unlatched the top two buttons from his dress shirt; faint purple marks nestled on the lower joint of his neck; a clear mark that his mistress had previously made, a sinful reminder of his adultery. 

“I left you some dinner in the fridge.” You mumbled, voice barely picking up over the sound of the television. “There’s some clean loungewear on the end of your bed, too.” You finish your sentence. Your husband doesn’t even attempt to tell you he’s acknowledged your words, eyes transfixed on whatever news was currently playing on the television. 

“Happy Anniversary.” You mumble, feet leading you back to the kitchen, the bottle of wine against your chest now seemingly the only attention you’d ever get. 

Charles Leclerc is an actor. 

The entire drive to the track had been bade in complete silence; not even the radio had been switched on to drown out the undeniable tension in the car. You had originally tried to make light conversation with the man; he couldn’t even be bothered to make a sound in response to any of your questions. 

You couldn’t handle the harsh tone he had snapped at you with the previous time you had been in the car; instead, you watched the rolling hills and glistening sun of Monza. It was always one of the highlights of the year. If not for the racing, you would have come here in your own time, to bask in the sun and to enjoy the secluded section of Italy as an individual. 

The incredible views soon began to fade out, instead replaced by expensive cars and adoring fans, leaning over the barriers in an attempt to see their favourite drivers; there was an uproar as your husband drove past the crowds; he was clearly the home favourite, as any member of the Ferrari crew would be in this location. Silently, you slipped on the sunglasses which had been resting in the pouch of your bag, knowing the paparazzi would be blistering your eyesight sooner rather than later. 

Charles effortlessly parked his car in the allocated spot. Silently, he switches off the engine, removing the keys and shoving them into his jean pocket. The man doesn’t so much as register your presence as he opens his door, leaving you to venture out of the car yourself. You’d carefully adjusted the flowing fabric of your dress; the patterned fabric flowing gently around your calves. 

You looked beautiful. You just wished your husband would care enough to tell you.  

Instead, his priority is the cameras leaning over the barriers. He doesn’t even look in your direction, instead firmly grasping your hand in his own; an act the two of you had performed for the crowd oh-so-many times. He waves towards the crowds; neither of you miss the adoring sounds, the coos for many of the fan’s favourite ‘couple.’ To so many, his affection seemed to clear to you, and yours did to him. 

Charles didn’t hold your hand with any adoration. His grasp was harsh, palms roughly mashed together, no intent to keep your grip safe against his own. You were certain that if you were to let go, he wouldn’t think to remedy the situation. Your theory is proven when you gently let go, instead keeping in step, just behind his figure; Charles’ hand seems as if it’s gone into idle mode. His eyes, however, stayed alert, vigilant. Silently, the two of you pass through the paddock security, pausing every few moments for Charles to sign a cap, take a photograph with a fan. 

It isn’t until you reach the outskirts of the Ferrari Building that you see her. Soft hair around her shoulders, clothing exquisite, her eyes flickering to your husband, offering him a sympathising smile. 

He may have been a devoted husband towards the press, to Ferrari, even to the majority of his team. However, the moment that the cameras were turned off, microphones pushed away, he was sneaking to his mistress, one he had shamelessly invited to so many Grand Prix’s over the past nine months. She was what he wanted; a fun and fancy-free lady, rather than the wife whom stood by his side. There’s a glance between the two of them, as if a whole conversation is had in that moment. 

You stay silent as you follow Charles into the Ferrari Building. Instantly, you’re overwhelmed by the welcomes that your husband obtains; so many of them pass onto you. Upon the questions of how married life is treating him, he smiles, fakes a laugh as he pulls you into his side, one hand firmly resting upon your waist. 

“Married life is perfect.” He insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, one which you falsely giggle about, ignoring the butterflies which were nestling in the pit of your stomach. “It’s even better when she’s standing right here, beside me.” 

The entirety of the room buys the staged scene, all except for two people. The first, obviously, is your father. He’s always there, watching that the driver is performing well. He knows of his affair, but in his mind, as long as the affair is kept out of the light, and his marriage was still official, their deal continued. Besides, he would speak to you both sooner rather than later upon extending the family; that would seal both of your fates towards one another. Nobody liked a husband whom left a wife and child. 

The second was Carlos Sainz; the second driver for Scuderia Ferrari. 

The Spaniard was all too aware of the affair between Charles and his mistress; after qualifying from Baku, Carlos had found his teammate behind the garage, his hands with a firm grip on her waist, their kisses entirely formed of tounge and teeth. The man had furiously ripped Charles from the woman, bellowing in his face about the wife he had, whilst this woman warmed his bed. A deep blush had formed over both of their cheeks, Charles explaining that you were aware of his actions. 

Carlos didn’t want to believe it; he’d frantically messaged you that evening, to which you had answered his question, confirming you knew of the affair. That evening, you had revealed everything to him, watching his eyes get glossier as the cruel details were flickered in front of his eyes. It pained him; he’d cared for you since the moment you’d first stepped foot into the paddock alongside your father. His heart shattered upon finding out that you had been betroved to Charles, that he had missed his chance, all that time ago. 

He waits; waits until later in the day to approach you. By this point, you had made yourself comfortable in Charles’ driver room. Of course, your husband isn’t actually there. After a brief encounter with most of the members on his team, he’d excused himself. Carlos knew that he had snuck away from the crowds adorned in red to see his mistress, likely stealing kisses and rough fumbles between one another. Whilst that was happening, you, were sat in his drivers’ room, skirts spread across the soft lounger, eyes engrossed in a book which had been enclosed in your bag alongside your sunglasses.

 You were the epitome of beauty in Carlos’ eyes. He could have stood at the ajar door to the room, watching you as you engrossed yourself in the story. Instead, he offers a light cough, drawing your attention from the book in your lap. He’s engrossed by your eyes, how the light reflected off them, the glow they offered. Your smile, how you presented your real smile to him so naturally, not the one you forged next to your husband on every single encounter. 

“Good morning, Carlos!” You greet him with a bright tone, standing up from your position on the couch. You offer him a hug, feeling his warm arms wrap around your waist, his breath against your face when he kisses your cheek gently. ‘In another life,’ you always tell yourself. One where you were happy, free to marry a man who would return your affection. 

“Good morning, Mariposa.” The nickname rolls of his tongue; one he had presented ever since you had once showed up in the paddock, the most beautiful butterfly-imprinted dress flowing in the soft breeze of that Monaco weekend. “You’re hiding out in here today, yes?” He teases. You offer him a small shrug, eyes not able to meet those sweet brown ones of the man stood in front of you. 

“Charles is…busy.” You finish the sentence abruptly. Carlos knows not to question further; the two of you have a mutual understanding as to where he would be at this point during the day; wrapped up in the arms of another woman. “He’s probably on his track walk…maybe. I’m just…keeping occupied.” You motion towards the window, looking onto the first straight of the track. “Plus…it looks windy out there.” 

“Well…” Carlos invites himself into the room now, looking down at your attire, seeing that your feet were enclosed with the brilliant white trainers you’d left home in that morning. The man shrugs off his own windbreaker, holding it in his arm. “If I give you my jacket, would you like to come on my track walk?” He offers, holding out the garment to you. 

You knew you would probably live to regret that moment. However, if you stayed resting in Charles’ driver room much longer, reading the same line of your book whilst your thoughts trailed away to how he would be with his mistress, you would go crazy.

“I’d love to.” You finally respond, slipping your arms through the large sleeves of Carlos’ jacket. Offering you a pat on the shoulder, he motions towards the exit of the driver’s room, determined to keep you on his side whilst walking across the track loved by fans far and wide. He hopes that everybody misses the longing gazes and soft smile on his face every time you make a comment, or your hands brush a little too closely. 

Charles Leclerc is a neck kisser. 

It’s not as if you would know this. The only kisses you ever had were those for show. Cold, meaningless interactions between somebody who attempted to show unconditional love and one who could dream of being anywhere else in that moment. 

You’d carefully unlatched the front door of the house, your wireless earbuds resting comfortably in your ears, unable to hear any other sound apart from the music playing. Slipping off your shoes, hanging up your jacket; your only intention for the afternoon was to go through some of the notes you had made regarding education courses in the area; sitting at home day after day was truly aggravating. You couldn’t pick up yet another hobby. Maybe some form of learning would interest you. 

But first, you needed a drink to cool yourself off from the sun. You’d remembered the smoothie packs you made earlier in the week; one of those and going through your notes seemed a perfect plan for the current moment. 

The second you rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen, you wished that you could have taken the scenic route home. 

His mistress was sat up on the kitchen island, back straight, legs wrapped around the waist of your husband, her hands grasping at the soft curls atop of his head. Charles’ hands slid across her back, soft grunts coming from his lips, his mouth leaving open-mouthed kisses along her slender neck. She was loving it, at least, that’s what you could judge from the noises leaving her mouth. 

Before either of them could clock your arrival, both too wrapped-up in their embrace, you’d stepped out of the kitchen, hand over your mouth to silence the sobs which were threatening to escape. In a moment, you’re out of the hallway, letting your feet carry you up the carpeted stairs. 

The only intention now embedded in your mind was to drink so much you would forget the scene unfolding in front of your eyes. 

Charles Leclerc is a slow replier. 

The smell of tequila and sweat is strong in the cramped hallway of the club. It was insane to believe that less than three hours ago, you had been cocooned in your king-size duvet, lips slightly parted as you strung a meaningless thread of text messages to one another; you didn’t truly care how one of your friends felt in that moment, the heartbreak shattering in your chest was stronger than any other emotion you could begin to comprehend. 

No, your sole reason for texting was to leave this god-forsaken house. You kept telling yourself not to care. Charles’ eyes were all you could think about as you picked out your shortest, slinkiest dress; one which enhanced every curve and dip in the most elegant way. Charles’ dimples were all you could think about when your attention was drawn to outlining your lips with a deep red gloss. Charles’ lips were all you could think about, your foot sliding into the black heeled shoe, your feet finding no solace in being propped up within six inches of their life. 

Your friend had messaged you the location of the designated club. How anybody could enjoy one of those places sober was beyond your comprehension. Instead, you had taken the route of every other supposed being in that club; one shot of a suspicious-looking liquid had turned into sixteen – his number, you couldn’t help remembering. That was the reason you had found yourself stood motionlessly in the hallway, trying to navigate yourself back to the bar. At least seventeen wouldn’t have been tied to any other emotion. 

The plan, however, was short-lived when you hear a familiar voice call your name. Turning too quickly in your ridiculous heels, you’re met with the figures of Kelly Piquet and Max Verstappen, hands linked together, clearly nowhere near as intoxicated as you were in that moment. 

Kelly moves first; you had always enjoyed her presence, spending time with her around the Paddock when you were bade to attend. Penelope was one of the sweetest three-year-olds you had ever come across, always greeting you with a toothy grin and a story of her and ‘Maxie’s’ escapades. When her mother encloses you in a hug, you can feel the tears fall, your drunken façade falling immediately. The woman simply cups your hand in her face, delicately wiping the tears from your lash line, making sure to remove any heavy clumps of mascara. She asks you where Charles is, where your husband is. You can’t make any sound which you believe is cohesive, something about him being back at the house.

Max by now, has his own arm resting around your shoulder. You were Charles’ wife, after all. He knew Charles would do the same for Kelly if she was ever to be found in this state. Something strange stabs at his chest; maybe he was too protective, but he would have never of let Kelly get into this state, at least, not on her own. The driver carefully fumbles in his back pocket, unlocking his own device and filing through his contacts to phone Charles. 

The phone goes straight to voicemail, not even a dialling tone. Max tries a second time, a third time. Instead, he leaves messages. How on gods earth did Charles feel relaxed, knowing his wife would be out, probably on some form of alcohol, and not think to check that she would be safe returning home? If only he knew. 

The duo moves to a second plan. You needed some fresh air before they could attempt to get you into a car and take you home; standing in the corridor of a nightclub was not an ideal situation, instead moving you to the exit. Your eyes widen, looking up to Max and Kelly as if you had shrunk right down to Penelope’s age, as if they would be the saviours to get you home. By the way Max was holding you by his side and Kelly stroking your hair behind your ears, you may as well been their daughter. 

Conversations are had; neither of them is sober enough to drive you home, nor do they think it’s wise to try and sneak you into their hotel room when they had already issues when checking in a little too late. Their prayers are answered when a group of men wander past, one of them stopping to smack Max, his fellow driver on the back. His dark eyes, ones you know so well, widen when he sees your figure, looking so fragile in the light of the early hours in the city. 

“Mariposa.” He murmurs, running a hand across your cheek, wanting nothing more than to hold your frame against his chest. Your soft eyes meet his own dark ones, glossed in concern for how on earth you could do this to yourself. The man murmurs something to Max and Kelly, ensuring them that he’d been the sober friend out of his group; promising he would get you home himself. The duo has no reason to not trust him, both of them leaving a gentle kiss on your cheek before retiring to their own hotel. 

As the couple walk away from the club, you can only feel the warmth of Carlos’ hand, still resting on your face. When he at last turns his attention back to you, he simply wraps a strong arm around your waist, supporting you to stand in those awful, heeled shoes. At the pace you’re walking back towards his car, you would get there just after the sunrise. Instead, he scroops you into his grasp. 

The affection, the physical contact is all too much for you. It had been so, so long since anybody had held you, cared for you like this. Your clouded mind, now overwhelmed by warmth and alcohol allowed you to lean your head into Carlos’ sturdy chest. If you were sober, you’d be able to feel the way his heart raced when feeling you rest against him. 

“Why do you do this to yourself, Mariposa?” He murmurs, settling you into the passenger seat of his car. He can’t help but remove his own jacket, wrapping the soft fabric around your arms, letting you nuzzle into the scent of his fabric softener and aftershave. Once settling himself into the driving seat, he begins the route back to the house, one hand gently resting atop of your leg, some form of comfort for the world in your mind which seemed to be caving in. 

“I’d never do this to you.” He whispers, turning into the driveway that he had become accustomed to since the marriage. 

Across the city, Max Verstappen is sound asleep. His phone, plugged in on the dressing table across the room buzzes once, notifying a text from his racing rival. 

03:21: Charles Leclerc

Hey, sorry, was busy with something. Is everything good?

Charles Leclerc is a traveller.

You hadn’t expected anything to awaken you after the way your body had reacted to the previous night. A natural awakening, however, would have been a lot nicer than hearing the clicking sound of wheels against flooring. Whatever, whoever was outside of your room most certainly had a death wish to awaken you that morning. 

It felt as if pins had been pressed into every square inch of your head, the task of even sitting up and forcing yourself towards the door of your bedroom, still dressed in your slinky garment and…somebody’s jacket? The night for you had truly ended as soon as you had that ninth shot of tequila; you thought you could remember Max and Kelly in the same location at some point, maybe that was your mind playing tricks on you, longing for people who enjoyed your company. 

You were pulled back to the present when the figure of your husband appears at your doorway. He’s dressed already; loose hoodie and tracksuit bottoms cover his frame; his hand is clasping tightly onto a suitcase. There wasn’t a Grand Prix this weekend, you were certain. He would have left days ago for that. There was-

“I’m going to stay with…” He pauses, clearly trying to think of the correct way to word the fact he would be staying with his Mistress until further notice. Even in your state, you understand, simply raising your hand to stop him from speaking. You didn’t want to hear her name, you didn’t want to know that he would be spending the next nights wrapped in her arms, because for once…you didn’t care. 

They say alcohol causes dangerous mistakes, but in this moment, your hangover seemed to be your best friend. Every single time, you would think later, Charles would come back from seeing her, would leave to spend an evening by her side or sneak away during your paddock appearances…and you would be focused, your sole attention being on when he would return. Now? Your sole focus was on throwing up the remains of alcohol in your stomach, placing on a facemask and ordering some kind of comfort food to your home. 

You didn’t care about him, not right now. Your actions relay this, simply offering him a nod before speaking, your voice surprisingly clear for how much your throat was weeping for a drink.

“Okay.” You pause. There’s nothing left to say after that. What does he want you to do? Wish him a happy time? Charles looks equally taken aback, usually expecting some kind of warm drabble on how he needed to stay safe. In that moment, he can’t help but…want it.

“I’ll be back on Wednesday to pack for Singapore.” He pauses this time, taking in your appearance, your face so…gentle, soothing. “You’re coming, yes?” He remembers a conversation had many a time; his wife should be there to support him as much as possible, even if he wasn’t a fan of the sly ways he would have to leave her in front of his team members.

He isn’t expecting a shrug of the shoulders, bringing a hand up to rest on the door, clearly ready to close it at any given moment. 

“I’m not sure.” You offer him, sighing as you begin to close the door yourself. “My father said that race isn’t a priority.” That was the last sentence you offered him before closing the door. You obviously do not see it, but on the other side of the wall, Charles stands in confusion for a full twenty seconds before snapping back to his reality, his clutch on the suitcase a little tighter as he begins his decent down the stairs, wondering where on earth he had seen that jacket you were wearing before?

Your own priorities that morning was in full swing; you had placed your phone on charge, messages beginning to thread through as you stepped into the shower, the cool water savouring your skin. A fluffy robe is tied around your waist, brushing your hair around your back whilst your attention focused on rehydrating your skin, brushing your teeth and cleaning the dirt from underneath your eyes. 

The silence is strong when you walk back into your bedroom. In that moment, you opt for some music whilst changing into some comfortable loungewear, easy to roam around the house in and let your hair dry naturally. Sitting at the end of the bed, you’re able to check notifications, seeing Kelly had sent you a photo of Penelope that morning, smiling for her favourite aunt. You see your most recent text had come through from none other than Charles’ teammate, following one which had been sent early that morning. 

03:45: Carlos Sainz

Sweet dreams, Mariposa. Let me know if you need anything please. 

11:51: Carlos Sainz

Just seen on Twitter Charles is at the airport, he’s not off to see her, is he?

His message brings so many emotions to you, and also answers the question of who’s jacket you had been wearing that morning. Your heart can’t help but soften, knowing already that Charles is on his way to see...her. You think back to your mindset from earlier, how it was the last thing you wanted to care about. Why on earth would you care about them, when you could be focusing on ordering your favourite food and calling your nail technician to come to the house? That would make you feel better, better than he ever had.

You first drop a message to Carlos in response, wanting to let him know you had woken up from potential alcohol poisoning. 

12:25: You

Yeah, he is. Didn’t seem so happy that I couldn’t care less. Thank you for the jacket last night, I hope you had a good evening. 

12:28: Carlos Sainz

All the better for seeing you. Hoping the hangover isn’t too bad today. 

The messages spring backwards and forwards between the two of you for the afternoon; you’re smiling whilst you go through your favourite meal, the taste of it filling your mouth in the best way possible. There’s still a smile on your face when your nail technician arrives, painting some delicate designs into your fingers and toes, subtly asking who on earth has you smiling that much.

It isn’t until that evening; you’re sat in front of the television, a series you had watched one-too many times playing, your eyes glued to the storyline as if it would change again. The notification on your phone instantly drew your attention away from the screen, looking down to see a text on your screen.

21:03: Carlos Sainz

Why don’t you come and stay in Madrid for a few days? I’m sure we could both do with the company.

Charles Leclerc is a stalker. 

Well, maybe stalker was too strong of a word. However, his intentions were identical, having watched your latest Instagram story three- no, four times. Since leaving the home several days earlier, his mind could not stop thinking about the fact you truly could not care less about where he was going. This wasn’t you, was it? 

He’d arrived at her house, being temporarily distracted by luring himself into her bedroom, an afternoon of escapades and touches until she had rolled onto her side, telling him she was going to shower, and he would be more than welcome to join her. Instead, he pulled out his phone, seeing if you had done your usual; texting him to check that he had arrived safely, asking when he could be coming back to the house. 

There’s no messages, no notifications. Huffing to himself, Charles instead pulls up your Instagram, seeing that you had posted a new story that evening, a suitcase in hand, an emoji of an aircraft and a Spanish flag. You were off somewhere, and hadn’t told him? No, no. You always told him where you were going, you always-

“Are you not joining me, then?” Charles’ mistress’ voice suddenly draws him out of his trance, a towel wrapped around her body, hair around her shoulders. It was nowhere near as soft and as gentle as yours was, he realised in that moment. He eventually nods, pulling himself from his phone and following her into the en-suite. 

He’s so…distant for the remainder of his visit. When the two of them go to a secluded spot for lunch, when they go for a drive in a car they had hired for the afternoon. When she’s lazily pressing kisses along his neck, trying to grind into his crotch, desperate for his attention. When she finally falls asleep, Charles pulls out his phone, looking through any of the photos you had posted from that day. The soft sands of the beach, a hugestrawberry ice-cream cone, a mirrored selfie of yourself in the most beautiful sundress, hair curled and clearly ready for an evening in the Spanish sun. 

The routine continues, he sees your adventures, day after day. You’re touring small markets, trying local delicacies. One day, you’re simply lounging by a pool for the afternoon, a fat paperback resting on your stomach, clearly engrossed by the story which was resting on your stomach. Each time he sees a post, he can’t help but be drawn to how he wants to know how you’re doing. Maybe that’s why he drops you a text message, trying to gain some sort of traction from how you were doing. 

23:54: Charles Leclerc

Are you home? I’ve got a flight tomorrow afternoon.

You don’t respond; now, your phone is at the bottom of your bag, resting on the inside cabin of Carlos’ boat. For your final day in Madrid, he had insisted on taking you for a boat ride. You’d shyly mentioned earlier in that week that Charles had never taken you on his own boat, despite the fact that you were indeed married. 

The sun began to set over the rolling waves of the ocean; the boat is gently rocking, the sounds of water lapping over one another was music to your ears. You were sat at the edge of the now stilled boat, contemplating dipping your toes into the water. Your attention is so drawn to the scenery that you don’t hear him step away from the wheel, crouching next to you. 

“You could just go in.” He teases, “rather than staring at the water. You know how to swim.” The taunt causes you to roll your eyes, simply looking to the Spaniard on your right-hand side. 

“What? And have you speed off without me?” You retaliate, using your shoulder to nudge his body. Carlos clicks his lips together, mumbling something incoherent, before he’s suddenly scooped you up into your arms; despite your sounds of protests, he simply holds you against his chest tighter. His dark eyes flicker between yours and the ocean water below the two of you. Before you can say anything, his feet have made their own choice, jumping off the edge of the boat, both of you tumbling into the sea. Your briefly submerged entirely, before your head pops out of the waves, blindly reaching around until two strong arms encircle your waist. 

Both you and Carlos laugh for a moment, in pure awe that you just did that. He moves first, one of his hands releasing from your waist, tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. There’s a silence between the two of you, where the only sound emitting from your surroundings is the gentle waves of the sea. In that moment, Carlos Sainz wants nothing more than to lean forward, pressing his lips to your own. They look so…soft. He craves to give them the attention they had been longing for so long. But…you’re married. And even if your marriage is loveless, to a point where your husband is openly in an affair, he would never do that to you. Instead, he settles for resting one hand on your cheek, gently kissing the top of your forehead, murmuring some Spanish wording you would never remember. 

If you did understand it, however, you would have known that he said there and then that he would always be devoted to you. 

Charles Leclerc is a loud shouter. 

His voice seemed to travel for miles, you were almost certain the entirety of the secluded neighbourhood could hear him at this current moment. The man had returned home from his secluded stay with his mistress to an empty house; at that point, you were still in the depths of Madrid, packing up your own suitcase, wishing Carlos luck on the Singapore Grand Prix. You had intended to return to the house after Charles had left himself; the heartbreak of seeing him littered in love-bites, his eyes transfixed to his phone from her messages was too much for you.

However, if you had been at the house when he had arrived home, you would have seen his neck clear, phone shoved into his back pocket as he called out your name, wondering if you had returned home yourself. Charles notices your trainers haven’t been left on the shoe rack; there’s no music to signify your afternoon relaxation. A light knock to the door of your room signifies there’s nobody home. The house feels empty. 

Maybe, Charles Leclerc was beginning to understand how you felt. 

His first instinct is to message you. Surely, you would have seen his text from his previous message by now; what would it hurt to check in once more. The man feels against his rough jean pocket for the device, swiping away from the multiple notifications from his mistress, instead scrolling to your contact’s name, seeing you hadn’t been active in almost twelve hours. You hadn’t even opened his message. 

His thumb hovers above the keyboard, not entirely sure what to say in this situation. Instead, he opts to call your number instead; you had always picked up to him; whenever he needed you to stay away from the house, or to remind you to be ready to leave at a certain time. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, your voicemail comes through the speaker, signifying him that you were too busy to pick up the telephone. 

Charles didn’t grow concerned during the evening; he grew angry. You were his wife. You were supposed to be at the house to greet him, to welcome him with open arms, ask about his day. Even if…even if he had chosen to ignore your welcoming’s and kind heart for over a year. The man found a distraction in going through the information that Scuderia Ferrari had sent him for his journey tomorrow, making sure his passport was in the correct place. He hadn’t needed to pack; you had made sure to do that for him before your own departure, making sure his comfortable clothes were packed and sunglasses safely secured in the pouches of the case. 

It was late, late for you when the door finally opened, signalling the arrival of a second being. Charles immediately sits up from his slouched position on the couch, stepping up from the sofa, almost ready to give you a piece of his mind. Upon reaching the hallway, he sees you, slipping off your trainers, leaving the suitcase next to the front door. Even underneath your jumper, he can see your skin is glowing from the Mediterranean sun, yet your eyes are watering, tears leaking from your lower lash line. 

“Where on earth have you been?” He snaps, not actually wanting to hear an answer. You open your mouth to respond, but the man cuts you off before you can speak. “I am your husband. You’re supposed to wait for me!” His temper is getting the better of him, green eyes flickering with anger. 

At this point, you’re exhausted, overwhelmed from the news you had received on your drive home, and for this man to question your loyalties to your marriage? You can’t help the scoff which falls from your lips, the emotions building a little too much.

“You’re my husband?” You mock in confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise my husband was around at long last, not wrapped in the arms of another woman!” Your temper flares, pushing your hair behind your shoulders, grasping the suitcase to take upstairs and repack. 

“You didn’t pick up your phone once.” Charles retaliates. Oh, the cheek of-

“Like when you pick up your phone when I call?” The tears are beginning to flow freely now, wanting nothing more than to get upstairs and completely ignore what has been happening. “You don’t Charles. You’ve done nothing to show that you’re my husband in the past twelve months!” You can’t help yourself now. Instead of seeking the new suitcase, you simply turn around on the step of the front door, slipping your trainers back onto your feet. 

“Where are you going?” His voice is now laced in concern; you couldn’t leave yet, surely? You’d only just returned; you wouldn’t be safe to drive in this condition. Why on earth did he care now? His question is answered, but not in the way he desired. 

“Like you would care.” It’s the last thing you say before the door to the house is slammed shut. 

Charles Leclerc is an investigator. 

When arriving in the Ferrari Garage of Singapore, there’s already an eerie feeling through the air; there are no smiles, sympathising looks thrown towards the back end of the garage. The driver isn’t stupid, he knows something must be wrong. He’s unsure of who to ask; who would know what is going on? 

His original plan was to ask Xavi, maybe during their morning briefing, until he is told that his flight has been delayed and wouldn’t be there until the late afternoon. Eventually, he spots his racing partner, nestled in the corner of the garage, his eyes flickering across his own phone screen, rapidly typing a message to somebody he would rather not admit to. 

“Hey.” He speaks softly, not wanting to startle the man. Silently, Carlos looks up from his device, offering his teammate a small nod, not wanting to prolapse the eye contact for too long. Charles can sense he knows what has happened, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Why is everybody so…quiet?” 

The look on Carlos’ face signifies he’s said something wrong. His eyes darken, shaking his head in disappointment rather than fury. It correlates to the kind of look his father would give him during a long talk, when he had broken something and not admitted to it. The Spaniard isn’t sure he should even tell his teammate what had happened. Instead, he changes his phone application to the Emails App, handing the device over to Charles. His eyes flicker across the screen, taking in the information. 

Ferrari’s biggest benefactor, your father, would not be attending the race weekend after the untimely death of his wife. Your mother. It suddenly correlates; how the night before, you had seemed inconsolable, despite the fact you had obviously had an incredible vacation. You’d tried to simply walk away, to let yourself grieve without bothering him. Instead, you had found comfort in Carlos as he had driven you to the airport, whispering sweet words of comfort, promising that everything was going to be okay. 

Charles feels his blood run cold, he feels sick. The look on the man stood in front of him tells him enough; he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Murmuring an excuse, he leaves the garage, stepping to the secluded back area, the realisation that he is everything his mother never wanted him to be, hitting hard. He still had the ability to run to her, to ask for her advice. You didn’t have that anymore. You didn’t have anybody, least of all your husband. 

The first thing he does in that moment, is pull out his phone, scrolling to the contact of his mistress.

10:09: Charles Leclerc

We need to talk. 

Charles Leclerc is a phone call away.

The past day had been filled of tears, clinging to your father, to your younger siblings, to your elder cousins. How on earth your mother had left this world early was beyond you. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. Your mother was the one whom had been your rock for the past miserable year of your marriage. If not for her, you were almost certain that you would have thrown your silvery key to the house down a drain so long ago.

Without her guidance, without her tutoring, you felt like bird trying to fly individually for the first time; surrounded by fears and almost certain you’d fall into compromising position. 

You hadn’t rested. Not since you had arrived at the bleak family home. As customed, every curtain was drawn close, doors to each room sealed, no natural light emitting to the large house, making every shadow and crook of the building seem more terrifying. Eventually, your father had retired to his own bedroom, your younger siblings tucked into their beds, butterfly kisses pressed against their foreheads, a silent promise you were only down the hall if they so desired you. 

The bedroom you had grown up in remained almost identical to the one you had painted in your mind; pale pink wallpaper, a luxury bed lined with a rosebud-patterned quilt set. The vanity you had last used to get ready on your wedding day remained pristine, the perfumes and scents which had been your favourite still sitting atop of your shelf. And the photographs. A polaroid of your two closest friends from your childhood; one of your sisters on her christening day, the entire family dressed so elegantly; Charles is in that photograph, off to the side alongside his brothers; you had no idea there and then that boy with the ocean eyes would become your estranged husband. 

You could have continued going down memory lane, if not from the buzzing which was coming from your bed. The phone you had carelessly thrown atop of the blankets when first entering the room had finally got some service, a thread of text messages and missed phone calls beginning to filter through. Silently, you take a seat on the edge of your bed, eyes flickering across each message. Some are from members of the Ferrari team, others from family members you hadn’t heard from in what felt like centuries. 

There’s one. One from the man whom you had spent the previous week with. The one who had consoled you whilst travelling to the family home. Your husband’s teammate. 

23:05: Carlos Sainz

Mariposa, please let me know how you are doing. I’m so worried about you. Let me know if you need anything at all. 

23:31: You

Thank you, C. I should be heading home tomorrow, with a bit of luck I’ll be able to swing by and say hello. 

You hadn’t expected anything else that evening. You were settled, ready to focus on yourself for the remainder of the evening; in your eyes, there was a high likelihood that your siblings would be burrowing into your blankets later. Once dressed in nightwear, the makeup that had stained your cheeks removed, you noticed the soft glow of your phone screen. Another message had just been received, and in your wildest dreams, you could not have imagined whom it was from.

00:24: Charles Leclerc

I heard about your mother this afternoon; I am truly so, so sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. I mean it. 

Your eyes had barely had time to view the message which had just been received, before your phone screen changes, taking the message away from your sight. The message thread is replaced by a photograph of your husband, his name lighting up on you phone screen. You don’t even think; instead, your thumb swipes across the screen, pressing the green button and holding the device to your ear. 

“Charles.” You speak one word, hearing your husband visibly relax on the other end of the line. You realise it’s the first time you’ve said anything coherent in hours; the tone of your voices echoes around the room. Did you always sound that sad when you spoke to him?

“Hey.” He isn’t too sure what he wants to say; the lack of conversation between the two of you means he isn’t aware if there are any boundaries, anything you wouldn’t discuss with him. No, he just wanted to speak to you, to check in. In reality, he had realised how lonely the house was as an individual. His mistress was gone from his contacts, not inviting her around to fill the void had made him realise how you had felt for oh-so-long. 

“How…” He pauses, not sure on how to finish his question. He doesn’t need to, because despite the lack of understanding of one another, you know he’s trying, trying to make you feel better.

“I’m…yeah.” You can’t find the correct words to say; ‘sad’ is an understatement, ‘fine’ is a rude response. Neither of you can find the words, but in that moment, you crave somebody who isn’t mourning the loss of your mother as heavily as you are. 

“We have some new neighbours.” He’s trying to find anything to create some conversation. It’s almost as if he knows the quiet of the room is making you feel uncomfortable. “They left us an invitation to join them for a tennis session- not that I’m any good.” He laughs to himself, remembering the previous time he’d attended a tennis game alongside his fellow drivers; he’d had to step out after a few minutes, completely terrified he would end up breaking his hand. 

He doesn’t hear anything from the other side of the line but continues to talk. “Are you…” He catches himself for a moment. “Are you coming back soon?” His voice turns into barely a whisper, as if saying the wrong thing will cause you to hang up immediately. He doesn’t hear anything for a moment, taking a gentle sigh and awaiting your response. 

“Yeah.” You pause. Are you doing this? Are you having a conversation with your husband? “I’m going to fly home tomorrow afternoon. I think my father wants space.” Your sentence closes, looking around your room. The silence is deathly; in that moment, you don’t care about everything that’s happened. All you want is for somebody to hold you in their arms and tell you it would be okay. 

“I’ll come and get you.” Charles has spoken before his mouth has had time to catch his brain. Your eyebrows quirk in confusion. The only time your estranged husband ever drove you himself was on your endless journeys to races; you would sit silently, curled away from his figure, eyes transfixed as the world passed by around you. The man not only offering but wanting to pick you up from the airport was a new-found curiosity. 

“It’s okay.” You don’t let him continue. If previous standings have taught you anything, it’s that behind those mesmerising eyes cannot be trusted. You knew the secrets that lied beyond the ocean settled in his eye. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt you.” Part of your heart is craving to bring up his mistress; how she would probably be warming his bed in the current moment, walking around the house which you ached to find comfort in. 

“You wouldn’t.” Charles is quick to respond; in his heart of heart, he knows getting you to trust him again would be a monumental task. He’d do anything to prove he would be the husband who would look after you. Who would love you unconditionally; the husband you deserved.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve landed, okay?” It’s your final compromise. The woman whom you had been twelve months ago would love nothing more than to run into Charles’ arms; whether he cared for you the way you did; you would always desire his attention and affection. You’d had to learn through the months that some of life’s biggest temptations had to remain untouched.  

Charles Leclerc is your husband.

Landing back in the country was almost eerie; despite being away for only a miniscule amount of time, you felt changed; changed by the loss of your closest companion, changed by the fact your husband had been the one to call you, and not to throw some crazy request down the telephone line. 

Arrivals, as always, were completely smothered; couples reuniting, children screaming at the sudden change of scenery. After obtaining your own bag, your eyes flicker through the never-ending crowds, desperate to find some recognition. 

Standing apart from the crowd, looking effortlessly rugged in his athletic shorts and hoodie, hair pushed underneath a snapback. His eyes are trained on you, as if he had sensed your presence into the room in less than a moment. The breath catches in the back of your dried throat, a pair of eyes that you trusted undoubtedly. Stumbling, your feet carry you over to the arms of your favourite Spaniard, your head instantly finding solace in the joint between his shoulder and neck, the cologne you were used to from his attendances around the paddock creating a cloud of comfort. 

Carlos’ hands effortlessly lock around your torso, pulling you tighter into his chest, one palm rubbing up and down your back. It was the first time, the first time in a long time that anybody had offered you this sort of affection. Mindlessly, the soft tears begin to pool at the bottom of your lash line. Soft snuffles emitting from your lips cause the man to hush you gently, pulling your face away from his body, cradling your head between his larger hands. 

He mumbles something quietly, something about taking you back to the house. If it was him, the man would bundle you into his car and drive to his own home. He’d nestle you under his bedroom blankets, dress you in one of his hoodies. Instead, his rough palm finds your soft fingers, intertwining your hands together. Carlos takes your suitcase in his free hand, guiding you to his car parked outside of the airport. 

Not much is said during the shortening journey back to the house; the tears glossing your eyes reflect the streetlights, transfixed on the roads which you had left for a few short days. The tears will continue to fall; her loss had taken a part of you that you would you never thought would return. The man to your right, eyes focused on the road can sense your heartbreak. He doesn’t wait to push you; he had spoken to you shortly after the news had originally broken, in that conversation, you had barely been able to say ten words before your voice cracked. Instead, Carlos rests a warm hand on your leg, a silent promise that he will be there no matter what. 

The journey feels too short; eventually the driveway to the house rolls into sight, Carlos slowing down the car. When it comes to a halt, he steps out immediately, obtaining your suitcase from the rear of the car, placing it down on the wheels. By this point, you’d wiggled from the seat, ready to wheel your case into the house. However, before you can move, his arms engulf you once more, clinging so tightly, your feet began to lift from the floor. You had clung back just as tight, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek; a silent ‘Thank you,’ for everything. 

The embrace ended, Carlos awaiting until the door had unlocked, nodding when he saw you safely enter the house. The building is practically silent; no television sounds, no gentle music, not even the whirr of Charles’ simulator in his downstairs office. Ears pricked, you could hear the jets of a shower from upstairs, the assumption that he must have been in the shower. Paranoia threads your mind, she wouldn’t be showering alongside, would she?

You don’t let your mind wander; instead, you focus on lugging the suitcase along the staircase, silently glad you had gotten further with it since your trip to Madrid. Beelining towards your room, the suitcase rolls behind you, resting it in the corner of the room, a silent promise you’d wash everything tomorrow. However, a delicate bouquet of soft, pink and fresh flowers decorated the vanity of the room; you knew you hadn’t bought flowers since Madrid, and these…They looked as if they’d been placed mere minutes ago. 

Overthinking had always been dangerous; instead, you keep yourself busy, wiggling your skincare bag from the suitcase, padding into your bathroom with that and a fresh set of long pyjamas; the late-night breeze had begun to tickle your skin since removing yourself from Carlos’ warm arms. The relish indulges your body, shampoo trickling through your hair, body wash bubbles tickling your body. You’d stepped out a few moments later, changing into the soft clothing, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing your hair out as carefully as you could have. 

Silently, your feet carry you from the en-suite towards the main bedroom. Standing at the head of the doorway, is none other than your husband, hair own hair damp from his shower, dressed in soft tracksuit bottoms and a tight tee-shirt. He’d seen your suitcase nestling in the corner of your bedroom, your phone had rumpled the blankets of your bed. Charles had been the one to hear the shower this time, deciding to wait, just to see your soft eyes.

They’re bloodshot; you look so…frail. The years of heartbreak littered across your face. Charles’ heart practically breaks; before you can say a word, he’s across the room, arms pulling around your torso, pulling your head under his chest. Your instinct tells you to fight it, why on earth would you accept some form of affection from a husband who had openly destined you for so long? 

And yet, you subcome to his affection, hesitantly holding your own arms to his chest. His scent, his warmth.You felt as if you were dreaming, eyes wet from the overwhelming care, feeling gentle kisses press to the top of your head. 

You don’t remember when Charles scooped you to his chest, tucking you into your fresh blankets before nestling in behind you himself. You remind yourself; this is a one-off. You’re almost certain that by tomorrow, he’ll be back in the arms of his mistress, your moment tonight will be an absent moment to your husband. You’ll take it; if it’s one night in his arms, feeling his breath against the back of your neck, tip of his nose pressing into your back, one hand pressed against your stomach in comfort, you’ll take it. 

Some point during the night, your phone buzzes, the sound barely audible on the blankets of your bed. You groan slightly, the bubble of yourself and Charles giving you a true form of sanctuary, a true form of home. Curiosity in the night takes the better of you, lifting the dying device to your eyes, slightly blinded by the glow of the screen. 

Despite being wrapped in the arms of your husband; you can feel your blood turn cold when you read the one sentence which had been left for you to find. 

01:46: Carlos Sainz

I’m in love with you. 

[ghouldump]

Your fics are amazing!

Lestat and y/n remind me of a scene on what we do in the shadows:

Lestat: i would like to say that i think all marriage is a sham except mine with my darling wife y/n

Reader: ☺️👋

Btw do NOT feel pressured to put out content, this is suppose to be a safe space for creators and i am sure that the rest of the readers feel that way.

Kisses 💋

001

thank you 🥰 your words of encouragement mean so much to me 🩷 i prefer lengthy fics myself and so naturally i like to make my stories a bit long. i know that a few of you guys enjoy my writing and are wondering what is taking so long, so i really appreciate the understanding. i am also posting the requests at the same time, so you guys can have a few new posts to read instead of one. anyways, that so seems like him 😂 i literally came up with a tiny imagine for this 😙

“and what about you two, are you married?” the young woman asked you.

she and her husband were tourists in new orleans, choosing the city for their honeymoon. you spotted the newly wedded couple in the restaurant, they were the perfect meal for the night. although, you found them slightly interesting, forcing lestat to sit through the dull conversation.

“yes, lestat took longer than most, but we’ve been married for what feels like an eternity,” you laughed.

it had been only a few decades since you’d become mrs. de lioncourt, compared to your century of love.

“forgive me, ma chèrie,” lestat said lowly, as he kissed your hand.

“i didn’t grow up with the best example of marriage,” he said, a sly grin on his face.

“that’s a shame, my pa married my mama after only a month of knowing her, they’ve been together for over 30 years,” the husband bragged. you resisted the urge to laugh, watching as lestat went from grinning to frowning in disgust.

“you know what i find shameful? humans and their boresome matrimonies. you have no real reason other than legality burdens and for misogynistic idiots like yourself to have an at-home womb and servant,” lestat told the man, his nose turned up to him.

“that’s quite a harsh thing to say when you’re married yourself,” the young bride told him, furrowing her eyebrows.

“exactly, miss…y/n, was it? you sure have a handful on your hands,” the groomsman laughed, awkwardly.

slowly looking over at you, you smiled as you met his eyes, his fingertips softly brushing against your jaw.

“our marriage is beyond anything you've experienced in your short life, or your insufficient parents, the epitome of all things neither of your insolent brains could ever understand. your marriage is useless, nothing more than a piece of paper, and if you permit her beautiful name to even slip from your thoughts, let alone your tongue again, i will rip out your spine from-

“lestat,” you called his name, he stopped instantly, facing you.

“yes love?” he asked, his eyes softened. over the years, despite being your maker, he found himself willingly under your command, doing any and everything in his power to please you.

“don’t scare them too badly, honey, the blood will change its course, and taste funny,” you told him, your usual soft smile in place.

the couple was by now confused and disturbed, looking around for the safest exit.

“my apologies, ma chèrie,” he shook his head.

“you don't have to apologize, shall we eat?”

“ladies first,” he nodded, as you both bare your teeth, to plunge into your meals.